And all those long minutes Jenn talked softly to Wolfgang, holding him and soothing him, stroking his face as his life drained away.

The senior detective from homicide gave all the orders. What she lacked in size she more than made up for in authority, coordinating the police response on the scene with cool, no-nonsense efficiency.

Jenn sat on the timber edge of a raised vegetable garden, shivering despite the sun's heat, watching half a dozen uniformed police gear up in protective vests to start searching the area for the sniper while the detective grilled Mark over by the studio. Unlike the younger detective constable who'd briefly interviewed Jenn, every subtlety of her body language and tone telegraphed scepticism and suspicion.

Beth came out of the house, the orange trousers and navy T-shirt of her SES uniform incongruous on her pet.i.te figure, the large first-aid kit looking heavy in her hand a and of no use to Wolfgang.

Beth crossed the dry lawn and knelt beside her. 'How are you holding up, Jenn? Would you like me to clean up your hands?'

Jenn held out her arms, Wolfgang's blood smeared almost up to her right elbow. 'Thanks.'

While Beth spread out a plastic sheet with saline and wipes and set to work on her hands, Jenn watched the interchange between Mark and the detective. Mark stood his ground, his courteous manner remaining firm despite the detective's forceful style. Although she couldn't hear the words, it seemed Mark calmly repeated his story, again and again, answering every question without hesitation.

Noting the direction of her attention, Beth cast a glance over her shoulder towards them. 'Don't worry about Mark. He's been in parliament for six years. He can hold his own.'

He could hold his own against the toughest journalists, too. Jenn knew his reputation, had watched interviews. He wouldn't crack because he wasn't hiding anything. But the detective had yet to realise that. 'Do you know where Steve is?' she asked Beth.

'He's not here.' Beth dropped her voice. 'I think he's off the case.'

'Off the case? Why the h.e.l.l would she-'

'He's friends with Mark, friends with Gil. Maybe she thinks he's too close to it.'

Or maybe their very different styles clashed. 'If he called her "sweetheart",' Jenn mused, 'he'll be busted down to constable. Or buried.'

'Oh, I think Steve's smarter than that these days.'

So did Jenn. But regardless of the reason, if Steve was off the case, chances were she and Mark would be sidelined, and denied information. She narrowed her eyes against the sunlight, planning. 'I need to talk with you later, Beth. Will you be home this afternoon?'

'All day, as long as there are no call-outs.'

'Good. Thanks.' She stood up, testing her ankle, putting her full weight on it and holding it. Painful, yes, but bearable. 'I'll talk to you later.'

She walked across the gra.s.s at a reasonable pace without favouring her ankle, concentrating on not grimacing despite the pain. As she reached Mark and the detective she held out her hand with such a.s.sured confidence that the detective accepted the invited handshake automatically.

'Detective Haddad, isn't it? As Mark will have told you, I'm Jennifer Barrett. I'm sorry to have kept you waiting.'

Dark eyes raked over her, set to drill. Haddad knew exactly who she was. 'Ms Barrett. I hope I don't need to remind you that this matter is a police investigation and the details and name of the deceased are not yet released to be broadcast.'

Jenn met the rigid formality with another serve of imperturbable courtesy. 'Detective, I'm sure Steve Fraser has briefed you about my family connections to this case. You have my word that I will respect the investigative process. I have no wish to have my family's tragedies become the centre of a media storm.'

'That makes two of us,' Haddad replied, infusing the few words with a chilly warning. 'Mr Strelitz,' she continued, turning to Mark, 'a forensic officer will be here shortly. He will require your fingerprints, and the clothes you are wearing. Please wait in the garden until he arrives. Ms Barrett, I-'

'Are you arresting me, Detective Haddad?' Mark spoke over her.

She didn't make that mistake. Not in front of a journalist who could have it on national news bulletins within an hour. 'You were in possession of a loaded, recently fired weapon at the scene of a fatal shooting. I expect your full cooperation in the investigation.'

'Which I have already given and will continue to do so,' Mark responded evenly, with no sign of offence. 'Naturally your priority is to conduct a thorough investigation. I'll go home and change a it's only a couple of kilometres from here a and you can send an officer to collect the clothes.'

Jenn didn't feel inclined to be so polite, but she took her cue from Mark's a.s.sertive, winawin approach. She could understand the detective's perspective: two people found at the scene of the crime with no other witnesses and, as yet, little evidence to support the existence of the sniper.

'If you want my clothes, too, you can have someone collect them at the hotel in Dungirri. As I promised the detective constable, I'll write up my statement today, including the few words that Wolfgang spoke before he died. I think they may be relevant. If you give me your business card, I'll email that to you as well as to Steve Fraser.'

Haddad nodded curtly. 'Thank you. I may need to speak to you again later. Which hotel are you staying at?'

A city woman who obviously hadn't looked around Dungirri yet. 'There's only one,' Jenn replied. 'You can't miss it. But here's my card with my mobile number.'

'Thank you.' The detective tucked the card in her pocket without looking at it and walked away, a mental dismissal as she moved on to her next problem.

'She's just doing her job, Jenn,' Mark said, too easily reading the annoyance she thought she'd concealed.

'I understand that. The scary thing is, I look at her and see aspects of myself.'

Oh, the detective could probably be polite and friendly, even charming if necessary, just as Jenn could. But Jenn also recognised the single-minded focus, the total absorption in the work, and she wondered if Leah Haddad had any life outside the job.

Someone had been in the cottage. Mark stood in the open doorway after Jenn dropped him at Marrayin and surveyed the spa.r.s.e contents of the living room. He didn't have much in there a the few camping chairs and a folding table he'd brought down from the shed, a couple of boxes from his Canberra apartment a but the chairs had been moved to reach the boxes, and they were open, the books and papers no longer neatly packed. In the bedroom he saw the telltale signs of interference: the door of the wardrobe where he'd hung his Canberra clothes ajar, a kit bag holding his few remaining casual clothes gaping open, the camp bed slightly out of position.

Not vandalism or destruction, but a search. For what? The old police report? If so, the intruder went to a great deal of effort to locate a doc.u.ment that contained so little.

The gun locker in the laundry remained locked, and appeared undamaged. Mark keyed in the code, and breathed easier on seeing his laptop and hard drives exactly as he'd left them. He had most of his files backed up on external servers, but with the damage to his home office and Birraga office, this was the extent of the technology left to him until he could replace the destroyed items.

The jeans and shirt he'd washed out late on Friday night flapped on the line in the breeze. He unpegged them, sunlight warm, and changed on the back veranda, folding his discarded clothes a Steve's clothes a in a pile for the officer to collect shortly.

In the dog run at the end of the yard under the trees, Jim's dogs watched his every move. Next priority, feeding them. He let them out, and Dash and her mother Maggie bounced around him, jostling for pats and attention. Rosie came for a wary sniff and a pat but then kept a cautious distance.

Mark crouched down, letting them close to nuzzle him and lick his hands, building their familiarity with him. 'If you girls could talk, you'd tell me who was here, wouldn't you?' Dash barked twice and pawed at him. Mark ruffled her head and rose, keeping up the one-sided chatter. 'Really? He didn't feed you? And you haven't eaten since yesterday? Poor starving puppy.'

After they'd eaten he threw some old tennis b.a.l.l.s he found in the shed for them to chase, and they brought them back again and again. This, this he'd missed all the years of commuting to and from Canberra, of travelling all over his huge electorate. He found himself grinning with the sheer, simple pleasure. But when a ball bounced off a tree branch and rolled towards his LandCruiser, Maggie lost interest in chasing it and instead gave the vehicle her total attention, crouching low to sniff some scent underneath the car, behind the front wheel.

Mark called her off and strolled over to take a look. It wouldn't be the first time a possum or a rat had found its way into an engine bay, or a snake curled under a car. A rat with a taste for rubber and plastic could do hundreds of dollars of damage to a vehicle.

When he hunkered down to peer underneath the cha.s.sis, he noticed a few footprints beside the vehicle, a few scuffs in the dust. Scuffs that went a fair way underneath. Scuffs too large to be a possum or a rodent.

He lay on his back, wriggled under ... and froze. No possum. No rat or snake. A human hand had wired the pack of explosives and the detonator into place.

TWELVE.

Jenn carefully descended the stairs from her room and hesitated at the door to the courtyard. Sunday lunch at the Dungirri pub seemed to be popular. An inexpensive buffet selection, a barbecue in the courtyard, and free face-painting for kids had brought out the families, and most of the tables in the courtyard were taken up with groups of families and friends, mostly adults and teens sitting down while the children ran around.

When she'd dropped Mark at Marrayin they'd agreed to meet here for lunch but she hadn't expected the place to be bustling with activity and people. Dungirri people. The likelihood of finding a quiet table and having an uninterrupted talk over lunch fell somewhere below zero.

The door into the front bar opened and a man backed out, carrying a tray loaded with gla.s.ses, two large jugs of soft drinks and a couple of schooners of beer.

'Jenn! h.e.l.lo! We wondered if we'd see you today. Chloe and the kids are out there with my lot. Come and join us.'

It took her a moment to place the familiar face. Andrew Pappas. Andrew and Sean had been the only two other Dungirri kids in her year at high school, and he still had the broad grin and the easy charm she remembered. Some of the Birraga kids had picked on him because of his Greek background, but in Dungirri's much smaller community the kids knew each other better, had to rely on each other, and the only teasing tended to be good-natured.

'Thanks, but I'm meeting Mark,' Jenn said. 'Have you seen him?'

'No, not yet. Come and say hi while you wait.'

She hardly felt social, but refusing would be churlish. No matter how far behind she'd left Dungirri, how rarely she thought of it, in the way of small towns they still regarded her as belonging, as one of them.

'Look who I found inside,' Andrew announced as they came to the first large table, shaded by two umbrellas, and within seconds she found herself drawn into the circle in a hubbub of greetings and hugs and introductions.

Andrew's father George embraced her and kissed both her cheeks. 'So much more beautiful than on the television. But we are very, very sorry about Jim. He was so proud of you, wasn't he, Eleni? So proud. Always he told us when your reports would be on.' And Eleni kissed her cheeks, too, and squeezed her hand, and Andrew's wife Erin a no longer a fourteen-year-old with braces a hugged her and introduced an a.s.sortment of kids too quickly for Jenn to remember names. And finally Chloe, Paul's wife a whom Jenn had only ever seen in a photograph a stepped forward with red-rimmed eyes, a brave smile and her hand outstretched.

'It's great to finally meet you, Jenn,' she said. 'Paul has very fond memories of you.'

'It's good to meet you, too. I'm sorry I didn't call to see you yesterday. I should have, but things ...' Did she really have an excuse? She'd thought about visiting Chloe but had too easily found other 'important' things to do. But if she'd put family first, if she hadn't gone racing off to the library, if she hadn't pushed Larry and Wolfgang for the photos, might Wolfgang still be alive? One more thought for her conscience to fret over. 'I got distracted,' she finished lamely.

'It's okay, no need to apologise.' Chloe waved at the chair beside hers and invited Jenn to sit. 'I heard about Mick, and of course about the fire in Birraga. I phoned the hospital when I heard, but you'd just left. Are you okay? You weren't hurt?'

News of Wolfgang's shooting mustn't have travelled this far, yet, and she didn't spread it. 'I'm fine. But how are you doing?' Better late than never in acknowledging the family's sorrow. Marginally. 'Jim's such a huge loss to you all.'

'Yes.' The word had a small waver in it but Chloe held her composure. 'The kids were very upset yesterday. A pretty torrid day, all round. Paul had to go and see Sean, of course, but it was hard without him here.'

'Have you heard from Paul today? How's Sean?'

'They're taking it hard. Both of them, but especially Sean. Paul's going to stay in Wellington for a few more days. He's allowed to spend a couple of hours each day with him. They'll find out tomorrow if Sean will be given a day release to attend the funeral.'

The funeral. Another ordeal to get through. Two ordeals: Jim's and probably Wolfgang's. 'Do you know yet when it will be?' she asked.

'We'll have to wait for the-' Chloe dropped her voice as a boy left the other kids and came towards them. 'The examination. That will be tomorrow, Steve said.'

Depending on what the autopsy found, Jim's body might not be released for days, or longer. The case was the same with Wolfgang. She might have to return to Sydney and then come back to Dungirri in a week or two, or maybe longer. Or extend her leave. Just the thought of more than a week here made her gut knot further, but she still had to find the truth behind the accident and Paula's death.

The young boy, not quite a teenager a the image of his father at the same age a leaned against Chloe, an arm around her shoulders, comfortable with the physical affection in a way Paul hadn't been, back then. Jim had raised his boys the best he could, but physical affection hadn't been part of his repertoire of skills.

'This is Calum, our eldest,' Chloe introduced him. 'Calum, this is Aunty Jenn, your dad's cousin.'

Calum gave her a fleeting smile and said, 'Hi, Aunty Jenn,' before turning to his mother. 'Mum, I think Ollie's getting edgy again. He's gone all ... tight. Do you want me to take him to the car?'

'No, it's okay. I'll come and talk to him.' Chloe pushed back her chair. 'Sorry, Jenn. Ollie's on the Asperger's scale. He finds crowds and noise hard to process. He usually copes okay with this, but today he's without his dad or granddad. It's a big change for a kid who needs routine.'

'If you want us to take Dana and Calum for the afternoon, just let us know,' Erin offered from across the table, and Jenn felt the odd one out, inexperienced with family and kids and this relaxed type of socialising.

'Here, Jenn, try some of Deb's sourdough,' Andrew said, pa.s.sing a platter piled with slices of bread. 'She's the cook. She and Liam are friends of Gil's.'

Friends of Gillespie? That explained why he seemed to be making himself at home. She took some sourdough, the b.u.t.ter melting into the fresh bread. The light-hearted, affectionate chatter of the Pappas family flowed around her, snippets of conversations drifted from other tables, kids with Spiderman and b.u.t.terfly-painted faces raced around, and over at the barbecue Karl Sauer flipped steaks and sausages and flirted with a young woman. A pleasant Sunday afternoon in a country pub. The Dungirri Hotel had made it to the twenty-first century.

But there was no sign of Mark, already more than half an hour late.

She checked her messages and emails again. Nothing. Uneasiness crept up between her shoulders. Anything could have delayed him a he'd said he had a few jobs to do at Marrayin before he came in. But the uneasiness wouldn't dissipate. She excused herself from the table, planning to phone him. She'd limped halfway across the courtyard when Kris Matthews came in through the side gate and scanned the crowd, looking for someone. Looking for her.

Their eyes met and Kris walked briskly towards her, her skin pale, her face tight. Not good news.

'I need you to come down to the police station,' Kris said quietly, her words laced with urgency. 'Now. With the photos Steve printed.'

'Something's happened? To Mark?'

'Yes. My car's just outside. I'll tell you as we drive up there.'

In the small bathroom in Kris's residence behind the police station, Mark splashed cold water on his face. He couldn't quite stop his hands from shaking. If not for Maggie's curiosity, he'd be a dead man. He would have got into the LandCruiser to go and meet Jenn, turned the ignition key ... and died.

The certainty of it hit him harder than all the other dangers he'd survived over the past few days. Rescuing Jim, the attack in Birraga, the shooting this morning a he could have died in those, but whoever was behind them hadn't necessarily been targeting him, intending to kill him.

That someone could so cold-bloodedly wire explosives and a detonator into his car, to explode on ignition ... it meant planning and acting for a single outcome: his death. Premeditated murder.

Jim Barrett, Doctor Russell, Wolfgang Schmidt. His would have made the fourth death in three days. And they all led back, in one way or another, to the accident eighteen years ago a and to whatever had gone on before it. They had to find answers, and find them soon, to stop the killer.

He'd brought the dogs with him, chaining Maggie and Dash on the front veranda and Rosie on the back and they barked a warning as Kris's car returned. He gave his face one more splash with cold water. Focus. Work through the facts. Piece together everything they knew. The answers a or at least leads to them a had to be there, somewhere.

Kris and Jenn came into the kitchen through the back door, and before he could speak, Jenn a reserved, undemonstrative Jenn a thrust the folder with the photos at Kris and crossed straight to him, into his arms, burying her face against his shirt, her body trembling, tension wound tightly along her spine.

Even as he closed his arms around her, he shot a questioning glance over her shoulder at Kris, but she shook her head slightly and slipped past them to the pa.s.sageway that led to the police station.

'It's okay,' Jenn said into his shirt, as if she'd seen that exchange, 'I'll be angry in a minute. Really, really p.i.s.sed-off angry with whoever did this. It's just ...' She pushed away from him, scrubbing at her eyes to wipe the dampness away. 'Holy c.r.a.p, Mark, that was way too close. Kris said if it wasn't for the dog, you'd be ...'

Her attempt at anger falling short, she stood a metre from him, hugging herself, and pressed a fist against her mouth, unable to say the word.

Dead.

Although he wanted nothing more than to hold her, to be held, to affirm life and love and humanity, he recognised his adrenaline reaction was an hour older than hers, and for him the racing, gut-slamming what-ifs had finally slowed. She still had to process the fright, the shock, and all on top of this morning's trauma.

'I'm alive, Jenn. They tried and failed. Thanks to Maggie's good nose. She'll get the best bones every week from now on.'

His attempt to lighten things had no effect. She stared at him, eyes wide, struggling with her distress.

'I can't lose anyone else, Mark. I can't. My parents, Paula, Jim ... everyone I loved. I can't lose you. So, you've just got to d.a.m.n well stay alive and safe.'

I can't lose you. Still in shock, her natural guard lowered, her thoughts and emotions were probably as raw and tangled as his. But her confession hit him like an electric shock a part stun, part pain, partly a jolt of energy and life into emotions he'd suppressed for years.

She was babbling like an upset kid, when he was the one who had narrowly escaped death and must be feeling the shock. Where was her control, her consideration?

There were questions in the brown eyes that studied her for a long moment, but whatever he was feeling, he kept it to himself behind a gentle smile and a light response. 'Believe me, I'm going to do my best to stay alive. Definitely my preference over the alternative.'

How could she be angry, or fall to pieces, faced with his calm courage and humour?

She relaxed a fraction, the worst of the initial shock wearing away. She had to get herself together and ready to deal with the challenge they faced.