The chief’s clerk was waiting for Dan when he entered the detectives’ office as the town hall clock sounded eight resonant strokes out over the city’s Monday morning traffic clamour. He was handed a postal note for 20 pounds. Dan had never been given such a lump sum. He resisted the facetious comment ‘A pinch and a punch for the first of the month, no returns’ at the sight of such a large amount handed over on July 1. Constable Verry did not indulge jokes, at least not from the office junior.
‘You are,’ the clerical copper declared, ‘to purchase necessities for an unspecified period out of Auckland. Pack a suitcase and be at the railway station in time for the night train. You report to Inspector Biggart.’
Once again his mother’s face ran the weather gamut of the weekend: sunny when she saw him, overcast when he explained he was out of town indefinitely on assignment. He told her he couldn’t say where or when, he didn’t know himself. If she liked, she could help him pack. The offer elicited a peep of maternal sun through the Monday drizzle.
Dan had cause to regret her help as he lugged a suitcase literally bursting at the seams with the extra shirts, flannel singlets and pairs of long-johns Sean had left behind, along with hand-me-down trousers and too many socks she was sure he would need. She had insisted he open the already stressed suitcase to pack a towel and a cake of soap with his shaving kit, you never knew what would not be on offer. The only thing keeping the suitcase together was the fraying piece of rope around its midriff.
He was relieved when he arrived sweaty and damp at the magnificent new brick railway station. It was an inconvenient mile away from Queen Street, requiring another tram and objections as he humped the suitcase around and sometimes into other passengers. Although he had the cashed postal note to call upon, he decided not to splurge on a taxi, and regretted it.
It was difficult to ignore the lurid messages on big tin plates advertising Standard Tea, a hatter and mercer who made bespoke shirts and collars, South British Insurance, Pearsons sand soap he was glad his mother had not provided, and the Sunlight soap she had wrapped a bar of inside the towel. He checked in the suitcase, which added another irritant, producing his warrant card and insisting the officious kid at the counter take it despite objecting his name was not on the passenger list. It was a mistake arriving an hour before departure, the baggage clerk was not yet busy enough not to be difficult. He’d had to get away from his mother before she found a few more essentials he must pack.
Deciding not to hire a pillow just yet, Dan wandered the mighty, echoing concourse. Metal-capped footsteps smote the terrazzo floor like intermittent hail as passengers hurried with heads down under large hats, some wielding dripping umbrellas to better clear a passage, eager no doubt to get out of this pestilential weather and home to a cooked dinner. The place was big enough surely to fit a rugby field inside, if it settled for narrow sidelines crammed with a lot more possibilities than a lad with a pie tray round his neck. It was Dan’s first time here and he looked up at the astonishing stamped metal ceiling imported from Germany a few years ago amidst a lot of hullaballoo in the papers, which would not be so if it was coming from Germany today.
He stretched his legs, advancing over the terrazzo floor with colourful patterns set into it. Inside the glass doors the ticket office was busy. Everywhere you looked were marble, stained glass, bronze fittings, huge globe lights, fit to host King George’s Jubilee that the papers were banging on about. He eyed the array of shops, the tobacconist, the barber and bathing facilities, the fruit stall, the waiting and dining rooms, the first-aid room. If you had the money and did not want to travel, you could live well indefinitely in this opulent station.
He avoided catching the hopeful glance of the shoeshine boy. It was impossible to ignore the lad screaming over the solemn, crackling public announcements of departure times for suburban trains. He deciphered the screams as Ork-a-la-a-and Star-arr. If only to shut him up momentarily, Dan purchased a copy and entered the near-empty dining room, ordered a cuppa and a date scone and took a seat by the lace curtains, where he could hopefully spot his new boss arriving.
There was no rugby in Auckland on Saturday because of the storms making all grounds unfit to play on. He noted Auckland would have its first defence of the Ranfurly Shield it won last season off Hawke’s Bay. North Auckland was the unlucky challenger. Auckland would have its seven All Blacks before they headed off to Britain to wallop the English.
He turned back to the news pages. Labour MP Langstone told 20 folk at a Papanui meeting for the Lyttelton by-election Labour would if elected solve the country’s economic problems by taking over banks and the production of butter and other primary produce, paying farmers, only allowing imports equivalent to what our produce earned overseas. Sounded like communism to Dan. Labour had no chance, especially if we followed Britain where, another news item claimed, it was the end of the Depression era, with jobs and money flowing again. The news item about New Zealand Airways taking delivery of two brand new Boeings had to be good news for the country.
The Governor-General Viscount Galway was doing the social rounds, just like the king, visiting Auckland University and saying it was efficient. Tomorrow he was attending a concert by a violinist with the odd name of Yehudi Menuhin.
He turned to international news. Dr Goebbels the Minister of Propaganda said the naval agreement signed with Britain proves Germany was again a great sovereign power. Prime Minister Baldwin regretted one or two MPs said Germany was not to be trusted.
An item headlined ‘The Big Stick’ caught his eye. It was a weekend conference between the Palmerston North City Council, the Manawatu-Orua Power Board and two representatives of the Public Works Department. It appeared to be a dispute between the council and the power board about their contract, with £1700 separating the two bodies. Comparison was made with Napier rates and the Power Board chairman Mr Kissell said the council had done mighty little toward an amicable agreement …
He woke with a start, blinking to gather his scattered wits. The paper was on the floor, his tea was cold. The public address system was announcing the final call for passengers on the Auckland to Wellington Express. That was the only night passenger train. He scrambled to his feet and dashed into the concourse, grabbed an official and asked where the night train was leaving from. The official pointed down the ramp and he ran.
The engine was expelling dense clouds of steam, making a devil of a din and obscuring any chance of identifying anybody among those hurrying through to their seats. He should have got a pillow, it was going to be murder trying to sleep upright against a window or, if he was in an aisle seat, without even that support. He plunged through the coal-generated fog, looking for Biggart gesticulating from the steps at either end of a carriage or from a window. People were waving, but no Biggart. Others were embracing, as the guards’ whistles shrilled at both ends of the train. He scanned the faces.
Mostly brown. Was this a carriage reserved for Maori and other coloured races? He recalled the carbon copy among the files he was tasked his first month with reading and remembering, as if there was to be an exam. A 1934 memo from New Zealand Railways head office to all branches and district offices and said the word ‘sago’ was to be used ‘when telegraphing for seats and sleeping berths for persons of a coloured race’. Maybe it was just in first-class carriages, which his father would not be seen dead sleeping in. He would certainly not approve of him doing so, or indeed of Maori segregated. For his father it would be another example of the colonial ruling class lording it over the natives.
As for himself, well, he did not think he should pass judgment. He was supposed, as the Commissioner’s instructions for detectives emphasised, to have a good memory. He had got the job because the Commissioner asked at their passing out parade if anybody could give him the description of a wanted man in the latest Police Gazette, he was able to provide it. In fact, he had not really had to consult his notebook, he could recite it from memory. He did not know what was defined as good, but he certainly had a retentive brain. He retained odd snippets of information like this, like Smith being from Northern Ireland. Now also he knew he was German in origin, but with no love of the mother country.
Dan moved along, peering at blurred faces behind the window condensation, people blocking the carriage entrances. Where the hell was he? Dan was about to interrupt a guard waving a flag when he was caught by the elbow. He swung around with a curse.
‘Dammit!’ Biggart complained. ‘Follow me.’
He followed, past the second-class carriages to the first-class sleeping compartments at the back, before the guard’s van. Constable Verry could have told him, surely?
Biggart climbed up the steps into the last car before the guard’s van. He interrupted the hovering attendant saying the Gents lav was at the other end of the car, growled Dan was with him and pushed past. He stopped mid-car at numbers 9 and 10 in the tin slot above the door. Inside was a tight fit, a small ladder to assist the top bunk occupant get there. That was him, Dan gathered from Biggart pointing, as he unfolded the small table and then a chair he sat in. He dumped his bag in the bottom bed and briefcase on the table, asked Dan where his overnight bag was.
Dan said he left it in the guard’s van with the rest of his stuff, because he had arrived early and didn’t know their seat numbers.
Biggart said in a sour voice he would have to make do without it, and the fewer knew anything about this the better. Dan eyed the tightly made bed, beside the two large Sunlight-white pillows and the top of the sheet folded over the brown blanket. Looked comfy enough, if he didn’t take a tumble in the night.
‘You’ll just have to cope without your toothbrush,’ Biggart sneered as he unsnapped the brass clasp on a distressed brown leather briefcase. ‘Sub-Inspector Scott and Penny will join us at Pukekohe, which will give us a chance to check out the train. They are coming by police car, security precaution, the press and who knows who else might well have been tipped off about Auckland train station. We have this sleeping car restricted to the four of us. The steward has been told to keep out of the kitchenette. There’ll be a few more precautionary moves before we reach our destination, so stay alert. With Superintendent Smith flying, only Houghton and his clerk know the train travel plans apart from Scott, Penny, me and now you. That should narrow down any leak.’
Dan stood next to the flimsy little ladder, stunned at the implications. ‘Are you saying Chief Houghton and Constable Verry are suspect?’
‘We shall see, won’t we?’ Biggart said, as there was a final shrill sequence of whistles and a lurch and thump of the steel carriage connections. With the skidding of engine wheels getting a grip, the apocalyptic shriek of the engine whistle, the mighty mechanical dragon shuddered into motion. Dan could console himself he saved a bob not renting a pillow surplus to sleeping berth requirements.
‘What about pyjamas?’
Biggart looked up from the papers he was trying to consult, the overhead light was feeble, the car was moving about as the engine found its rhythm. ‘This is not a holiday excursion, Delaney. You will stay clothed the entire journey, ready to swing into action at a moment’s notice. Clear?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Dan said, holding on to the ladder rail while he awaited further instructions. It might be the active role he craved, but it was not what he would call thrilling, sharing this cubbyhole with this security obsessed sourpuss.
‘One other detail, Delaney.’
‘Sir?’
‘Mr Penny is to be Mr Smith until further notice. Apparently it amused him to choose that surname.’
‘Yessir,’ Dan said, smiling at Penny taking this petty revenge on the British services who had apparently shafted him over his gyroscopic thingummyjig. If Biggart had been a more relaxed fellow, he would have said they could settle for calling the superintendent Jono. Biggart was like Constable Verry, not a jokey chappie. As for Verry and Chief Houghton, he did not believe they would leak security details, what possible reason would they have? This inspector was taking his job beyond the bounds of serious.
Biggart was taking notes. He looked up, clearly irritated. He told Dan to reconnoitre, acquaint himself with all points of egress, walk up and down the carriages, see if there was anybody suspicious, like Haas.
Dan was happy to leave, to get away from this sarcastic skeleton.
‘Delaney,’ Biggart called as he reached the door. Biggart was fanning out the sheets of paper. They were passenger lists and plans, he saw the names Pukekohe, Huntly, Mercer, station stops presumably, before Biggart looked up.
‘First introduce yourself to the guard and check the guard’s van.’
‘Yessir.’
He passed the unattended kitchenette. He opened the door on to the shifting metal plates and nothing but extremely disturbed air on both sides, the bitter smell of the swirling smoke from the engine getting up its head of steam. The roar of open water startled him and he grabbed for the rail. Either side was the estuary and the appalling stench drifting over from the Westfield freezing works where, his father claimed, Hellabys used all the hooves and discarded bits to make Bovo. It had not put him off the delicious spread, but this stink just might.
He crossed the plates and pulled open the guard’s van door. There was some kind of commotion behind the guard, who swung around and stepped up to him.
‘No passengers back here, mate,’ he said, holding a hand palm-up.
Dan could barely hear, his ears numbed by the sound of the train crossing the estuary, maximised by the guard having the side door open. He thought he heard a dog yap, which was okay, he knew they had dog-boxes in guard’s vans. He held out his warrant.
The guard was a strapping fellow, bit overweight, a provincial front-rower, blocking out his view behind. He took the warrant, scrutinised it.
‘Yeh, sure,’ he said, handing it back. ‘You one of them cops guarding some important joker, eh?’
Dan said he was and introduced himself. They shook, the guard shouted he was Selwyn Mutu. He motioned he would shut the side door, sliding it closed. The relief was instant, especially to Dan’s olfactory organ. Selwyn grinned and waved his arm behind him, said he was welcome to look around, nothing much to see but suitcases and a collie in the crate. Dan was looking at the big metal and leather chair, looked like the kind a barber used.
‘You can try her out if you like,’ Selwyn said with a big grin, exposing gaps in his teeth that might well have been the result of an opposition fist or boot in a ruck. ‘She’s the best seat in the train, you bet.’
Dan laughed, said he was impressed. He asked if he knew the line.
‘Like the back of me hand,’ Selwyn said. ‘Go on, sit down. I’ve been on this run three year now. Bit of a kerfuffle those two crims escaping at Huntly the other night, we were parked up for ages while yous cops chased them. Most of the time she’s pretty quiet. You fellas should keep it that way, eh?’
Quiet was a relative term, Dan’s ears were still ringing. He accepted the offer to sit in the magnificent chair, not sure what if any questions he had. He could hear the dog whining and then it began yapping.
‘Shudup, ya goori!’ Selwyn yelled. ‘Don’t worry about him, he’s me nephew’s dog, bloody spoiled, I reckon. Have to put up with him until Taumaranui.’
The chair was like a throne, but he couldn’t sit about. ‘Best have a quick look,’ he said, standing and stepping around the guard. He thought he saw a movement behind the stack of suitcases and crates and duffel bags. Several glistening eyes were staring up at him, surrounded by quivering fur. Rabbits. Destined for the pot, no doubt. Not a capital crime, hungry people had to eat.
He turned to tell the guard he would be on his way, when yapping broke out. The dog was not in a box, it was straining to get purchase with its front paws. Holding it back was a skinny lad with a terrified look on his face.
‘Shit,’ Selwyn said. ‘Look, boss, the boy needs his dog. He’s not quite there, y’know.’
Dan faced the guard, who was not looking much better than his nephew.
‘I’m not supposed to have nobody unauthorised,’ Selwyn said helplessly. ‘But I promised Sissy.’
Dan looked again at the boy, eyes as big as bonzer marbles. They seemed slightly out of focus. Like the rabbits, he was quivering, and it wasn’t entirely from the cold, he was wearing a thick grey jersey. It was the kind Mum knitted, with the stitches folding over each other like whips they plaited from flax they were taught to make by Maori kids at Oratia holiday camp. The black and white dog, on the other hand, had its teeth bared.
‘Back!’ Selwyn said. ‘Jackie, back off.’
The dog relaxed a little. ‘Silly bitch,’ Selwyn said. ‘Won’t let nobody near him. Hone was up in the big smoke, seeing one of them fancy doctors. Please don’t report me.’
Dan knew what Biggart would say, but he wasn’t Biggart. ‘She’s jake,’ he said. ‘I don’t think your nephew is a security risk. Just make sure they stay put.’
‘Jeez,’ Selwyn said. ‘Thanks, boss.’
‘Dan,’ he insisted, as they shook. ‘I’m a long way from being anybody’s boss.’
‘You get my vote, Dan,’ Selwyn said, his grin returning. ‘Hone, thank the policeman.’
Hone stuttered thanks too quietly to be heard over the screech of the wheels beneath them. Dan left them, hoping he was not going to regret his gesture. So long as Biggart didn’t find out, he should be fine.
The train was coming into Pukekohe by the time Dan had bumped and lurched his way through the first-class carriages and maybe a dozen second-class, wrenching open doors at each end, pulling them closed behind him without losing balance on the moving metal plates and doing a header into the rough black bush. He had apologised too many times for blocking people trying to get in and out of the toilets, pushing past small queues of frazzled women with yowling kids, several soldiers who thought he was trying to jump the queue. Inside the carriages was no better, the uneven motion causing him to fall against people trying to get comfortable and settle kids on the hired pillows and whatever rugs they had brought, people trying to heave hand luggage into or out of the overhead racks. A cheeky lad tripped him into an elderly woman knitting something for an infant. She gave him a filthy look, but retained her needles and wool without dropping the row.
On the return journey he met a sweating guard hauling a wooden crate full of cups and saucers, plates and fizzy drink bottles and the remnants of pies, ham sandwiches and block cake acquired in Auckland. They had to stop in mid-carriage, the guard with one hand on the crate waving him to squeeze by. It was not the right time to introduce himself.
Biggart was waiting outside their berths, briefcase in hand, as the train slowed into Pukekohe station.
‘Wait here,’ Biggart said, peering through the window at the crowds getting off and on, the guards among them checking seating numbers and directing luggage to the trolley. Dan hoped Selwyn had his nephew tucked out of sight. He saw Penny embrace his wife looking anxious and bewildered, understandably so as she was abandoned on the platform. Scott nudged Penny up the steps, the guard waved away.
‘Good evening, young man,’ Penny said. ‘Trust you have recovered.’
Dan said he was fine. Scott and Biggart were conferring. Biggart motioned for Dan to leave their berths, Scott nodding at him as he indicated to Penny they were taking this one. Presumably this was some kind of security swap. Penny was waving from the window before Scott steered him into their berths and Biggart indicated Dan follow him along to the next berths, marked 11 and 12. They proved to be even smaller than the berths they surrendered, without table and chairs. Not that it mattered, Dan thought, if they were not sleeping.
Shrill whistles, some muffled shouting, the engine released its monumental steam blast and with a lot of hissing and skidding the train lurched into motion. Biggart handed him the lists of passenger and station stops and told him to familiarise himself with them. He didn’t say where he was going, but Dan assumed it was further strategising with Scott.
He had memorised the stops from Biggart’s list. Pokeno was next, Mercer, coming up Huntly, where the prisoners escaped for a few hours of freedom. The window was frosted on the bunk side, not that there was much to see. He stayed put as the train stopped for the ritual of passengers on and off. Before Huntly the sound changed and he opened the door to the sight of dark water, the train racing along past the Waikato River. The escaped prisoners were welcome to it, there seemed little freedom on offer. He shut himself back in his noisy tomb, lest Biggart appear and he was caught not obeying orders.
Huntly, and already the journey seemed interminable. It would be great to stretch out on Selwyn’s chair. On the other hand, what a miserable job a guard had. Who would want to be an all-purpose servant-cum-security, sorting out stroppy passengers, hauling crates of crockery through the corridors beside restless bodies and squalling children, many no doubt sick from unaccustomed movement or too much block cake and fizz. Getting the crates of crockery across the rattling open platforms between carriages would be tricky. Then there would be the vomit to clean up and probably fights to cope with. Sleeping cars were the way to go, if only he was allowed to use the bed. He shook his head, fighting off sleep.
The violent collision of the metal slack between carriages woke him in time to face Biggart.
‘Frankton Junction,’ Biggart said. ‘You take the position by the kitchenette. I will be at the other end. Nobody comes aboard. Understood?’
Biggart was gone, not without incident, as the violent collision flung him against the window. Dan managed to grab the rail. Why was the engine attacking its own train? He recalled the notes, Frankton was where they changed engines, requiring all this shunting about. Anybody who had managed to fall asleep would be awake now, no doubt those with pillows against windows or hanging half over the aisle would be rubbing stiff necks and massaging the tingling or cramp out of limbs gone to sleep.
Finally the train was underway and Biggart motioned him forward. He was told to pace up and down, like the beat constable he would be if he fell asleep again. Dan thought he had got away with it, obviously not. Flushing at his failure, he determined to keep awake.
As the train made stops at Ohaupo, Te Awamutu, Otorohanga and Te Kuiti, Dan was in sentry position beside the door, which was not remotely draught-proof. The air got colder to the point of freezing as the train struggled up onto the volcanic plateau, and the draughts found ways to slide up inside his trousers and directly through his buttoned-up suit. He wished he had the oilskin residing in his suitcase, but he couldn’t leave his post. In any case it was unlikely he could find his suitcase without heaving apart half the luggage, and probably having to cope with the protective collie. He caught faint glimpses through the fog of the mighty white peaks, too indistinct to say which was Tongariro, Ngauruhoe, Ruapehu.
It was no problem keeping awake, the problem was whether he would expire from the fierce mountain chill. He’d kill for that kid’s thick jersey. herringbone stitch, that’s what Mum called it. He could see the looming outlines of steep hills folding into each other. For reasons known only to the engine driver, the train released a prolonged, mournful whistle, perhaps a protest at the hard going of the terrain. He heard another sound, the distant yapping of the dog not in its guard’s van box. Should he investigate? He thought it best to check with Biggart.
Biggart was coming to meet him. Did detective minds think alike? Biggart was rubbing his hands.
‘We can relax for a bit,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Thaw out.’
The sleeping berth was wonderfully warm. Dan looked at the small, narrow bed with longing.
Biggart was consulting his watch. ‘Nobody can board the train in these parts. Have a lie-down, I’ll go through the reports on Penny again, including your own effort.’
Dan wasn’t sure if he was expressing reservations about his report, but he needed no second invitation to climb awkwardly on to the top bunk.
A tapping woke him. Biggart was asking who it was.
‘The guard,’ he heard a muffled voice. ‘Message for Scott.’
Biggart poked him with something hard, hissed this is what they were waiting for. He switched off the light at the bedhead. As he edged the door open, Dan saw from the faint orange overhead corridor light he had a pistol drawn. They were plunged into pitch dark as the door was slammed closed from the other side, then immediately heaved open. A torch framed Biggart stumbling against the table, a flurry of movement and a cry of pain, metal bouncing on the floor. Dan had a hand up trying to focus, the light swinging about and dots roaming around his peripheral vision. He smelled the thick, cloying scent as the torch arced around and connected with Biggart. There was a struggle and gasping, grunting that diminished as the smell intensified, then the collapse of a body.
Dan launched himself at the crouched figure, who came up to meet him, hurling him aside. The torch was directly in Dan’s eyes.
‘You!’
He recognised the harsh voice of Haas, and with it the sickening thought that Chief Houghton and/or Verry had tipped him off. He was given no time to dwell on that, the gun was jabbing into his stomach.
‘Come.’
Dan stumbled over Biggart’s collapsed body, prodded in the back by the gun.
‘Where iss Penny?’
Dan was trying to process this sudden assault. What was his father’s advice? Drop and kick. Dropkick? He dropped and lashed out with his legs, connecting with something soft.
‘Fish dish,’ Haas cursed. The pistol smashed into the back of Dan’s head, reinforcing the repeated question, ‘Where … iss … Penny?’
Dan almost laughed, if it wasn’t for the pain of the clout, not quite in the league of the leaded cosh, but nasty enough. If only Haas knew, Penny was a thin wall away. What Dan couldn’t process was why Scott was not opening the door. Surely they heard the scuffle. Did protecting Penny come before everything?
Haas kicked him hard in the upper thigh. ‘Move!’
Dan got up, puzzled. ‘Where?’
The pistol prodded him away from any chance of rescue by Scott, past the unattended kitchenette and the unused ladies’ loo. Selwyn?
He opened the door and cringed at the freezing wind. At the point of the pistol he crossed the open platform to open the guard’s van door. The dog was in a yapping frenzy. The dog didn’t bark in some Sherlock Holmes story, but he couldn’t remember the point. Maybe it would attack Haas? It might give him a chance. It didn’t. The dog was straining against a rope around its neck, its barking reducing as it choked on its efforts to be free. Selwyn was not going to help, he was lying on the floor, his arms tied up with rope. He was not moving. There was the same sickening odour. The boy Hone was thankfully hidden away behind the suitcases. Or also knocked out by this swine.
‘Open the door,’ Haas snarled, waving the pistol at the sliding door. ‘Or I shoot the hund. Then this … shy-sen.’ Haas identified this shysen target and reinforced his intention by kicking the prone back of the guard. ‘Open, ja?’
Dan did what he was told, desperately trying to think what else his father said about kicking. Could he somehow distract Haas? The wind from the open door almost flung him to the floor, the wheels deafening, the temperature must be close to zero.
‘Tell me where Penny iss.’
Dan glared.
Haas waved the pistol, telling Dan to move back. He did as he was told. Haas bent and grabbed Selwyn by his jacket collar. Watching Dan, the pistol pointed at him, he tugged at Selwyn, inching him towards the open door. It was not going to be easy with one hand, Selwyn was a big man. Dan’s eyes flicked about, there was nothing within range. The dog was gurgling, its eyes bulging, more asthmatic wheezes than yapping. With a grunt Haas heaved Selwyn to the edge of the open door, stood up, wobbling a little from the effort, the pistol rock steady.
‘You choose, ya? This fool or Penny.’
He had his foot braced on Selwyn’s broad back and was tensed to push.
‘No, please. Don’t.’
Haas smirked. ‘So?’
‘Jackie!’
Both Dan and Haas swung towards the sound of the boy’s shout and the dog in mid-air, the rope flying about. The dog’s jaws caught Haas’ arm just as the pistol fired harmlessly into the ceiling. Haas was tipped backwards, tripping on Selwyn, disappearing out the door he intended to push the guard through, the dog still attached to his arm. Dan looked up at the fearful boy peering around the side of the suitcases, a penknife in his hand.
‘Good boy,’ Dan said. ‘Come on, let’s get your uncle comfy, shall we?’
The boy’s eyes were glistening with tears. ‘Jackie?’ he pleaded.
Dan could offer him nothing. Assuming they were not fatally injured in the tumble on to the stony trackside and whatever gradient thereafter, the valiant dog and the vicious Haas would find it hard to survive in this god-forsaken wilderness. He peered at pitch dark, sensing if not seeing the density of ancient forests, not a glimmer of a light, he doubted if there were farmhouses or even roads. Truly it was the middle of nowhere. He leaned against the open door, sliding it closed.