‘Of course, if anyone has information, please come forward,’ continued Doble, shouting over the top of Con. ‘You can call Crime Stoppers on 1800 333 000, or come down to the Limestone Creek station. We promise you – your safety is our concern. We do not condone intimidation of any kind, and you don’t need to be afraid of men like Jordan Murphy.’

‘Enough, mate,’ said Con.

Doble looked pleased with himself: the damage was done. He muttered under his breath, ‘Out-of-towner dipshit . . .’

Just what Con needed: local police with attitude.

Over the heads of the media, he could see his partner, Detective Sergeant Gabriella Pakinga. She was leading one of the uniformed officers over to the media pack. She shoved him in front of the cameras and shouted, in a husky Kiwi accent, ‘This is Constable Darren Cahil. He’s a local and he knows these mountains, so he’s going to be coordinating the search. Any questions?’

As the cameras and reporters descended on the sharp-eyed Constable Darren, Gabriella pulled Con away, holding her umbrella above them both.

Doble was still alongside him, and Con grabbed his arm. ‘I’ve changed my mind. Head down to the station. You can write a report for me on everything that’s happened so far. I can send it through to the commander.’

Doble looked down at where Con held his arm. ‘You wanna let go of me? I’m not your secretary.’

‘Remember, nice big words in the report. Think you can manage that?’ Con let go and Doble stalked off towards his patrol car.

Gabriella stepped in beside Con with the umbrella. ‘We don’t like him?’

‘Just your usual dickhead. Thinks I’m an arrogant out-of-towner.’

‘You are an arrogant out-of-towner.’ Gabriella’s whole body shook when she laughed.

He sighed and led the way to the command centre tent. ‘What have you got for me, Gabby?’

‘Don’t call me Gabby,’ she said. ‘They’re going to have to go slower with the search. There’s sleet in that rain, it might even start snowing soon. The fog is only getting thicker. The last thing we need is to lose a couple of volunteer searchers over a cliff, and in these conditions they’re just as likely to ruin the girls’ tracks as find them.’

‘Surely it’s not cold enough to snow,’ said Con, distracted. ‘Can the dogs scent anything?’

‘They just sit down. It’s like they don’t want to search.’

‘That’s no good,’ said Con. ‘Dock their pay.’

She snorted. ‘I don’t get it either.’ Then she shivered. ‘First the legends, now the dogs. This whole place is giving me the willies. How do four girls just disappear? Those stories from 1985 . . .’