‘How are you doing, mate?’ said Con softly.

‘I can’t spend another night in this town,’ said Murphy, eyes on the floor in front of him. ‘On this island. I’m leaving – on a plane, on the boat, I don’t care. Tonight.’

‘To Queensland?’ said Con. ‘Port Douglas?’

‘Jasmine knew that’s what I always wanted; buy a shack in Port Douglas and spend all day gardening and fishing. I joked about it often enough.’ He looked up. ‘I’ve got enough money saved up.’

‘Drug money,’ said Con.

‘Yeah, well, it’s getting me out of it. And away from Butch.’ He gave the barest grim smile. ‘I’m doing exactly what Jasmine wanted.’

‘How do you feel about that?’ said Con.

‘Extremely pissed off. And I’ll be telling her so when she comes back.’

‘We’ll find her,’ said Con. ‘I’ll make sure of it.’ His vision rolled and for a brief moment he thought it was going dark again. He stood shakily. ‘You know, I think I am gonna go find that paramedic . . .’ He took a step and stumbled against the wall.

Murphy was there instantly, slinging Con’s arm over his shoulder. ‘Here, mate, let me help you,’ he said. ‘Lean on me.’

CHAPTER 57

MURPHY

One year later

Murphy sat in a café on the foreshore of Port Douglas.

It was ten-thirty in the morning. The weather was balmy, the air like a drunk mate. The ocean – in perfect view, just over the edge of the open-air deck – was mottled blue, perfect little waves rolling in. Salt in the air. His hair still damp from his morning swim. The rustle of lush palm leaves, a frangipani scent from nearby, the laughter from the pair of women at a nearby table eating yoghurt and sipping kombucha.

Murphy wore a singlet, shorts and thongs. His beard was cropped close to his face, which was creased and sunburnt. He had lost a lot of weight since Tasmania: he wasn’t skinny, but he was leaner, fitter.

A cappuccino stood on the table. No food; he was too nervous for food. He’d have preferred a beer, but . . . he just wanted to be careful. On today, of all days. He had smoked a cheeky joint that morning. Perhaps some things never changed.

Con sat beside him: he’d flown in yesterday. He wore a singlet too. He was sipping his latte, holding the glass too tightly.

Both were silent. Nervous.

The pair had stayed in touch all year, and Con had come to visit Murphy twice before; they considered themselves close mates now, bonded by trauma. Murphy himself had been back to Tasmania a few times, to visit Butch and others, including the Masons, to share their grief, exchange clues and theories. Each time he had stayed at Con’s Launceston house.

Not that he had a problem with Butch, not anymore. He just didn’t want it to get back to Jasmine.