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any friends here in town?”
    â€œI don’t really know.” She straightened up, turned away from him; he had the feeling that her rounded hip was bumping him off, like a footballer’s would. “He tried to be friendly, like I said, but I don’t know that he was actually friends with anyone.”
    â€œIs there any anti-Japanese feeling in the town?”
    She didn’t answer that at once, but went into the bathroom, came out, said, “Just checking the girl left towels for you. Will you be in for dinner?”
    Now wasn’t the time to push her, Malone thought. Questioning a suspect or a reluctant witness is a form of seduction; he was better than most at it, though in his sexual seduction days his approach had been along the national lines of a bull let loose in a cow-stall.
    â€œSergeant Clements will be. I’m going out of town for dinner.”
    â€œOh, you know someone around here?” Her curiosity was so open, she stoked herself on what she knew of what went on in the district. She’ll be useful, Malone thought, even as he was irritated by her sticky-beaking.
    â€œNo, I just have an introduction to someone. I’d better have my shower.”
    He took off his tie, began to unbutton his shirt and she took the hint. She gave Clements another big smile, swung her hips as if breaking through a tackle, and went out, closing the door after her.
    Clements’s bed creaked as he sank his bulk on to it. “I don’t think I’m gunna enjoy this.”
    Malone nodded as he stripped down to his shorts. He still carried little excess weight, but his muscles had softened since the days when he had been playing cricket at top level. So far, though, he didn’t creak, like an old man or Clements’s bed, when he moved. He tried not to think about ageing.
    â€œGet on the phone to Sydney while I have my shower, find out if they’re missing us.”
    When he came out of the bathroom five minutes later Clements was just putting down the phone. “Another quiet day. Where have all the killers gone?”
    â€œMaybe they’ve come bush.”
    â€œChrist, I hope not.”
    II
    It was almost dark when Malone got out to Sundown. The property lay fifteen kilometres west of town, 20,000 acres on the edge of the plains that stretched away in the gathering gloom to the dead heart of the continent. On his rare excursions inland he always became conscious of the vast loneliness of Australia, particularly at night. There was a frightening emptiness to it; he knew the land was full of spirits for the Aborigines, but not for him. There was a pointlessness to it all, as if God had created it and then run out of ideas what to do next. Malone was intelligent enough, however, to admit that his lack of understanding was probably due to his being so steeped in the city. There were spirits there, the civilized ones, some of them darker than even the Aborigines knew, but he had learned to cope with them.
    He took note of the blunt sign, “Shut the gate!”, got back into the car and drove along the winding track, over several cattle grids, and through the grey gums, now turning black no matter what colour they had been during the day. He came out to the open paddocks where he could see the lights of the main homestead in the distance. His headlamps picked out small groups of sheep standing like grey rocks off to one side; once he stamped on the brakes as a kangaroo leapt across in front of him. Then he came to a second gate leading into what he would later be told was the home paddock. Finally he was on a gravel driveway that led up in a big curve to the low sprawling house surrounded by lawns and backed to the west by a line of trees.
    Lisa was waiting for him at the three steps that led up to the wide veranda. “Did you bring your laundry?”
    â€œWe-ell, yes. There’s some in the boot—”
    â€œI thought there might be.” But she kissed