The manner of his walk, as he advanced, and not the clothes he wore, betrayed the policeman. The woman was not noticeably tall, due to her cubic proportions. She was watchful, suspicious, her pose having something of the explosiveness of the rhinoceros and something of the ponderability of the elephant. With her fists punched against the belt about her cord breeches, she epitomized leashed force. Bony’s gaze merely flickered about the policeman: it was held by this woman with the brick-red complexion, the light grey eyes, the Roman nose, the great mop of black hair.

“Inspector Bonaparte?” the advancing manqueried, and Bony’s attention reverted to him. “I’m First Constable Mawson. Hope you understand, sir, not being able to meet you.”

Bony acknowledged the salute and nodded. Mike Falla called from his car:

“You comingon to Edison with me, Inspector? Can’t wait… long.”

Mawson accepted Bony’s cue and told Mike to go on. He moved stiffly, and the tint of his face wasn’t wholly due to wind and sun. Then the woman was confronting Bony, and her greeting reminded him of the horseman who had met the service car.

“Gud-dee, Mister…”

“Bonaparte… Inspector Bonaparte,” Bony returned suavely.

“I’m Mary Answerth,” she said, and would have edged Mawson behind her had he not stood his ground. Again the hands were clenched hard to the leather belt. The feet encased by riding boots were planted wide apart and like century-old trees, giving the impression that nothing human could topple her over. “I take it you’ve come from Brisbane to investigate my mother’s death?”

“That is why I am here, Miss Answerth,” Bony agreed, still suavely.

“Then I hope you do better than those fools who came down to find Carlow’s murderer,” she said challengingly. “No one here expects anything from Mawson. As he says himself, he’s a policeman, not a detective. I shall expect better from you. These killings must be stopped.”