She turned her attention to Anaya, asking questions about the terrain and the weather. The bush was interspersed with rocks and holes, and the dogwood and musk understory was thick enough to make heavy work for the chainsaws and slash-hooks.

Con watched the approach of the cliff above them through the gaps in the trees. Belatedly he realised he was holding his breath. He was not a superstitious man. He definitely didn’t buy into any of Gabriella’s theories. But the rocky escarpment, dotted with clinging plants and clods of soil and bird nests, it emanated something . . . menacing.

He dug his fingernails into his palms, taking steadying breaths, trying to bring himself back to the present. He knew it wasn’t something evil in the cliffs that was making him nervous, it was just the thought of seeing the girl’s body.

You’re not in Sydney . . . these are not the same girls . . . keep it together, Cornelius . . . it’s not your fault she died.

Detective Tran caught his elbow. ‘Are you alright, Badenhorst? Are you listening?’

‘Sorry,’ he said, catching his feet again. ‘I was distracted.’

Con wondered, briefly, if his mum and dad had seen him on TV, watching yesterday’s impromptu press conference in the lounge of their expensive retirement-village home. He wondered if they’d tried to call him, asking if this was finally enough action for him in sleepy Launceston. His dad, especially, felt Con had been exiled – ‘poor repayment for the man who single-handedly solved the Jaguar case’.

Mum would probably call him the moment she found out there had been a dead body involved. She’d try to make him quit. She wanted him to move back to Sydney and find a new career.

Con shook his shoulders and cricked his neck.

Head in the game, Badenhorst.

He still hadn’t heard a word Tran had said to him.

Suddenly they were there, at the base of the cliff. The sound of flies like a beacon.

Head. In. The. Game.

He saw her.

Con wasn’t prepared for how pathetic the body looked. He felt a fresh surge of nausea. Dicky swore, Anaya made a noise in her throat, and Detective Tran began taking photos.

The girl’s clothes were ripped almost to shreds, and puddles of congealed blood sat in dips in the rocks. Flesh had been torn off her legs, right down to the pink bone in places.

‘That’s where Tassie devils have been at her, poor thing,’ said Anaya.

‘The devils are nocturnal, so she’s been there through the night,’ observed Tran. ‘But where are her shoes?’ She nudged Con.

Con’s gaze zeroed in on her bare feet.

So those shoes on the cliff . . . just like Rose Cahil’s shoes, neatly tied, in 1985 . . .

Eliza had been found barefoot the day before – perhaps the shoes on the cliff were hers? He hoped Constable Darren managed to get to the shoes soon.