‘Nothing to do with you, Skin,’ said Butch. ‘Something’s happened on Jasmine’s school trip —’

‘What?’ said Murphy.

‘I said, something’s happened —’

But Murphy was already stumbling through the rain, into the house. He lurched from side to side, one leg feeling bigger than the other. The lights were still stuck to his vision.

A blonde policewoman stood in the dining room. ‘Murphy. Remember me? Constable Cavanagh.’

Of course he remembered her, he knew all the local cops. ‘Where’s Jaz? What’s happened?’ He rested a hand against the table as the world tipped away from him.

When she spoke the words seemed to come from far away, as though deadened by strong wind. He shook his head, trying to dislodge whatever was in his ears. He had heard wrong.

‘I think you better come with me,’ said Cavanagh slowly.

‘. . . but she wouldn’t have left the track,’ repeated Murphy over the sound of the siren and the wiper blades. He was hunched in the front of the police car, a Kia Stinger, gripping the handle. He was sobering up, but too slowly. Adrenaline and shock were making him shake. The car smelled of bloody lavender, and it was doing his head in.

‘I believe you, Mr Murphy,’ said Cavanagh.

Murphy understood he’d probably already told her all of this, but he couldn’t remember how many times he’d said it. The world kept spinning around like he was on a show ride. And his mouth was so bloody dry. The rain on the outside of the windscreen, getting swished to the side, was enough to make him pant.

‘We’ll find them. But think, are there any other places she might have gone?’

‘I’m telling you, she’d have come home first. And she’s not stupid: there’s no way she’d walk off in weather like this!’ he shouted.

Cavanagh winced. ‘Can you try not to yell? You’re hurting my ears.’

A minute later, they turned a corner and pulled into the gravel car park of the hiking track.

Murphy was out and stumbling along before the car had even stopped.

Above them loomed the Tiers – misty, impenetrable. People were swarming everywhere in the sassafras clearing of the car park. Murphy was soaked with rain again. He tried to cup it in his palms to drink.

The largest assembly of people were huddled around the school bus, where he could make out a group of teenage girls dressed in hiking gear. None of them was Jasmine. Among them were two men he recognised, Thomas North and Jack Michaels.

Murphy felt a surge of anger at the sight of Jack, but pushed it to the side.

Everywhere were journalists – rough ones rugged up in jackets, dainty women with make-up and high heels who had assistants holding umbrellas over their heads, even a couple with big remote controls in their hands, flying camera drones overhead.