Finally, Gabriella said, ‘And yet, something went wrong.’
‘Don’t say that,’ growled Murphy.
‘Madison is to blame,’ said Eliza.
‘We’ll talk to Madison. Tomorrow,’ said Con firmly. ‘Right now, we all need to sleep as much as we can. It’s the middle of the night, and we need to be thinking clearly tomorrow.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Today.’
‘Alright. Eliza, you can stay in my room if you want,’ said Gabriella.
But Eliza was now paying attention to Murphy. He was still looking at the last frame of Jasmine’s video on the computer screen.
‘Don’t worry about him: he can stay here. I’ll sleep on the floor,’ said Con. He moved to the wardrobe and pulled out the spare pillows and blankets.
‘We’ll see you boys soon, then. We’ll be back here at nine sharp,’ said Gabriella, and she and Eliza left the room.
Murphy wordlessly took the pillows and blankets out of Con’s hands, spreading them out on the floor. He climbed under the covers.
‘How . . . how are you feeling?’ said Con.
‘Like I need a drink.’
‘Feel free,’ said Con, gesturing at the bar fridge.
Murphy pulled out all the bottles, eventually settling on wine straight from the miniature bottle. He handed another to Con.
Con hesitated, then took a drink too.
The men drank in silence. Murphy lay back on top of the covers, an open bottle beside him, and soon was alternating between snoring and turning fitfully.
Con took his medication, flicked off the lights, stripped out of his clothes, and climbed into bed. When he finally fell asleep, he dreamed of the Jaguar girls.
CHAPTER 41
CON
Con’s phone buzzed at eight. It was the commander calling.
‘We’re going to the Wilkins farm. Meet me in the lobby in fifteen,’ she said, hanging up before Con could speak.
Con glanced across at Murphy on the carpet, still asleep. Con tiptoed into the shower, running over the events of the previous day.
Teenage girls are maniacs was his conclusion.
Murphy was still sleeping when Con left, taking the laptop and USB drive. Agatha would surely want to see for herself.
She was waiting for him in the lobby, tapping her foot, and together they walked to his car. Con gave her a quick summary of the videos, then passed her the laptop to watch them while he drove. But before he could start the car, she handed him a two-page typed summary of the findings from Bree’s autopsy and the forensic examination of her clothes and possessions.
‘Horse chestnuts in the tread of her boots, concrete dust in her clothes . . .’ he said. ‘Do we know anywhere that’s under construction? And horse chestnuts . . . I’m sure I’ve seen them somewhere . . .’
‘We’ll ask her parents,’ said Agatha.
It took them ten minutes to reach the entrance of the Wilkins’ farm, a long tree-lined driveway, by which point Agatha had finished the videos.
‘Oakdale,’ read Con, as they passed a wooden sign. Just beyond the trees, cows dotted the paddocks of a massive farm that reached right to the bushland of the Tiers.
‘Do you think Butch Murphy had anything to do with the girls going missing?’ said Agatha.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Con. ‘But at this point, who knows?’ They crossed a stone bridge over a creek and came to the house itself. ‘Bloody hell. It’s like a palace.’
The three-storey Wilkins manor was square and white, with balconies and columns, and a modern art installation of metal flowers and a water feature on the front wall. The building was sleek, stylish, the household of a rich family: Con remembered reading, early on, that the Wilkins’ beef farm was extremely successful. At least seven cars were parked in the expansive driveway.
‘All of the family, come to support them, I imagine,’ said Agatha.
He parked the BMW and they walked to the front entrance, Agatha bringing both Con’s laptop and a black leather folio. Barking sounded from up ahead and two shaggy border collies appeared, their tails wagging.
Con grinned, and crouched.
The mansion’s door swung open. ‘Millie, Max! No!’ shouted a thin, athletic-looking woman – Bree’s mother, Isabel Wilkins. ‘Oh, it’s you lot, is it?’
‘It’s alright, ma’am.’ Con pushed the dogs away from his face as they started licking his mouth.
‘Well? Why are you here?’ said Isabel. ‘It’s a bit late, isn’t it? Bree is dead.’
‘The forensics report has come in overnight,’ said Agatha. ‘I’d like to discuss it with you and your husband.’
‘Will it bring her back?’ snapped Isabel, as she tossed her hair back and walked inside.
Con and the commander followed.
‘I’m guessing she doesn’t like police?’ said Con.
‘My guess is she’s angry and isn’t sure who to blame. In her defence, it’s remarkable that Bree managed to evade police and all the search efforts, to the point where she could hang herself on that tree. She has good reason to assume we weren’t doing our jobs properly.’
Isabel waited for them at the end of the timber-lined corridor, in the massive dining room, where no fewer than thirteen people were eating a breakfast of bacon and eggs. She squeezed the shoulders of a burly dark-haired man sitting at the table, dressed in a dirty hi-vis farming shirt and ragged jeans. Con recognised him as Marcus Wilkins – he had seen him up at the car park on the day the girls went missing. His eyes were ringed by shadows and he wiped his sleeve across a chin dark with stubble before making to stand.
‘No, please stay seated, Mr Wilkins. Could we have the room, please?’ said Agatha to everyone else, midway through their breakfast.
‘I’ll not have you ordering my family about,’ said Isabel shrilly.
Marcus waved his hand. ‘It’s alright, guys. It’ll be about Bree.’ His voice broke on her name.
The other people in the room left, muttering among themselves, until only Isabel and Marcus remained.
‘Sorry about the mess,’ said Marcus. He extended a callused hand to Con. ‘Marcus Wilkins. I haven’t met you yet, but I understand you’ve been leading the investigation.’
‘You’ve volunteered for the SES search, Mr Wilkins?’
‘For all the good it did,’ he muttered.
Isabel rubbed his shoulders. ‘He doesn’t stop. As soon as he finishes work, he heads out there onto the mountains. He’s back long after dark, and then up before the sun to see to the cattle.’ She pierced Con with her gaze. ‘You can’t expect him to keep going up there. Our daughter is dead!’
Marcus reached up to pat Isabel’s hand absently. ‘Forgive Isabel. She knows you aren’t truly to blame.’
Isabel sniffed.
‘What brings you here?’ said Marcus.
‘We have early forensics,’ said Agatha. ‘Bree passed away three days ago, the cause of death a broken neck from hanging. It would’ve been quick and painless.’
Isabel sat down. ‘Days ago?’
‘How could she have been there that long?’ said Marcus.