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seen a few of these back in Cape Town and the injuries are consistent with sharks.’
    Tess pointed to the mush at the base of the spine where the legs were meant to start. ‘Looks like they bit clean through him.’
    The doctor nodded grimly then scratched his chin. ‘Possibly. I’d be more worried about the sever wound at the neck.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘It’s very neat compared to the punctures and tears everywhere else. The spinal column looks like it’s been sheared with a clean straight edge. Either our shark had meticulous table manners ... or somebody cut this poor man’s head off.’

3
    Wednesday, October 8th. Midmorning.
    Busselton, Western Australia.
    The floorboard creaks under Stuart Miller’s size tens. The passageway seems shorter than he remembers it and that bitter ashtray smell is back in his nostrils. The lights are out, another power cut, bloody miners on strike again. So why can he hear the telly on the other side of the door? A football match. He turns the handle and steps into the dim room lit only by the flickering TV screen: a sea of red and white rolling and roaring. Jenny and Graeme are on the settee, cuddled up, watching the game. On the floor, Graeme’s Scalextric cars race around the track giving off sparks at each corner.
    ‘Home, pet, what you got the lights out for?’
    His hand goes to the light switch but nothing happens.
    ‘Shite, the bulb must have gone. What’s the score?’ he nods at the TV.
    ‘Nil all,’ says little Graeme, finally acknowledging his dad’s presence. Jenny must be in a huff about something: him working late again probably. She hasn’t moved or said a word. Miller looks at the screen again, the Cup Final, Sunderland and Leeds. Billy Hughes steps up for the corner, the ball lands for Porterfield. He’s seen this before: the goal, the setting. That’s when the panic kicks in. He touches his wife’s shoulder and head, and his fingers come away sticky with blood. Graeme is nestled into her, hand resting on her knee, a deep crimson gash above his ear.
    Stuart Miller jerked awake gasping for breath. The bed was empty and Jenny was gone.

4
    Wednesday, October 8th. Late morning.
    Sergeant Jim Buckley was heaving, puffing and fit to have a coronary. His normally flushed drinker’s face was nearly purple and his ginger-grey sideburns glistened with sweat. The cow’s head was now separated from the body after a joint effort by himself, Cato and three hacksaw blades. Its neck was flat to the ground and the eyes were staring skywards to cow heaven. Buckley had a foot planted firmly on either side of the head, pinning the ears to the ground. With his left hand pushing down hard on the nose for extra leverage, he gave one last mighty tug with the right. His hand emerged triumphant from the cow’s face, pliers gripping a small blood-soaked lump of metal.
    ‘A twenty-two, just as I thought.’
    Cato finished pissing against a ghost gum and zipped back up. He had retired to the shade and was halfway through today’s cryptic from the West. He’d managed to snaffle it from the neighbouring breakfast table at the Katanning Motel. It had been a close shave though, the guy had only gone to the toilet and when he came back for his paper Cato had to plead ignorance and suggest that the breakfast lady had cleared it away. Buckley had shaken his head in disgust.
    ‘Why don’t you ever buy your own, they’re only a dollar, you tight-arsed bastard.’
    ‘Dollar thirty. All I need is the crossword, I don’t need to read all the other crap.’
    His father had taught him how to crack the cryptic codes a couple of years ago and now he was hooked. There was something about the search for clear reasoning among the insane ramblings, and identifying the cold calculation behind the crafty wordplay. It came in useful in the interview room sometimes. Dad meanwhilehad moved on to Sudokus to enrich his widowed dotage; he’d knock them off in ten minutes if his hands weren’t shaking