In the four months since Daniel’s death, Elizabeth’s resolve had not faltered nor her conviction diminished. She remained steadfast in her determination to discover the truth, and more than ever she refused to believe Daniel had died either by his own hand or accidentally.

As the rawness of her grief had settled, she’d studied his letter for further clues. She did not view it as the product of a disturbed mind as others might; others, after all, did not know Danny. Certainly, he’d been in a degree of turmoil at the time of his writing, she could see that, but the cause of his turmoil was abundantly clear to her. Danny was an idealist with a love of the army and a strong sense of justice. When he’d suspected his friend’s death might have been a possible military assassination, his faith in the army had been severely shaken, but a man like Danny did not suicide for such a reason. Nor did he suicide through grief suffered over the loss of a comrade. A man like Danny would be driven to discover the truth. Was this why he had met his death?

She went over and over the contents of the letter, no longer needing to refer to it directly, every word now etched in her mind. Had the army threatened men with court martial if they spoke of what they’d seen? Pete Mitchell had evidently said so, but Danny himself hadn’t appeared too sure. And if men had been threatened with court martial, then what was it they had seen?

There were many questions to be asked, but of one thing Elizabeth was certain. To find out what had happened to Daniel, she would need to find out what was going on at Maralinga. And she couldn’t do that from the other side of the world.

After handing in her notice at The Guardian, she’d applied for a position with The Advertiser in Adelaide and had been instantly accepted, the editor only too keen to gain the services of E. J. Hoffmann, whose feature articles in the London Guardian were so impressive.

Elizabeth’s adventure had begun the moment she’d set foot on board the SS Strathaird at Tilbury Docks one icy-cold morning in early December. As the ship had pulled out into the harbour, she’d leant over the railing waving to her parents who’d come to farewell her, and she’d kept on waving even when they’d been swallowed up by the crowd, just in case they could still see her. Alfred and Marjorie Hoffmann, too, had continued to wave from the dockside, even though they’d no longer been able to distinguish their daughter amongst the hundreds jostling for position on the Strathaird’s decks.

Unlike the majority of her fellow passengers who were migrating under the post-war assisted-passage scheme offered by the Australian government, Elizabeth was paying her own way. She was therefore free to return to her homeland at will, without serving out the scheme’s obligatory two years, but this did not make her chosen course of action any the less momentous. The instant she had decided to leave England, Elizabeth had known that her life was about to undergo a radical change.

She’d enjoyed the sea voyage. Even the Bay of Biscay’s rough crossing and the overwhelming heat of Port Said had not deterred her, and the Suez Canal she’d found quite remarkable. Unfortunately, disembarkation had been forbidden due to the Suez Crisis, but boat traders had provided an exciting distraction, swarming the ship and selling every conceivable trinket to its captive passengers.

Most of all though, Elizabeth had loved the vast expanse of ocean and the sense of wonder she’d felt as she’d stood on the deserted deck watching the sunrise over the endless blue water, or when, late at night, she’d looked up at the stars in a sky she’d never seen, a sky clearer and more vivid than the one she’d known in the northern hemisphere with different constellations. At such times, she’d thought of her life and of Daniel’s and of the plans that they’d made, and her thoughts had not saddened her but rather strengthened her purpose. She’d felt he was with her in her search for the truth.

The first Australian port of call had been Fremantle, and then it had been on to Adelaide, where the Strathaird had arrived just six weeks after departing Tilbury Docks. The next leg of Elizabeth’s adventure had begun.

She’d bought a map of the city and booked into the Ambassadors Hotel in King William Street. It had proved comfortable enough, but of far greater importance was the fact it was just around the corner from the offices of The Advertiser in Pirie Street.

As on previous occasions, while not actually lying, Elizabeth had failed to stipulate her gender in her application, and when she’d fronted up to The Advertiser to make herself known, she’d anticipated some hostility, if not from the editor then certainly from her fellow journalists.

‘Good God, you’re a woman.’ The editor, a jovial man called Peter Johnston, known to all as P. J., had been astounded. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘You didn’t ask, and I didn’t think it necessary given the fact that you’d accepted my credentials,’ she’d replied pleasantly. Then she’d waited for the outburst. To her amazement, there’d been none.

‘Fair enough,’ P. J. had said. ‘Welcome to The Advertiser, Miss Hoffmann. Good to have you aboard.’

Elizabeth had been surprised. Not only had the editor welcomed her, but her male colleagues, apparently respecting her work and her track record, had displayed none of the professional antipathy towards a woman in the ranks that she’d experienced during her early days at The Guardian. There’d been the customary problem of unwanted attentions from some, but she’d managed to discourage without offending, and the men had quickly come to regard her as one of their own.

She had sensed immediate animosity, however, from the one female amongst the senior hierarchy. Edna Sparks, a New Zealander in her forties, was the leisure and entertainments editor and held sway over a broad spectrum of the paper that dealt with the more lightweight matters, particularly those appealing to the female readership. Edna had regarded Elizabeth with baleful suspicion from the outset, and Elizabeth had had no idea why.

‘Jealousy, that’s all it is,’ Laurie Knight, sports columnist, had said dismissively. ‘Edna’s got it in for all the young things, particularly the lookers. You want to watch her though, Liz, she’s tough. You get on the wrong side of Edna and Sparks’ll fly.’ He’d given her a nudge and a wink, as if the remark was his own, but the pun had been bandied about as long as Edna had been in power, which was well over a decade.

Elizabeth had smiled dutifully. Laurie was well-intentioned enough, but he was one of those who had to be kept at arm’s length. Why were the sports columnists always the most insistent, she’d wondered; and she really wasn’t too sure about being known as ‘Liz’. She had yet to realise that Laurie Knight was not the only Australian with a penchant for diminutives and that it was more than likely she’d be stuck with ‘Liz’. She had taken his advice with regard to Edna though, and had steered clear of the woman whenever possible.

Laurie’s glib assumption, which was not uncommon amongst his fellow journalists, was actually incorrect. Edna Sparks, having fought for her position in a man’s world, was certainly tough, but she felt no particular animosity towards young women, good-looking or otherwise, unless they were after her job. As a company woman, married to her work and to the newspaper, Edna had no time for petty jealousy; it was not productive. Her initial antipathy towards Elizabeth had sprung from neither the threat of competition nor the envy of youth. She had been concerned that Elizabeth Hoffmann might prove a disruptive element. The other young female employees performed secretarial and typing pool duties and knew their position in the hierarchy. They would not dare encourage the men’s attentions during working hours – any flirtatious behaviour was conducted outside the office. Elizabeth, however, had been brought into the workplace as an equal, and Edna could see that the men found her a distraction. It would be only a matter of time, she’d thought, before Elizabeth Hoffmann would cause trouble.

But as Edna had watched and waited for the warning signs, she’d quickly recognised that Elizabeth Hoffmann had no intention of causing trouble. Indeed, she’d found herself admiring the skilful manner in which the young woman fielded the men’s attentions, neither offending nor encouraging, but relating to her colleagues in a friendly fashion and on a strictly professional basis at all times. Within barely a fortnight, Edna Sparks had reversed her opinion completely. Elizabeth Hoffmann was a credit to women in the workforce, she’d decided. There should be far more like her.

 

‘Would you care to join me for lunch? I know an excellent little cafe that serves the very best sandwiches.’

The invitation was offered in the quaint New Zealand accent that no-one dared ridicule because it belonged to Edna, and Elizabeth looked up from her work flabbergasted. Only days previously the woman had been scowling at her across the newsroom floor, hatchet-faced and eagle-eyed, as if waiting for a moment to swoop in for the kill.

‘Love to,’ she said.

They sat opposite each other in one of the booths of the little corner milk bar where the chicken and salad sandwiches were indeed delicious, and while Edna made no apologies, she admitted to her original suspicions.

‘I was so sure you’d cause trouble,’ she said, ‘but I must say I admire the way you handle the men.’

‘In what way?’

‘No nonsense. You keep them in line. I like that.’

Elizabeth laughed. ‘You make me sound like a sergeant major,’ she said, but she knew exactly what Edna meant. ‘Actually the men make it easy for me, Edna. Even those on the make seem to respect my work. It wasn’t at all the case when I started out at The Guardian I can tell you. I’ve no idea why,’ she said thoughtfully as she stirred her tea, ‘but for some strange reason, Australia seems more tolerant towards female journalists than Britain is.’

‘Oh, we Antipodeans aren’t quite as backward as you British tend to think.’

The tone of voice wasn’t as harsh as the comment itself, but in glancing up from her cup Elizabeth nonetheless expected to encounter criticism. She encountered nothing of the kind. As Edna smiled, her hawk-like face softened and her eyes gleamed with an intelligence that was suddenly attractive.

‘From a historical viewpoint, it’s not really unexpected, you know. New Zealand led the suffrage movement, granting women the vote in 1893, and Australia followed in 1902. Britain didn’t come to the party for another whole sixteen years.’

‘Yes, you’re right, of course. I’d forgotten that.’

‘And did you know that both countries also boasted pioneer women journalists prior to the turn of the century?’

‘No, I certainly didn’t. How very interesting.’

‘Oh yes, it is indeed.’ Edna launched into a passionate account of her fellow countrywoman Stella Allan, who’d become the first female parliamentary reporter in New Zealand and Australia. ‘That was in 1898,’ she said. ‘She was Stella Henderson then, it was before she married. She was only in her mid-twenties.’

After recounting Stella Allan’s story, she moved on. ‘And of course there was Louisa Lawson who pioneered The Dawn: A Journal for Australian Women in 1888. She employed female typesetters too, which was a further cause for controversy …’

It was a full twenty minutes before Edna came to a halt. ‘I’ve carried on a bit, haven’t I,’ she said with no attempt at apology. ‘It’s a subject very close to my heart.’ She looked at her watch. ‘We’d better be getting back to work.’

‘What a pity,’ Elizabeth said, ‘I could listen to you for hours.’ She meant it wholeheartedly. ‘And I must say I’m very thankful that the Antipodeans appear to continue one step ahead with regard to women’s rights – in the world of journalism anyway. It’s quite a relief.’

They split the bill between them and left.

‘How are you settling into Adelaide, Elizabeth?’ Edna asked as they walked back to Pirie Street. She had decided she would not adopt the diminutive as her male counterparts had done – ‘Liz’ did not suit the young Englishwoman at all. ‘Have you found somewhere to live yet?’

‘No, I’m still at the Ambassadors. I’ve decided to stay in a hotel until I find the right place.’

‘And what do you see as the right place?’

‘I’m not sure, I haven’t really had time to start looking in earnest, but I’d thought of somewhere by the sea.’ Elizabeth smiled self-effacingly. ‘It’s probably frightfully British and frightfully unrealistic, but in coming all the way to Australia one fantasises about living by the beach.’

‘It’s not unrealistic at all. I have a contact who handles several rental properties in Glenelg and Brighton.’ Edna had contacts all over Adelaide, advertisers mostly who were keen to keep on side with her. ‘I’m sure he’ll have something that will suit you. Leave it to me.’

Elizabeth did, and a week later she’d moved into a large, airy flat on the first floor of a once-imposing terrace house in St Johns Row, Glenelg. The house, which had seen better days, had been converted into two holiday apartments and the balcony of Elizabeth’s upstairs flat commanded splendid views of the beach.

The building is faintly reminiscent of those seedy, once grand seaside hotels that abound in English coastal towns, she’d written to her parents. The beach itself bears no resemblance at all to our beaches, however – in fact, it quite puts them to shame. There are no pebbles here, just miles and miles of glorious white sand, like one sees in the postcards, and the promenade is lined with magnificent Norfolk Island pines. Every morning I walk barefoot along the beach, after which I shower and then catch a tram into work – Glenelg is less than half an hour’s ride from the city. I must say, it is a wonderful way to start the day …’

Elizabeth had been deeply indebted to Edna Sparks.

‘I can’t thank you enough, Edna. Really, I –’

‘Rubbish. A phone call, that’s all it was.’

Edna’s response may have been abrupt and dismissive, but a friendship had been forged and both the women knew it. Despite the discrepancy in their ages and their vastly different backgrounds, Elizabeth Hoffmann and Edna Sparks had a great deal in common, not least being their lack of female friends. As career women working in a male-dominated world, friendships with those of their own sex had been rare and they quickly grew to value each other a great deal.

 

The heat she’d encountered during her sea voyage had not altogether prepared Elizabeth for the relentlessness of a South Australian midsummer, particularly when, in mid-February, a four-day heatwave hit Adelaide. She’d found the 100-degree temperatures extremely trying.

Thank goodness I have the flat, she’d written to her parents. The days in town are simply stifling, but to come home to the breeze off the water makes everything bearable. I even conquered my fear of the ocean on Saturday and, instead of paddling ankle-deep in the shallows as I normally do, I threw my whole body into the sea, along with the hundreds who swarm to Glenelg every weekend. All Australians can swim wonderfully and are fearless of the water. I felt so incredibly clumsy spluttering and floundering about that I have now determined I shall learn how to swim. It cannot be that difficult, surely …

Elizabeth had embraced the dramatic change in her life with a practicality that was typical, developing a genuine enthusiasm for her new job and her new country, but she had not for one minute lost sight of her purpose. After allowing herself six weeks to settle in at The Advertiser, she’d decided the time was right to request she be assigned to the Maralinga project.

Peter Johnston, the editor, was a pragmatic man and had instantly recognised that reportage by an English journalist, particularly one fresh from the prestigious London Guardian, would not only be apt under the circumstances but bound to impress.

‘You’ll need to liaise closely with Macca, of course,’ P. J. had said. ‘He’s been principally responsible for our Maralinga coverage. But I’m sure he’ll be delighted to have you on his team.’

Jonathon ‘Macca’ Mackay, senior feature writer and regular political columnist, had been more than delighted. He’d basked in the knowledge that he’d be the envy of his colleagues.

‘Working hands-on with her, eh? You lucky bastard.’ Laurie Knight had been the only one to make a suggestive comment, which he’d emphasised with his customary nudge and wink.

In deference to Elizabeth, Macca had not responded in kind, but neither had he taken offence. Laurie was only voicing what a lot of the others were thinking. The men respected Elizabeth but it didn’t stop them lusting after her.

Macca’s own feelings towards Elizabeth were not in the least lascivious. A devoted family man in his late thirties with two young children, he had a very pretty wife whom he absolutely adored. But he admired a handsome woman as much as the next man, and the prospect of being the envy of his mates greatly amused him.

Elizabeth warmed to Jonathon Mackay from the start. A ginger-haired Australian of Scottish descent, Macca was good-natured, easy to work with and a great deal of fun. He was also extremely helpful, supplying her not only with every single report the newspaper had run on Maralinga but also a wealth of material on the earlier British nuclear testings at Monte Bello and Emu Field.

‘A bit of homework for you, Liz,’ he’d said as he’d piled her desk high with files from the archives department. ‘Best to be historically up to date, don’t you reckon?’

Elizabeth certainly did, and she’d studied every report and every article with the utmost care. Several days later she’d reported to his office, which looked out over the newsroom and her own desk, eager to move on to the next step. But things had taken a surprisingly frustrating turn.

‘So where to from here, Macca?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I’ve finished my homework. Historically I’m a full book. So who do I talk to about the current state of play?’

‘You don’t. You wait until they talk to you.’

Macca’s response to her bewilderment was sympathetic.

‘I hate to disappoint you, Liz, I know you’re raring to go, but I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until they call a press conference.’

‘But surely there’s someone who fields questions? Nothing confronting that would breach security regulations, just a general interview.’

‘Nope. They don’t allow individual interviews with the press. They call conferences and they issue statements and they tell us just as much as they feel we should know. They’re very self-protective.’

‘By they I presume you mean the military?’

‘The military and everyone else.’ Macca reeled off the list: ‘The British government, the Australian government, every branch of the armed forces from both countries, and let’s not forget the scientists. Maralinga’s a closed shop, Liz. And it’s not really surprising when you think about it. Reds under the bed …’ He shrugged philosophically. ‘The whole bloody country’s terrified.’

Reds under the bed, Elizabeth thought. The fear of communism was obviously as rampant throughout Australia as it was throughout Britain – she wondered why she found the fact vaguely surprising. Probably because Australia seemed such a world away, she told herself. But it wasn’t any more, was it? The fears of the Australians were more than justified with Britain’s nuclear testing ground flourishing in their midst.

‘Then I suppose my best bet would be to come from the unofficial direction,’ she said. ‘Try for an interview with a soldier on leave. Aim for a human interest story – “Life on the Range”, that sort of thing.’

Macca gave a loud hoot of laughter. ‘You have to be joking!’

His response was disbelieving rather than derisive. Elizabeth’s suggestion seemed unrealistically feminine and very much out of character for the hard-nosed journalist he knew her to be. He didn’t wish to appear mocking though, so he curbed his mirth as best he could.

‘Don’t you reckon “Life on the Range” might be just a little fanciful, Liz?’ Then he registered the glint of something that could have been mischief in her eyes. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘you were joking.’

‘Was I?’ Her response was enigmatic. ‘The human interest angle would at least give me somewhere to start, and a soldier on leave would expect that sort of approach from a female reporter, wouldn’t you say?’

Macca’s grin quickly faded. ‘Right, I get it. You’re not joking at all. You’re sounding me out.’

Elizabeth nodded. ‘So what do you think my chances are?’

‘Bugger all, I’m afraid.’ Macca briskly spelled out the facts. ‘Soldiers on leave are not permitted to give interviews to any members of the press. Even those who appear harmlessly female,’ he added with meaning. ‘Soldiers are also banned from talking about Maralinga to any member of the public anywhere at any time. I’ve actually heard there are military spies posted around the most popular gathering places in the city to ensure men don’t speak out of turn.’

‘In other words,’ Elizabeth said wryly, ‘you’re suggesting the unofficial approach is not the way to go.’

‘It most definitely is not.’

‘Then perhaps I’ll ruffle a few official feathers instead, try a more confrontational tack.’

‘Don’t give it a thought. The moment they smell you mean trouble, you’ll be straight out the door.’

‘If that is the case, Macca, I consider it absolutely appalling, and you should too.’ Elizabeth didn’t care in the least if she sounded stuffy; she was becoming annoyed. ‘Whatever happened to the freedom of the press?’

‘There’s no such thing in the middle of a Cold War.’

Macca’s glib reply annoyed her further and she was about to interject, but he didn’t give her a chance.

‘Government security, Liz – we have to play it safe or we won’t get a look-in. You’ll just have to wait for the next press conference – there’s nothing else you can do.’ Aware of her frustration, he made an effort to mollify her. ‘Why don’t you write a general piece in the meantime – something with political comment that won’t offend?’ He thought for a second or so. ‘How about “Australia’s inestimable value to Britain in the face of America’s nuclear non-proliferation policy”? That could be interesting, don’t you think?’

Much as Elizabeth liked Macca, she found his complacency infuriating, and his attempt at mollification only succeeded in increasing her overwhelming sense of frustration. Why should she write a safe, cosy piece just to please the government? But of far greater importance, how was she to make any possible inroads into Maralinga? It was maddening to have come so far only to be told by the likes of Macca Mackay that her hands were tied and she could go no further.

 

Only days later, however, Elizabeth had had every reason to thank Macca Mackay. On the Friday following their frustrating exchange, Macca had unwittingly opened up the avenue of opportunity that was to prove invaluable. It started with a seemingly innocent introduction in the lounge of the Criterion Hotel in King William Street not far from The Advertiser office. ‘The Cri’, as the pub was fondly known, was a favoured watering hole for journalists, both local and those visiting from interstate.

‘Liz, this is Bob Swindon of The Sydney Morning Herald,’ Macca said. ‘We don’t hold that too much against him though, he’s originally an Adelaide boy. Bob, this is Liz Hoffmann, ex London Guardian. Liz has been with The Advertiser six weeks.’

‘Seven actually. Hello, Bob.’ Elizabeth offered her hand. ‘Elizabeth Hoffmann,’ she said in the vague hope that for once the hint might be picked up.

It wasn’t. ‘G’day, Liz.’ The handshake was big and hearty like the man himself. ‘I’ve heard about you.’ News having travelled far and fast as it did in the world of journalism, Bob Swindon had most certainly heard about the good-looking young journalist from The Guardian. ‘Nice to meet you love,’ he said. Christ, she must get sick of being chatted up, he thought as they shook hands.

Bob Swindon made a habit of playing an avuncular role with young women these days. He’d decided, with some regret but a great deal of common sense, that his womanising days were over. Fat and fifty was no longer a dignified image for the Lothario he’d once been; at least, that was his humorously self-deprecating way of putting it. A decade of high-blood-pressure medication having seriously affected his ability to perform in the sexual arena, the decision had, to a certain degree, been made for him.

‘You and Liz have a lot in common, Bob,’ Macca said.

‘Is that so?’ If he were twenty years younger, Bob thought, they sure as hell would have. ‘In what way?’

‘Liz is a renegade like you. She’s the sort who likes to make waves.’ Macca flashed a disarming grin at Elizabeth. ‘And she’s highly critical of the fact that I’m the sort who doesn’t, isn’t that right, Liz?’

‘Well, um …’ Elizabeth felt caught out. She’d not said so to his face, but Macca couldn’t have voiced her feelings better.

Macca laughed good-naturedly. Elizabeth Hoffmann was the most readable woman he’d ever met, and he liked her for it.

‘So what are you two rebels drinking? My shout. A shandy for you, I take it, Liz?’

‘Thanks, Macca.’

A shandy was the closest Elizabeth had been able to come to the national penchant for beer, but the situation had been exactly the same with her colleagues in London so there’d been no need for adjustment. Personally she would have preferred a glass of claret, but no-one seemed to drink claret in pubs.

Bob opted for a beer and Macca disappeared to the bar.

The pub was always busy on a late Friday afternoon and he was gone for quite a while, during which time Elizabeth and Bob found that they did indeed have a lot in common.

‘So if you’re a renegade, Bob, tell me how I crack a decent story about Maralinga.’ Having been offered the perfect opening, Elizabeth dived right in. ‘Macca tells me I have to play it safe. What would you do?’

‘I’d play it safe. Macca’s right.’

‘Really?’ Elizabeth studied the man with suspicion. Was Bob Swindon fobbing her off because she was a woman?

‘Oh, I grant you Macca’s a conservative journo, you’re on the money there.’ In the face of her scepticism Bob felt the need to explain. ‘He’s a beaut bloke and a bloody good writer, but his wife and kids are his whole world. Danger doesn’t attract Macca like it does you and me.’ He didn’t question the fact that danger attracted her – it quite plainly did. ‘Macca’ll take the safe path every time, he’s famous for it. In this instance though, you’d be wise to follow his example.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘You’ll find yourself on the outer. Government security demands we “renegades” are barred from the project.’

‘Yes, that’s what Macca told me. So are you barred?’

‘Well, I’m not one of those journalists invited to observe the firings, which I suppose says something. But I go along to the press conferences and I toe the line like the rest; there doesn’t seem much option really. Or perhaps my renegade days are over,’ he added with a slightly theatrical sigh of resignation.

Elizabeth rather doubted that to be the case. ‘It’s blackmail then. I have to play the game if I want to observe the firings.’

‘Oh, you won’t get a look-in at the firings. They won’t invite you to Maralinga under any circumstances.’

‘But I’m a journalist who’s been assigned to report on the project – why wouldn’t they invite me?’

‘You’re a journalist who’s a woman, that’s why.’

As he said it, Bob Swindon realised that in the brief time they’d been conversing he’d actually lost sight of the fact that Elizabeth Hoffmann was a woman. Good God, he’d been talking to her as he would a man, he thought, how bloody depressing. Had his fading fat-and-fifty libido deserted him to such a degree he was blind?

‘I see,’ Elizabeth said tightly. ‘So no women are permitted to enter Maralinga.’ She felt a flash of annoyance at the thought that yet another avenue was closed, and an avenue that she’d considered of the utmost importance. She should have known better than to expect anything different, she supposed. The Australian press might show leniency towards women, but the army was the army the world over. ‘Even a member of the press from a leading newspaper would be denied entry if she happened to be female, is this correct?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Well, well, well, they do make things difficult, don’t they?’

She stared across the lounge. The burgeoning crowd was jostling for seats as more people poured in from the bar and the street, but she didn’t see them. She didn’t see anything as her mind ticked over. There must be another way, she thought. If she couldn’t get inside Maralinga itself, then she needed to get inside the mind of someone who could. Returning her attention to Bob Swindon, she abandoned all caution. Caution would not gain her an ally.

‘I want to know what’s going on at Maralinga, Bob,’ she said. ‘One renegade to another – can you help me? Do you have a contact that might be able to offer some information?’

Hit once again by the full force of her energy, Bob realised that his blindness to her gender had not been a result of his fading libido at all. Elizabeth Hoffmann possessed a power that transcended gender. Furthermore, her passion was contagious. He felt a sudden irresistible compulsion to help her.

‘There is perhaps someone,’ he said.

‘Yes?’

Their eyes locked and Elizabeth knew she’d found her ally.

‘A bloke I went to uni with, strangely enough. I haven’t seen him for years but we go back a long way. We’re both from Bordertown, grew up together, families knew each other, all that. I heard he’d been doing independent field work on the tests and I phoned him from Sydney about six months ago. He agreed to an interview, possibly for old times’ sake, but more probably because he knew he could trust me – I have a track record for getting myself into trouble but not those who grant me information. Anyway, he seemed more than keen on the idea. Then out of the blue the interview was cancelled and I never heard back. I believe they’ve been keeping him quiet.’

‘Who is he?’

‘His name’s Marston. Hedley Marston. He’s a biochemist with the CSIRO here in Adelaide. The general public doesn’t know of him, but in scientific circles I believe he’s quite famous. Funny really, because when we were at uni he failed mathematics and didn’t score a degree.’

‘Do you think he’d see me?’

‘You might be the only journalist he would see.’

‘Why do you think that?’

‘You’re not known to the authorities like me, and you’re not the image they expect of a journalist – word wouldn’t get back that he’d spoken to the press. Marston wants to go on record, I’m pretty sure of it. I’m also pretty sure he’s been threatened in some way. You’d have to gain his confidence, of course, make him feel secure, but who knows, maybe he’ll feel safer talking to a woman. A few feminine wiles certainly wouldn’t go astray.’

‘I’m not sure I have any.’

‘Oh, you have.’ Bob stifled a smile – she was actually serious. ‘Trust me, you have.’

‘If so, I don’t use them,’ she said a little primly.

‘Yes, I’ve gathered that. Perhaps now’s the time to start.’ He looked across the lounge to where Macca was wending his way through the crowd, beer glasses held high. ‘I’ll give Marston a call to pave the way,’ he said. ‘That’ll probably get you through the door, after which it’ll be up to you.’

‘Thank you.’ Elizabeth offered her hand and once again they shook. ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am.’

‘Don’t leave yourself too open to disappointment, love.’ Bob reverted to the avuncular as he added a word of warning. ‘There’s no room for hot-shot reporting here. If Marston does offer up any controversial data, you won’t be able to go public. There are national security regulations in place and the paper won’t publish inflammatory material. No-one will.’

‘I know that.’

‘Good. Marston will know it too, but it’s my guess, rightly or wrongly, that he wants to go on record for the future. Probably his way of saying “I told you so” when his findings are eventually allowed to be published. You’ll be an ally to him then, but right now you won’t get any form of exposé out of this.’

Macca arrived beside them.

‘But hell, who needs an exposé,’ Bob said encouragingly. ‘I’m sure you’ll find some way to use whatever information you discover.’

‘Oh, yes.’ Elizabeth agreed wholeheartedly. ‘I’m quite sure I will.’

‘What exposé? Is there a plot afoot here?’ Macca plonked the drinks on the table.

‘There most definitely is,’ Bob said as he grabbed his beer. ‘Renegade stuff, Macca – doesn’t involve you.’

Macca sat, saluting the others with his glass.

‘So what are you doing in town, Bob?’ he asked when he’d taken a swig. ‘There’s nothing going down at Maralinga. What’s the big story?’

‘No big story, I’m not here on business. Or rather I am, but it’s personal business.’ He paused a second or so for dramatic effect. ‘My three-year-old mare’s racing in the Autumn Stakes at Cheltenham this weekend.’

‘Really?’ Macca was most surprised. Bob Swindon was well-known as a track aficionado and punter, but not as a racehorse owner. ‘I’m impressed,’ he said.

Bob’s smile was one of pure pleasure. It had been his intention to impress. He was thrilled with his new acquisition, which was indeed his life’s dream.

‘She’s only half my mare actually,’ he admitted, ‘the other half’s my brother’s. We bought her last year and raced her as a two year old. She’s trained and stabled here, costs a mint, and she’ll be my retirement plan or my ruination, I’m not sure which.’

‘What’s she called?’ Elizabeth asked.

‘Speed of Light.’

‘Ambitious,’ Macca said with the wry lift of an eyebrow.

Bob took the comment as a compliment. ‘Yeah, good name, isn’t it? The punters’ll like it. She did very well as a filly, so we’re hoping. This is her first adult meet and she’s up against a strong field. I doubt she’ll place. She may even come in last, but that doesn’t bother me, it’s bloody good training.’ He downed a healthy swig of his beer. ‘Horses are like people in my opinion. Mix a horse with the wrong company and it’ll pick up bad habits. Pit it against the best and it might well come out a winner.

‘Which reminds me, Liz,’ he said, taking a business card from his pocket and jotting a phone number on the back, ‘give me a ring – I’m here for a week. I’ll be most interested to hear how you go.’ He handed her the card. ‘Hope you score a win.’

Elizabeth smiled. ‘I’ll score a win, Bob. And I bet I’ll score it without the use of feminine wiles.’

He took her literally – Bob could never resist a bet. ‘Want to make it five quid?’

‘If you like.’

‘You’re on,’ he said.

They raised their glasses and clinked while Macca looked from one to the other in complete mystification.

What an exciting woman she was, Bob thought. God, how he wished he was twenty years younger. But then if he was twenty years younger, he’d be so busy trying to get her into bed he probably wouldn’t appreciate what she had to offer beyond the obvious. Jesus, life was an irony.

 

Elizabeth did score a win. And she did so without resorting to the use of feminine wiles. Not as a matter of principle – she’d heeded Bob’s advice and had been quite prepared to do so – but there’d been no need. Honesty and intelligence had quickly registered with Hedley Marston.

Bob Swindon’s reasoning had been closer to the truth than he’d realised. Hedley Marston had recently completed a detailed manuscript of his findings for publication in a scientific journal, but he had been continuously thwarted by the cabal of scientists, bureaucrats and politicians bent on keeping the details of the nuclear tests and their aftermath a well-hidden secret. With little or no idea of when his manuscript would finally see the light of day, or indeed how much of the truth would appear in its ultimate publication, Marston was keen to go on record with someone he could trust. And for some strange reason he chose to trust Elizabeth Hoffmann.

‘I have received a telephone call as you’re no doubt aware, Miss Hoffmann. You come highly recommended by Bob Swindon. I take it you know him well?’

Marston was studying her astutely through horn-rimmed spectacles, a pleasant-faced man in his fifties with a bald domed head and rather large ears. Elizabeth realised she was being tested.

‘I don’t know Bob at all well,’ she said. ‘We met only several days ago, last Friday to be precise.’

‘Then why would he sing your praises?’

‘I believe he senses that I can be trusted. I work the same way Bob does, Mr Marston. My word is my bond and I never betray a confidence.’

His lips curved into a smile. It was a delicate mouth, she noticed, well-shaped, almost feminine amongst features that were otherwise ordinary.

‘Bob always was a good judge of character,’ he said. ‘Sit down, Miss Hoffmann.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ She’d obviously passed the test.

Hedley Marston talked for an hour, not only about his findings but about the way in which he’d been silenced, and Elizabeth found much of what he had to say shocking.

In his monitoring of the background radiation over Adelaide, the twenty-four-hour sample he’d taken the day after the airdrop test had shown levels hundreds of times above normal, he told her, but the safety committee had maintained his readings were exaggerated and had accused him of being an alarmist.

His examination of the iodine content in the thyroids of dead animals following each of the tests had proved that vast tracts of Australia had been subjected to radioactive fallout. Members of the safety committee had contradicted his results and threatened to discredit him amongst the scientific community.

Elizabeth scribbled down his revelations in shorthand, offering no comment and making no interjection.

The controlled experimentation he’d conducted in farming areas had shown that most of the exposure to livestock came from contaminated food, which posed a far longer-term risk than contaminated air. Not long after he’d presented these particular reports, it had been decided he was overworked and he’d been taken off the program. ‘Health problems’ had been cited.

He told her how his reports had been altered or discredited, and how his attempts to publish his findings had been thwarted at every turn. The power of the nuclear cabal was limitless.

Finally, he brought up the subject of the minor nuclear tests. These were still in their relatively early stages, he said, the Kittens, the Tims, the Rats, and the soon to be included Vixens, but the experiments were numerous and were run virtually unchecked. Furthermore, they were planned to continue for years.

‘I’m no nuclear physicist,’ he said, ‘but the irresponsible use of uranium and beryllium and, above all, plutonium is courting disaster on all levels. The scientists at Maralinga are having a field day. They have a desert to play in and limitless materials to play with. It’s like giving children boxes of matches.’

Marston paused before making his final announcement. ‘The minor tests are bound to result in huge amounts of radioactive contamination. In my opinion, they’ll pose an even greater ongoing risk than the atomic bomb detonations.’

He’d come to an abrupt halt, and Elizabeth, who’d remained silent throughout, looked up from her notepad at a loss for words.

‘How can they get away with it?’ she said finally.

‘The world’s a frightened place. The threat of communism and the race for nuclear power gives them the perfect excuse, or so they believe.’

‘But to deny the public access to such information, to discredit your findings, to alter your reports, to prohibit you from publishing …’

‘You don’t understand, Miss Hoffmann.’ The eyes behind the horn-rimmed glasses had hardened, signalling a dire warning. ‘We are dealing with ruthless liars in high places.’

She was silent for a moment, wondering if she should leave. The interview seemed over.

‘What will you do?’ she asked.

‘I will continue to monitor the situation and take readings, despite no longer being an official part of the program, and one day, when it’s safe to publish my findings, I shall do so. For the moment I must remain silent. If I don’t, they will ruin me.’

Ruthless liars in high places, Elizabeth thought. How ruthless? If they would destroy the career of a prominent scientist in order to silence him, would they murder a soldier who threatened to expose the truth?

‘But surely the collusion between politicians and scientists can’t guarantee total security, Mr Marston,’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady – she felt on the brink of discovery. ‘What of the soldiers on the range? They’re working in the thick of things. They must have some idea of what’s going on.’

‘They have no idea at all.’ He dismissed the notion without giving it a thought. ‘The troops are kept in complete ignorance; they don’t know a thing.’

She persevered. ‘But if by any chance a soldier did know something, and if he threatened to speak out, what would happen to him?’

‘The question’s superfluous. He wouldn’t be told anything to start with, and if he somehow found out, he wouldn’t talk anyway. There is such a thing as the Official Secrets Act, you know.’

Elizabeth’s flutter of excitement faded. She was surely following the wrong path. Danny would never have broken his oath of silence. She was aware too that she might be pushing the boundaries with Marston. His response had been peremptory and she sensed a certain arrogance in him now. He was not interested in discussion. He’d wanted his story recorded, their time together was up, and any further interrogation was unwelcome. She doggedly pursued the subject nonetheless. Whether the path she was following was right or wrong, her question demanded resolution.

‘Yes, sir, I’m aware of the Official Secrets Act. But you refer to ruthless men in high places, Mr Marston – men who would destroy your career rather than allow you to speak out. So, as a matter of interest – hypothetically speaking – if a soldier did discover data such as yours, and if he threatened to talk, would his life be in danger?’

Marston seemed to find her question amusing.

‘What are you asking? Do you mean, would they kill him?’

‘Yes, sir, that’s exactly what I’m asking.’

‘My dear Miss Hoffmann,’ he smiled whimsically and his reply was good-natured, albeit just a little condescending, ‘A soldier on the range would hardly be considered a threat. If they were going to kill anyone, they would start with me.’

‘Of course, sir.’ Well, that answers that, she thought. She returned his smile as she stood. ‘I’m rather barking up the wrong tree, aren’t I?’

‘Yes, you are rather.’

 

As soon as she was back at The Advertiser, Elizabeth rang Bob Swindon and they arranged to meet in the lounge of the Criterion at the end of the work day.

When she arrived, he was already seated with a half-finished beer.

‘That’ll probably be a bit flat,’ he said, gesturing to the shandy that sat on the table waiting for her. ‘I got here five minutes early and wanted to beat the queue. How’d you go?’

‘You owe me five pounds,’ she said as she sat.

‘Good girl.’ He fished his wallet from his pocket. ‘Any feminine wiles called for?’

‘Not a one.’

‘Probably not surprising,’ he said, slapping a five-pound note on the table. ‘They’re a dry old lot, those boffins.’

‘What a ridiculously sweeping generalisation, and how on earth would you know anyway?’ Elizabeth countered.

‘Quite correct, I wouldn’t,’ he replied unperturbed. ‘But I take it I was right about Marston? He wanted to go on record?’

‘Oh, yes, you were right there. He definitely wanted to go on record. Breakthrough material, I have to say …’

‘Really?’ There was a feeling of expectancy as he waited for her to go on.

‘None of which I can tell you, Bob, as you would well know. I gave my word.’

‘Yes,’ he said hastily, ‘yes, of course you did.’

‘I promise you’ll have the whole story as soon as I get the go-ahead from Marston,’ she said. ‘Although God only knows when that will be. In the meantime –’

‘I know, Liz, I know,’ he interrupted. ‘I wouldn’t expect anything more of you and I respect your silence.’

‘Rubbish. You were dying for me to spill the beans just then.’

He shrugged. ‘A bit of wishful thinking – you can’t blame a bloke for that. So where do you go to from here? You can’t publish any of his information, I presume.’

‘No, but it gives me some ammunition, and possibly a bit of room to manoeuvre. As a new reporter fresh on the scene, I might be able to ask a couple of seemingly innocent questions. You know, rattle them enough that they have to come up with an answer.’ She took a sip of her shandy and frowned as she put down the glass. ‘But then how do I go about it? I have to wait until the powers that be graciously deign to grant us a press conference.’

‘Why don’t you twist their arm?’ She looked at him blankly. ‘Have a word with your chief. There hasn’t been a general press conference for months. I’m sure if The Advertiser requested an update, Maralinga’s PR department wouldn’t be able to refuse. The state’s daily newspaper has a responsibility to its readership, after all.’

‘What an excellent idea.’ She scooped up the five-pound note. ‘I’ll buy you a beer on the strength of it.’

‘But you haven’t drunk your shandy.’

‘You were right, it’s flat. Don’t go away,’ she said, ‘we need to talk,’ and she headed off to the lounge’s service bar in the corner.

Elizabeth realised that, in some ways, she was back to square one. Despite her brief flurry of excitement, her meeting with Marston had not offered a solution to the mystery of Daniel’s death. The mystery of Maralinga, however, was becoming more tantalising by the minute, and she was convinced that the two were linked. Hedley Marston had been an independently contracted biochemist, principally responsible for the collection of data on radioactive fallout. If he had proved through his animal thyroid examinations that such widespread and long-term danger existed, then what other shocking facts were being covered up at Maralinga?

The words of Daniel’s letter were ever-present in her mind. Pete Mitchell had said men had been threatened with court martial if they spoke of what they’d seen. But what had they seen? Marston himself had dismissed the troops as any threat to security on the grounds of the Official Secrets Act. What could those soldiers have witnessed that was so shocking they would need to be reminded of their oath of silence?

She returned to the table with the drinks. ‘Tell me what to expect at this press conference, Bob,’ she said, leaning forward on her elbows, eager for information. ‘Who’ll be chairing, who’ll be speaking and how many?’

‘My guess is there’ll be only one speaker, and it won’t really be a conference as such, more of a press statement with questions to follow. They won’t consider the request for an update warrants anything more.’

‘Pity. Good about the questions though. Who’ll be delivering the statement?’

‘Their liaison officer, an Australian army colonel by the name of Nick Stratton. He’s the link between the Aussies and the Poms and the scientists and the bureaucrats, and as such he’s virtually the voice of Maralinga.’

‘Really? What a handy man to know,’ she said thoughtfully.

‘Yes, but not an altogether easy one.’ Bob thought it necessary to offer a word of advice. ‘He’s a tough cookie, Liz. Not a bad bloke, but you wouldn’t want to cross him. And be warned, he doesn’t like smart-arses.’

‘Then I’d better behave myself, hadn’t I?’

Elizabeth very much looked forward to meeting Colonel Nick Stratton.