‘Can I see them?’ said Con.
‘They’re a bit private . . . maybe once I’ve finished them all . . .’
‘I need to see them, Murphy. Two girls dead. Two girls missing. One of them your daughter.’
‘Piss off.’ Murphy rose himself up to his fullest height, but after a moment he deflated, sighed. ‘I mean, maybe. But not yet.’
Con thought about pushing him, but he just didn’t have the energy for more conflict. He’d do it tomorrow.
That made him feel ashamed. He was the worst detective in the world. All he wanted to do was to get back to his room at the Inn: better yet, back to his house in Launceston. Even better again, back to Sydney, his mates, a city he understood, a state that wasn’t wild Tasmania. His mum and dad.
By now they had reached the school car park, and were heading towards the BMW. Another wave of exhaustion rolled through him and he tripped on a stone.
Murphy grabbed his shoulder, steadying him. ‘Want me to drive, mate?’
Con glared at him. ‘I’m bloody fine.’
Murphy shrugged, still keeping hold of his shoulder, and flashing the car keys he’d just lifted from Con’s pocket. ‘Your boss lady told me I should drive, and honestly, I’m more scared of her than I am of you.’
Con thought about fighting. Then he just nodded and let Murphy help him back to the car.
CHAPTER 39
MURPHY
Con fell asleep the moment Murphy started the BMW. He drove back to his own house, the detective occasionally shifting in his sleep.
When they arrived, Murphy saw that Butch’s Hilux wasn’t in the drive. He roused Con from his nap. There was a feral glint in his eyes before he oriented himself to where he was. ‘Thanks for waking me,’ he said, back to hiding the hint of pain that had briefly been on display.
Murphy felt a sudden protectiveness. ‘Do you want to crash here? You can have my bed, I’ll sleep in Jasmine’s.’
‘No, it’s okay. But I appreciate the offer.’
As they parted, Con clasped Murphy’s hand and gripped his shoulder.
Inside, Murphy stopped by the fridge to grab a six-pack of beer. He sat on his bed, back against the headboard, and opened the laptop.
He cracked open a bottle and drank as he played the third video.
Jasmine was in Madison’s room again, a different day. She picked at the hem of her sleeve.
‘I was thirteen when I discovered that my dad is not my biological father.’
Murphy choked on his beer, spitting it over the screen.
‘It’s Dad’s brother, Butch. He raped my mum. That was how I came to be.’
‘No,’ said Murphy aloud. He leaned forward.
‘Mum told me the whole story. She was dating my dad, but then she and Butch got drunk. He came on to her, she couldn’t stop him . . . nine months later, there I was. They had the DNA test not long after.
‘So Butch knows, but Mum made me swear never to tell Dad. My real dad, Jordan Murphy. She didn’t want him thinking less of her, or less of Butch . . . or less of me . . .’
The video ended.
That was it, the entire file.
Murphy clicked on the next video, his finger trembling. He couldn’t even feel the rage yet, but it was coming from a distance, like the rumble of the railroad when a train is coming.
Jasmine’s make-up was done more sharply this time, eyeliner and thick foundation and red lipstick. This video began even worse.
‘Dad . . . if you’re seeing this, then you know. Uncle Butch is my biological father.’ She took a deep breath. ‘And that means you also know me and the others planned to disappear. I know it’s hard for you to believe this, but I’m doing this for us. For you and me.
‘Now that I’ve taken this step, what I need you to do is . . .
‘Move out of Butch’s house. Cut all ties with him, including that horrible job, and move far away from Limestone Creek. Far, far away. Go to Port Douglas, like you always talk about.
‘Once you’ve done that . . . once you’ve cut Butch out of our lives . . . I might just meet you there.’
The video ended.
Murphy was barely aware of himself as he left his room. The Glock was in his hands. Where had it even come from? Had he had it with him all day? Wasn’t it beside his bed?
The anger had arrived, but it wasn’t burning.
It was cold, hard, and lonely.
Butch.
Butch had raped his wife.
Butch was Jasmine’s biological dad.
He thought of him in his singlet and shorts, his goofy grin. Cuddling Jasmine, doting on her, a good uncle.
A criminal. A rapist. How many times have I left him alone with my daughter?
Butch knew. He knew all along.
So did Sara.
Jasmine never let on. She’d never mentioned anything to Murphy. She’d never treated Butch as anything but an uncle, and Murphy had never even been jealous.
Butch is the reason Jasmine ran away. Jasmine wants Murphy to have nothing to do with him. My father raped my mum.
The white noise hit him. Burning ice. The fury like a locomotive, in his face, his teeth, his stomach – uncontrollable rage.
He thought of Bree’s body. How easily that could have been Jasmine, swinging there.
Get rid of Butch and Jasmine will come back.
He held the Glock in one hand and another bottle of beer in the other.
Where was Butch? He’d have to track him down.
What else did Jasmine ask him to do? ‘Move out of Butch’s house. Cut all ties with him, including that horrible job, and move far away from Limestone Creek.’
Yes, he’d move out of the house. That could be done right now. Already he’d punched several holes in the walls. He wasn’t aware of doing it, but there were holes there now and his knuckles were bleeding.
‘. . . including that horrible job.’
He kicked the back door open and stopped by the shed. Tucking the Glock into the back of his jeans, he picked up a headtorch, a cigarette lighter, and the can of petrol for the lawnmower. Where did the beer go? He must have drunk it.
Murphy’s feet seemed to know the path without effort, crunching through the bush and over rocks, even in the darkness. The bushland welcomed him, the damp and the deep smell of wilderness. He felt no fear, the beam of the torch lighting his way. A wallaby thumped off into the trees nearby, a possum scurried up a tree – his torchlight caught its eyes, reflected like tiny yellow lanterns in its ancient face.
He arrived at the two dolomite boulders leaning against each other. He triggered the fishing-line. The sledgehammer swung down. He walked past it, into the small forest of marijuana plants. They towered over him, casting wild skinny shadows in the torchlight, whispering in the darkness.
Avoiding the bear-traps, he doused each plant with petrol. He knew the fire wouldn’t spread – all the rain the last few days had dampened the bush, the King Billy Pines too ancient and tough – but the marijuana crop would be no more.
Moving back to the tunnel between the boulders, he picked a leaf and lit it with the cigarette lighter. It caught easily. He dropped it at the base of the closest plant. It caught with a whoof.
He watched the flames spread, mixing with the pine needles and marijuana.
He headed home, so drunk on rage that time was malleable. One moment he was walking away from the blaze, the next he was at the house.