Dogtective William and the Diamond Smugglers. Elizabeth Wasserman

and to get the diamonds out of the country they’d have to link to a syndicate of some sort.”

      “Do you have any idea where the diamonds are going?” my clever dog asked.

      “Our sources reported some Namibian diamonds being sold on the black market in Amsterdam, and one of the sought-after big pink ones ending up in Russia.”

      “In Russia?” I asked, surprised.

      “Yes, Alex. The Russian oil barons are extremely rich and flashy. Pink diamonds are just the kind of thing they love, and they have no scruples about buying stolen ones.”

      “My passport!” I remembered as we stopped at the airport at Fisantekraal. I doubted whether there was passport control at that small, private airport, but surely someone would ask me for it once we landed in Namibia. But William had his small backpack with him, the same one he used on our trip through Europe. He motioned for me to open it, and inside I found his beloved teddy bear, a crumbling cupcake and my passport. I wiped some icing from its cover and stowed it more safely in my own pocket.

      A Beechcraft Baron was waiting on the landing strip. The previous year William had subscribed me to an aviation magazine as a Christmas present. Of course he’d used my dad’s credit card number to pay for it, but it was definitely a better present than the two-thousand-piece puzzle my parents had given me.

      I love planes and I quickly learned to identify most of them. A Beechcraft Baron 58 is a comfortable twin-engine that seats six people. It can go up to two hundred knots at a height of two kilometres above sea level, and . . .

      “Alex!” William knew exactly where my thoughts were wandering. “Keep your attention on the matter at hand!”

      He was right. I hadn’t been listening to the last part of his discussion with Spears. “We’ll get in touch again as soon as you get there,” were the chief superintendent’s final words before the screen went blank.

      The car pulled away and the two of us started walking towards the plane. The pilot was making some final checks, headphones already pulled over his ears and scribbling something in his flight log. He flipped a switch and the propellers began to whirl.

      An elderly man was standing next to the plane. His wild grey hair jutted from underneath one of those funny hats with flaps around the ears and neck, and his shirt and baggy shorts had enough pockets to carry tools and provisions in the wilderness for a month.

      William had noticed him too. “Livingston, I presume?” he whispered to me.

      “Sorry to disappoint you, old chap,” the man said and turned towards my talking dog without blinking an eye. “The name is Travis, Bill Travis, and I am a . . . Let’s just call me someone who specialises in finding things.”

      “Like lost diamonds?” I asked. My question was either lost in the racket of the engines or Mr Travis had chosen to ignore it. “My name is Alex Simpson and this is my dog, Dogtective William!” I shouted.

      He shook my hand with a firm grip and then bent down to shake William’s paw as well. William appreciates it when strangers treat him with respect. We were off to a good start.

      We loaded our backpacks into the tail of the plane and climbed in. We had barely fastened our seatbelts when the plane started to taxi slowly towards the runway. The noise level inside the cabin swelled as the engines revved for the take-off. Then the dry grass flashed past our windows as we gathered speed. The pilot pressed the lever down to adjust the flaps, and we were away!