The volunteers were crowded around a huge red sandstone rock that looked out of place amongst the trees, a beacon in the desert, vegetation using the abundant shade to grow at its feet. The volunteers were also taking advantage of the protection from a sun that was lowering in the sky, gaining pace every minute as if being reeled in by the horizon.

‘Five minutes,’ pleaded one.

‘You can rest all evening,’ said Mitch. ‘Martin might still be out here.’

It was Mitch’s fallback motivational tool: the lure of Martin. But Chandler knew that there was only one reason his colleague now wanted to find Martin. The one that Mitch had confessed to in the last few days and which had caused the drastic change in his attitude: Mitch wanted to be known as the officer who found the teenager – alive or dead – and to get his name in the paper.

From that side he didn’t have much competition. Only Chandler, in fact. The search for Martin had been scaled back, resources diverted to the gruesome murder of a trucker in Port Hedland a couple of days ago. Chandler’s and Mitch’s roles had subtly – and unofficially – changed too. Given that the chance of finding Martin was minuscule, their main job was now to keep the volunteers and family from meeting a similar fate.

But with this command came the authority. The option to call off the search. That morning – day thirteen in total and the second day of this leg – Chandler had broached the topic with Mitch who had immediately stated that they had to keep going.

The phony enthusiasm was grating. Mitch was hunting glory in others’ despair and Chandler had told him as much. Chandler believed he was at least being honest with his intentions; the quicker they found Martin – or his remains – the quicker he could get back to Teri. There had been another argument with his folks the night before last, and another long night of her tears and cursing that he had to go away for another three days on this bloody search. Teri was sorry that the guy was dead but she wanted Chandler with her.

To rouse the troops Arthur launched into one of his well-intentioned but overemotional prayers, the old jack-in-the-box cranked up one more time, the springs now worn. He cajoled the remaining volunteers to keep pushing and only succeeded in getting their hackles up.

As they set off Chandler took Arthur aside and reminded him that he and Mitch were the professionals.

‘I’m sorry. I know,’ said Arthur, wiping what Chandler couldn’t tell was sweat or tears from his eyes. ‘I know you’re the professionals but your calm logic also needs some heart.’

‘We have heart,’ said Chandler. ‘No one would be out here if they didn’t.’