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Amara clambered out of the back seat of the Stock Squad’s large four-wheel drive, dragging out her backpack and her ever-handy tablet. ‘I’ve never done a case about crocodiles before. Does the stock squad need to be involved, sir?’

‘They do come under the category of livestock, constable.’ Finn adjusted his big stockman’s hat, pushing the driver’s door shut. ‘You would’ve dealt with the odd saltie in your time on the stations, Craig?’

Sauntering around from the passenger side, the blond-haired rodeo champion hitched his belt higher, highlighting that shiny belt buckle, while his blue eyes were shaded by his well-worn stockman’s hat. ‘I’ve wrestled a few in my time, moving them away from cattle. You?’

Finn’s mouth hinted at a grin as he gave a curt nod. Dark sunglasses hid his eyes, and his long-sleeved shirt was rolled up at the cuffs, exposing heavily tatted forearms. At least he looked more like a cattleman these days, than the leader of a drug cartel.

Then Amara slid on a wide-brimmed hat.

‘Wrong hat, Duchess.’ Stone shook his head, waiting for them in the car park. ‘Have we not taught you anything about wearing Territory clobber?’ At least she’d stopped wearing her South Australia Police uniform, but her long-sleeved work shirt was as stiff and starched as her jeans.

‘What’s wrong with my hat? You’re all wearing a hat.’

‘That is a sheep farmer’s Sunday hat. Big difference, Duchess.’ It wasn’t a stockman’s hat, that’s for sure. ‘You’ll melt your brain wearing that out here.’

‘I said the same thing,’ said Craig. ‘Not the brain bit, but it’ll get hot in the summer wearing that style of hat up here. I’ve seen plenty of southerners who don’t even last a day into the muster, before they’re cutting big vents into their hat’s crown to let the air out.’

‘Fine, it might need some ventilation holes, but I don’t see what’s the big deal with the style. It’s a hat.’ Amara tugged her hat lower at the brim.

‘It’s a sheep farmer’s hat and there are no sheep this far north.’

‘What the cowboy said.’ Stone grinned at Craig as they gripped hands, bumped shoulders, and patted each other on the back like brothers.

‘And what about you?’ Amara arched her eyebrows at him as she gave Stone’s mud-splattered jeans, dirty shirt and boots a once-over. ‘We do have a dress standard, Stone. You’re representing—'

‘Are you going to iron my shirts for me, Duchess?’ Stone wasn’t wearing a suit and tie for anyone.

‘Excuse the clobber, Bossman, but I’ve been out bush all morning.

I came out here to deliver some eggs I collected earlier.

Good thing too, because Malcolm wasn’t going to make the call and report the theft, so he may not be open to this.

But his son, Jed, hit me up as soon as I arrived.

I’m glad he did. This way…’ Stone led them through a series of heavy metal doors to the skinny corridor.

‘Clean your boots, children. And we use our indoor voices until we’re past the juvie section. ’

‘Juvie? As in a juvenile prison?’ Amara dipped her highly polished sheep farmer’s elastic-sided boots into the solution.

‘No, it’s a daycare centre for cute and cuddly little man-eaters.’ Stone grinned at Amara, who rolled her eyes at him.

‘Hmm, should’ve bought the boot polish out for this.’ Craig dipped his scuffed cowboy boots, with their chunky Cuban heels, into the solution.

‘This place has some heavy security. Lights, sensors, cameras, coded doors.’ Finn didn’t miss a beat, while dipping his steel-capped boots into the boot wash. ‘That screams big money to me.’

‘It is a multimillion-dollar business, Bossman.’

‘How much of a turnover?’ Finn asked, as Amara lit up her tablet to start taking notes as their team’s paperwork queen.

‘Well, hell, for the last financial year the local crocodile farming industry was valued at over a hundred million dollars. This place, Saltscale,’ replied Stone, sliding his hands onto his hips and peering at the complex, ‘has an average annual revenue of around 25 million on a land mass that is half the size of a single cattle station’s holding paddock. ’

Amara stopped writing as her eyes widened over her tablet. ‘I understand crocodiles produce a luxury leather, but for that sum?’

‘Well, they do sell direct to the French fashion houses, Duchess. No middleman.’

‘No way…’ Amara swivelled around as if to re-inspect her surroundings.

‘So why were they hesitating to call us if their stock got stolen?’ Craig asked. ‘Malcolm Rowntree has never been shy about screaming loud at any injustice.’

‘Malcolm’s moods are legendary.’ Stone pushed through another door, leading the team.

‘Being such a small, specialised field, this theft is more of a reputational blow to the family business. There are only a few crocodile farms around, and they haggle fiercely for business. They don’t want their leather buyers to know there was a breach, or that their stock is at risk. ’

‘So did they have stock stolen?’ Finn tilted his head to scrutinise the keypad Stone used to let them through.

‘They did. They just don’t know how.’ Stone led them to the elevated gangway that stretched over the top of an enormous network of crocodile pens.

Their boots clomped heavily over the mesh walkway that was suspended over the centre like a thin spine, hovering just high enough above the chaotic enclosures, giving them an unobstructed view of hundreds of young crocodiles.

‘To think they’ll grow up to terrorise the rivers and cattle stations while covered in mud.’ Craig peered down at the pens laden with assorted crawling crocodiles. ‘Imagine swimming with all of those snapping handbags.’

The writhing swarm of baby crocs shifted and slid over one another like a nest of snakes, some sprawling half-submerged in shallow pools, while others clambered onto patches of sun-warmed sand.

‘No, thank you.’ Amara gripped the gangway’s railing so tightly her knuckles were white. Each footstep across the walkway caught the crocodiles’ attention. ‘Are we safe up here?’

Stone paused to wait for Amara. ‘It’s okay, Duchess. It’s a reinforced walkway, it’s totally safe. They use it all the time to check each pen.’

‘But they can jump. I know they do.’ Perspiration broke across her brow, either from the warm air or fear—or that hat.

It’d have to be the first time Stone saw the fearless Amara bothered by anything, except his teasing. ‘You’re safe. Trust me.’

Even Craig stopped and nodded at Amara. ‘Stone wouldn’t use us as croc bait, not today.’

‘But they jump.’

‘Sure. All the time.’

‘How high do they jump?’ Amara’s voice got higher as Finn fisted his hands, as if ready to punch any of them if they got too close.

‘Fully grown, they’d clear six feet easy. But these are babies. Horses would bite harder than this lot.’ It was enough to put the horse-loving Amara at ease.

‘Come on, this way.’ Stone led them down the walkway to the office door. ‘This is the tech room.’

Inside, the air conditioning was a cool relief from the hatchery’s sauna-like temperature, filled with a wall of monitors that displayed images of each pen, the corridors, doorways, and nesting pods. How anyone got inside unnoticed, to steal from this place was a mystery.

‘Malcolm, this is my boss, Detective Sergeant Finn Wilde.’ Stone did the introductions.

Malcolm narrowed his cold eyes at the squad. ‘My son has a big mouth. We didn’t call—’

‘They’re here, Malcolm, let us do our job.’ Stone patted Malcolm’s shoulder.

‘Hmph.’

‘Malcom Rowntree is the owner,’ continued Stone introducing Finn and the squad to the family.

‘This is his wife, Celeste. Their son, Jed, and their daughter, Lenora. And that’s the latest backpacker, Romy.

I picked her up while egg collecting.’ He winked at Romy, who looked so out of place.

Yet she had enough charm to befriend Jed and Celeste, even the grumpy Malcolm.

‘Another backpacker for the house, eh?’ Craig nudged Stone’s shoulder.

‘You could say that.’ Even if poor Romy looked so lost, fidgeting with her fingers, or tapping her cargo pants pockets looking for her phone or camera every few minutes.

‘What happened?’ Finn asked Malcolm bluntly, while Amara got ready to scribble down the details on her tablet.

‘Some mongrel broke into the hatchery, is what!’ Malcolm Rowntree was a big man with a short temper, known to chew out anyone if he was having a bad day.

He’d been a helluva croc wrangler, back in the day.

Shame he had the charm of a heartless boot heel who’d bitch about anything that moved.

How Celeste put up with Malcolm was a mystery.

‘We just don’t know how they flipping well did it!’ Malcolm approached the windows that gave them a bird’s-eye view of the entire layout of crocodile pens that were similar to the stockyards at the cattle auctions.

‘When did it happen?’

Malcolm shrugged at Finn. ‘It was only when I came in to check if we needed to move any, that I noticed the numbers were down. At first, I assumed they’d moved them to another pen.

But when I checked with the pen-keepers, none of them knew anything about it.

That’s when I demanded we do a stock count.

And we’ve been counting all bloody morning.

’ Malcolm scowled at his daughter, Lenora. ‘Where’s them numbers, girl?’

Stone hated that tone. His frown matched Craig’s, and he was tempted to say something, but Finn shook his head at them to not react. It was part of the job, to remain indifferent, to just observe, and be like Amara who wore the perfect emotionless cop face.

Still, Malcolm had no right to talk to his daughter, or any female, like that.

‘Here, Dad.’ With head down, red in the face, Lenora passed the clipboard to Malcolm, who snatched it out of her hand.