THEY GOT KEVIN Gary Lynch just before dawn. He was holed up in a shithole motel off the M7 in Mount Druitt. The night woman on the front desk saw his face on the late news and phoned it in. He came quietly when the Tactical Operations Group rammed through the door.
He was taken to Parramatta and put in an interview room at the station on Marsden Street. Farquhar and Patel watched through the glass as O’Neil and Riley sat across from him. He was compact, chipped and wiry, prison ink behind an ear and at the top of a thumb. Calloused hands, mean mouth, brown teeth. Riley announced the time and date for the tape: nine a.m., Monday, January second.
‘You’ve what, been on gardening leave?’ O’Neil said. ‘Looking at the flower shows in Rooty Hill?’
Lynch didn’t answer.
‘Maybe a hair of the dog’s in order?’ O’Neil said. ‘Detective Riley here’s been through your pad, thought you had Boris Yeltsin staying over.’
Lynch swallowed. He smelt like a bush pig.
‘Want to tell us why you bolted?’ Riley said.
His eyes were on a spot on the wall.
‘Well, if that’s too complicated, why don’t we back up a bit?’ O’Neil said. ‘Maybe tell us what you were doing on Wednesday.’
‘Workin’,’ Lynch said.
‘Where?’ Riley said.
‘All round top of the grounds. Watering.’
‘Watering.’ O’Neil gave a nod. ‘Makes sense. It’s been dry as a nun’s Esky. Anybody see you?’
Lynch kept his eyes on the wall. ‘I seen Spratt, he seen me.’
‘What about Marguerite Dunlop,’ O’Neil said. ‘You see her?’
‘I’ve never seen her.’
‘But you know who she is,’ Riley said.
‘Do now.’
‘What does that mean?’ O’Neil said.
‘I read it.’ He looked at O’Neil. ‘About what happened.’
‘Was that in Friday’s paper?’ Riley said.
‘Saturday. I seen Friday’s paper, her name weren’t in it.’
‘Fair enough,’ Riley said. ‘You didn’t know of her before you read her name in the paper on Saturday?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know her parents?’ Riley said. ‘Her father?’
He shook his head.
‘Never seen them?’ O’Neil said. ‘Even with everyone living together out there, one big happy family?’
‘There’s lots of people there, I keep to meself.’
O’Neil slid an A4 sheet across the table, face down. ‘Have a look at that. Maybe it’ll jog your memory.’
Lynch turned it over. It was a police photo, taken at the scene, showing Marguerite Dunlop’s face, the black plastic cut away.
‘Ring a bell?’ O’Neil said.
Lynch studied the image, turned it back over and pushed it away.
‘No?’ O’Neil said. ‘Try this one.’ He slid a second photo across the desk, face down.
He flipped it over, a long glance, and pushed it away.
‘Recognise anything?’ O’Neil said.
Lynch sat looking at him.
‘That second picture, know where it was taken?’
‘No.’
‘Have a guess.’
‘I got no idea. The room where she was killed?’
‘And where would that room be?’ O’Neil said.
There was resentment now. ‘I dunno. How would I know?’
‘Mr Lynch,’ Riley said. ‘As you can see, as you know, we have a young girl murdered. We’ve asked that everyone on the school grounds come to us and give a statement, have a DNA swab and give their fingerprints. Why did you not come forward? Why run?’
‘I didn’t run.’ He looked at the table.
‘Why did you leave?’ O’Neil said.
‘I needed time.’ Lynch took a breath. ‘To think.’
‘Bit of me-time?’ O’Neil said. ‘Do some yoga?’
‘What did you need to think about?’ Riley said.
‘I’ve got things in me past. I done me time.’
‘What sort of things?’ Riley said.
Lynch looked away. ‘Rape,’ he said. ‘In Dublin.’
In the corridor, O’Neil closed the door on Lynch and went to the adjacent room. Riley put coins in a vending machine, pressed for a Coke, and followed.
‘The rape, of course, is interesting,’ Farquhar was saying. ‘But everything else … it’s not lining up.’
‘Why not?’ O’Neil said.
‘Marguerite Dunlop wasn’t a sex crime,’ Farquhar said. ‘She wasn’t raped.’
Riley leant on the wall. O’Neil looked at her and then Patel. ‘Anyone?’ he said.
‘He’s agreed to come to the station, he hasn’t asked for a lawyer,’ Riley said. ‘And his form gives him a reason to go walkabout.’ She popped open the can.
‘Breakfast?’ O’Neil said.
‘If he’d given his DNA and prints, he knows we would’ve cross-checked with Dublin.’ Riley sipped. ‘He was thinking his job’s gone—schools don’t tend to employ rapists. He was worrying he’d be deported.’
‘Priya?’ O’Neil said.
‘There were no discrepancies,’ Patel said. ‘The photo you showed of the scene at the Chatfield house—he seemed to have no idea it had nothing to do with Marguerite.’
‘He ticks some boxes,’ Farquhar said. ‘The loner, the rape, the excess drinking. But why kill Marguerite? Where’s the motive?’
O’Neil was looking through the glass at the gardener.
‘Passion, piss or money?’ Riley said.
The psychiatrist looked doleful. ‘I see,’ he said, ‘let’s run with those.’ He held up a thumb. ‘Passion. The irreproachable, virgin daughter of upright Anglicans is having an affair with a drunken fifty-two-year-old rapist gardener? She wants to call it off and he kills her? Or, said Irishman has spied her around the place and developed a fascination that’s led to obsession. She’s rebuffed him and he’s killed her?’
O’Neil shrugged. ‘He hits on her—why not?’
‘It’s possible,’ Farquhar said. ‘But unlikely.’
‘Why unlikely?’ Patel said.
‘If he’d gone to the trouble—you’d expect sexual assault in those scenarios.’
‘I think we can discount booze,’ Riley said. ‘Lynch is a drinker, undoubtedly. But the scene doesn’t show a drunken rampage. It’s clean, controlled.’
‘Agreed,’ O’Neil said.
‘That leaves money,’ Farquhar said. ‘Blackmail? Robbery?’
‘Kidnap?’ Patel said. ‘It goes wrong? We’re seeing more of that at Parramatta.’
Farquhar’s head wobbled. ‘Again, it’s possible …’
‘Enough,’ O’Neil said, looking at his watch and then at Riley. ‘Let’s go.’
She followed him back into the interview room and put the can on the table. Lynch was nursing a polystyrene cup. He needed a shower.
‘Haven’t you got to arrest me or let me go?’ he said.
‘We’ll get to that,’ O’Neil said.
He shook his head. ‘You think I’m this BMK? Out on a spree?’
‘Funny you should mention it,’ O’Neil said. ‘There were some dates I wanted to ask you about. November thirty. Where were you?’
Lynch put the cup on the table. ‘Went to Dubbo in November, seen me cousin.’
‘What’s your cousin’s name?’ O’Neil said.
‘Aileen.’
‘That narrows it down,’ O’Neil said. ‘C’mon. Aileen what?’
‘Aileen Kelly.’
‘Who’d have thought it. Address?’
Lynch gave an address. ‘I took her kids to the zoo.’ He did some counting on his fingers. ‘Might be that was the thirtieth.’
‘Mr Lynch,’ Riley said, ‘are you aware of how Marguerite Dunlop’s body was found? What she was wrapped in?’
He sipped his water.
‘Can you tell me?’ Riley said.
‘I read they found her over at the Hay Stand. They said wrapped in plastic.’
‘Do you know what colour plastic?’ Riley said.
‘Black, it said in the paper.’ Lynch looked at O’Neil. ‘And in that picture you showed.’
‘Yes,’ Riley said. ‘Builders’ film. Do you know if there is any builders’ plastic on the school property, Mr Lynch?’
He met her eye. ‘Yeah.’
‘Can you tell me where the plastic is, Mr Lynch?’
‘Down behind maintenance.’
O’Neil slid another picture across the table, facing the right way up. ‘Would that be it there?’
Lynch picked it up and studied the roll lying under its plasterboard teepee. ‘Looks about right. But that piece of Gyprock doesn’t go there. I know where it was stored. Someone moved it.’
‘Moved the Gyprock, or the plastic?’ Riley said.
‘The Gyprock.’
‘Speaking of moving things,’ O’Neil said, ‘how do you do that at the school? What vehicles do you use?’
‘Toyota.’
‘You don’t use anything else?’
‘Don’t need anything else, ’cept me wheelbarrow.’
‘What about other workers?’ O’Neil said. ‘What do they use?’
‘Utes, tractors, Gators.’
Riley pictured the green and yellow John Deere cart in the shed, the word GATOR stencilled on its back and sides.
‘Who uses the Gators?’ O’Neil said.
‘The grounds staff, on the ovals.’ Lynch shrugged. ‘Anyone who needs ’em.’
‘How many Gators are there?’ O’Neil said.
‘Couple. Three, four.’
‘Anyone can use them?’ Riley said. ‘Even the teachers?’
‘Yeah. I seen teachers on ’em.’
‘Which teachers?’ Riley said.
‘Dunno their names.’
‘Does Craig Spratt use them?’ Riley said.
‘Probably.’
‘What about Doctor Preston?’ Riley said. ‘The headmaster?’
‘Dunno.’ Lynch shrugged again. ‘Doubt it.’
O’Neil rubbed his jaw. ‘What colour is your wheelbarrow?’
Lynch’s head eased back in surprise. ‘Black,’ he said.
The gardener’s November alibi checked out. The CCTV at Dubbo Zoo showed him there, and Aileen Kelly had photos of his visit on her phone. He hadn’t been in Sydney when Jill Sheridan was murdered, which meant he hadn’t killed Lena Chatfield either, and there was no evidence linking him to Marguerite Dunlop. They let him go.
At the round table in the strike force room, it was turning into one of those mornings. They’d drawn a blank with the fingerprints on the bench in the Dunlop house—they weren’t Scott Green’s or Philip Preston’s or Craig Spratt’s, nor did they belong to Kevin Lynch or Sarah Green or Jenny Spratt or the bursar, Graham Murray.
Riley felt the drift, the dying of momentum. O’Neil looked like he was about to punch a wall. He’d pinned hopes on Lynch, maybe more than she’d realised. Had he taken it upstairs, told the Super they were about to make a move?
She didn’t want to know.
Where to now? They were lost and groping—passive policing, concrete thinking … passion, piss or money.
‘Let’s go back a step,’ she said, ‘to Bowman finding the plastic.’
O’Neil tugged to loosen his tie. ‘Yeah?’
‘On two separate days, Bowman’s lurking near the maintenance shed. The first time I nearly run him over, the second time he calls us in. Why’s he down there?’
‘He said he saw Scott Green there, walking, on the Friday morning,’ O’Neil said.
‘That’s something he saw,’ Riley said. ‘But why was he there? He’s never explained it.’
‘The Sunday, he said he felt he was being followed,’ Patel said.
‘That’s a feeling,’ Riley said. ‘But it’s not an explanation. And remember, both times he’s wandering around in the middle of the school and the CCTV never picks him up.’
‘What was Scott Green doing behind the maintenance block on the Friday?’ O’Neil said. ‘He’s not on the CCTV either.’
‘Never assume,’ Riley said.
‘Assume what?’
‘That Bowman even saw him.’
‘Jesus.’ O’Neil made a face. ‘What’s got your goat? There’s nothing putting Bowman at the school on Wednesday, or anywhere near Gladesville on the dates.’
‘We’ve run his plates,’ Riley said. ‘But not his phone.’
O’Neil sat forwards, elbows on the table. ‘We wasted time on Lynch. We can’t afford to pursue Bowman down a blind alley too.’
Next to Riley, Farquhar crossed his legs but didn’t speak.
‘Let’s eliminate the journo from the Dunlop house,’ O’Neil said. ‘Get his prints.’
Riley held his gaze. It was good—it was something. They were moving again.
‘Alright,’ O’Neil said. ‘Still with Bowman: I gave him the Lynch story. The National will put it online ASAP.’
‘Did you give him one of the holdbacks?’ Riley said.
‘Not yet, but let’s face it, we’re bogged. I reckon we do one tomorrow.’
‘Which one?’ she said.
‘The drone footage, but we target it. We use Bowman. When it drops, we want eyes on Spratt and Preston.’
‘What about Green?’ Patel said.
‘Green gave us the drone footage, via Tom,’ O’Neil said. ‘It’s got no shock value.’
Patel’s mouth tightened at her error. O’Neil pulled his chair in under the table and looked at her. ‘We’re going to release strategic information through the media. Bowman seems malleable, so we’ll stick with him for now. But it’s sensitive: he’s not sworn, and, as you’ve heard’—he gestured towards Riley—‘Rose has some doubts.’
‘Yes,’ Patel said.
‘Preston has never seen you,’ O’Neil said, ‘is that correct?’
‘I think so … yes. I’ve never seen him.’
‘Rose and I will go and see Spratt in the morning,’ O’Neil said. ‘At the same time, I want to send Bowman into Preston’s house to do an interview. I want you to go in with him.’
Patel’s eyebrows went up. ‘How will that work?’
‘Let’s figure it out,’ O’Neil said.
They went through it, around the table. They’d give Bowman the drone story, but ask The National to hold it until midday tomorrow. They would use Preston’s desire to be in the press: the journalist would set up an interview with the headmaster for 11.30 in the morning. They’d get a warrant for Patel to go in as Bowman’s videographer and film the whole thing. They’d tell Preston the angle was how the school community was faring, what the headmaster thought about the situation, his condolences for the Dunlops. Preston wouldn’t be able to resist. While they were in there The National would publish the drone story online and Bowman would put it in front of Preston while Patel filmed his reaction.
‘In the interview, I want Preston on the back foot,’ O’Neil said and looked at Farquhar. ‘Any ideas?’
‘The principals at these big schools, they’re more like CEOs nowadays,’ Farquhar said. ‘Preston’s got a bit of that corporate sheen that he’ll hide behind.’
‘He thinks he’s a cool cat,’ Riley said.
‘There’s a lot of affectation,’ Farquhar said. ‘He’s modelling himself on the bunyip aristocracy he deals with in the parent body. Trouble is, he’s not a natural, he didn’t grow up in that milieu. He’s not from thirty thousand acres out the back of Armidale.’
‘I ran a check,’ Riley said. ‘He was born in suburban Ottawa to a Canadian father, Australian mother.’
‘Midnight Cowboy,’ O’Neil said.
‘Exactly,’ Farquhar said, ‘but he thinks he’s the Sundance Kid. And as you say, he’s a media tart. Most normal, intelligent people wouldn’t go near the press in a pink fit. But not our Doctor Preston, he can’t get enough of it.’
‘What does that tell you?’ Patel said.
‘Lord, how long have you got? He’s not as smart as he thinks he is, and it underlines his narcissism.’
‘His file says charming?’ Patel said.
‘Yes, in an unctuous way. But he’d lash out if cornered. Now, the point is, you’ll be in the driving seat tomorrow. Philip Preston will look at you and the reporter and see the masthead. This isn’t the school gazette. Preston will regard the interview as himself addressing the nation. He’ll want to talk.’
‘Watch for a chance to duck out for a minute while Bowman keeps him busy,’ O’Neil said. ‘There must be an internal door to the garage. Stretch the warrant. See if you can get a peek in there. What’s he got stowed?’