The Bluffs : A Novel (2020)

by Perry, Kyle

  ‘Like you give a fuck about my sister, pig.’

  ‘Carl, please,’ said Eliza. ‘Mum needs you right now.’ Carl glared at Eliza for a moment. They could still hear Rosie’s anguish at the other end of the house. ‘She really, really needs you . . .’

  He stalked out of the room.

  Gabriella looked back down at Georgia’s diary. ‘Good job, Eliza.’

  Suddenly one of Rosie’s relatives rushed into the room. A red mark was across her cheek. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, he’s going to your car!’

  Cursing, Gabriella ran out the door.

  Coops approached the woman slowly. ‘Your cheek – are you alright?’

  ‘It’s fine. I hit myself on the door.’ Tears welled and spilled over. ‘He’s not himself right now.’

  A moment later his radio crackled. ‘I’ve got him, Coops,’ said Gabriella. ‘He started scratching a lovely message into the car. K-U-N . . .’

  Coops sighed through his nose, ruffling his moustache. ‘Can’t even spell . . .’ Eliza followed him outside.

  There was now a small crowd of Rosie’s family in the driveway – more had arrived – and they were clustered around the police car, getting drenched in the rain. Eliza and Coops pushed through the people to find Gabriella, nursing her forearm and a red bite mark, swearing profusely. Carl was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘He bit me,’ said Gabriella. ‘The little feral.’

  Her words invoked a reaction from the crowd, who began buzzing dangerously. Coops immediately put his radio to his mouth. ‘This is Detective Coops, requesting back-up. Young male on the run; needed for questioning and assault of a police officer. Carl Lenah. He’s just taken off on a dirtbike – brown helmet, orange bike.’

  ‘No!’ screamed Rosie, leaning against another man for support. ‘Please, not again! Don’t take him back to the station!’

  ‘Please, sir, have a heart –’ said someone. ‘Mate, he didn’t mean it,’ said someone else.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Lenah, but he has assaulted an officer,’ said Stuart. ‘We should have explained to him how important Georgia’s diary could be.’

  The crowd of people muttered angrily.

  ‘Don’t say her name!’ hissed Gabriella.

  ‘Shit! I’m sorry!’ said Coops.

  Rosie surged forward, her bulky hips swinging, her floral dress catching in a sudden breeze. ‘Give me her diary.’

  ‘Sir, please give her the diary —’ ‘Have a heart, mate, it’s her daughter’s diary —’

  The group pressed closer. One man swiped for the book in Gabriella’s hand.

  ‘Eliza,’ said Monica, appearing at her side. ‘Let’s go.’ She steered Eliza away from the group and into the car. ‘It looks like it could get ugly.’

  They pulled out of the driveway.

  ‘We should have stayed and helped calm everyone down,’ said Eliza.

  ‘It’s going to be like this until the girls are found . . .’ began Monica. ‘Look, do you still want to go back up the mountain?’

  Reading Georgia’s essay had made her feel sick. And the rhyme was back again:

  I won’t walk alone by the mountain trees . . .

  ‘I’ll need to get changed. Take me back home. I’m going to join the search. But I won’t go alone.’

  Or the Hungry Man will come for me.

  CHAPTER 15

  CON

  Con paced the corridor outside the station’s interview room, speaking to Commander Normandy on the phone. Inside the interview room Murphy and his lawyer, Dave, were waiting alone.

  He heard the sound of another incoming call and checked the screen briefly. Unknown number. It would have to wait.

  In the corridor with him was Detective Melinda Tran, crouched against the wall, scrolling through her phone as she waited for Con to finish his call.

  ‘Yes, commander,’ said Con, speaking slowly. ‘I reviewed the autopsy report. No obvious signs of a struggle – no skin under her nails, at least . . . No, but her head was too damaged to see if she’d been hit. No sign of her backpack, so we have to assume she wasn’t wearing it or someone took it . . . Yes, I agree that’s most likely . . . They got up on the cliff and confirmed they were her shoes . . . No, he confirmed they had their laces tied up, and he really felt as though they’d been carefully placed there. If you look at the photos you can . . . No, just her DNA so far, but there was a lot of rain overnight.

  ‘Pakinga is at Georgia’s house now, with Detective Coops . . . Because I heard over the radio there was an altercation at the Murphys’ house . . . Call it a hunch, ma’am. They’ve got no evidence, even though they’ve searched for his crop a half dozen times. Everyone local seems to know Murphy and his brother run the weed trade here . . . I’m about to speak with – well, I wouldn’t call it a mob exactly . . . I did hear they wanted to kill him on my way into the station, yes . . . I hate small country towns, ma’am . . . No, I’ll take him out by a back door . . . Well, it could be that the missing girls are hidden wherever his crop is . . . Of course. I’ll do my best to get something out of him, ma’am. I’ll keep you up to date.’

  He ended the call. After a moment he said to Tran, ‘Catch all that?’

  ‘The guys down in Hobart call her “the Hellcat”,’ said Tran.

  ‘There are many names that would suit that woman,’ he said with fondness. ‘Do you want to watch from inside or on the cameras?’

  ‘Cameras. He might let his guard down if it’s just you.’ She stood up. ‘We really think he’s involved? His own daughter?’

  Con hesitated. ‘There’s a lot of coincidences. Keep an eye on him and let me know what you make of him after.’

  At that moment, a text message came through, from the same number as the missed call:

  Hello, detective. This is Pastor Hugh. Can you please call me back on this number?

  Con glanced at it, then stepped inside the interview room. Murphy and his lawyer sat across from him. He slipped the phone into his pocket. ‘Okay, Murphy,’ said Con. ‘Shall we begin?’

  Murphy was pale and dark rings lay under his eyes, but with his heavy brow and beard this only made him look more fearsome. ‘You need to let me out of here. I have to join the search.’

  ‘You must have more pressing concerns right now, detective,’ said Dave. ‘You’re bringing petty charges against my client regarding weed. Shouldn’t you be examining a crime scene?’

  ‘We’re giving you a chance to come clean, Murphy,’ said Con, ignoring Dave. ‘The signs don’t look good.’

  ‘Your “signs” do not constitute evidence,’ interjected Dave.

  Con pulled four photographs from his folder and placed them down on the table, leaving the last face down. The first three each showed a bag of marijuana with the THE CAPTAIN sticker. The one found on the trail, one from Georgia’s pocket and the bag with the three condoms that Kevin Mason had brandished in Murphy’s face barely an hour before.

  ‘Are these your product?’ said Con.

  ‘No,’ said Dave.

  ‘No,’ said Murphy.

  ‘This one was found on the trail,’ said Con.

  ‘Any of the girls could’ve dropped it,’ said Dave. ‘Hell, one of the teachers could’ve dropped it, or some other hiker.’

  ‘This one, as we know,’ Con tapped on the photo, ‘was found in Cierra Mason’s room. With condoms inside.’

  ‘Allegedly,’ said Dave.

  Con tapped another photo, watching Murphy’s face. ‘This one was found in Georgia Lenah’s pocket.’

  No reaction. Murphy wasn’t even looking at the photos, his eyes were piercingly focused on Con.

  ‘And these . . .’ Con turned over the final photograph. It showed a pair of running shoes, fluoro yellow, sitting on a rock. The laces were neatly tied up, a pair of damp socks balled up beside them. ‘These are Georgia’s shoes, found at the top of the cliff from which she fell.’

  That got Murphy’s attention. He looked down at the photo.

  S
ilence filled the room.

  ‘And what does this have to do with Murphy?’ said Dave belatedly.

  Con didn’t reply. He scanned Murphy’s face for any spark of recognition.

  ‘Why are they just sitting there . . .?’ Murphy picked up the photo. ‘Why are they tied up?’ His hands shook. ‘What else did you find?’

  ‘Where have you hidden your crop?’ said Con.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Murphy, eyes still on the photo. ‘Did you find anything else up there? Why are they bloody tied like that? I thought you said she fell? Did she jump? Was she pushed?’

  ‘Your marijuana crop. Where is it, Murphy? Your drying room? Your storage?’

  ‘Ah, so as we expected, you have no actual evidence for the charges you’re bringing?’ said Dave. ‘I imagine my client is free to leave, in that case?’

  ‘I need to know, mate,’ said Con, ignoring Dave. ‘Forensics have proven that all the marijuana came from the same plant strain, as if the common sticker wasn’t enough. If it’s yours, Murphy, I need to know now.’ He leaned forward. ‘If I’m forced to find out another way, it’ll look even worse for you.’

  ‘Like you haven’t set him up to take the fall either way,’ said Dave scathingly. ‘We are very familiar with the way “justice” works around here.’

  ‘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 —’

  ‘What the hell do marijuana and condoms have to do with their disappearance?’ Dave leaned forward now. ‘Check the rooms of half the girls in this town and you’ll find the same. Out here, you can get marijuana one of two ways – you can grow it yourself, but it’s reasonably priced and way less risky to buy it from the supplier who works at this very station. Not that your lot care one whit about that.’

  This station? thought Con, falling silent for a moment.

  ‘You don’t know that Sergeant Doble is a weed dealer,’ said Murphy flatly. ‘Oh this is just fucking perfect.’

  ‘I’m not here to talk about anyone else,’ said Con, thrown off balance. ‘We’re talking about you.’

  ‘How about we talk about you?’ said Dave. ‘I’ve done some research. You did a good job with the Jaguar case in Sydney, no one’s denying that, but in Tasmania the rules are different. And in the meantime, I’ve had an interesting text message come through from Butch. You have sent police to check the property for this supposed crop, haven’t you?’

  Con didn’t reply. Truthfully, he hadn’t: he didn’t expect to find anything more than the other searches had, and besides, he didn’t like the stir it would cause. Murphy already attracted a crowd outside the station that wanted to beat him to death, it wouldn’t help to have uniformed officers scouring his property.

  ‘I’d appreciate it if you kept your phone switched off while in this room, Mr Llewellyn.’

  ‘Because Butch reported a break-in.’

  ‘What?’ said Murphy. ‘Is he alright?’

  ‘Which surely wouldn’t have happened if you’d had your officers there.’ Dave stood up. ‘So you didn’t search it, nor did you think to send officers to guard the house? Considering the mob that’s outside this place?’

  ‘What mob?’ said Murphy.

  ‘You’re just as bloody useless as the rest, aren’t you, detective? Let’s go, Murphy. Someone’s broken into your house, and your brother needs you.’

  ‘You’re sure you have nothing else to tell us, Murphy?’ said Con.

  ‘Does “fuck you” count?’ said Murphy.

  Con made a dismissive gesture, but they were almost to the door when he said, ‘Use the western exit. You don’t want to leave through the front door. Exit code is 9779.’

  He heard Murphy hesitate, then the door shut behind him.

  Immediately Con was on the phone, calling Gabriella.

  ‘Hey, how did you go at —’

  He didn’t even finish his question before he got an explosive rundown from Gabriella about everything that had happened at the Lenahs’ house. ‘They haven’t tracked down Carl yet – I hope they do, I’ve already got a bruise where he bit me.’

  ‘And the diary?’ said Con.

  ‘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.

  Murphy had taken a lot of beatings in his life; he was hardier than most. He found his way to his feet and before he knew it blood was on his knuckles, and two of his assailants were on the ground.

  People were screaming, sirens were ringing, and then Dave was there, shoving people away, pulling Murphy from the crowd. Murphy, wild with fury, threw Dave off. Uniformed police officers appeared, moving between Murphy and the vigilantes.