‘There’s not a whole lot in there that’s useful to us: just ideas and plans about her museum. I’ve left the diary with Coops, he’s going to scan it and email it to us.’

‘Okay. Do we think Georgia was targeted because of the museum?’

‘It’s possible. I called the mayor, Meredith Phythian, and had a very interesting chat about it all,’ said Gabriella. ‘I’ll tell you in person: we’re nearly at the station.’

‘Good, you can pick me up. We’ll leave Coops in charge of tracking down Carl and we’ll have lunch somewhere. Hopefully things will have calmed down by then – I want to head to the Masons’ and talk to them. I’ll give you the rundown on my chat with Murphy.’

‘I still can’t believe that Kevin dickhead moved the bag he found in Cierra’s room,’ said Gabriella. ‘No way are we getting any prints off that.’

Melinda Tran stepped into the room. Her face was pale. ‘Talk to you in a minute, Gab,’ Con said, hanging up the phone. ‘What is it?’

‘You better get outside,’ said Melinda. ‘Your weed dealer is getting the shit beat out of him.’

CHAPTER 16

MURPHY

Murphy and Dave used the side exit, Badenhorst’s code proving true.

A lonely prowler waited for them, sitting cross-legged on the ground, a painted cardboard sign beside him that read BRING THEM HOME. He was a young man with spiky black hair and a smartphone. ‘He’s here,’ he screeched, leaping to his feet and pointing the camera at Murphy. ‘Where are the girls? What have you done with them?’

Fists balling up, Murphy walked towards the prowler, who backed away, his phone still recording.

Cursing, Dave ran ahead to his car, parked further down the street.

‘What the fuck did you say to me?’ said Murphy.

A group of people and journalists appeared around the corner, excitement loud in their voices.

Cameras flashed. People yelled. Murphy kept advancing on the young man, his anger pulsing in his temple.

A journalist shoved a microphone towards Murphy’s mouth. ‘What do you have to say about —’

Murphy’s fist connected with the journalist’s nose. The man fell, his microphone clattering to the ground beside him. Murphy rounded on the next journalist, his shoulders hunched like a beast.

Soon he was surrounded by bulky men, flexing their knuckles. ‘You know what we do to pedos around here?’ said the closest, a man with a flat nose, black eyes, and long hair.

Two of them grabbed Murphy from behind, and a third swung his fist into his belly, then his face. Murphy felt blood spurting down across his mouth and beard: he tasted the iron. He tore himself free, but three more grappled with him, dragging him to the ground. They started stamping on his shoulders, his head, his ribs. Pain and adrenaline filled him with heat.