Murphy laughed without missing a beat. ‘Alright, since you’re too thick to get it . . .’ He chuckled again. ‘Listen closely, if you can hear past the massive stick in your arse. Hypothetically, these mountains – nice and remote, not many people around, pretty interesting climate – hypothetically, they’re perfect for growing really good bush weed. And I mean, really good. Now, imagine you’re a copper, and you work around here. You see how much people are willing to pay for bush bud. You try to shut it down, but it’s easy to hide it around here and you’re not getting anywhere. And then you start thinking, hey, I don’t get paid enough, and this is bloody Tasmania, no one checks up on us and the rest of Australia doesn’t give two bloody shits. You realise, hey, if I’m in charge of my own growing operation, I can shut down everyone else out here who’s trying to make an honest living and have a monopoly.’

‘An honest living?’

‘Now, since you’re a cop, you have more power than the normal bloke. You can absolutely demolish anyone who gets in your way.’

‘Are we talking about Doble?’ said Con. ‘I thought all that was because you slept with his wife.’

‘Yeah, but I did that out of revenge,’ said Murphy. ‘Doble has a nice greenhouse on the outskirts of town. Big hydroponics setup. That’s why he hates me, but even with all his buddies behind him, he can’t stop us.’

‘I thought we were talking about hypotheticals,’ said Con, as they approached the station. He’d been driving on autopilot – and he still hadn’t told Pakinga not to take Jack to the station.

From a block away, he saw the mob outside. They were in a marked police car and not their unmarked BMW, which was still parked at the station.

He pulled over – he needed to call Pakinga.

Murphy shifted uneasily. ‘The crowd is still here,’ he said. ‘Do you think they’ve built a gallows yet?’ Con glanced at him. Murphy didn’t know these people were now protesting for him, not against him.

Some members of the mob had spotted the squad car and were creeping closer, filming with their phones.

‘I think that’s Jordan Murphy in the front seat,’ shouted the closest. ‘Madison was right!’

Con did a U-turn in a screech of wheels. They sped off.

‘Didn’t realised you were so concerned about my safety,’ said Murphy, gripping the handle.

‘Of course,’ said Con. He unlocked his phone and handed it to Murphy. ‘Call Gabriella – uh, she’s in there as Gabby. Tell her not to go to the station. You pick somewhere for us to meet, somewhere discreet.’

‘You want me to choose?’

‘You know your stupid town better than I do,’ spat Con.

Murphy tapped at the phone