‘It’s not my weed, and I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Murphy. He put the photo down. Now those eyes were back on Con, sharp with fury. ‘You’ve searched my property, right? While you left me waiting in this room, while my daughter is out there, while a body has already been found, you got a bunch of cops to search my house instead. Even though I’ve had my property searched six times. They never find anything, and you didn’t find anything this time either. So why don’t you go out there and do your job and find my daughter, and get the fuck out of my way!’ He was standing by the end, roaring into Con’s face.

Con slowly stood. He stared back, not blinking, turning his eye trick to full power. He let the silence build.

It took some time, and he grumbled about it, but Murphy eventually sat back down. He even mumbled, ‘Sorry.’

That’s more like it, thought Con.

‘What I want to hear from you, Detective Badenhorst,’ said Dave, ‘is what has happened to those thugs who threw a brick through my client’s window. Have any charges been laid against them? Or is everyone else in this witch-hunt of an investigation above the law?’

‘Murphy, were you sleeping with Cierra Mason?’ said Con.

‘What?’ exploded Murphy, shooting to his feet again.

‘You dare —’ began Dave.

‘Answer the question,’ said Con.

Murphy leaned forward over the table. He was quivering with rage again, his face contorted in disgust. ‘No, I have not slept with Cierra Mason. Nor any other underage girl.’ He tried to spit on the table, but he was in such a state it barely dribbled out. ‘She’s the same age as my daughter, for fuck’s sake!’ He wiped his chin with a sharp movement.

Con leaned back. Murphy’s eyebrows had pulled down, his nose had wrinkled. The ‘disgust face’ was the body’s way of protecting itself – the eyes squinted to shield themselves from damage, the nasal passages closed to protect from dangerous fumes, leaving the lips loose. Murphy’s disgust was real. He was telling the truth.

‘Alright, Murphy,’ said Con, his suspicion draining away. He focused on setting his own body language to something that would put Murphy at ease, relaxing his shoulders, raising his eyebrows. He pitched his voice so it sounded reasonable, and concerned, not accusatory. ‘But whoever supplied your bag to Cierra also supplied it to Georgia.’

‘You’ve never had daughters, have you, detective?’ said Dave suddenly.

Con glanced his way for the first time. ‘Excuse me?’ Even Murphy seemed caught off guard by Dave’s question.

‘Teenage girls share,’ said Dave. ‘If Cierra had a bag of weed in her room, then odds are she gave some to her friends.’

‘I’m well aware of the habits of teenage girls, but we need to know where it came from —’