As he rode the ten miles or so into Townsville, Pete’s mind was sifting through the information he’d gleaned. The big Negro soldier, who’d obviously been wounded and was probably seeking help, poor bastard, would have been from the 96th Battalion based at Kelso. Norma Hodgeman, bigoted bitch that she was and always had been, would have been right about that much at least. And the troops of the 96th were the poor buggers who’d been used as scapegoats, blamed for all the racial trouble in town and banned from the city. So what had happened? Had there been some sort of uprising out at Kelso? And if so, had troops been called in from elsewhere to contain it? Heavy-duty machine-gun fire, both farmers had said. Well, the closest army camp to Kelso was the Aussie 51st Regiment based at Mount Louisa. Queensland boys for the most part. Nashos. Yep, they’d be the ones to talk to all right.

By the time he was crossing Victoria Bridge, weaving his bicycle through the endless military traffic that clogged the city’s streets, Pete had a plan in mind for the next stage of his investigations. He’d need to wait until Friday, but he didn’t mind. There was certainly no point in attempting to seek information through legitimate channels. A visit to Hank Henry or any one of his MPs, or the commanding officer of the Australian 51st for that matter, would be useless, they’d all have closed ranks. No matter. Pete was prepared to wait for the right person … the right time … the right place …

Pete Vickers was not the only person who on that Monday morning was busily concerned with the events of Friday night. Samuel Robinson had been called into Hank Henry’s office first thing; big Amos Cole and young Willie Parker had been transported to the stockade to await interrogation; Corporal Rupert Barrett had been ordered to report also to the stockade to assist with the interrogation; the purpose of all being the discovery of what exactly had led to the mutiny. Although the purpose in the minds of some varied just a little.

‘What do you mean you’ve ordered Corporal Barrett to assist with the investigation?’ Hank Henry demanded. ‘He wasn’t part of the mutiny, we can’t throw the book at him.’

‘He’ll be of great value in discovering the reason why the troops mutinied, sir,’ Samuel answered with care, ‘he knows the men really well.’

‘And so do you, Samuel,’ Hank responded with equal care, ‘or so I’ve been led to believe. And by none other than Corporal Barrett himself.’

‘Yes.’

The two studied each other shrewdly, both aware of unspoken agendas that might possibly differ.

‘Yes, I know the men,’ Samuel said. ‘But I’m not black.’

‘There is that, of course,’ Hank Henry allowed himself one of his brief and rare smiles, albeit wry, ‘there is always that.’