By the time he arrived back at the Queen’s Hotel, it was one o’clock in the afternoon and Lyndon had decided upon his plans for the rest of the day. First of all, he would go for a pleasant walk along the seafront; having been cooped up indoors with interrogations the previous day and now all morning, he hadn’t yet acquainted himself with the prettier aspects of Townsville. He would walk up The Strand, he’d decided, perhaps all the way to Kissing Point Fort, which he’d been told was at the northern end. Then he’d return to the hotel for a late lunch, after which the clerk’s notes of interview would no doubt be delivered, and he would settle down to the arduous task of writing up his full report to be presented to Roosevelt upon his return to America.

But no sooner had he walked into the foyer of the hotel than he found himself accosted.

‘Lieutenant Commander Johnson, I believe.’ A man rose from an armchair nearby, an armchair that was within clear sight of the main doors. He’d obviously been lying in wait.

‘Pete Vickers,’ the man said on approach, a sizeable folder tucked firmly under his left arm, right hand extended, smile friendly. ‘I left a business card yesterday afternoon. A note, too, actually,’ he admitted, ‘I called in twice.’

‘Ah yes.’ Lyndon had no option but to shake the hand on offer. The pleasant-looking young man, who appeared in his mid-twenties, was obviously a cripple, and being rude to a cripple didn’t seem at all right. ‘I received both your card and your note, Mr Vickers,’ he said, ‘but I have no wish to talk to the press.’

‘Oh, I’m not after an interview, Commander,’ Pete said, ‘far from it, I assure you. As I said in my note, I’m of the firm belief I can be of assistance to you rather than you to me.’

Of course that’s exactly what a reporter would say, isn’t it, Lyndon thought with a flash of irritation. ‘I have no desire whatsoever to talk with the Bulletin, Mr Vickers,’ he said rather sharply.

‘Nor do I,’ Pete replied. ‘That is, not about you and the purpose you’re here anyway, there wouldn’t be any point. They wouldn’t print a word I wrote.’

The young man’s manner, while remaining polite, was so assertive Lyndon couldn’t help being intrigued. ‘Oh?’ he asked in a way that invited explanation.

It was exactly the reaction Pete had been aiming for, so he dived straight in. ‘You’re here to investigate the riot of the 96th Battalion on the night of the 22nd of May,’ he said, ‘the confrontation between black soldiers and white.’

The intentionally blunt statement had its effect: he’d garnered Johnson’s attention, the commander’s expression clearly saying, How the hell did you know about that?