You’ve done this to Jasmine. You cockhead. You’ve done this to Sara’s memory.

Once he got Jasmine back, he’d make some changes. He’d build his business back up, move out, buy another house. He wouldn’t leave Limestone Creek, though. Jasmine loved it here, and Butch was still family, and besides . . . Murphy had never lived anywhere else.

Moaning Myrtle waddled into the room, meowing in indignation. Of course. Jasmine hadn’t been there to feed her.

She moved on top of his big hunting jacket, scratching at it with her claws. It was crumpled on the ground; he’d been wearing it yesterday when he’d woken up at the edge of the yard. It was still full of twigs and thorns, with a large muddy patch from where he’d been tackled to the ground up at the car park, when he’d broken that SES officer’s fingers and punched the cops.

He pushed Myrtle off, then paused, running his fingers down the sleeve of the jacket. There was a rip, from the elbow to the wrist. He felt the edge of the tear. Where had that come from?

From the front of the house came the sudden sound of glass smashing, followed by Butch swearing. Murphy ran down the corridor, Myrtle following behind, still meowing at him.

A brick sat on the dining-room floor, amidst chips of glass from the smashed window. Outside, raised voices.

‘You can’t prove nothing, Butch,’ shouted a big voice.

Murphy ran out the front door. Four men stood on the nature strip. The biggest man was arguing with Butch, waving his arms, garden gloves on his hands. A red beard perfectly kept and a heavy gold chain around his neck: Kevin Mason, Nelly’s husband. Cierra and Madison’s father.

Kevin’s eyes landed on Murphy. ‘There he is, the pedo,’ he roared.

‘You’re gonna piss off from my property, Mason,’ replied Butch.

‘What are you gonna do, call the cops? We know you won’t do that.’ Kevin slipped the gloves off his hands and shoved them into his back pocket. ‘No fingerprints, so you can’t prove nothing. But if you don’t bring the girls back by the end of today, I’m gonna burn this house to the ground – with you still in it.’

Heat had started building in Murphy’s chest. He stepped down off the front steps, flexing his fingers as he walked towards Kevin. ‘Want to say that again, Mason?’

‘Don’t, bro,’ said Butch, moving between them, one hand on Murphy’s chest. Dimly, Murphy was aware of one of Kevin’s mates pulling out his phone, pointing the camera Murphy’s way. ‘Don’t. There’s journos over there.’

Murphy glanced in the direction Butch pointed. Two journalists were snapping pictures, and another was clearly filming.