A small, unpainted motorboat – ‘tinnies’ they called them here – shot out into the bay with two would-be rescuers on board. One steered while the other pointed ahead. They were moving quickly enough to lift the front of the boat well clear of a small bow wave.

Men and women appeared on the dock in small groups, most of them from within the cabins of their boats. There were a lot of Americans, she noted. A small refugee commune. Some ran off immediately, heading for shore. Others tried to prevent the fires from spreading, producing small hand-held extinguishers and battling the flames with whooshing plumes of white foam. A siren warbled very far away, then faded. Jules gathered her wits and moved back from the terrible scene of the man and his dead woman.

An empty berth allowed her an unobstructed view of the bay, where she saw the two men in the runabout helping Mr Shah wrestle the Rhino’s body into the boat. The former sergeant of the Gurkhas was a strong man, but the channel was deep and the Rhino was no midget. The tinnie rocked so far one way then the other she thought it might be swamped, but they managed to drag him on board after a struggle.

Jukes wondered about crocodiles – or were they alligators? She’d heard they were all over Darwin’s waterways. She peered into the mangroves on the far shore, imagining giant carnivores launching themselves into the murky water and speeding towards Shah.

An invisible fist squeezed her heart as the old Coast Guard chief raised his hand to grip the forearm of one of his rescuers. He was alive . . . Bloodied and burnt and probably broken in parts, but alive for now.

Julianne turned and ran for the marina office, dodging and elbowing past the gathering crowd. Some of them had mobile phones and she could hear the calls for emergency crews going out, but she had to do something herself. Perhaps irrationally, she figured that a call from the marina management might get fire crews and ambulances dispatched more quickly.

The small shed was empty, the door open and the last of the cool air pouring out into the sultry afternoon. There wasn’t much to the set-up. A counter, a chair, a very old computer and three metal filing cabinets. A map of Darwin Harbour covered one wall, and pictures cut from fishing and hunting magazines had been taped up to most of the other surfaces. An old land-line phone was off the hook and beeping on the counter. Jules hung it up and dialled emergency, having to think for a second of the number they used here. She half expected to hit an engaged signal but the call went through to the dispatcher.

‘What service please?’

‘Fire. And ambulance!’

‘Location?’

‘Oh . . .’ For an infuriating second her mind went blank. ‘The marina. Gonzales Road Ma –’

‘Units are en route,’ came the clipped reply. ‘Please clear the line.’