Murphy stalked inside, hearing Butch unloading on Cavanagh and Doble with the story of the brick and the smashed window, while Kevin Mason and his mates began denying it just as loudly. It showed how worried Butch was, or how scared – usually he wouldn’t be caught dead trying to talk to the cops, least of all Doble. The nearby journalists walked over to add their part to the narrative, backing up Butch’s story.

Badenhorst followed Murphy into the lounge room and sat down. Gus the Muss jumped up into his lap, and the detective absently pushed him to the side. He held up the bag, the sticker visible. ‘Is this your product?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Mate, we’re going to find out sooner or later.’

‘I’m not your mate.’

Con pulled out his phone and showed Murphy a photo: it showed another THE CAPTAIN bag of marijuana, on rocky ground with a yellow evidence tag beside it. ‘Is this your product too?’

‘No,’ said Murphy.

‘You didn’t sell any to Georgia Lenah?’ said Con.

‘No,’ said Murphy. ‘Why?’

‘Because we just found her body. And this was in her pocket.’

Murphy felt a swooping sensation, deep in his stomach. ‘What?’ he said. ‘Georgia’s dead?’ A whine began in the back of his mind. His vision grew bright.

‘We just found the body of Georgia Lenah. No sign of the others.’ Badenhorst watched his face closely, but Murphy couldn’t care less. The whine in his head grew louder. ‘We found this in her pocket and now it seems a similar bag was found in Cierra’s room.’

Everything was too bright. Too loud. Murphy’s throat was tight. He couldn’t breathe. ‘Was there any sign of Jasmine?’

‘Just Georgia.’

‘She could be dead. I have to get up there,’ said Murphy. ‘Where did you find Georgia? What happened to her body? Show me.’

‘You’re not going anywhere. Jordan Murphy, you’re under arrest for cultivating and selling a controlled plant.’

‘Like hell.’ Murphy didn’t remember standing up, or stepping so close to Badenhorst. ‘You think I did it?’

Badenhorst pulled his jacket away from his hip holster, unclipping the retention on his firearm, unfolding himself from the chair slowly. His eyes flicked back and forth between Murphy’s. ‘Prove me wrong,’ said Badenhorst, voice level. ‘Come to the station.’

‘I’m not going anywhere!’ Murphy shouted, feeling the floodgates of his anger start to release.

‘Calm down, Murphy.’

But Murphy was too far gone now: he shoved the detective. ‘No one is gonna stop me from going up there and searching for my —’