Despite the inauspicious start, midday brought a clue, right before the two-hour break to wait out the hottest part of the day. One of the volunteers, a teenager all the way up from the Murray River area south of Perth, found a scrap of clothing caught on a briar, waving like a flag in the gentle breeze.

Chandler was soon on the scene, a crowd surrounding the strip of red almost afraid to approach in case it vanished in front of their eyes. First observations were that it had been torn from the original garment rather than cut, the edges frayed, fibres waving a thousand tiny fingers at him.

‘What is it?’ said Mitch, having caught up with them.

‘A piece of clothing, possibly. Torn,’ said Chandler, eyes fixed on it. The fact that it danced so easily in the wind told him it was a lightweight material. ‘Pass me a bag.’

Mitch rummaged through his backpack for an evidence bag. Teasing the material delicately from the barb, Chandler placed it into to the bag and zipped it up.

He held it up for a closer look. All eyes followed it, almost reverent of the find. Part of a logo was imprinted on to the material. An ‘N’ and what looked to be most of an ‘O’ in white capital letters.

‘What do you think?’ asked Chandler.

‘No Fear . . . North Face . . . Mizu—no. ?’ offered Mitch.

‘If it was torn off he must have been travelling quickly.’

‘So where’s the rest?’

‘Let me see,’ said Arthur who stumbled into the fray, his belly leading the way, his youngest son locked to his side.

Chandler passed the bag to the old man whose hand was swollen with the heat.

‘North Face,’ said Arthur. ‘Martin bought a lot of that stuff. He has clothes in that colour too but Sylvia would be able to tell you better.’

‘It’s a popular brand,’ said Mitch, gently.

‘It’s something,’ said the old man, brusquely. ‘Tells us that he made it this far.’

‘Unless it blew—’

Chandler’s raised eyebrow was enough. Mitch shut his mouth. Truth was that the discovery of the clothing generated as many questions as it answered. Had Martin made it here or had he not? Was it blown on the wind or ripped straight off? Was it even from Martin’s clothing? The fact that it had been ripped could also mean that he had been attacked by something. Martin’s disappearance remained as mysterious as the region they continued to scour. The best they could do now was search for further pieces of clothing.

Mitch was also concerned – but for different reasons.

‘We’re getting closer and closer to hell out here.’

‘Where do you want to be, Mitch?’

‘By the beach. Taking a morning dip before a shift. Maybe let the riptide sweep me silently away like Harold Holt. Like Martin.’

Chandler looked angrily at his partner. ‘Don’t let anyone catch you saying shit like that.’