‘Okay, I’ve read it.’ Benson’s voice crackled in his ear. ‘So, the tractor that was on the airstrip could have been started with a key from any tractor of the same make?’

‘Right. Can you see where Flowers has put in the make and model?’ Ryder asked, unlocking the car and grabbing the plastic scraper from the door pocket.

‘Yep, I can see that.’

Ryder began scraping away the ice stuck to the windscreen. ‘I want you to call every dealership that carries that make of tractor. We’re after a list of previous owners from the last twenty years.’

Benson’s soft whistle came down the phone.

‘I want details of sales and trade-ins, starting with towns in the Snowy council areas,’ Ryder said. ‘A desktop analysis will do for now.’

‘Yes, Sarge.’ There was a pause, then, ‘What’s that noise?’

‘I’m getting the ice off my windscreen,’ Ryder said irritably.

Benson chuckled. ‘You’re not regretting staying in Thredbo?’

‘Not on your life. I get to see Vanessa, and Eva’s cooking is first class.’ Ignoring the ten centimetres of snow that had built up on the roof and bonnet, Ryder slid into the driver’s seat and dumped the scraper back in the door pocket.

‘Eva’s just as entitled to your expense account money as anyone else,’ Benson said.

‘My thoughts exactly.’

‘I must admit, I’m jealous, Sarge.’

Ryder felt a pang of sympathy. Benson’s wife had decided to stay in Queanbeyan with their children when he’d accepted a promotion that involved a move to Sydney. ‘Listen, Benson, this might be a desktop analysis for now, but if we need another pair of hands down here, you’re first in line.’

‘I appreciate that, Sarge.’

‘Hold on a minute, I’m backing out.’ Checking all mirrors twice before shifting his attention to the rear camera, Ryder reversed slowly. Only when he reached the end of Eva’s driveway and turned onto Crackenback Drive did he speak again. ‘It’s a long shot but someone on that tractor list might have a history with Art Lorrimer.’

‘And they could have a record,’ said Benson.

‘Right, as well as the same tractor key.’

Satisfied the task was in good hands, Ryder brought the call to an end. He drove past the duck pond then wound his way up the steep, narrow road lined with ski lodges. When he made the sharp turn onto the Alpine Way, snow slid from the roof and tumbled in a shower onto the road.

At the top of a long, steep rise, he glanced at the vast views of the valley on his left. A car had pulled off the road, and a woman was posing for a photograph on a long wooden seat made from an old tree trunk. The words carved into the log marked the spot. Dead Horse Gap.