A gentle snoring emanated from the caravan; they’d been careful not to disturb Mrs Cronin who was still sleeping off last night’s bender. ‘So what do you reckon, Jo?’ Cam said. ‘Can she do it?’ Jo patted the slobbering Prudence who strained at the leash, trying to reach the geriatric kelpie. The bloodhound seemed to have the concentration of a fruit fly and Cam was beginning to doubt the wisdom of his idea. ‘We’ve been in a lot rougher country with the State Emergency Service. The problem as I see it is not so much the country as the freshness of the scent,’ Jo said. ‘But I thought bloodhounds were supposed to be the Rolls Royce of tracker dogs? They can find a body underwater, follow someone in a car, track scents that are weeks old.’ She’d said this earlier and Cam was quoting her word for word. Deep in thought, she missed his sarcasm. ‘Yes,’ she hesitated. ‘Some can, but the scent is old. Prudence has found people before, but never after this long. One thing in our favour though, is the early morning dew.
