‘Karl Richards. That’s his number. Young bloke, not been here too long. His office is next to the post office.’ He nodded to her and turned away.

‘Thanks very much. I appreciate your help.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ Jack said and followed Dave behind the counter. ‘I’m sure we’ll come across each other soon. It’s not a very big town. And if you feel like it, share the Facebook page around.’

‘You’ve done that already?’ she heard Dave say as she exited out the door and onto the street, feeling vaguely disgruntled. Not that she had been received any less enthusiastically than she’d expected. Cops were always hard to crack. Lachy had told her that keeping the police on side was a good idea, and if she ever found any info that would be helpful to them, to give it over. ‘You create a source for life that way,’ he had said. Still, they had both been polite and they’d shared a couple of laughs. That was a good start.

I’ll have to find something that would interest Jack, rather than Dave, Zara thought. I think he’s going to be too tough to crack, even if he comes across as a very nice man.

Her hair blew back from her face as she walked against the wind towards the post office. Crossing the empty street, she saw a faded sign on a stone building proclaiming itself to be the stock agent’s office. Karl Richards didn’t seem to be associated with any of the larger stock firms like Elders or Landmark, but that didn’t surprise her. In South Australia there were a lot of independent agents, which meant they all had to work hard for clients.

Inside, she was immediately hit by a musty smell. Instantly she was thrown back to her childhood, to when her mum, dad, Will and she used to visit her grandparents. Their house had been dark and always smelled mouldy, as if there wasn’t enough sunshine getting in through the tiny windows and hard-to-open doors, and Zara was sure that was one of the reasons she loved letting the sunlight into the places she lived.

The darkness of the house had scared her as a young child. She’d been convinced there were ghosts in the passageway from the kitchen to the living room. She never walked that hallway, she always ran, especially at night, when her gran was cleaning up the kitchen and her pa had already retired to the lounge room to watch the ABC news and smoke his pipe. And she ran fast, just in case one of those ghosts could grab at her heels and drag her somewhere she didn’t want to go.

A door slammed, bringing her out of her reverie, and she turned towards the noise.

‘Well, hello there,’ a male voice said. ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes. What’s your name?’

Zara wrinkled her brow at the obvious flirting. ‘I’m Zara Ellison, journalist with the Farming Telegraph.’ She held out her card.