‘So that’s why you lost your shit,’ said Murphy.

‘I am well and truly in possession of my shit, thank you. I’m saying I have experience with ritual killings, and this feels different!’

‘Easy, mate. If you say so. You’re the detective,’ said Murphy, climbing out of the car.

Con sped off the curve, driving back to his hotel in silence. The Jaguar girls rolled through his mind and he could see their wounds afresh.

Con walked into his room and stopped cold.

The TV was playing soft chatter, as was his radio, but that was normal: he’d left them on. But the position of his medication bottles was not normal.

He turned and walked out, shutting the door behind him.

By the time he reached the reception desk, he was quivering.

‘Yeah?’ said the woman behind the counter.

‘I’m in room Sassafras 5. I requested a permanent “Do Not Disturb” status, but someone has been in my room.’

‘Hang on.’ She tapped at her computer. ‘Yeah, the alert is still on here. None of our lot would’ve gone in.’

‘Well, someone did.’

‘And I said it wouldn’t have been anyone on our staff. Did you give your key to anyone?’

Con slammed his hands on the desk. ‘Where is the manager?’

‘Listen, handsome,’ she replied, leaning forward, ‘we have enough rooms to clean around here without going into those of blokes who obviously think they’re better at it than us.’

He left. The tension in his shoulders and neck was building. He walked back to his room and locked the door behind him.

He looked again – his medication bottles were all facing the wrong direction.

You’re losing it, Cornelius, he told himself angrily. No one has touched your stuff.

He stripped naked and walked into the shower.

The hot water on his back was soothing, the steam filling the room, the sound of the fan buzzing above him. He put his head against the tiled wall and closed his eyes. It helped him relax a little, but he still couldn’t think clearly. His thoughts wouldn’t enter their boxes; he couldn’t arrange everything into a list.

Georgia’s body appeared in his mind. Broken, at the foot of a cliff, a life snuffed out forever.

How? Did you fall? Were you pushed? Did you jump?

He hadn’t even thought to ask whether Georgia had been part of the Honcho Dori Club. He’d have to ask Gabriella. She’d make him pay for it, but she’d give him the answer.

I can’t let the commander find out Gabriella’s still involved.

Maybe Georgia did jump. Maybe the pressure she put on herself to build the museum was too much. If she was in this Honcho Dori Club, she must have struggled with self-harm . . .

Self-harm group. A ritual. Hang a girl from a tree to die. Why is it always a girl who has to die?