Badenhorst was a good-looking man with light sun-streaked hair, rain-swept to the side, and a jaw roughened with five o’clock shadow. He was lithe and athletic, but Murphy thought he could beat him in a fight. He looked like a surfer from the Gold Coast – distinctly out of place in Limestone Creek.

Badenhorst still had his hand held out, all the time in the world. His blue eyes studied Murphy, unaffected by his stiff refusal to shake his hand. He glanced away, over the crowd, taking in everything else, before swinging back around to Murphy. Arm still outstretched. Calm and assured.

There was a bustle of movement at a nearby tent, then a group jogged towards the head of the trail, guided by men and women in orange SES overalls.

Ignoring Badenhorst, Murphy ran after them, shaking his head to clear the last of the dizziness.

An SES officer stopped him at the entrance to the trail. ‘Who are you?’ she snapped.

‘My daughter is up there.’ He tried to push past her, but she moved in front of him.

‘Then go to the tent. You can join the next party.’

‘I don’t need your fucking permission to search for my daughter!’ Murphy shouted.

‘Everything alright here?’ said a large bearded man, one of the other SES officers.

‘He wants to join the search, but doesn’t want to join a team.’

‘Then tell him to piss off.’

Murphy lunged for the trail, past them both, but the giant man grabbed him from behind. Murphy roared, twisting the man’s pinkie finger back on itself until it popped, and the man howled.

Murphy ran three more metres before two SES workers tackled him to the ground, shouting, burying his face into the gravel.

Murphy went wild.

Minutes later, he was being muscled into the back of a police van, a bruise already forming on his cheek, a small trail of bruised searchers and bloodied noses behind him. He roared insults at the officers as he strained against the handcuffs, veins popping in his neck, his beard flecked with saliva, blood dripping from his nose. Cameras flashed, even as lightning streaked through the clouds and thunder boomed.

CHAPTER 4

CON

Detective Con Badenhorst watched the police van pull out of the car park, with Jordan Murphy still raging inside. His eyes lingered on the road even after the van had disappeared around the corner.

Bit of a loose unit, he finally decided.

‘I’ll go down to the station and have a chat with Murphy now, Badenhorst,’ said Sergeant Doble, appearing at his side.

‘Thanks, mate, but I need you here.’

‘Nah, I’m telling you, if anyone in this town has something to do with this, it’ll be Murphy. You saw him.’ He spoke half to himself. ‘Someone needs to find out why he was so keen to get onto that track, and if this blows up any more than it already has —’