‘I think you better come with me,’ said Cavanagh slowly.
‘. . . but she wouldn’t have left the track,’ repeated Murphy over the sound of the siren and the wiper blades. He was hunched in the front of the police car, a Kia Stinger, gripping the handle. He was sobering up, but too slowly. Adrenaline and shock were making him shake. The car smelled of bloody lavender, and it was doing his head in.
‘I believe you, Mr Murphy,’ said Cavanagh.
Murphy understood he’d probably already told her all of this, but he couldn’t remember how many times he’d said it. The world kept spinning around like he was on a show ride. And his mouth was so bloody dry. The rain on the outside of the windscreen, getting swished to the side, was enough to make him pant.
‘We’ll find them. But think, are there any other places she might have gone?’
‘I’m telling you, she’d have come home first. And she’s not stupid: there’s no way she’d walk off in weather like this!’ he shouted.
Cavanagh winced. ‘Can you try not to yell? You’re hurting my ears.’
A minute later, they turned a corner and pulled into the gravel car park of the hiking track.
Murphy was out and stumbling along before the car had even stopped.
Above them loomed the Tiers – misty, impenetrable. People were swarming everywhere in the sassafras clearing of the car park. Murphy was soaked with rain again. He tried to cup it in his palms to drink.
The largest assembly of people were huddled around the school bus, where he could make out a group of teenage girls dressed in hiking gear. None of them was Jasmine. Among them were two men he recognised, Thomas North and Jack Michaels.
Murphy felt a surge of anger at the sight of Jack, but pushed it to the side.
Everywhere were journalists – rough ones rugged up in jackets, dainty women with make-up and high heels who had assistants holding umbrellas over their heads, even a couple with big remote controls in their hands, flying camera drones overhead.
Watery flashing lights came from three ambulances and five police cars. One of the Limestone Creek rural fire trucks was also parked to the side, with equipment being unloaded. A few more dirtbikes were being unloaded from utes and even a couple horses in fluoro horse coats were interspersed in the crowds.
‘Stop, mate.’ A burly blond man in a suit stood in Murphy’s way. He had the face of a boxer: crooked nose, scar on his eyebrow, looking slightly punch-drunk, with a stupid blond moustache. ‘Where are you going?’
Murphy pulled out of the man’s grip. ‘Piss off.’
‘He’s with me, Detective Coops,’ said Cavanagh, jogging up to them. ‘His daughter is one of the missing.’
‘There’s a tent set up for families over there, there’s soup and coffee —’
‘Like hell,’ said Murphy.
‘— or if you want to help the search, go to the orange SES tent,’ said Detective Coops. ‘Join a search party, don’t just run like a maniac through the kind of bush that’ll kill you before you’ve gone fifty metres.’
‘Want me to cuff him, Coops?’ said a voice from behind.
Murphy spun, hands curling into fists.
Don’t punch him, they’ll lock you up, you have to find Jasmine . . . The voice of reason was stronger, but it took a physical effort not to square up to the man who approached.
Fleshy-faced with wobbly jowls like a basset hound. Police uniform stretched tight across a beer belly. Sergeant Doble.
‘Heard your daughter is one of the missing, mate. You alright?’ Doble’s voice showed concern, but Murphy knew better.
‘I’m going up there, Doble,’ he said through clenched teeth.
‘You’ve gotta follow rules, Murphy.’
‘Sergeant Doble —’ began Cavanagh.
‘Thanks, constable. Leave him with me,’ said Doble, then turned to the detective. ‘I know this one, Coops,’ he said in a loud whisper. ‘Good job stopping him. Who knows what damage he might’ve caused up there.’
The detective looked Murphy up and down one last time, then continued on his way.
Murphy’s skin felt like fire: the rage was building.
‘Speaking of: where were you early this morning, Murphy? We aren’t gonna find any sweet little girls in your basement, are we?’ said Doble.
Murphy began to raise himself to his fullest height, ready to punch this fat prick —
‘Everything alright here?’ came a deep voice, a broad Australian accent with the faintest burring lisp.
‘We’re fine, Badenhorst,’ said Doble. ‘This is Jordan Murphy. The one I was telling you about – I bet you have some questions for him.’
‘Ah. Good to meet you, mate.’ The newcomer held out his hand to shake; the burr came from the way he spoke out of the side of his mouth. ‘I’m Con Badenhorst.’
‘Senior Sergeant Detective Con Badenhorst,’ muttered Doble for Murphy’s ears. ‘Running lead on this.’
Badenhorst was a good-looking man with light sun-streaked hair, rain-swept to the side, and a jaw roughened with five o’clock shadow. He was lithe and athletic, but Murphy thought he could beat him in a fight. He looked like a surfer from the Gold Coast – distinctly out of place in Limestone Creek.
Badenhorst still had his hand held out, all the time in the world. His blue eyes studied Murphy, unaffected by his stiff refusal to shake his hand. He glanced away, over the crowd, taking in everything else, before swinging back around to Murphy. Arm still outstretched. Calm and assured.
There was a bustle of movement at a nearby tent, then a group jogged towards the head of the trail, guided by men and women in orange SES overalls.
Ignoring Badenhorst, Murphy ran after them, shaking his head to clear the last of the dizziness.
An SES officer stopped him at the entrance to the trail. ‘Who are you?’ she snapped.
‘My daughter is up there.’ He tried to push past her, but she moved in front of him.
‘Then go to the tent. You can join the next party.’
‘I don’t need your fucking permission to search for my daughter!’ Murphy shouted.
‘Everything alright here?’ said a large bearded man, one of the other SES officers.
‘He wants to join the search, but doesn’t want to join a team.’
‘Then tell him to piss off.’
Murphy lunged for the trail, past them both, but the giant man grabbed him from behind. Murphy roared, twisting the man’s pinkie finger back on itself until it popped, and the man howled.
Murphy ran three more metres before two SES workers tackled him to the ground, shouting, burying his face into the gravel.
Murphy went wild.
Minutes later, he was being muscled into the back of a police van, a bruise already forming on his cheek, a small trail of bruised searchers and bloodied noses behind him. He roared insults at the officers as he strained against the handcuffs, veins popping in his neck, his beard flecked with saliva, blood dripping from his nose. Cameras flashed, even as lightning streaked through the clouds and thunder boomed.
CHAPTER 4
CON
Detective Con Badenhorst watched the police van pull out of the car park, with Jordan Murphy still raging inside. His eyes lingered on the road even after the van had disappeared around the corner.