Dear Mum, Dad might be tired, but he leaped out of bed when I told him about the message, and pulled his uniform on over his pyjamas. I didn’t tell him it was from Clara – I knew he wouldn’t believe it. I just said I’d got a message about the truck, and he assumed it was from Matey. (He still thinks Matey is a kid in my class.)
I didn’t lie to him, Mum, honest I didn’t. I told him that according to my informant the truck carrying Digby’s sheep had just passed the Potters’ place – you know, where those silos are on White Kangaroo Road?
We were about to pile into the police car, when Dad stopped and looked at Digby and me really hard. ‘Are you sure you trust this person?’
‘Yes,’ I told him. ‘I trust them completely.’
Because I do, Mum. Clara might have some weird ideas, but that’s just because she’s a chook and sees the world a bit differently. She’s been right about all the important things, and I should have listened to her earlier than I did.
Dad jumped into the car. I scrambled in next to him, and Digby climbed in the back.
Dad was fierce and determined at the wheel. Digby and I were fierce and determined watching my phone and hoping for another message from Clara.
It didn’t take us long to get to the Potters’ place. We whizzed past the silos without talking, but we hadn’t gone much further when Dad said, ‘Keep your eyes open for a white truck. Late-model Isuzu.’
So we watched the road ahead. We didn’t know how far behind the truck we were, and Dad was hitting the speed limit all the way. I was feeling sick again, but this time it was from excitement.
There wasn’t much traffic on the road. We passed three cars. We passed a van. We passed a blue truck with tarpaulins on its sides and its top shrouded in darkness. But we couldn’t find a white truck, which was the only one we cared about.
My excited-sick feeling began to turn into worried-sick.
Dad said, ‘You’re sure about your informant?’
‘Yes,’ said Digby and I together.
We kept driving. But there was no white truck. No stolen sheep. No Clara.
None of us looked fierce and determined now. The hope was draining out of us, and we were slumped in our seats, rubbing our eyes and yawning.
When we came to the T-junction where White Kangaroo Road joins the Dismal Road, Dad pulled onto the shoulder and sat there, gripping the steering wheel. The yellow lights over the intersection shone on his face.
‘Which way?’ he asked. ‘Left or right?’
‘I don’t know,’ I whispered.
He looked at me and tried to smile. ‘No more messages from your informant?’
I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry, Dad.’
He sighed. ‘Well, at least we gave it a good go.’
‘Are we going home?’ I asked him.
‘I don’t know what else we can do,’ he said.
We all sighed then.
‘They’ve won,’ Digby said sadly. ‘The thieves have won.’