In the carpark Flowers walked around the optioned-up ute. He checked the tray first, then peered into the cabin. He was half expecting the dog to jump up at the window barking and snarling, but the cabin was empty. The ute had all the hunting accessories: a tough bull bar, a solid mounting behind the cabin for the rifles, and a powerful set of spotlights at the front. He’d been hoping to find large dents in the panels, broken tail-lights or bald tyres, but unfortunately the vehicle was in good condition. They’d already checked Garrett’s registration and licence, and both were current.

Flowers banged his palm on the bull bar and strode towards the hotel. Rodney Garrett was a tool, and Flowers wanted to get a good look at him. He hoped he’d recognise him from the photograph on his licence.

As he neared the hotel, the aroma of meat cooking on a barbecue wafted through the air, but for once it failed to make his mouth water. He pushed open the door and stepped inside, noticing that only a handful of tables were occupied. Most of the patrons were outside, sitting at picnic tables along the verandah or on the grassed area.

From Sterling’s description, the guy with the brown hair and beard pulling beers at the bar had to be Elijah. Sterling was beside him, arranging the drinks on a tray. Flowers moved further along the bar. He propped an elbow on the wooden top and surveyed the crowd. Sterling would see him soon enough.

The first person he recognised was Heidi Lorrimer with her pink-striped hair. She was near the barbecue, using tongs to serve salad onto a diner’s plate. While Flowers watched, she held out a breadbasket for the diner to take a roll. Most people were dressed in jackets and beanies, making it impossible to tell if any of the men outside were Garrett.

When he looked back, Sterling was walking away with the tray of drinks. He turned and faced the bar so he wouldn’t be looking right at her when she came back.

A movement in his peripheral vision made him look to the right. Rodney Garrett was sitting at a small table across from the end of the bar, his legs stretched out so they partially blocked the access way to the rest rooms. As Flowers watched, a woman with a small child was approaching him. She stopped, the child holding onto her hand. Only when she looked pointedly at Garrett did he slowly shift one leg out of the way and then the other.

What a dog act. Flowers’ blood boiled. This guy was an absolute douchebag.

‘What would you like?’ the barman asked him.

Flowers looked up. ‘Lemon squash, thanks.’

‘Ice?’

‘That’d be good.’

Ice clinked into the glass. ‘The barbecue finishes at two-thirty,’ the barman said as he filled the glass, ‘in case you were wanting lunch.’