Where’s the justice?’ Hirsch was tired. Latimer stank, stale alcohol leaching and cigarette smoke in the weave of his shirt. Flicking a switch, Hirsch dropped his window a few centimetres, wondering if he should monitor the man’s movements for the next few hours. Keep him away from his wife. God he was exhausted. ‘We’re not made of money, we’d have to sell up if she goes through with it. A property that’s been in the same family for generations.’ ‘Uh huh.’ ‘Can’t catch a break. They put a line of wind generators on Finola’s property, right? Not ours. Rent’s worth thousands of dollars a year.’ He’s going to marry Finola Armstrong, Hirsch thought. Barrier Highway was quiet. Latimer would quiver alertly from time to time, tracking a family station wagon, a ute, a truck, remarking on the driver. Hirsch had no interest. He didn’t care if so-and-so in the white station wagon was a good bloke, or whosiwhatsit in the red ute had cancer.
