Daniel was puzzled and a little concerned when Pete didn’t return to the barracks that night. The following morning, he checked on the FJ Holden and, discovering it gone, made discreet enquiries amongst the patrol officers. He didn’t wish to be over-alarmist in reporting Pete missing. As it turned out, Sergeant Benjamin Roscoe, who normally accompanied Pete on patrol, was as puzzled as Daniel was.

‘He didn’t front up yesterday,’ Benjamin said. ‘I didn’t see him at all.’

Benjamin had actually wondered whether Pete Mitchell’s failure to report for duty might have had something to do with the Aboriginal deaths, but he hadn’t said a word. He hadn’t dared. He hadn’t even brought up the subject with Charlie and Sam, who wouldn’t have welcomed discussion if he had. They were all terrified of the repercussions should they be overheard. Each of the men had put the episode behind him. It was as if the Aboriginal deaths simply hadn’t happened.

‘I wouldn’t worry too much though, Lieutenant,’ Benjamin added comfortingly. ‘Pete tends to flout the rules. He’s a bit unpredictable, if you know what I mean.’

Daniel nodded; he knew only too well what Benjamin meant. ‘His utility’s gone,’ he said, ‘but he hasn’t taken any of his gear with him. I’m just hoping there hasn’t been an accident.’

Unspoken thoughts were rife in Daniel’s mind too. In the remote possibility that Pete’s wild accusations were true, then Benjamin would be one of those servicemen threatened with court martial should he break silence. But Daniel didn’t dare ask. If Pete’s story was true, then he would be placing the man in danger, although he had to admit that the down-to-earth Benjamin Roscoe didn’t appear like a soldier under threat of treasonable charges and a firing squad. In the cold light of day, the whole business was starting to seem rather ludicrous.

Benjamin and Daniel both agreed that, in the event Pete’s car might have broken down or there’d been an accident, the military police should be informed – the desert was no place to be stranded.

‘But let’s leave it until tomorrow, Lieutenant,’ Benjamin suggested. ‘Pete’s a pretty smart bushman, he can survive a day or two out there, and we wouldn’t want to get him into trouble.’

‘What sort of trouble?’

‘Well, not so much trouble,’ Benjamin said, ‘more embarrassment really.’

Daniel was mystified by the remark.

‘It’s possible he might have stayed overnight at Watson,’ Benjamin added.

‘Oh. Yes, of course. You’re probably right.’ Daniel felt a little foolish. He’d forgotten all about the fettler’s wife. Was he the only person who hadn’t known of Pete’s affair, he wondered. ‘We’ll leave it until tomorrow, and if he hasn’t turned up by then, we’ll alert the MPs.’

When Pete didn’t turn up the next day, they reported him missing to the military police, whose first port of call, at Benjamin’s suggestion, was Watson. But there was no sign of Pete at Watson. Nor was there any sign of his FJ Holden.

‘Nah,’ Tommo, the ganger, said when shown a photograph, ‘haven’t seen the bloke. What about you, Mave?’ He handed the photo to his wife.

‘Nup,’ Mavis said with a shake of her head, ‘never clapped eyes on him.’

The response from the fettlers’ wives was the same. No-one had seen either the man or the vehicle, which to the MPs seemed strange as they’d been informed Pete regularly visited Watson. But then fettlers were notoriously unhelpful.

The military police scoured the surrounding area for the utility, and reports were sent to Ceduna and Adelaide seeking Pete’s whereabouts, but no news was forthcoming. It seemed Pete Mitchell had simply decided to take off.

Daniel was worried. Pete was indeed unpredictable, as Benjamin had said, but he wouldn’t take off without a word, and he certainly wouldn’t leave his gear behind. Something had happened. There’d been an accident, Daniel was sure of it.

Nick Stratton was also concerned for Pete’s safety, but his reasoning differed from Daniel’s. He didn’t believe there’d been any accident. He believed Pete Mitchell, in his unstable state, may have cracked completely. Had his guilt over the Aboriginal deaths driven him to such distraction that he’d disappeared into the desert and taken his own life? Tragic as the possibility was, Nick found it eminently plausible.

 

For most, the mysterious disappearance of Pete Mitchell was overshadowed by a far more exciting event. Just four days after he’d gone missing, the countdown began on the third test in the Buffalo series. As before, a heightened sense of anticipation pervaded Maralinga.

Codenamed Kite, the test was once again to differ in its form of detonation. This time, the device – a Blue Danube bomb – was to be dropped from an RAF Vickers Valiant at a height of 35,000 feet, and exploded in an airburst approximately 400 feet above the ground.

The bomb had originally been scheduled to use a service-issue forty-kiloton core, but plans had been changed.

‘What if the airburst fuse fails?’ one of the physicists had suggested. ‘A surface explosion with a bomb of that yield could result in huge contamination problems.’

Sir William Penney had admitted there was possible cause for concern, and a low-yield bomb core of 3 kilotons had been substituted.

‘Just in case,’ they’d all agreed.

The Kite test presented particular grounds for excitement. This was to be the first time a British atomic weapon had been launched from an aircraft. The eleventh of October 1956 would mark a historic occasion for armed forces and scientists alike.

Weather conditions were favourable that morning, but, as the day progressed, the upper winds began to veer and it was decided to bring the schedule forward by one hour. The drop would now take place close to two thirty in the afternoon.

At Roadside, the crowd was gathered in its hundreds, field glasses and binoculars trained on the Valiant bomber overhead. But at the start of the ten second countdown the focus shifted and all observers turned their backs to the site.

In the Valiant’s cockpit, a tense silence prevailed as the final seconds of the countdown sounded through the headsets of each crew member.

‘Two, one, zero …’

Then the bombardier’s voice, calm, unruffled. ‘Bombs away.’

A slight bump was felt as the weapon left the aircraft, after which the pilot and crew sprang into action. Upon immediate release of the bomb, the pre-planned manoeuvre was to take the aircraft clear of the weapon’s detonation while simultaneously counting down the seconds for the time of the fall. The final second of the predetermined countdown would be the moment of detonation, or so they all hoped.

As the aircraft sped away from the site and the countdown began, every crew member waited breathlessly for the blinding flash, praying that it would occur at the precise moment it should. If the airburst fuse malfunctioned and the detonation took place prematurely, they were in trouble.

Then, on the final second of countdown, the sky turned white. The device had detonated safely as planned, 400 feet above the ground.

Cheers screamed through headsets; men grinned and gave each other the thumbs up. The Kite test had been a resounding success on every level of operation.

 

The following day, however, there was reason to question the overall success of the Kite test, although only a select few were aware of the fact.

The weather had not behaved favourably as predicted. Winds had veered in an alarming fashion and fallout from the bomb had drifted much farther south than had been expected. Furthermore, rain had been forecast to the south-east of the state. This wet weather had been presumed well beyond the reach of any fallout and therefore harmless, but the presumption had now proved wrong.

On 12 October, the day after the third test in the Buffalo series, the city of Adelaide, approximately 600 miles south-east of Maralinga, was blanketed by radioactive rain. No reports of the danger appeared in the press. Nor was the public alerted to the fact that readings of radiation levels 900 times higher than normal were secretly recorded in the Adelaide area. No-one but a handful of scientists knew. And only one was prepared to go public.

‘I’ve had a disturbing call from Hedley Marston of the CSIRO in Adelaide,’ Nick announced at a meeting with Titterton, Butement and Martin of the safety committee. It was two days after the firing and he was there to receive his brief for the press conference to be held in Adelaide the following day. ‘Mr Marston enquired whether we intend to make any announcement about the Adelaide readings.’ Nick looked from one man to another, his eyes clearly asking, What readings? What aren’t you telling me?

‘Marston’s an alarmist,’ Titterton, the AWTSC chairman, snapped. ‘Low amounts of radioactive particles were detected in the air above Adelaide, presenting no danger whatsoever. The man’s a positive menace.’

Titterton was very quick to dismiss the celebrated biochemist. In his view, it had been a wrong move to bring in the Commonwealth Scientific and Industrial Research Organisation to assist with biological experiments. And it had been a particularly wrong move to allow Marston free rein with his tests on the radiation effects upon animals well outside the test zone. The original assumption that his findings would be a helpful measure of fallout over vast areas had proved correct, but the man himself was getting out of hand. Sir William Penney and Professor Ernest Titterton were in firm agreement that Hedley Marston was rapidly becoming a political disaster. Through his experiments, Marston was obtaining potentially scandalous data on radioactive fallout. Even more worrying, he was not bound by the secrecy provisions in place at Maralinga.

‘He doesn’t understand the political situation,’ Penney had complained time and again. ‘If a man of his scientific reputation says the tests are damaging there’ll be an almighty row. The communists and other political troublemakers will have a field day. He must be silenced at all costs.’

‘I warn you, Colonel Stratton,’ Titterton now continued, ‘Marston could jeopardise the entire test program.’ The tut-tut of disapproval that followed seemed directed at Nick as much as at Marston. ‘I must say, I’m not surprised he got in touch with you when all contact should have been made via the committee – the man appears determined to undermine our credibility. It’s irresponsible, to say the least.’

‘I agree. He’s a security risk we can ill afford.’ Alan Butement instantly backed Titterton, as he always did.

Nick glanced at Leslie Martin, the Australian. He usually tried to gauge the truth of the situation via Martin, who didn’t have the same vested interests as the British scientists, although Nick sometimes wondered how often Martin was conveniently left out of the loop. In this instance, however, the Australian appeared to genuinely concur with his colleagues.

‘He’s a bit of a renegade,’ Martin agreed, ‘with a tendency to exaggerate.’

‘Is this what I tell the press conference if his name comes up?’ Nick’s question was deliberately confrontational.

‘His name won’t come up,’ Titterton said dismissively. ‘The general press doesn’t even know who he is. You won’t hear a peep about Marston.’

Ernest Titterton had every right to be confident. Hedley Marston knew that if he attempted to expose his personal findings, he would be contradicted by his peers and exposed to ridicule. Sir William Penney had, furthermore, demanded that all reference to Adelaide be deleted from the article Marston was writing for publication in a scientific journal, and a further warning had been issued, in the interests of national security. Should any defamatory material appear, it would be instantly quashed, along with Marston’s reputation.

‘I will address the conference, Colonel,’ Titterton said in conclusion. ‘You will make your statement to the press and, before you call for questions, you will introduce me. In the meantime, you can put Marston right out of your mind.’

Nick was grateful to be relieved of the burden. But he really did not like Ernest Titterton.

 

On the second floor of the Government Information Office in Rundle Street, Adelaide, all was going as planned.

‘And now I’d like to call upon Professor Ernest Titterton, chairman of the Atomic Weapons Tests Safety Committee,’ Nick announced. ‘I’m sure he’ll be happy to answer any questions you may have.’

‘Thank you, Colonel.’

Nick stood to one side as Ernest Titterton addressed the press gathering.

‘Firstly, may I offer the committee’s firm assurance that all safety procedures were observed and all communications strictly in place during the Kite test. Weather conditions were satisfactory for firing, and complete agreement was reached between the Australian committee and the trials director that there was no danger of significant fallout outside the immediate target area.’

Titterton went on in a similar vein for a further minute or so before concluding with his personal guarantee that the committee would continue to monitor all experimentation assiduously. Then he called for questions. There were very few. And not one involved radiation readings recorded in Adelaide.

‘Thank you, Colonel Stratton.’ In returning the floor to Nick to conclude the conference, Ernest Titterton managed to make it sound like an order.

Arrogant bastard, Nick thought – he wanted to deck the man.

 

Nick stayed overnight in Adelaide. He had another press conference in Canberra the following day and was booked on a commercial flight early in the morning. He could have flown out that afternoon, but he preferred to spend as little time in Canberra as possible – he found it a sterile place.

After changing into civilian clothes, he dined at the hotel and then took himself off to the seedy bars and clubs of Hindley Street with the express intention of getting drunk. He rarely got drunk, but he was so fed up with the game-playing his job required that he felt an insatiable urge for some form of distraction. Christ, he had every right to get bloody well plastered, he told himself. Safeguarding military secrets and protecting the all-important Maralinga project was one thing, but taking orders from two-faced little Pommie-prick boffins was another thing altogether.

He did the rounds of a few bars, drinking a beer or two in each, before moving on to a downstairs club featuring a piano player, where he switched to Scotch.

‘Thank you,’ he said to the waitress as she placed his drink on the table.

The club was small and half-empty and he knew the type well. The clientele was male and the staff female, with the exception of two bouncers lounging in the shadows. Even the bartenders and the piano player were female, and the several women seated at the bar or drinking with the customers would be hostesses. This was a club for lonely men.

The good-looking brunette playing the piano segued from ‘La Vie En Rose’ to ‘Tennessee Waltz’, and a couple rose from a table to shuffle around the pocketsized dance floor. A customer leaned against the piano pouring the brunette a glass of champagne, and Nick wondered whether the pianist, too, was on the game. Most of the women would be, he was sure.

‘Hello there. Would you like some company?’

He peered up through the atmospheric gloom of the club’s lighting into a pretty face surrounded by platinum blonde hair. The lips were full and red, the figure voluptuous, and she appeared vaguely familiar. He hadn’t planned on sex, but it suddenly seemed like an excellent idea.

‘Please. Join me. Champagne?’ Nick knew the rules. Hostesses at such clubs were paid commission on the cheap sparkling wine that was sold at exorbitant prices under the guise of champagne.

‘Lovely,’ she said breathily, and she sat.

‘What’s your name?’

She gave him a dazzling smile. ‘Marilyn.’

Of course, he thought.

Marilyn turned out to be fun. ‘You’re a military man, aren’t you?’

‘How can you tell?’

‘Easy. I always know. It’s the body language. I’m a singer myself.’

‘Really? Where do you sing?’

‘Here.’

Five minutes later, the pianist beckoned her over.

‘Do you mind if I take Bella some champagne?’ she asked, picking up the bottle and her own full glass.

‘Of course not.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll get us another one, shall I?’

‘Lovely.’

As she crossed to the piano, he signalled the waitress. The previous bottle would go missing, and Marilyn would probably empty her glass into the lavatory or whatever else the girls did to get rid of the stuff – it was all part of the game. This was how the club made its money.

The rendition of ‘Baby It’s Cold Outside’, which Marilyn sang as a duet with the pianist, was pure Monroe in every sense. From the breathy tone to the heavy-lidded eyes, the pout and the wiggle of the hips, Marilyn had her namesake to a tee.

‘Sentimental Journey’ followed in exactly the same vein, and then she returned to the table.

He applauded her as she sat. ‘Excellent,’ he said, and she beamed.

He poured her a wine from the fresh bottle the waitress had delivered.

‘I’m sorry, I seem to have lost my glass,’ she said.

‘No matter, the girl brought you another one.’ He toasted her with his Scotch. ‘You’re a very good singer,’ he said. Presuming she wished to be perceived as original, he carefully avoided any reference to Marilyn Monroe.

‘You’ll like the next songs even more,’ she promised. ‘They’re my specialty.’

The next songs turned out to be ‘Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend’ and ‘The River of No Return’. There was obviously no need to avoid the subject of Marilyn.

‘She’s my idol. I based myself on her.’

‘Yes, I had noticed the similarity.’

A breathy laugh of delight.

They talked and drank, and then they danced, and he bought her supper, and then they talked some more, or rather Marilyn did. She was an excellent conversationalist. It was her job, she said. First and foremost she was a singer, but she was also expected to entertain the customers. It would hardly be fair, would it, to scoff the food and champagne and not offer some form of conversation? She believed in giving good value for money. Marilyn’s honesty was disarming. She was really Edie Smith from Mount Barker, she told him, but for show business purposes she’d decided to become Marilyn. ‘I’m so good at it now that Marilyn’s taken over and I’ve forgotten who Edie Smith is,’ she said with another breathy laugh.

She was intriguing and amusing and Nick was enjoying her company. He looked forward to the sex, but for the moment her presence was enough. He’d missed being with a woman.

Nick Stratton had made it a rule to avoid the complications of relationships. He’d come close only once to marriage. He’d been stationed in Seoul, and she’d been a cipher clerk in the intelligence unit of the US army, a captain by rank. Theirs had been a passionate affair. He’d wanted very much to marry Jennifer, or so he’d thought at the time. But, as it had turned out, they’d proved too alike. ‘Face it, Nick,’ Jenny had said, ‘we’re both married to the army.’ She’d refused to give up her career and, when the war was over, she’d returned to America. Nick was rather grateful for the fact now. He’d had the odd casual affair since then, but for the most part he was happy to keep his sexual liaisons on a cash basis. He found it simplified things.

‘Do you want to come back to my hotel, Marilyn?’ he asked as she finished the last of her crème caramel. The supper had run to three courses.

‘My place would be better,’ she said, ‘it’s not very far.’

‘Fine.’ He pulled out his wallet, about to settle the bill.

‘I can’t leave yet though. I have another bracket.’ She smiled apologetically. ‘Is midnight all right?’

He looked at his watch – an hour to go. Of course, he thought, it would be a house rule that the girls stayed until midnight, ensuring the management sold its quota of suppers and champagne. It also explained why the place had suddenly become busy. Men purely after sex had only one hour of club prices before leaving with the girl of their choice.

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Shall I get another bottle?’

‘Lovely.’

In the taxi on the way to her nearby flat, she kissed him, sensually, provocatively, a promise of what was to come, and Nick was instantly aroused. It had been a long time.

As they undressed each other, he saw in the light of the bedside lamp that she was a good deal older than she’d appeared in the club – late thirties, certainly. Not that it turned out to matter at all. The sex was excellent. Just as Marilyn gave good value at supper, so she also gave good value in bed.

But when it was over, Nick realised they hadn’t discussed what that value was. She hadn’t quoted him a price, and he’d stupidly not asked. He lay looking up at the ceiling for a moment or so, recovering his breath, while she lay panting beside him. She had probably faked her orgasm, he thought, but if so she was a very good actress. He could have sworn her passion was real, which had made the experience so much more enjoyable.

‘Oh, that was so good,’ she said, stretching luxuriantly and sounding for all the world as though she meant it.

‘It certainly was,’ he agreed.

He climbed from the bed and started to dress. Discussing business was always more comfortable with one’s clothes on.

She sat up, the sheet demurely clutched about her breasts, and watched him.

‘Thank you for the supper and champagne,’ she said. ‘I enjoyed your company very much. I really did.’

‘The feeling’s mutual.’

It was as if they’d been out on a date, he thought. She was making it very difficult for him to ask how much. Easier to leave a present, he decided – he’d met women before who preferred to ignore any form of transaction had taken place. He took a ten-pound note from his wallet and slid it tastefully under the statuette of the ballerina that sat on the mantelpiece. He expected her to pretend not to notice, but she didn’t pretend at all.

‘How generous,’ she said, as if it was the most unexpected gift in the world. ‘Thank you,’ and she blew him a kiss.

‘My pleasure. Bye, Marilyn.’

As Nick left, he was vaguely aware that the evening had cost him close to a week’s wages, but for some strange reason he didn’t feel as if he’d been taken advantage of.

Edie Smith from Mount Barker played the game her own way. She vetted her clients with great care. Sometimes she told them an element of truth, as she had tonight, and sometimes she invented a whole new tale to keep a customer entertained throughout supper. But she only ever went home with those she considered gentlemen, and preferably gentlemen she fancied – she enjoyed sex. Edie was content with her singer’s wage and club commission, she wasn’t interested in chasing a trick a night. And she never quoted a price because there was no need. The standard ‘short time’ rate most of the girls at the club charged was five pounds, and her gentlemen invariably came up with twice that amount. She considered it extremely generous on top of the outlay they’d made on champagne and supper. But Edie knew she was worth it. She’d given excellent value for money. They’d scored Marilyn Monroe, no less.

Back at the hotel, Nick managed four hours’ sleep before showering and catching a taxi to the airport. He felt a little seedy after too many Scotches, it was true, but he also felt a whole lot better.

 

Around the same time Nick’s taxi arrived at the airport, Gideon Melbray and his team pulled up at Watson railway station. They’d left Maralinga before dawn to meet the train delivery that was due early that morning.

Gideon climbed out from the passenger side, ostensibly to stretch his legs, but really to escape the young private who’d been driving the Land Rover. He wished the transport corps had supplied him with Daniel. For God’s sake, he thought, it’s too early in the morning – doesn’t this boy ever shut up?

Nineteen-year-old Toby also climbed out – still chatting away in his thick Manchester accent, but Gideon ignored him. Behind them, the two Bedford trucks pulled up and Gideon gave them a wave. He couldn’t wait to be relieved of Toby’s relentless company.

‘Do you have any toilet paper?’ As it turned out, Toby was seeking relief of his own – although even a lavatory break seemed to warrant a chat. ‘I should have gone at the barracks before we left,’ he said, ‘but I didn’t feel the urge.’ He caught the roll of toilet paper Gideon tossed to him. ‘And I didn’t want to cause any delay, what with the convoy and all –’

‘Shovel’s in the back,’ Gideon said.

Toby hefted out the shovel and slung it over his shoulder. ‘I shan’t be long,’ he said and he headed off towards the clump of trees 100 yards or so away.

‘Take your time.’ Gideon called after him.

Barely twenty yards from the trees, Toby faltered. He was sure he could hear growling up ahead – low, threatening growls coming from the mallee grove. Then he saw the animal emerge, a big, rangy, mangy, yellow roo dog – one of the fettlers’ beasts. It trotted clear of the trees with what appeared to be a hambone in its mouth and, just ten yards from him, settled down to gnaw at it. But as Toby watched the animal warily, he noticed that it wasn’t a hambone at all. It was a human forearm, complete with wristwatch.

He dropped the shovel. The bile rose in his throat, his whole stomach heaved, and seconds later his breakfast lay spewed on the ground. Then he was running back towards the convoy, yelling and gesticulating wildly. ‘Oy! Oy!’

The men turned to see the gawky lad from Manchester bearing down on them, arms flailing ridiculously like a demented bird, the forgotten roll of toilet paper still in his hand. What the hell had happened?

Gideon beckoned to one of the soldiers and together they raced to meet him. If it was a case of snakebite then the boy was mad to run like that – it would only pump the venom more quickly through his system. But they quickly realised it wasn’t a case of snake-bite. Toby was babbling something about a human arm and a dog, and he was pointing back where he’d come from.

They could see the dog. Gideon told Toby to return to the convoy, and he and the soldier went forward to investigate. Sure enough, it was true. The dog was chewing on a human arm. The limb was white and in the early stages of decomposition, but Gideon was pretty sure he knew whose arm it was.

Beside him, the soldier gestured towards the trees up ahead, and Gideon nodded. He, too, could hear the sound of growling. He picked up the shovel and held it at the ready as they walked towards the grove of mallee trees.

The sight that greeted them was a gruesome one. Three roo dogs were feeding on the remains of a human corpse. Dingoes had exposed a shallow grave during the night, and in the early hours of the morning the dogs had picked up the scent and come in for their share. The animals were displaying little aggression towards one another – the growls were more a warning to outsiders. A clearly established pecking order existed amongst the fettlers’ dogs, and each knew its place. The pack leader was feeding on the carcass at the graveside, and the two subordinates were well clear, with a limb apiece.

The dogs didn’t appear to find the humans a threat, or perhaps they were too distracted. The leader of the pack growled as Gideon walked forward to look at the grave, but it was merely a warning not to touch the carcass. Gideon had no intention of doing so. Between the dingoes and the dogs, what was left of the body was barely recognisable as human, but the animals had shown little interest in the head. And the head remained distinctly that of Pete Mitchell.

So Harry Lampton did murder him, Gideon thought. In the eight days since Pete’s disappearance, Gideon had pondered the matter and only two scenarios had sprung to mind. Either Pete had run off with Ada, who’d been conspicuously absent of late, or Harry had found out about the affair and killed them. It seemed the latter was the case, although there was no sign of Ada’s body – perhaps she’d been spared.

Gideon hadn’t bothered to share his suspicions with the military police – he hadn’t even mentioned Ada’s name. He had no desire to become embroiled in a police enquiry. Now, however, with Pete Mitchell being rapidly devoured by roo dogs, it appeared unavoidable.

‘I’ll radio the MPs while you and the men clear the dogs away,’ he said to the soldier.