‘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.
Malcolm held up the paperwork, his frown shifting to a squint as he read out the numbers.‘Those mongrels pinched 98 croc eggs from six nests—and 45 juveniles from four clutches.All wild caught, genetically pristine saltwater crocodiles, which makes it an easy half a million in stock.’Malcolm aimed his lethal glare at Lenora, who hung her head low.‘How did you miss that, girl?’
‘Um, sir?’On the far side of the room a technician, wearing a white lab coat, held up a telephone.‘It’s them.’
