Four forensics officers hovered around the body, placing markers and taking their own photos. When they were done, it was time for their gloved hands to turn the body over to see the face.

Con dug his fingers deeper into his palms. Gently, almost reverently, a forensics officer tilted her face.

It was battered and bloody, but the features were clear.

‘Georgia Lenah,’ said Con, although his voice seemed to come from far, far away. ‘Prep the stretcher: we need to get her back for autopsy ASAP. I’ll call it in.’

He was just ending the call when a forensics officer called for his attention. She reached out for his arm; he was dimly aware that he was propped up against the cliff, sweaty, his head light, his knees weak as piss.

‘Detective, are you alright?’ she said. ‘Did you trip?’

‘Yeah, bloody rocks,’ he said, composing himself.

‘You need to see this.’

Reluctantly, Con turned back to the body. Another woman from the forensics team had pulled something out of the pocket of Georgia’s trousers.

It was a small plastic bag, half-full of marijuana. A sticker on the front said ‘THE CAPTAIN’.

CHAPTER 13

MURPHY

Murphy was in the same dream. He fell down the cliff, the wind whipping his clothes. He was too scared to scream.

I have to find her. I can’t die. I’m the only one who can find her.

And then he hit the ground.

He jerked awake. The clock beside his bed said 2.12 pm. After Nelly’s outburst he had fallen asleep on his bed, fully clothed, emotionally spent.

It was time to go join the search. To hell with the SES and to hell with the cops. To hell with the town. So what if they bashed him to death? He’d fight them all off and make it to the mountain on bloody foot.

He opened his wardrobe, pulling out sturdy work trousers and a thick shirt. His eyes moved to the crayon drawing sticky-taped to the wardrobe door: a stick figure holding a rounded glass vial, obviously a bong. Jasmine had drawn it in Year 1, and told everyone it was her Uncle Butch.

Murphy had thought it was hilarious. Sara had been furious at first, but then eventually saw the funny side. Sara knew when to laugh. When she’d died and Murphy had moved in with Butch, this picture was one of the few things he’d brought from the old house.

What would Sara say now, if she could see Murphy raising Jasmine in Butch’s home? Worse, that Murphy himself was working for Butch, in Dad’s trade, which he’d always sworn to Sara he’d never have anything to do with? That he’d let his landscaping business go, lost all his clients, now spent all his talents growing weed?

What had he been doing? He’d let his grief drive him over the edge.