The Bluffs : A Novel (2020)

by Perry, Kyle

I know I didn’t.

  Please come back to me.

  Murphy walked up the front steps of the police station with Detective Coops in front of him and the other two policemen behind. Media crowded the steps, shouting questions at him.

  ‘Mr Murphy! Do you have anything to say?’

  ‘Was Eliza Ellis sleeping with Jasmine, too?’

  ‘Were you and Eliza seeing each other?’

  ‘How disgusted are you that a local teacher —’

  Inside the station was another crowd of people, some that he recognised from the community. At the sight of him, their phone cameras came out.

  Tom North leapt out of a chair and planted himself in front of him. ‘Murphy, you have to confess,’ he said urgently. ‘Admit what you did. Tell them you took the girls —’

  ‘Excuse me, mate.’ Detective Coops pushed Tom roughly out of the way, leading Murphy down a long corridor and into the same interview room as before.

  Waiting at the table was Con Badenhorst. He took in everything about Murphy in a single glance. ‘Take a seat.’

  ‘I’ll wait in the office, Con,’ said Coops, as he closed the door behind him.

  Murphy took a seat, perched on the edge of the chair. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘How are you feeling?’ said Con. ‘After last night, after what happened with Jack?’

  ‘As if you care how I’m feeling. Why have you brought me here? To interrogate me some more?’ demanded Murphy. ‘My lawyer’s gone back to Hobart, but one phone call and Dave will be right back here.’

  ‘I’m not here to interrogate you. I just want your advice. You were there last night,’ said Con. ‘You heard what Jack said: Madison planned it. You’re not on my list of suspects anymore, Murphy.’

  Murphy hesitated, studying Con’s face. ‘So why am I here?’

  ‘Obviously something went wrong with Madison’s plan. Georgia is dead, Bree didn’t take her backpack from the Fisherman’s Hut either, whereas Jasmine and Cierra’s bags were missing. That makes me think those two did get to the Fisherman’s Hut, but maybe someone took them afterwards. But who? And why? Or are they just hiding somewhere? Is Bree?’

  He shrugged expansively.

  ‘But you were with Eliza today. So can you help me make sense of this new wildcard: the allegation that Eliza was sleeping with Cierra. Do you believe it?’

  ‘Not for a second,’ said Murphy instantly. Remembering a twinge of pain in his balls from Eliza’s knee, he quickly added, ‘Not that I know anything about her sexuality. She could be bi, for all I know. And that would be okay! I mean, sleeping with a student is not okay. But, you know, she can sleep with whoever else she wants. But she wouldn’t sleep with a student. I don’t know what her sexuality is —’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ said Con, raising his hand. ‘But you were at her house earlier. Why?’

  Murphy considered lying, but made a split-second decision to be honest with Con. ‘Madison sent someone to tell me she was sleeping with Cierra. I wanted to warn Eliza – I knew she’d get crucified.’

  Con studied Murphy. ‘Are you aware that Eliza has admitted it?’

  ‘What? Bullshit.’

  ‘For what it’s worth, I agree. I think she’s protecting someone, and it may be whoever’s taken the girls. If that someone is not you, then I don’t know who it is.’

  ‘It’s not me,’ said Murphy firmly. ‘I would never sleep with an underage girl.’

  He heard Jasmine’s voice in his head: ‘My father raped my mum.’

  Shut up. No I didn’t, he thought back fiercely.

  ‘Everything about this case has changed, Murphy,’ said Con, looking away, studying the wall. ‘They planned to disappear. So I have to ask: do you really think Jasmine would willingly cut herself off? Her phone, the internet, all media? Her family?’

  Murphy had a brief flash of defensive anger. ‘No.’ Then he slumped back in his seat with a long sigh. ‘Yes. She honestly could. She’s stubborn – if she decided she didn’t want to hear or read anything, she would make it happen. Once, in Year 7, she threw her phone and laptop in the river because she wanted to go without social media for a month. She went vegan for almost a year just because Butch told her she wouldn’t be able to handle it for even a week. She doesn’t do things by halves. She takes after her uncle in that way. Is this seriously what you brought me in for?’

  ‘No,’ said Con. ‘I had a very interesting phone call from Pastor Hugh earlier. He said he had information about Sergeant Doble, but wanted me to come to the church to meet with him. Given what you’ve told me about the sergeant, I thought you might want to come along.’

  ‘Are you saying you’re taking my word over another cop’s?’ said Murphy.

  ‘I’m saying I want you to come with me to church and see what you make of the pastor’s information.’

  Murphy hesitated, then glanced up at the ceiling. God, if Jasmine disappearing is just Your sneaky way of getting me back to church, I’m going to be extremely fucking pissed.

  CHAPTER 33

  CON

  The Limestone Creek Baptist Church sat alone on a rise, a lawn cemetery around the back. There was a brick chapel with stained-glass windows and a steeple, but attached to the side was a more modern, flat building built out of rendered brick.

  Con knocked on the glass entrance of that building, peering inside at the carpeted hallway. When no one answered, he pushed the door open and walked in. Murphy trailed behind, eyeing the walls like they were going to fall down.

  The plaster walls of the long corridor were lined with posters and framed photos, as well as bumps and scratches. It smelled like a church always smells – of sanctity and paper and food. It instantly took Con back to the church at his Catholic school.

  ‘Hello?’ he called. ‘Anyone here?’

  A door in the hallway opened, and Con expected a good-natured grandmother to emerge, an apron around her waist, inviting him into a kitchen for a cuppa and a chat. Instead a giant bear of a man stepped out, bald with a thick greying beard and grey grizzled eyebrows.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ muttered Con, taking a step back before he could stop himself. The man was at least six foot five.

  ‘Detective Badenhorst?’ The man reached out a paw to shake Con’s hand. ‘Peter Hugh. Good of you to make it. Glad to see you’ve stopped dodging my attempts to make contact.’ Con now recognised the pastor from one of the search parties one the day of the disappearance. He was thick in the chest and arms, and wore a blue short-sleeve button-up and jeans, with faded naval tattoos down both arms.

  ‘I promise you it wasn’t intentional.’

  Hugh’s face creased into a smile. ‘You know, I believe you. Sometimes timing is Divinely appointed.’

  A thin-faced man with grey skin appeared from the same doorway as the pastor. ‘There’s a detective?’ he whined.

  ‘He’s not here for you, Wes,’ said the pastor over his shoulder. To Con, he said, ‘Listen, I’m having a counselling session with a friend. We’re just wrapping up. Sorry to keep you waiting, but I’ll be with you in a tick.’

  ‘Nah, I’ll get going, Pastor Pete,’ whined Wes, slinking towards the back door.

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ growled Hugh. ‘Get your arse back in there.’ He turned back to Con and Murphy. ‘Give me a minute.’ He followed Wes into his office and shut the door.

  Murphy paced the corridor, running his hand through his beard, up on his toes like he was about to run. Con took a seat on one of the chairs outside the pastor’s door, fascinated, picking up the conversation.

  ‘He’s a copper,’ whined Wes.

  ‘Yeah, mate, but he’s not here for you,’ said Hugh. ‘He’s here about the girls.’

  ‘He’ll smell it on me.’

  ‘Then don’t go kissing him and it’ll be fine. Now, when we meet next week, what are you gonna have done?’

  Wes mumbled something.

  ‘What was that?’ prompted Hugh.

  ‘I’m going to have cut back to ju
st one a day.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I’m gonna call you if I feel tempted.’

  ‘I’ll hold you to that. Now, are you gonna pray, or am I?’

  After a moment, Wes muttered, ‘I will, I guess . . .’

  ‘How do you know the pastor?’ Con whispered to Murphy.

  ‘This is Limestone Creek,’ said Murphy. ‘Everyone knows everyone.’

  ‘Liar,’ said Con. Murphy didn’t respond.

  The door to the office opened and both men walked out. ‘And no kissing Detective Badenhorst on your way out,’ called Hugh loudly.

  Wes flinched and scurried to the door.

  Hugh winked at Con. ‘He’s a good man. God’s got a big plan for him. Now, gents, please come into my office.’

  Inside, posters of motorcycles and mountains covered the walls, the bookcase was overflowing, but the desk was empty save for a laptop and a thermos.

  Con took a seat opposite Hugh’s desk, his eyes taking in everything at once. Murphy remained standing. On his side of the desk, Hugh steepled his fingers and peered down at them. ‘Alright. Let me pray to begin with.’ He bowed his head.

  Con, nodding, bowed his head.

  ‘Relax, mate, I was joking, just trying to break the ice,’ laughed Hugh.

  Con shrugged. ‘Our father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name . . .’ said Con, finishing the Lord’s Prayer solemnly.

  ‘Amen,’ said Hugh slowly. Con caught his eye, and Hugh raised a thick eyebrow, then closed his eyes. ‘Okay then, my turn: Papa God, thanks for today, thanks for bringing Detective Badenhorst here today, and our good friend Murphy. I pray You give Detective Badenhorst guidance and strength during this investigation, and that You keep him safe from stress and anxiety, compassion fatigue, and anything else that might come with his job, such as post-traumatic stress . . .’

  Con glanced up suddenly, but Hugh, eyes closed, kept praying.

  ‘. . . also, Lord, please help us find these girls, help Con find the sick and twisted soul who took them and bring them to justice. Be with those girls, Lord. You love them more than we do; You care about them more than we do. Right now, in this conversation, let Your Holy Spirit guide my words and Con’s mind so that he can . . .’

  Con’s eyes trailed over the spines on the bookshelf, catching on one particular tome: Stress Disorders. He saw, for the first time, a framed degree on the wall, in golden tint. Masters in Counselling and Psychotherapy.

  ‘And be with Murphy. You love him, Lord. Let him know and feel that. Let him take comfort in You, even in this horribly shitty time. Amen.’

  Con was shocked a pastor would swear. Murphy gave an annoyed sort of grunt.

  Hugh reached behind his desk, there was the clink of glass, and he pulled out three bottles of ginger beer from what seemed to be a small bar fridge.

  ‘Let me guess,’ he said to Con. ‘Catholic?’

  Con nodded as he accepted a bottle, but left it unopened on the table. ‘Catholic school. And my parents.’

  ‘Great,’ said Hugh. He studied Con, his eyes like cameras, recording his every move and twitch. Con shifted in his seat. Was this what it felt like when he did this to other people?

  ‘Can you tell me why you wanted me to come here?’ he asked. ‘You said on the phone you had something important to tell me.’

  Hugh drank from his ginger beer. ‘Straight to the point, then?’ He tapped his chin for a moment, as though collecting his thoughts. ‘Well, before we begin, I want you to understand that we have more than just a Sunday service here. We have ministries throughout the week, including a Men’s Group, but I also offer one-on-one counselling. Men like Wes come here during the week and we work some stuff out together.’

  He gestured towards his degree and accreditation hanging on the wall.

  ‘Now, there’s one client I’m seeing at the moment. A man who’s . . . quite lost. Usually I am stringent on confidentiality, but in the circumstances I can tell you: Sergeant Doble is a client. Since you’ve brought Murphy along, I suppose you’re aware of Sergeant Doble’s cannabis trade?’

  ‘So it is true?’ said Con. ‘And nothing’s been done about it?’ Murphy snorted in an altogether too-smug kind of way.

  ‘It’s a sad rule of life that corrupt police are kept in place by even more corrupt superiors. But it’s also a well-known fact in this town that it’s the Murphy brothers versus Doble in the cannabis trade. I want you to fully understand the gravity of the alibi I’m about to provide, and that I wouldn’t make it up.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ said Con.

  ‘Sergeant Doble didn’t take those girls. I know because on the day they went missing he was here, in this room with me, all morning.’

  There was silence.

  ‘You called me here to tell me Doble didn’t take the girls?’ clarified Con.

  ‘That’s not all, although it’s important. I felt that eventually the scrutiny would fall on him, and I feel obliged to make sure you have all the facts first.’

  ‘Doble is getting counselling?’ said Murphy, now very interested in the conversation. ‘What’s troubling his poor little soul?’

  ‘I will honour his confidence, just like I’ve never told anyone about the subject of all of our sessions together, Murphy.’

  Con sensed a trap. ‘You tricked me. You could have told me that in perfect confidence on the phone. But you wanted me away from the station.’

  Pastor Hugh grimaced. ‘Come in, Yani, Detective Pakinga.’

  The door opened and in walked a young, timid woman with short black hair. Gabriella trailed behind her, eyes dancing.

  Con stood up. ‘Gabriella, what are you . . .?’

  ‘I asked him to call you here,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t risk the commander catching me at the station, but she can’t have a go at me for running into you at church . . .’ She took a seat on the couch, and the young woman sat beside her. ‘I didn’t think you’d bring Murphy.’

  Con sighed. ‘Are you trying to lose your job?’ He turned on Pastor Hugh. ‘And what are you doing, playing her games?

  ‘I know Detective Pakinga is no longer on the case. But after seeing her challenging Madison on her livestream, Yani insisted on speaking only to her. And since you were apparently uncontactable . . . Yani is my daughter.’

  ‘It’s alright, Yani,’ said Gabriella. ‘Con is going to hear you out, and we’re going to look into it, but Madison will never know you spoke to us.’

  ‘Gabriella —’ began Con.

  ‘Do you know something about Jasmine?’ interrupted Murphy.

  ‘Yes,’ said Yani. ‘I do.’

  Con sat back down.

  Yani’s voice trembled as she spoke, looking at the ground. ‘Well . . . I’ll start from the start. See, we were all in this group chat together.’ Yani looked up at Murphy, then at Con, then to her feet. ‘It’s called . . . the Honcho Dori Club . . .’

  ‘Honcho Dori?’ said Con.

  Yani opened her mouth but nothing came out.

  ‘Bring up the screenshots,’ said Gabriella kindly, ‘and I’ll explain it.’

  Yani nodded, pulling her phone out of her pocket and beginning to scroll.

  ‘Pastor Hugh made contact with me,’ said Gabriella. ‘Before, Yani was worried that anyone she spoke to would go back to Madison, that she would be targeted. She’s been targeted by Madison before, remember? But then she saw me confront Madison.’ She looked smugly at Con.

  ‘Targeted how?’ said Murphy. ‘What was Madison going to do, Yani?’

  ‘The nudes . . .’ said Con.

  Yani’s cheeks went red. She shook her head, glanced at Gabriella, then kept scrolling through her phone.

  ‘The Honcho Dori Club is an online chat group that Madison set up. The messaging app lets the girls use pseudonyms – it was supposed to be an anonymous support group for self-harm,’ said Gabriella. ‘You know, like cutting?’ Yani handed Gabriella the phone, and she handed it on to Con.

 
‘Cutting is a big thing at our school,’ said Yani in a small voice.

  ‘Even Jasmine?’ said Murphy, voice strained.

  ‘Even Jasmine,’ said Yani.

  ‘Self-harm is more common than you’d think,’ said Pastor Hugh. He reached out and grabbed his daughter’s hand. ‘It’s not a sign of weakness, it’s a sign of distress.’

  ‘Con . . . just . . . be careful, as you read,’ said Gabriella, her eyes on his.

  Con looked at the first screenshot. The girls had nicknames in the chat, with Yani’s messages clear in a different colour. Her nickname was xxDogGodxx.

  He swiped through the screenshots and his stomach began to churn.

  At first there were messages of support from all the girls, with photos of self-harm injuries – bleeding cuts, on arms or thighs – with captions like: ‘Today was so hard. I couldn’t help myself . . .’ These prompted messages of love and support from the other members of the chat. ‘You’re strong, girl. You can do this!’ and ‘Ouch, that looks deep. Are you okay? Have you put something on it? You should talk to a teacher.’

  But over time the pictures grew more graphic, the self-harm more severe, showing photos of wrists and thighs oozing with lines of blood, some videos actually showing the act of self-harm – razor blades, Stanley knives, kitchen knives. The wounds grew deeper and bigger, the words of support fewer. Black humour crept in.

  ‘At least I’ve got good knife skills now. I’m getting As in Home Economics.’

  ‘I thought of a good one: Just call me Bloodpunzel, because I let down my blood whenever boys get in my hair.’

  ‘Don’t even remember doing this one lol. Stings like a bitch.’

  Con sat back and looked at the ceiling, feeling faint.

  Why is this triggering you? They’re not even dead. You’re stronger than this.

  ‘Show me,’ said Murphy.

  ‘I’m not sure you should —’ began Pastor Hugh.

  Murphy took the phone off Con, his face turning pale behind his beard as he swiped through the screenshots. ‘What the hell is wrong with these girls?’ he breathed. ‘It looks like a competition . . .’ After a long moment, he said, ‘Which one of these is Jasmine?’