33
Russell Foley fumbled in his pocket for his phone, flipped it open and looked at the caller ID.
“It’s Terry Potts,” he said to Sam and Sarah. “Hello, Terry,” he answered the caller.
“Where are you, Russell?” Potts asked.
“We just arrived at the roadhouse at Barkly Homestead, took a toilet break, topped up with fuel and grabbed a coffee-to-go. We’re about to set off again.”
“You might want to step up the pace a bit,” Potts said.
“Why? What’s the problem?”
“We’ve got another body,” Potts answered.
“f**k! Where?” Foley asked.
“Twenty klicks west of Rockhampton Downs Station,” Potts said.
“Who?”
“A black fella. Head stockman from Rockhampton Downs. One of his co-workers found the body in the bush a couple of hundred metres off the road. Apparently he was shot in the head.”
“Appa
