Watery flashing lights came from three ambulances and five police cars. One of the Limestone Creek rural fire trucks was also parked to the side, with equipment being unloaded. A few more dirtbikes were being unloaded from utes and even a couple horses in fluoro horse coats were interspersed in the crowds.

‘Stop, mate.’ A burly blond man in a suit stood in Murphy’s way. He had the face of a boxer: crooked nose, scar on his eyebrow, looking slightly punch-drunk, with a stupid blond moustache. ‘Where are you going?’

Murphy pulled out of the man’s grip. ‘Piss off.’

‘He’s with me, Detective Coops,’ said Cavanagh, jogging up to them. ‘His daughter is one of the missing.’

‘There’s a tent set up for families over there, there’s soup and coffee —’

‘Like hell,’ said Murphy.

‘— or if you want to help the search, go to the orange SES tent,’ said Detective Coops. ‘Join a search party, don’t just run like a maniac through the kind of bush that’ll kill you before you’ve gone fifty metres.’

‘Want me to cuff him, Coops?’ said a voice from behind.

Murphy spun, hands curling into fists.

Don’t punch him, they’ll lock you up, you have to find Jasmine . . . The voice of reason was stronger, but it took a physical effort not to square up to the man who approached.

Fleshy-faced with wobbly jowls like a basset hound. Police uniform stretched tight across a beer belly. Sergeant Doble.

‘Heard your daughter is one of the missing, mate. You alright?’ Doble’s voice showed concern, but Murphy knew better.

‘I’m going up there, Doble,’ he said through clenched teeth.

‘You’ve gotta follow rules, Murphy.’

‘Sergeant Doble —’ began Cavanagh.

‘Thanks, constable. Leave him with me,’ said Doble, then turned to the detective. ‘I know this one, Coops,’ he said in a loud whisper. ‘Good job stopping him. Who knows what damage he might’ve caused up there.’

The detective looked Murphy up and down one last time, then continued on his way.

Murphy’s skin felt like fire: the rage was building.

‘Speaking of: where were you early this morning, Murphy? We aren’t gonna find any sweet little girls in your basement, are we?’ said Doble.

Murphy began to raise himself to his fullest height, ready to punch this fat prick —

‘Everything alright here?’ came a deep voice, a broad Australian accent with the faintest burring lisp.

‘We’re fine, Badenhorst,’ said Doble. ‘This is Jordan Murphy. The one I was telling you about – I bet you have some questions for him.’

‘Ah. Good to meet you, mate.’ The newcomer held out his hand to shake; the burr came from the way he spoke out of the side of his mouth. ‘I’m Con Badenhorst.’

‘Senior Sergeant Detective Con Badenhorst,’ muttered Doble for Murphy’s ears. ‘Running lead on this.’