As he considered this Luka got the jump on him, bounding into the woods like a bloodhound on the trail, the impatient Sydney boy coming to the fore, the city he had grown up in before his artist parents moved out West for peace, quiet and inspiration. Luka had told him more than once that he was impatient to return to the city – or somewhere that boasted more than one nightclub anyway – and had been applying for jobs to get out. As he stepped to the side of the road, Chandler couldn’t help but think that it was another reminder of Mitch, another reminder of the last time he was here.

They set off into the woods to look for whatever was on fire.

It proved difficult, the outback offering no reference points, leaving them to follow the wisps of rising smoke, barely visible at this angle above the trees.

On they went, fighting the waning daylight, struggling over rocks, boulders and fallen trees, discovering no recently dug graves nor ridges over which to tumble.

On the way, Luka advanced another theory he had been developing: that someone could still be in the shack, a partner or another victim. If the killer had locked up one then he could have another tied up for later, like hanging meat to cure; a store for the winter. Though only another of Luka’s fanciful speculations it sped Chandler on, aiming for the smoke drifting above the trees. The land was eerily silent: no cicadas or crickets singing as if they had all gone quiet in anticipation of a gruesome discovery. It was unnerving, like the hush of a crowd before the jury delivered their verdict. So much so that Chandler welcomed the hiss of the radio interrupting the silence, right up until Mitch’s voice erupted from the white noise. Their escape had been noticed, their destination and the possible importance of it raising alarms.

‘Chandler, this is Mitchell.’

Gone were the formalities, a sliver of panic in Mitch’s voice.

‘Don’t you do anything to that site. We’re on our way.’

21

Chandler came upon little more than a smouldering pile of ash, the stunted remains of the walls poking up from the ground, charred black like matchsticks burned to the tip. He spied a small cast-metal water tank, about fifty metres from the ruined shack, perched on a self-built nest, weeds winding up and around the arms, using their support to reach for the sky. Despite the very deliberate order not to disturb anything, he couldn’t just let it carry on burning and destroy any evidence that might be left.

‘Luka, over here,’ he said, running towards the tank. ‘Can you climb it?’