One instance of a dead battery was enough to have Ballantyne remark that since no one else was going to make sure the thing was charged, he would.
It had been his daughter's car a.k.a. Belinda's Bomb, but she'd needed an upgrade when she moved down to University in Adelaide.
Seriously, Dad, Belinda had said at the time, I can't take it. It'd never get there. Park it at the surgery, paint G.S.M.C. On the side and claim the rego and third party as a tax deduction or something.
So he did, and it duly appeared in the practice's books.
And, for most of the week, the car park behind the practice was where it stayed.
Ballantyne took it for its run on Saturday morning, and the regular route included a couple of places frequented by people who might have been tempted to take it for a joy ride.
Everyone in those places knew the doctor car, and the consensus, carefully created by Ballantyne and reinforced at every opportunity, was that it might get you as far as the Katherine East or even Tindall, but there was no guarantee it would.
Somewhere like Mataranka? No chance.
So Ballantyne took it on his rounds after his big brunch on Saturday morning, dropped it back there around twelve-thirty and let himself into the office at the back of the surgery for a quiet afternoon catching up on things.