They pulled up outside an old weatherboard house. Jim Kelly glanced at his watch. ‘Eleven fifteen, not bad timing. You all right now, Quenton?’ he said, twisting to face the boy, who was in the back seat. Snook chuckled. ‘He oughta be, after spewing up all those potato chips and chocolates he’s been pigging out on ever since we left.’ A groan came from the back. ‘That’s enough Snook,’ his father said. ‘Some people don’t have the stomach for roads that bend and twist, that’s all. He’ll be okay in a minute. Anyway, everybody hop out; this is where my friend works.’ He got out of the car, walked up the drive, pushed open a screen door and entered Reg Carter’s office. Snook, Jars and Quenton, who was still moaning and holding his stomach, followed. Reg Carter was sitting behind his desk, leaning back as though deep in thought. A mountain of paper files partly hid him from view. At his feet, lying under the desk, was a German shepherd.
