New Zealand was greener than Emilia could ever have imagined. The trees, the paddocks, the seemingly endless miles of rolling hills . . . different hues, but all undeniably green. The change in pitch as the train clattered across a wooden bridge had nudged her from her sleep. They were now in what was called the King Country. Emilia found that gently amusing. King of what, exactly? Sheep? They were everywhere, thousands of them dotting the paddocks. Little mobile floor rugs and pullovers, ring-barking the hills with their hooves. No wonder Sanna had so easily found work here as a wool handler in a shearing gang. The supply and demand were untapped. It was like making and selling vodka to the Russians.

The town slowly revealed itself; a scattering of houses at first, then gradually, denser clusters. Emilia, wearing her trademark jeans and black boots, flicked at her neat, shoulder-length black hair and stepped nervously onto the asphalt platform. Placing her pack against the sign, Nashville, King Country, NZ, she noticed she was the only person alighting.

‘Can I help you, miss?’

The man had appeared from nowhere. He was old, older than her grandfather, a Māori, wearing a dark blue uniform.

‘Here, I’ll take your pack,’ he said.

They shuffled off the platform. ‘Postie Plus’ said the large red sign atop the shop directly opposite. Emilia’s eyes were drawn to the racks of clothing spilling from the doorway, across the footpath. They did things differently here. At home, post offices were for buying stamps and sending parcels and letters.

‘Can you direct me to the police station, please?’

‘Police? You haven’t been here long enough to get into trouble.’

Emilia chose not to respond.

‘Down this way, one block, then at the corner, turn right.’ He pointed as he spoke, his forefinger gnarled and bent. Arthritic, she assumed. ‘It’s along there.’

Emilia nodded. ‘Thank you.’

He tipped his cap. ‘You’re welcome, miss. And best not to talk to any strangers, eh?’

Emilia found the counter of the police station unattended. She pressed the buzzer.

A constable presented himself, younger than her. Lance Peterson, his badge read.

‘Can I help you?’ he asked. He was as green as the landscape outside, but the tone of his voice was warm.

‘My name is Emilia Sovernen.’

‘I’m sorry,’ the constable interrupted. ‘Did you say Sovernen?’

‘Yes. Emilia Sovernen.’

Peterson raised a finger. ‘One minute,’ he said, before excusing himself.

Another man appeared, this one with a large barrel chest, deeper voice and a presence that spilled over the counter. ‘Ms Sovernen, I’m Detective Inspector Tom Harten.’

They each took a moment to eye the other.

‘Ms Sovernen, you’ve travelled a long way. May I ask how long you’re planning to stay in Nashville?’

Emilia tolerated the question. Wasn’t it obvious? ‘For as long as it takes to find out what happened to my sister’…

Continue reading the extract here.

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