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benchtop sang.
    ‘Is this a good time?’ said Dove.
    ‘Speak,’ said Villani.
    ‘Crime Stoppers call from a woman in Box Hill. I just talked to her.’
    ‘So?’
    ‘She’s pretty sure she saw our girl at a truck stop on the Hume about two months ago, sixteenth of December, about 9pm. This side of Wangaratta.’
    ‘Saw her how?’
    ‘In the toilets. There was a man waiting outside for her and they spoke in a foreign language. Not Italian, French or Spanish, she reckons, she’s been there. Went to a new Holden SV, black or dark green. Another man was driving. She says there might have been someone else in the back seat.’
    ‘Rego?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘So what are you going to do?’
    ‘Well, HSV, that’s a muscle car, only driven by men with big balls,’ said Dove. ‘Web’s asking our traffic and New South if they had an offender on the day.’
    ‘That’s not stupid. I’m off to sleep soon, looking forward to it like a first root. Tomorrow I’m going up country. You don’t get me the first time, keep trying. Reception’s rough up there.’
    ‘I’ll just keep bombing it to Snake,’ said Dove.
    ‘Quick learner,’ said Villani. ‘You’re a bright young man.’
    He sat outside, drank wine, it seemed to be getting hotter. He showered again, went outside and rang Bob Villani. It rang out.

 
    VILLANI ROSE in the dark and stifling house, stood in the shower, dressed, took his canvas bag and left. The world was spent, only the desperate were on the streets. On the ramp before the exit, a tall black man, head shaven, was walking, behind him a shorter person, hidden in grey garments.
    In the mirror, Villani saw she had only a slit through which to see the world.
    It took three hours, the country drying out, the last stretch up the long yellow hills, paddocks skun, the livestock skinny, handfed.
    …today is a day of total fire ban. Four fires are still burning out of control in the high country around Paxton and the town of Morpeth has been evacuated. Firefighters fear the blazes will join into a sixty-kilometre fire front…
    From a cafe called Terroir in the last town before Selborne, Villani bought poached chicken breasts, a loaf of sourdough, a lettuce and a container of mayonnaise. He asked for the bread to be sliced.
    ‘If you wish,’ said the man, too old for his tipped, gelled hair, silver nostril stud. ‘You realise it won’t keep as well.’
    ‘I have no long-term plans for it,’ said Villani. ‘I propose to eat it within weeks.’
    The man tilted his head, interested. ‘You local?’
    Passing through Selborne, he looked for changes, it was histown, any alteration or addition caught his eye. And then the last winding stretch, the gate. Villani got out, did the lift and drag, twice, he drove down the driveway and parked beneath the elm. He had climbed this tree a hundred times, it was not looking good.
    Out of the vehicle, he stretched, tested his knees, looked at the house. His father came around the corner, something different about his walk, the way he held himself.
    Nodding, nothing said, they shook, soft hands, they were beyond gripping. Having touched like boxers, they could get on with it.
    ‘Grass’s a bit fucking much,’ said Villani. ‘Serious fire hazard.’
    ‘Gets this far, you’re buggered anyway,’ said Bob.
    ‘That’s not what the CFA manual says.’
    ‘They know fuckall, they start the fires. Lukie’s coming, staying tonight.’
    ‘Thrilling news. When d’you last see him?’
    ‘He’s busy.’
    ‘When?’
    ‘Haven’t seen your lot for a while. Bloody years.’
    ‘Kids,’ said Villani. ‘You know.’
    ‘No, never worked out kids.’
    ‘Well, lack of effort could be involved.’
    His father never asked about Laurie and she never asked about him. From the start, she and Bob behaved like dogs who’d had a bad fight, shifty eyes, didn’t kiss, had nothing to say to each other.
    ‘Eaten?’
    ‘Yeah. Brought us lunch.’ ‘Cup of tea?’
    ‘Might do some