Con was shocked a pastor would swear. Murphy gave an annoyed sort of grunt.
Hugh reached behind his desk, there was the clink of glass, and he pulled out three bottles of ginger beer from what seemed to be a small bar fridge.
‘Let me guess,’ he said to Con. ‘Catholic?’
Con nodded as he accepted a bottle, but left it unopened on the table. ‘Catholic school. And my parents.’
‘Great,’ said Hugh. He studied Con, his eyes like cameras, recording his every move and twitch. Con shifted in his seat. Was this what it felt like when he did this to other people?
‘Can you tell me why you wanted me to come here?’ he asked. ‘You said on the phone you had something important to tell me.’
Hugh drank from his ginger beer. ‘Straight to the point, then?’ He tapped his chin for a moment, as though collecting his thoughts. ‘Well, before we begin, I want you to understand that we have more than just a Sunday service here. We have ministries throughout the week, including a Men’s Group, but I also offer one-on-one counselling. Men like Wes come here during the week and we work some stuff out together.’
He gestured towards his degree and accreditation hanging on the wall.
‘Now, there’s one client I’m seeing at the moment. A man who’s . . . quite lost. Usually I am stringent on confidentiality, but in the circumstances I can tell you: Sergeant Doble is a client. Since you’ve brought Murphy along, I suppose you’re aware of Sergeant Doble’s cannabis trade?’
‘So it is true?’ said Con. ‘And nothing’s been done about it?’ Murphy snorted in an altogether too-smug kind of way.
‘It’s a sad rule of life that corrupt police are kept in place by even more corrupt superiors. But it’s also a well-known fact in this town that it’s the Murphy brothers versus Doble in the cannabis trade. I want you to fully understand the gravity of the alibi I’m about to provide, and that I wouldn’t make it up.’
‘What are you talking about?’ said Con.
‘Sergeant Doble didn’t take those girls. I know because on the day they went missing he was here, in this room with me, all morning.’
There was silence.
‘You called me here to tell me Doble didn’t take the girls?’ clarified Con.
‘That’s not all, although it’s important. I felt that eventually the scrutiny would fall on him, and I feel obliged to make sure you have all the facts first.’
‘Doble is getting counselling?’ said Murphy, now very interested in the conversation. ‘What’s troubling his poor little soul?’
‘I will honour his confidence, just like I’ve never told anyone about the subject of all of our sessions together, Murphy.’
Con sensed a trap. ‘You tricked me. You could have told me that in perfect confidence on the phone. But you wanted me away from the station.’
Pastor Hugh grimaced. ‘Come in, Yani, Detective Pakinga.’
The door opened and in walked a young, timid woman with short black hair. Gabriella trailed behind her, eyes dancing.
Con stood up. ‘Gabriella, what are you . . .?’
‘I asked him to call you here,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t risk the commander catching me at the station, but she can’t have a go at me for running into you at church . . .’ She took a seat on the couch, and the young woman sat beside her. ‘I didn’t think you’d bring Murphy.’
Con sighed. ‘Are you trying to lose your job?’ He turned on Pastor Hugh. ‘And what are you doing, playing her games?
‘I know Detective Pakinga is no longer on the case. But after seeing her challenging Madison on her livestream, Yani insisted on speaking only to her. And since you were apparently uncontactable . . . Yani is my daughter.’
‘It’s alright, Yani,’ said Gabriella. ‘Con is going to hear you out, and we’re going to look into it, but Madison will never know you spoke to us.’
‘Gabriella —’ began Con.
‘Do you know something about Jasmine?’ interrupted Murphy.
‘Yes,’ said Yani. ‘I do.’
Con sat back down.
Yani’s voice trembled as she spoke, looking at the ground. ‘Well . . . I’ll start from the start. See, we were all in this group chat together.’ Yani looked up at Murphy, then at Con, then to her feet. ‘It’s called . . . the Honcho Dori Club . . .’
‘Honcho Dori?’ said Con.
Yani opened her mouth but nothing came out.
‘Bring up the screenshots,’ said Gabriella kindly, ‘and I’ll explain it.’
Yani nodded, pulling her phone out of her pocket and beginning to scroll.
‘Pastor Hugh made contact with me,’ said Gabriella. ‘Before, Yani was worried that anyone she spoke to would go back to Madison, that she would be targeted. She’s been targeted by Madison before, remember? But then she saw me confront Madison.’ She looked smugly at Con.
‘Targeted how?’ said Murphy. ‘What was Madison going to do, Yani?’
‘The nudes . . .’ said Con.
Yani’s cheeks went red. She shook her head, glanced at Gabriella, then kept scrolling through her phone.
‘The Honcho Dori Club is an online chat group that Madison set up. The messaging app lets the girls use pseudonyms – it was supposed to be an anonymous support group for self-harm,’ said Gabriella. ‘You know, like cutting?’ Yani handed Gabriella the phone, and she handed it on to Con.
‘Cutting is a big thing at our school,’ said Yani in a small voice.
‘Even Jasmine?’ said Murphy, voice strained.
‘Even Jasmine,’ said Yani.
‘Self-harm is more common than you’d think,’ said Pastor Hugh. He reached out and grabbed his daughter’s hand. ‘It’s not a sign of weakness, it’s a sign of distress.’
‘Con . . . just . . . be careful, as you read,’ said Gabriella, her eyes on his.
Con looked at the first screenshot. The girls had nicknames in the chat, with Yani’s messages clear in a different colour. Her nickname was xxDogGodxx.
He swiped through the screenshots and his stomach began to churn.
At first there were messages of support from all the girls, with photos of self-harm injuries – bleeding cuts, on arms or thighs – with captions like: ‘Today was so hard. I couldn’t help myself . . .’ These prompted messages of love and support from the other members of the chat. ‘You’re strong, girl. You can do this!’ and ‘Ouch, that looks deep. Are you okay? Have you put something on it? You should talk to a teacher.’
But over time the pictures grew more graphic, the self-harm more severe, showing photos of wrists and thighs oozing with lines of blood, some videos actually showing the act of self-harm – razor blades, Stanley knives, kitchen knives. The wounds grew deeper and bigger, the words of support fewer. Black humour crept in.
‘At least I’ve got good knife skills now. I’m getting As in Home Economics.’
‘I thought of a good one: Just call me Bloodpunzel, because I let down my blood whenever boys get in my hair.’
‘Don’t even remember doing this one lol. Stings like a bitch.’
Con sat back and looked at the ceiling, feeling faint.