Butch loved Jasmine. He’d never kill her.
Eliza’s fingers closed over the trigger.
‘No,’ shouted Murphy, trying to wrench his hands out of hers. With a loud blam, the gun kicked in his hands.
The sound of the shot in the small room was explosive, and Murphy staggered. He saw a hole had appeared in the wall. Then something hard whacked into the side of his head.
Pain and rainbows – the world spun. He fell to his knees.
Eliza stood over him, cricket bat in her hands. She swung it again but this time Murphy saw it coming, catching the blow on his meaty forearms. He was still holding the gun. He fired a warning shot into the ceiling. Another explosive sound. ‘Eliza! What are you doing?’
Eliza screamed and ran from the room. ‘Help! Help!’
Murphy pulled himself to his feet, feeling the side of his head where she’d hit him. It was swollen and bloody. A surge of nausea rolled through him.
Butch screamed into his gag and Murphy took it from his mouth.
‘She’s a maniac, bro. She attacked me —’ Butch shouted. ‘I didn’t do anything to her, mate, I swear.’
‘Where’s Jasmine?’
‘What? I have no idea! I would have told you if I did!’
‘Then why the hell are you here?’ he shouted, pointing the gun at him.
‘Easy, lad!’
‘Answer me!’ It took physical energy not to let the anger pull the trigger – his forehead was wet with sweat.
‘Because Eliza knew!’
‘Knew what?’ demanded Murphy.
‘About me and Sara, what we . . . did together. She knew that . . . she knew that Jasmine is my kid!’
‘What you did together? You raped her!’
‘I didn’t! Mate, I swear to you. Sara was the one who came to me! And Jasmine knew —’
Murphy pressed the gun against Butch’s head.
‘Alright. Easy, mate, easy.’ Butch pushed himself upright as best he could, as far away from the gun as possible. ‘Listen to me. Will you just fucking listen?’
Murphy didn’t reply. His chest heaved.
Butch spoke quickly. ‘Last year, Jasmine went to Eliza. She told her what Sara had told her before she died: that I was her real dad, okay, but I didn’t rape her, alright? Sara wanted it. She wanted it.’ He talked faster as Murphy’s arm twitched. ‘And if you kill me, you’ll never know the truth, alright, so will you put that fucking thing down?’
‘Why would Jasmine go to Eliza?’
‘Because she wanted to get me charged, Murph! Because she trusts Eliza and wanted her help to throw me in jail! Eliza called me after, because she knows me better than that, she didn’t just take Jasmine’s word for it. I showed Eliza the letter . . .’ Butch’s eyes lit up. ‘There’s a letter! At home, an honest-to-God letter from Sara, admitting what she and I did. A letter to you! I wanted to give it to you, I really did —’
‘Then why didn’t you?’
‘Easy, lad, easy . . . Jasmine didn’t want me to. After I showed it to her, she begged me not to. I thought you deserved to know, but Jasmine said it would destroy you, that it would ruin your memory of Sara. Jasmine wanted me to say I’d forced myself onto Sara. She really wants Sara’s memory to be perfect. I don’t think you know how important that is to her.’
‘Sara was perfect,’ growled Murphy.
‘You know me, mate. You know I wouldn’t do that, bro’ said Butch. ‘Surely you know that. Even Eliza said she’d vouch for me, if Jasmine went to the cops or anyone. I’ve got the letter! Take me home and I’ll show you the bloody letter . . . I wish I could tell you we were drunk, or stoned, but . . . I don’t even remember where you were . . . it just . . . happened. In that moment, Sara wanted it to happen . . . and so did I!’
Murphy couldn’t grasp what he was hearing, it both touched him and missed him. He felt so alone. He realised, distantly, that this feeling was what Jasmine wanted to protect him from . . .
‘After that . . . Nothing ever happened again, I promise you,’ said Butch. ‘Sara told Jasmine the truth, but she didn’t want to believe it. Jasmine’s convinced I raped Sara. I suppose it’s easier for her to . . . I showed her the letter, but she . . .’
Murphy began yelling, at first just noise, pure anger and anguish and pain. Then he heard his own words: ‘Don’t you say her name!’ His gun was pointed at Butch’s head.
‘You know me, brother. You know me!’
‘Drop the gun, Murphy.’ Con stood at the door, his pistol trained on Murphy. ‘Easy.’
Murphy turned to Con, his gun still raised, still shouting. ‘Don’t say her name!’
Con took a step forward. ‘I won’t ask you again, Murphy. Put the gun down.’
‘Just do it!’
Con held his eyes.
Murphy’s gun began to wobble. ‘Just shoot me!’
Slowly, Con lowered his gun. ‘No, mate.’ His hands raised in surrender, he came within reach of Murphy.
Murphy held onto the Glock as tightly as he could but his whole arm was trembling now, he could barely see through the tears. ‘Don’t you come near me, mate. Don’t you dare come fucking near me!’
Con gently took the gun from Murphy’s hands. ‘It’s okay, mate.’
‘It’s not okay! It’s not okay!’
Murphy slumped forward and Con wrapped him in a big bear hug. ‘It’s not your fault,’ said Con, sadness in his voice. ‘It’s not your fault.’
‘Then why did she leave?’
Murphy didn’t know which one he meant: Sara or Jasmine.
They stood there for a while, Murphy gradually calming, pulling himself out of Con’s arms, ashamed.
‘Could you un-cuff me, do you think, detective?’ said Butch in a small voice. ‘I think my ribs are broken . . .’
‘What happened here?’ said Con. He still had a careful, concerned eye on Murphy.
‘Eliza attacked me,’ said Butch.
‘Where is she now?’ Con said. ‘Those look like police cuffs.’ He rummaged in his belt for the keys and tossed them to Murphy. ‘Eliza can’t get away.’
Murphy looked at the keys, then at Butch.
‘Don’t you leave me here,’ whimpered Butch. ‘Don’t you dare.’
Murphy unlocked the cuffs, then put the keys in his pocket. He picked up the Glock from the floor and stuck it in his belt.
He walked out and didn’t look back.
CHAPTER 47
ELIZA
Eliza pulled up in front of Monica’s house, the tall poplar trees outside casting barely a shadow in the noonday sun. She’d thrown off her torn clothes as she left the cottage and grabbed a floral dress from the laundry – the one with the deep pouch pocket. There she had the second pair of handcuffs she’d stolen from Gabriella’s room that morning.
A yellow post-it note was stuck under the sun visor:
I give Eliza Ellis permission to do whatever it takes.
She pulled it off and scrunched it up in her hand, then walked up the side of Monica’s house to the back door. She took the spare key from under a peace lily pot plant and crept inside.