On our way to the first dead body of the case. Please, God, let it be the last.
‘What did Constable Darren have to say about the search? Any updates?’ asked Tran. ‘I’ve only spoken with him briefly – I’m surprised you even have reception down here.’
‘Officially they called the search off when the sun set last night, but there were still people out there, all night,’ said Con. ‘We’ve been lucky: plenty of sprained ankles and at least one broken leg, but nothing worse. We’ve had drones and two choppers searching the area all today, but the canopy is too thick for them to see much, although one of them found this body. On the ground, the SES is leading teams of searchers, with Darren coordinating, but that’s a mess now that Madison Mason brought the entire population of YouTube to the mountain.’
‘I’ll work closely with Darren to get that sorted, don’t worry. And then I’ll filter anything important from the search through to you, so you can keep focusing on your investigation,’ said Tran. ‘Again, just wanted to say good job on the Jaguar case. I remember that when it was all over the news.’
‘Thanks,’ said Con. He was used to the congratulations. He accepted them on autopilot.
She caught his tone. ‘I get it,’ she said. ‘Didn’t feel much like a victory.’
He gave a wry smile. ‘Something like that. But as everyone keeps telling me —’
‘It’s not your fault they died,’ finished Tran. ‘I get it.’
She turned her attention to Anaya, asking questions about the terrain and the weather. The bush was interspersed with rocks and holes, and the dogwood and musk understory was thick enough to make heavy work for the chainsaws and slash-hooks.
Con watched the approach of the cliff above them through the gaps in the trees. Belatedly he realised he was holding his breath. He was not a superstitious man. He definitely didn’t buy into any of Gabriella’s theories. But the rocky escarpment, dotted with clinging plants and clods of soil and bird nests, it emanated something . . . menacing.
He dug his fingernails into his palms, taking steadying breaths, trying to bring himself back to the present. He knew it wasn’t something evil in the cliffs that was making him nervous, it was just the thought of seeing the girl’s body.
You’re not in Sydney . . . these are not the same girls . . . keep it together, Cornelius . . . it’s not your fault she died.
Detective Tran caught his elbow. ‘Are you alright, Badenhorst? Are you listening?’
‘Sorry,’ he said, catching his feet again. ‘I was distracted.’
Con wondered, briefly, if his mum and dad had seen him on TV, watching yesterday’s impromptu press conference in the lounge of their expensive retirement-village home. He wondered if they’d tried to call him, asking if this was finally enough action for him in sleepy Launceston. His dad, especially, felt Con had been exiled – ‘poor repayment for the man who single-handedly solved the Jaguar case’.
Mum would probably call him the moment she found out there had been a dead body involved. She’d try to make him quit. She wanted him to move back to Sydney and find a new career.
Con shook his shoulders and cricked his neck.
Head in the game, Badenhorst.
He still hadn’t heard a word Tran had said to him.
Suddenly they were there, at the base of the cliff. The sound of flies like a beacon.
Head. In. The. Game.
He saw her.
Con wasn’t prepared for how pathetic the body looked. He felt a fresh surge of nausea. Dicky swore, Anaya made a noise in her throat, and Detective Tran began taking photos.
The girl’s clothes were ripped almost to shreds, and puddles of congealed blood sat in dips in the rocks. Flesh had been torn off her legs, right down to the pink bone in places.
‘That’s where Tassie devils have been at her, poor thing,’ said Anaya.
‘The devils are nocturnal, so she’s been there through the night,’ observed Tran. ‘But where are her shoes?’ She nudged Con.
Con’s gaze zeroed in on her bare feet.
So those shoes on the cliff . . . just like Rose Cahil’s shoes, neatly tied, in 1985 . . .
Eliza had been found barefoot the day before – perhaps the shoes on the cliff were hers? He hoped Constable Darren managed to get to the shoes soon.
Four forensics officers hovered around the body, placing markers and taking their own photos. When they were done, it was time for their gloved hands to turn the body over to see the face.
Con dug his fingers deeper into his palms. Gently, almost reverently, a forensics officer tilted her face.
It was battered and bloody, but the features were clear.
‘Georgia Lenah,’ said Con, although his voice seemed to come from far, far away. ‘Prep the stretcher: we need to get her back for autopsy ASAP. I’ll call it in.’
He was just ending the call when a forensics officer called for his attention. She reached out for his arm; he was dimly aware that he was propped up against the cliff, sweaty, his head light, his knees weak as piss.
‘Detective, are you alright?’ she said. ‘Did you trip?’
‘Yeah, bloody rocks,’ he said, composing himself.
‘You need to see this.’
Reluctantly, Con turned back to the body. Another woman from the forensics team had pulled something out of the pocket of Georgia’s trousers.
It was a small plastic bag, half-full of marijuana. A sticker on the front said ‘THE CAPTAIN’.
CHAPTER 13
MURPHY
Murphy was in the same dream. He fell down the cliff, the wind whipping his clothes. He was too scared to scream.
I have to find her. I can’t die. I’m the only one who can find her.
And then he hit the ground.
He jerked awake. The clock beside his bed said 2.12 pm. After Nelly’s outburst he had fallen asleep on his bed, fully clothed, emotionally spent.
It was time to go join the search. To hell with the SES and to hell with the cops. To hell with the town. So what if they bashed him to death? He’d fight them all off and make it to the mountain on bloody foot.
He opened his wardrobe, pulling out sturdy work trousers and a thick shirt. His eyes moved to the crayon drawing sticky-taped to the wardrobe door: a stick figure holding a rounded glass vial, obviously a bong. Jasmine had drawn it in Year 1, and told everyone it was her Uncle Butch.
Murphy had thought it was hilarious. Sara had been furious at first, but then eventually saw the funny side. Sara knew when to laugh. When she’d died and Murphy had moved in with Butch, this picture was one of the few things he’d brought from the old house.
What would Sara say now, if she could see Murphy raising Jasmine in Butch’s home? Worse, that Murphy himself was working for Butch, in Dad’s trade, which he’d always sworn to Sara he’d never have anything to do with? That he’d let his landscaping business go, lost all his clients, now spent all his talents growing weed?
What had he been doing? He’d let his grief drive him over the edge.
You’ve done this to Jasmine. You cockhead. You’ve done this to Sara’s memory.
Once he got Jasmine back, he’d make some changes. He’d build his business back up, move out, buy another house. He wouldn’t leave Limestone Creek, though. Jasmine loved it here, and Butch was still family, and besides . . . Murphy had never lived anywhere else.