He hefted his kit bag onto his bunk. ‘Leave this with me,’ he said, tucking the book well inside, ‘and keep me posted, Corporal.’

‘I will, sir, yes.’

Rupe was fully aware of Samuel Robinson’s powerlessness to offer any practical assistance at this stage, but that didn’t bother him. He felt buoyed by the knowledge that he had an ally, and a powerful one at that if he and Kasey could come up with some form of evidence against Maxwell.

Over the next several days, the two of them set about sleuthing, and they did so with the greatest of care. It was important they arouse no hint of suspicion that might reach Maxwell’s ears, thereby giving him warning to further cover his tracks. As it turned out, they met with no problem. The troops openly answered any query put to them, with no responding query of their own as to why they were being asked. Everyone was too busy talking about the closure of the club.

One of the search-party members who had discovered Ant’s body told Rupe of the exact whereabouts, and he and Kasey examined the scene. Nothing untoward to report there. The narrow track that led from the road to the river’s edge was steep; perfectly believable a man could trip and fall down the embankment, breaking his neck. There were numerous vehicle tyre tracks along the dirt road, but these too signified nothing. The road had been created by the military and was one of many such roads linking the camp to various work sites.

They asked around among the men whose tents were in the same section as Ant’s, but those troops housed nearby had all been at the club that night. Ant was the only one who had chosen not to go.

Questions asked of men who’d remained in camp, however, proved far more revealing. The two troops on guard at the armoury had seen Captain Maxwell and Sergeant Stowers on patrol that night. Others who’d been gathered at the mess tent playing cards or just talking were of even greater interest, articulating their opinion in no uncertain terms.

‘Maxwell, he was on the prowl, I tell you,’ one said, ‘couldn’t believe why we was so quiet when our buddies were at the club.’

‘Yeah,’ another agreed, ‘that fucker was aching to find trouble so as he could lay into one of us. The son of a bitch just hated that we had a club of our own.’

This confirmed their suspicions. Maxwell had killed Anthony Hill. But such talk was useless, no more than conjecture; it offered no proof. They’d reached a stalemate. In typical fashion, Kasey was quick to give vent to his fury.

‘I’m gonna kill that no good piece of white shit,’ he said, pacing about the clearing well away from the camp where they’d retired to discuss their findings. ‘And I’m gonna kill that no good piece of nigger shit, too. Stowers is covering for the prick like he always does. I’ll just bet it was Strut-fucking-Stowers who dumped the body.’