Dr Mia Carter was the child he’d never had. The talented young American had come for a vocational year and stayed for two, winning the community over with her dedication and generosity of spirit. She’d brought new methods, professional stimulation and friendship, and when she’d returned to the States three years ago, it had damn near broken his heart. But after the wilds of Papua, she had found Connecticut tame, and was now set to return on a five-year contract with a view to a permanent position.

Trying to contain his excitement, Ford corrected a mild yaw, and lightly dropped the King’s three tonnes to kiss the close-cropped kikuyu turf. Whistling cheerfully, he taxied up to the hangar door and switched off. Normally, Avis would guide him inside with a set of battered wheel chocks and a gap-toothed smile. No doubt the cheerful young mechanic was up at the house, celebrating.

Extending the King’s retractable stairs, Ford was in such a hurry he almost forgot his precious Macallan. Just this week he had been putting together a transition timetable for Mia to take over the running of the hospital, and to learn how to fly. Of course, she would have doubts, but she was more than capable. Ford clattered his way down the bouncy steps and almost tripped.

Calm down, you old fool, he told himself, and for God’s sake whatever you do, don’t overwhelm the poor girl.

It was really quite selfish, the way he was mapping out her future. As well as wanting the mission to be in safe hands, Ford’s secret hope was to grow old in Mia Carter’s company.

A loud electrical sound coming from inside the hangar made him pause. Was it that faulty generator again? Ford went in through the side door. For a moment he stared in incomprehension at the buzzing frenzy of flies. Then he realised the seething black form was a human body in a pool of blood.

Dear God, Avis!

The Macallan shattered on the concrete. Dropping down beside the spread-eagled young man, Ford waved away the flies. Even as he felt for a pulse, he knew it was pointless. A large-calibre bullet had punched a hole the size of a fist through the back of Avis’s blue overalls. The poor boy had been dead for at least an hour.

Violence was a way of life in Papua. From inter-tribal squabbles over pigs and territory, to accusations of witchcraft or adultery, people tended to take the law into their own hands. But the mission had always been a safe zone where rival villages refrained from conflict. Over the years they had quietly patched up members of the OPM – the Free Papua Movement – and treated Indonesian soldiers for snakebites, gunshots and malaria, when rapid evacuation to Jayapura was not an option.

So, who had done this?

The olive-green plane . . .