‘What are you . . .?’ said Skinner.
Murphy lifted up the edge of some fake turf, revealing a latch and a large padlock. He used the key from the shed to unlock it.
‘No bloody way,’ breathed Skinner.
Murphy grabbed the clothes line with two hands and levered it to the ground, the metal groaning as the whole concrete base hinged open, revealing a rectangular hatch.
‘It’s right here in your backyard? That’s ballsy . . .’
Murphy climbed down the metal ladder, into darkness. The air was heady – sweet and warm and full of life. He felt for a light switch on the end of a cable and flicked it on. Fluorescent lights lit a long metal room with corrugated walls.
‘It’s a shipping container,’ said Skinner, stepping off the ladder behind him. He knocked away the dangling basket that hung beside the ladder. ‘You buried a bloody shipping container in your backyard.’
Drying marijuana plants were draped from long lines of wire, like clothes on a rack. A digital thermometer and humidity indicator hung on the side wall, and a thick air-conditioning pipe unit ran along the ceiling, curling around on itself, both ends burrowing through the ceiling into the earth.
‘I thought the cops brought dogs here?’ said Skinner. ‘How’d they not smell the ventilation?’
‘Goes up into the chicken coop – looks like a stilt above ground. All the dogs smell is chicken shit.’
‘This is unreal, mate. Absolutely unreal. You set this up?’
‘Dad buried the container. Had it brought in during New Year’s Eve, when the parties were all going on and no one heard the sound of the truck or the excavator. Butch and me have made some improvements since.’
‘I can’t believe Doble hasn’t found this. He’d be spewing if he knew, the fat fuck. Doesn’t the power show up on your bill?’
‘Siphon it from an old mate down the road – we’ve got a line buried under the fence. He had a deal with Dad.’ Murphy shrugged. ‘You’ve got your list?’
‘You know, I bet this is where you were the other night.’
‘What?’
‘Well, you weren’t in your bed. I came inside to find food, dropped by your room to see how you were doing, but you weren’t there. I looked all through the house – had me a bit worried, mate – but I guess you were here. You aren’t hiding one of them girls down here, are you?’ Skinner chuckled.
Murphy, his hand behind his back, holding the grip of the Glock, paused. ‘I couldn’t have been in here,’ he said, ‘there’s only one key and it was hanging up in the shed just then.’
‘Ah, don’t worry about it, mate. Angel dust is some crazy shit. You could burn your own house down and have no memory of it.’ Skinner looked at him quizzically. ‘What are you doing back there?’
Murphy squeezed the grip of the gun.
This was it.
What was he willing to do?
How far was he willing to go?
Skinner is still a mate, I can’t threaten him with a gun . . . can I? What else can I do?
He let go of the gun, his hand swinging back to his side.
‘I really need to see that list.’
‘I told you, I can’t. Unless you can prove it was one of my clients who took your girl, I can’t.’
Murphy hesitated, then slowly kneeled. ‘Mate . . . my daughter . . . I’ve got to try. I’m begging you.’
In this world, the Murphys’ reputation was one of the most important things they possessed. That’s why they put THE CAPTAIN on their product: they were in charge. They didn’t have many weapons in their arsenal – threats and intimidation could be the difference between them being players and losing everything.
And now here he was, kneeling on the ground like a grub.
He could get bashed for less. He could get rolled for less.
‘Get off the ground, Murph,’ said Skinner uneasily.
Murphy put his forehead on the old stained carpet that covered the floor. ‘I’ll do anything. Anything.’ His throat felt tight. Tears broke through. ‘Just name it.’
‘Mate . . . you don’t understand. It’s not even up to me. All of us would be out of a job – my boss wouldn’t be happy. Don’t start crying . . . if you start crying, mate, I’m gonna start crying. I can’t handle this emotional shit.’
‘Please. I’ll do anything. I’ll tell you where our crop is. I’ll give you our crop. I’ll give you our seeds —’
‘Murph . . .’ Skinner crouched down. ‘Get up. Look at me. You gotta snap out of this. I’m not taking your seeds: I dunno how to grow shit. It’s alright, mate. You’ll find her. Someone will find her. It’ll be alright.’
Murphy’s pocket buzzed. Someone was calling. He ignored it. ‘Your list is the only direction I know to go . . .’
Skinner’s lip was wobbling. ‘Ah, shit, you’re getting me fucked up. I can’t give you the list. I can’t. Stop asking me. Please. Want me to call some of my boys, get them to rough some people up or something?’
Murphy’s phone buzzed. Whoever it was, they were calling again.
‘I wanna help, mate, I really do,’ said Skinner. ‘I just can’t throw away my livelihood. I know I’m a coward —’
Murphy pulled himself to his feet. He was very aware of the gun pressing against his back.
He’d shown weakness, made himself vulnerable, and that hadn’t worked. Now the gun was his only option.
But first he needed to focus – the buzzing in his pocket was distracting him.
He pulled his phone out to switch it off. The caller name read Eliza Ellis. That stopped him cold.
‘We’re cool, right?’ said Skinner. ‘You’ve let me into your inner sanctum – I respect that. You know I don’t believe that shit they’re saying —’
‘Eliza?’ Murphy said, bringing the phone to his ear, his whole body suddenly awake. ‘What’s wrong? Did you remember something?’
‘No, I . . . It’s something else. I thought I’d better tell you myself before you heard it from someone else.’ Her voice was flat and tired. ‘I should’ve told you sooner, but I only found out the day before, and, well, he’s a friend . . .’
‘Eliza, what is it?’
‘Jasmine was sleeping with someone.’
Murphy heard his pulse thudding in his ears. He stood up straighter. ‘Who?’
‘Don’t freak out —’
‘Who is it?’ he shouted.
‘Jack Michaels.’
Murphy stood in silence, then headed for the ladder.
‘What’s wrong?’ said Skinner.
He hung up the phone. ‘Take care of Butch,’ he said, then climbed out of the hatch, stalking towards the house, his mind already on the road to Jack’s house.
The gun was in his hand.
CHAPTER 22
CON
Con and Gabriella parked the squad car. They were a block away from Jack’s house. They walked down the footpath huddled together under a shared umbrella, looking like a couple on an evening stroll. Con ignored the phone buzzing in his coat pocket: the commander had called twice on the drive over, and both times he’d ignored it.