‘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.