Chandler waved his team inside, all except Nick who he kept on the front desk, unwilling to leave it unmanned. As a compromise he left the door open so that Nick could listen in. He tapped the button. ‘You’re on speakerphone.’

The commanding voice blasted over the speaker. ‘This is Inspector Mitchell Andrews, Port Hedland HQ. I thought I would introduce myself as I know some of you have not met me before. As I’m sure your . . . sergeant has informed you, we currently have one suspect in a possible multiple murder investigation being held in your cells and another on the run. So far the situation has not been handled as well as I would like but again that is no fault of yours.’

The implication went unstated but was all too obvious; Mitch was asserting that the situation going to shit was Chandler’s fault.

Mitch continued, ‘The situation calls for officers experienced in this type of matter, ones who are properly trained—’

‘We need someone out here to help us organize the search, help to lead a sub-team,’ interrupted Chandler, eager to put some emphasis on lack of support.

‘That is all being taken care of, Sergeant Jenkins,’ said Mitch calmly.

Chandler looked to Tanya, the only member of the team who had worked with Mitch before. Expecting an eye roll or a smirk, what he got was worse – a look of sympathy.

‘I’ve identified someone with the suitable experience and who knows the area,’ said Mitch.

‘Who?’ asked Chandler.

‘Me.’

And that was that. Decision made. Chandler tried to take a deep breath but it stuck in his throat, lodged alongside the rotten memories of the last time he and Mitch had worked together.

10

2002

Martin’s family joined the hunt. Chandler had been tasked with sticking close to Martin’s father, Arthur, a man who looked constantly on the verge of a heart attack. He was in his late fifties and stocky, pressed to the ground as if sitting behind a desk all his working life had stunted his growth. His heavyset frame hung with the weight of expectation, drooping further every second spent out here, hope lost to the parched earth.

The campsite had seemed promising despite the blackened campfire stones being half-buried in dirt, any cinders long since blown away on the wind. Arthur insisted on searching it, despite Chandler’s plea that they should move on and cover another kilometre before darkness fell. The old man fumbled around the site looking for clues to indicate his son had been here, trailing a stick through the dust, sweeping the ground in an attempt to uncover even the tiniest scrap of evidence. It was disheartening to watch him shuffling back and forth across the clearing, sweeping long-dead leaves and disturbed insects out of his path.