Moaning Myrtle waddled into the room, meowing in indignation. Of course. Jasmine hadn’t been there to feed her.
She moved on top of his big hunting jacket, scratching at it with her claws. It was crumpled on the ground; he’d been wearing it yesterday when he’d woken up at the edge of the yard. It was still full of twigs and thorns, with a large muddy patch from where he’d been tackled to the ground up at the car park, when he’d broken that SES officer’s fingers and punched the cops.
He pushed Myrtle off, then paused, running his fingers down the sleeve of the jacket. There was a rip, from the elbow to the wrist. He felt the edge of the tear. Where had that come from?
From the front of the house came the sudden sound of glass smashing, followed by Butch swearing. Murphy ran down the corridor, Myrtle following behind, still meowing at him.
A brick sat on the dining-room floor, amidst chips of glass from the smashed window. Outside, raised voices.
‘You can’t prove nothing, Butch,’ shouted a big voice.
Murphy ran out the front door. Four men stood on the nature strip. The biggest man was arguing with Butch, waving his arms, garden gloves on his hands. A red beard perfectly kept and a heavy gold chain around his neck: Kevin Mason, Nelly’s husband. Cierra and Madison’s father.
Kevin’s eyes landed on Murphy. ‘There he is, the pedo,’ he roared.
‘You’re gonna piss off from my property, Mason,’ replied Butch.
‘What are you gonna do, call the cops? We know you won’t do that.’ Kevin slipped the gloves off his hands and shoved them into his back pocket. ‘No fingerprints, so you can’t prove nothing. But if you don’t bring the girls back by the end of today, I’m gonna burn this house to the ground – with you still in it.’
Heat had started building in Murphy’s chest. He stepped down off the front steps, flexing his fingers as he walked towards Kevin. ‘Want to say that again, Mason?’
‘Don’t, bro,’ said Butch, moving between them, one hand on Murphy’s chest. Dimly, Murphy was aware of one of Kevin’s mates pulling out his phone, pointing the camera Murphy’s way. ‘Don’t. There’s journos over there.’
Murphy glanced in the direction Butch pointed. Two journalists were snapping pictures, and another was clearly filming.
‘You took her,’ said Kevin. He turned to the small crowd of neighbours that had gathered on the street. ‘This pedo bastard was fooling around with my daughter.’ Kevin pulled a small plastic bag of marijuana from his jacket pocket, a THE CAPTAIN sticker on the front. ‘I found this in her room. Your weed, Murphy.’ He pointed at Murphy. ‘You’ve always been too friendly with my girls!’
Murphy saw there were also three wrapped condoms inside the bag. ‘We don’t sell weed to minors,’ he growled.
‘Shut up, lad,’ said Butch.
The man filming on his phone nodded to Mason. ‘I got it: “We don’t sell weed to minors.”’
Murphy glanced at the journalists. Shit. They would have recorded it, too.
A BMW pulled into the street, lights flashing up in the corners of the windshield. Murphy bent to grab the packet of weed from Kevin Mason, but he snatched it away.
The BMW pulled over outside their house, and out stepped Detective Badenhorst, his shirt untucked and sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
Someone had called the cops. Murphy guessed it was someone in the crowd.
‘What’s that?’ Badenhorst pointed to Kevin’s hand. Kevin immediately made to hand the bag over, but the detective first fished some latex gloves out of his pocket.
‘I found it in Cierra’s room. I’m her father – remember when we met up at the trail?’ said Kevin. He pointed at Murphy. ‘This weed is his. You can tell by the sticker.’
‘You fucking liar —’ began Murphy. Butch pulled him back.
Con pulled an evidence bag out of another pocket and dropped the weed packet inside. ‘And you came here to confront him rather than coming to us, Mr Mason?’
‘No, I was just out for a stroll, detective,’ said Kevin. ‘This is all just a coincidence.’
Before Badenhorst could say anything more, a police Stinger sped around the corner, lights flashing and siren blaring. It screeched to a halt and out leapt Constable Cavanagh and Sergeant Doble.
Murphy saw Badenhorst grimace.
‘Well, look at what we have here, Murphy,’ said Doble, seeing the bag in Badenhorst’s hand. ‘THE CAPTAIN . . . a bit of your product, hey?’
‘Sergeant Doble,’ said Con, ‘can you and Constable Cavanagh see to these men while myself and Mr Murphy have a chat inside? The rest of you – perhaps there’s somewhere else you can be?’ he added wryly to the gathered audience.
‘No. I think I’ll come with you,’ said Doble.
‘I promise you, you can arrest him soon. I just need to chat with him first,’ said Con evenly. ‘Inside, Mr Murphy.’
Murphy had a mind to disagree, but Butch pushed him towards the front door. ‘Go. This looks bad for both of us,’ he muttered.
Murphy stalked inside, hearing Butch unloading on Cavanagh and Doble with the story of the brick and the smashed window, while Kevin Mason and his mates began denying it just as loudly. It showed how worried Butch was, or how scared – usually he wouldn’t be caught dead trying to talk to the cops, least of all Doble. The nearby journalists walked over to add their part to the narrative, backing up Butch’s story.
Badenhorst followed Murphy into the lounge room and sat down. Gus the Muss jumped up into his lap, and the detective absently pushed him to the side. He held up the bag, the sticker visible. ‘Is this your product?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Mate, we’re going to find out sooner or later.’
‘I’m not your mate.’
Con pulled out his phone and showed Murphy a photo: it showed another THE CAPTAIN bag of marijuana, on rocky ground with a yellow evidence tag beside it. ‘Is this your product too?’
‘No,’ said Murphy.
‘You didn’t sell any to Georgia Lenah?’ said Con.
‘No,’ said Murphy. ‘Why?’
‘Because we just found her body. And this was in her pocket.’
Murphy felt a swooping sensation, deep in his stomach. ‘What?’ he said. ‘Georgia’s dead?’ A whine began in the back of his mind. His vision grew bright.
‘We just found the body of Georgia Lenah. No sign of the others.’ Badenhorst watched his face closely, but Murphy couldn’t care less. The whine in his head grew louder. ‘We found this in her pocket and now it seems a similar bag was found in Cierra’s room.’
Everything was too bright. Too loud. Murphy’s throat was tight. He couldn’t breathe. ‘Was there any sign of Jasmine?’
‘Just Georgia.’
‘She could be dead. I have to get up there,’ said Murphy. ‘Where did you find Georgia? What happened to her body? Show me.’
‘You’re not going anywhere. Jordan Murphy, you’re under arrest for cultivating and selling a controlled plant.’
‘Like hell.’ Murphy didn’t remember standing up, or stepping so close to Badenhorst. ‘You think I did it?’