Collins spread his hands. ‘Nobody seems to know.’

‘Who had access to it?’

‘Only the bloke who does the mowing, apparently.’

Flowers nodded. ‘I’ll figure out what other resources we’ll need to bring in, and I’ll get in touch with the Coroner’s office.’ Beyond the wreckage, several large pieces of jagged metal and other general debris were scattered across the grass, torn from the aircraft before it had been engulfed in flames. ‘Do we know who the pilot is—was?’

‘We’re pretty sure it’s Art Lorrimer. The wreckage is consistent with a Cessna 210, which he flies. He was due to land here yesterday, but the weather turned bad.’

‘Is he local?’

‘Not to Khancoban,’ Collins said. ‘The family have a grazing property down Tooma way, White Winter Station.’

‘Have they been notified?’

‘Not as yet.’

Flowers looked at the growing number of people gathering at the gate. A sign bearing the Snowy Hydro logo warned: Khancoban Airport, No Entry, Authorised Personnel Only.

‘Was anyone waiting here for him to land last night?’

‘Not to my knowledge.’

‘How long does it take to walk into the town? Five minutes?’

‘If that.’

‘So, maybe he wasn’t getting picked up, maybe he intended on walking into town. I’ll make some enquiries, see if he booked a room anywhere.’ Flowers pocketed his notepad and pen, the acrid smell of burnt rubber and aviation fuel surrounding the wreckage turning his stomach. ‘I’d better take a look at the body,’ he said, glad he’d decided to skip breakfast.

With Sergeant Collins close behind, Flowers ducked under the police tape, the stench poisoning the otherwise pristine breeze blowing off the pondage on the other side of the spillway. As they moved carefully towards the burnt-out vehicles, it became clear from the angle of the plane that the pilot had attempted to turn away from the tractor. The right wing had detached from the fuselage while the undercarriage looked to have been ripped out, possibly from colliding with the tractor’s slasher. But that would be for the Australian Transport Safety Bureau to work out.

‘You have photographs of all this?’ Flowers asked, burnt grass crackling under his boots.

‘Yep.’

As they drew closer to the plane, Flowers held up a hand for Collins to stop. He could already make out the charred skull and torso from where they stood and, to his mind, there was no doubt how the pilot had died. ‘We need to leave this to forensics,’ he said, turning away from the grisly scene. ‘We touch any part of that and it could crumble to black ash.’

As they walked back towards a large, corrugated-iron shed, the lone building gracing the airport, Flowers phoned Harriet Ono in Canberra. She was Ryder’s most trusted forensic pathologist.

‘Boy Wonder!’ Harriet’s voice reverberated in his ear. ‘Why are you calling me?’