20

BOWMAN DROVE HOME and ate baked beans on toast and drank tea and transcribed the interview with Preston before heading to the office. He was crossing George Street when Alexander called.

‘Drone story’s gone interstellar,’ the editor said. ‘They’re spewing at The Mirror. Are you in the car?’

‘Yep.’

‘Pull over, I want you to see something.’

Bowman pulled left into a loading zone. ‘Yeah?’

‘Call up NeedFeed.’

He hauled out his laptop, searched up the gossip site and felt his bowels loosen. ‘Jesus fucking Christ.’

‘It’s blowback,’ Alexander said. ‘Don’t wig out.’

The main image on the website was a picture of Riley and Bowman sitting on the bench in Preston’s garden three hours ago. There was a headline over it: WHERE THE HACK DO BMK LEAKS COME FROM?

There were about ten paragraphs of copy. He read the lead: ‘Have you been wondering how a washed-up hack on The National who has never broken a story is getting a serial killer of leaks on BMK? Well, we think we might have the answer.’

The picture caption said: ‘Old journo Adam Bowman snuggles up to Deep Throat Detective Rose Riley.’

Bowman peered at the photo. The grounds around Preston’s place ran up to a wrought-iron boundary fence along Pennant Hills Road. ‘It’s taken from outside the school,’ he said. ‘A long lens from the road.’

‘Freelance snapper,’ Alexander said. ‘Maggots must have paid for it.’

Bowman read the next few paragraphs. ‘Does it say it’s at the headmaster’s house?’

‘Yep, towards the bottom. Fucken churnalists—buried the lead.’

Bowman took a breath and went through it. There were unsourced complaints about the accuracy of his reporting, and claims that he was a drunk with troubled family ties to the school and a chip on both shoulders. There was no byline, everything was anonymous.

‘How does it feel to be clickbait?’ Alexander said.

‘Where’s it coming from?’

‘Dunno, but it feels pretty smooth,’ the editor said. ‘It’s a clean hit and they moved fast. Someone knows how to use the media.’

‘So …?’

‘Like I said. Politics—or big business. Got some front.’

‘The same person who called the old man?’

‘Has to be,’ Alexander said. ‘It’s the favour bank. Someone owes someone, and someone doesn’t like what you’re up to. Congratulations.’

‘I better call Riley,’ Bowman said. ‘Cops won’t like the mention of the headmaster’s house.’

‘She your source?’ Alexander said. ‘Michelle Pfeiffer?’

‘One of them.’

‘Saucy. Alright, get in here. We need to punch back.’

Alexander hung up and Bowman called Riley.

‘We’ve seen it,’ she said.

‘Do you know where it’s from?’

‘Preston.’

‘What? The source?’

‘We’re pretty sure.’

‘How?’ Bowman said.

‘Bits of phrasing. The word airtight to complain about your reporting.’

‘Yeah?’

‘They’re words Preston used when we spoke to him at his house on Friday. A couple of points are interesting.’

‘Oh—you think so?’

‘First, if it is him, he’s done it after your interview, while we were sitting on his lawn. We thought he was in the foetal position, digesting the news about the drone, when he was actually working the phones to rain shit down on us.’

‘Because of my byline?’

‘Mm.’

‘What’s the second thing?’

‘Motivation,’ Riley said. ‘Why’s he having a go at you?’

‘Again, my byline. He knows we’re in cahoots.’

‘That might annoy him. He sees it as a lack of trust. But would he lash out like this if he has nothing to hide?’

‘To damage my credibility. He wants me to back off.’

‘Right. But why?’

‘To protect the school.’

‘It’s more than that. It seems very … personal.’

Bowman felt her wait: she thought he was holding out.

‘You think Preston has something to hide?’ he said. ‘And what—he thinks I’m going to find it?’

He heard her exhale. ‘Gotta go,’ she said. ‘Talk later.’

Bowman drove on to the office and fiddled with the interview with Preston, but he couldn’t extrapolate on the headmaster’s reaction to the drone footage, so he had no hard angle.

The newsfloor had the clacking early-evening hum of production, as the threadbare staff of reporters, subs and section editors bent to the edition. At her perch in the middle of the room, Justine hung up the phone and walked across to Bowman’s desk with a notebook. She took a seat beside him and spoke low out the corner of her mouth. ‘Don’t look around. Keep typing.’

Bowman’s eyes darted left and right. Justine’s cool intelligence, her cultural literacy and swagger, always made him clumsy. ‘What?’

Her head was lowered but she was staring up the room. Bowman glanced over. Diamond was hovering outside Brandy’s office.

‘I was on my break,’ Justine’s voice was clear and quiet. ‘There’s a sofa round where advertising used to be.’

Bowman nodded.

‘I go there every lunch, to read—and get away from that god-awful fucking phone.’

Bowman knew the sofa. The advertising and marketing staff had been stripped to the bone and the remaining bodies marched upstairs to merge with their sister department on The Mirror. Bowman often strolled the abandoned crannies of The National late at night, looking for stationery to pilfer.

Justine had been slouched on the couch, reading in the silence, the nearest co-worker forty metres away, when she heard a voice very close. She started and sat still.

‘You get it?’ the voice had said. ‘I sent it on a Gmail.’ It was Diamond, talking on the phone. She couldn’t see him. He must have walked across and been sitting at the group of empty desks behind the sofa.

Justine stared over Bowman’s shoulder. ‘I can’t remember the exact form of words, but these are the key phrases. I wrote them down as soon as he left.’ She read from her notebook. I went hard. Can’t fucking believe Riley. Justine paused and looked at Bowman. ‘There was a bit of other stuff—yes, no, be careful—then he said thanks, Cat and that was it.’

‘Cat?’ Bowman said.

Justine nodded. Catherine Withers. Known to all as Cat. She’d left The National two months ago—to be deputy editor at NeedFeed.

‘You know Cat was tight with Beat-Up Benny?’ Justine said.

‘Yeah.’ Bowman scratched some eczema.

‘Okay.’ Justine closed the notebook. ‘I wanted you to know. You’re a good person. In this place, that’s saying something.’

Through the glass of the editor’s office, Diamond was talking with Alexander. Bowman watched them. Justine had been answering the phone for Alexander for six months. She’d know him as well as anyone.

‘What about Brandy?’ he said.

Justine stood. ‘Hard to say. He’s a snake in the grass. But he hates Benny.’

Bowman pinched his lip as she walked away. He went back to writing up the Preston interview, but couldn’t concentrate, his eyes flicking to Alexander in his office. Diamond had come out and was working at his desk.

At five-thirty p.m. O’Neil called a press conference and Bowman watched on one of the big screens on the newsfloor: Strike Force Satyr wanted to know if anyone had been supplying Prince Albert with sheep manure or was involved in any way with bringing it into the school. The appeal was picked up everywhere and led the evening TV bulletins.

Alexander came out of his office and screamed across the floor: ‘What the fuck is this shit with manure?’

Bowman didn’t know and Riley wouldn’t tell him when he called. Diamond wrote the main story, nothing fresh, an omnibus of the day.

Alexander called Bowman in. The editor wanted him to write a secondary piece, pulling together anything he had.

‘I could look into the NeedFeed story,’ Bowman said.

Alexander glanced up from his screen. ‘What?’

‘I could give Cat a call, find out who wrote it.’

Brandy’s bafflement seemed genuine.

‘Diamond called Cat,’ Bowman said. ‘He said he went hard and he thanked her.’

Brandy’s ferret eyes flashed yellow. ‘Thanked her for what?’

Bowman didn’t answer. He watched the editor. Alexander scanned the newsfloor. ‘Fuck me.’ He stood and strode to the door, then stopped, turned and held his chin. ‘Who knows about this?’

‘Me and you—and a little bird,’ Bowman said.

‘Alright. Keep it like that. We’ll deal with it later.’ He pointed with his thumb. ‘Go write your piece.’

Bowman went to his desk and got back on the phone to Riley, begging for anything on the drone or the dung or the plastic. Riley wouldn’t budge, but she promised to get him a couple of exclusive quotes from O’Neil.

In his story, Bowman pushed as far as he dared. He wrote that a piece of physical evidence left behind by the killer was being examined by forensic investigators and that at least three people were helping detectives with their enquiries. He also claimed that the detectives had another piece of intelligence just as critical as the drone footage. Threaded up high in the story were the quotes from O’Neil:

The killings being investigated by Strike Force Satyr involve a level of sadism. They are sex crimes, but only insofar as they are crimes of impotence. They are not crimes of strength, they are crimes of weakness and cowardice. We believe the person responsible is incapable of performing or sustaining normal sexual relations.

It is my belief the person involved in the murders is aware of how close we are, and, I dare say, someone reading this now might be feeling very uncomfortable.

If someone close to that person notices that, this is the type of information we would be seeking to be contacted about.

Bowman knew he was being used. O’Neil wasn’t holding back—he was making it personal.

In the strike force room, Riley watched the Preston footage again and closed her laptop. It was eight p.m., and she guessed Bowman would have finished writing his story. Patel was waiting. Riley called Bowman and invited herself over for a drink. This time she acquiesced when he offered to make dinner.

‘Give me half an hour,’ he said. ‘I might get lost in the supermarket.’

‘Get enough for three,’ she said. ‘I’m bringing Priya. She wants to debrief about your Preston interview.’

The whole thing had been O’Neil’s idea. ‘Go together,’ he’d said. ‘And get his prints.’

Riley parked outside The Commercial and Patel went inside to grab a bottle. Dusk swamped the lane, crepuscular pink and orange, as the detectives walked past cottages and rang Bowman’s bell.

The door opened to cooking smells. ‘How’d the story go?’ she said.

‘Shit sandwich—without the bread.’ He acknowledged Patel. ‘Come through.’

In the kitchen, Patel put the wine on the table and Bowman handed out beers from the fridge. They clinked bottles and stood in the ungainly silence of colleagues gone domestic.

Bowman went to the stove. He was frying onion and chopping garlic and things were lined up on the bench: capers, anchovies, a lemon, white wine, tinned tomatoes. It was odd for Riley to watch a man cook. She’d had three long-term relationships, all cops, and each of them would have been flat-out unwrapping a kebab.

‘Smells good,’ Patel said.

Bowman slid more ingredients into the pan and pushed at them with a spatula. ‘Vegetarian.’

‘Are anchovies vegetarian?’ Patel said.

‘Yeah.’ Now he had his head in a cupboard. ‘Everyone knows that.’

His phone rang on the bench and he looked at the number and excused himself to take it. He removed the pan from the heat and walked into the hall.

‘Told you it was cosy,’ Riley said.

Patel ran a finger on the bench. ‘And you were right about clean.’

Riley made wide eyes over her stubby.

Bowman came back. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Editors. Should have been drowned at birth.’

He put the pan back on the gas and filled a large saucepan with water and an exaggerated dose of salt. ‘The water for pasta should be as salty as the Mediterranean Sea,’ he said, igniting a second burner.

His movements around the kitchen were fluid and precise. Riley timed him … about every twenty-five seconds he wiped the bench. She was glad to have an investigative reason for the visit. She was a garrulous pub drinker, but this was something else, more intimate. She wasn’t a good guest. Ottolenghi salads weren’t her scene.

Bowman was busily at ease and Patel seemed relaxed. Riley admired the younger detective’s poise—she was well-adjusted and whip-smart. Riley assumed she came from a big family and had been to university. In this setting, Riley felt the realignment—she was going to have to eat anchovies and talk about something other than the case.

Patel was studying a framed photograph on the wall and Riley went to join her. It was a bird’s-eye view of Sydney Harbour, the geometry of nature tugged out of shape by the clasp of the bridge.

Bowman glanced over. ‘It’s taken from sixteen thousand feet.’ He came across and pointed with his pinky. ‘Can you see where we are? Goat Island, Cockatoo. Birchgrove, Balmain.’

Riley looked closer. It was all there, in black and white. Farquhar’s comfort zone.

‘It gives a good view down the river,’ Patel said.

‘There are three tributaries,’ Bowman said. ‘You can’t see them. Darling Mills, Toongabbie … and …’

‘Hunts,’ Riley said.

This time she saw a micro gesture, a flick of shadow. ‘You’ve done your homework,’ he said. ‘Hunts Creek—they dammed it.’

Riley sipped. Pretty pictures, clean surfaces. No mess, no family snapshots. Water Police, terrorism, anthrax—things popping up and slotting into place. The NeedFeed article: Bowman had Preston riled. And Lynch wasn’t neat, it was just that evidence had lined up around him, the plastic near his flat …

‘You think the creek’s important?’ Bowman said.

‘Dunno,’ Riley said. ‘What do you think?’

‘It’s a physical link—between Gladesville and the school.’

Riley went to the bench and pulled out an orange stool. On a shelf above the sink an orange teapot had pride of place, and beside it an orange-handled folding-blade knife hung on the wall by a leather strap like an exhibit. Colour coded. She bit her tongue, her ulcer was getting worse. Maybe she could gargle some of that salty seawater he had on to boil.

Bowman was at the stove and Patel was standing by, ready to help.

‘Priya,’ Riley said, ‘you got siblings?’

‘How’d you guess?’ A smile to light up a morgue. ‘Three.’

‘Where do you fit in?’ Riley said. ‘Let me guess … Fourth?’

‘Close. Third.’

‘Let me guess,’ Bowman said. ‘Rose—you’re an only child.’

Patel laughed with him.

‘Fuck you,’ Riley said. ‘Pour me some wine.’

‘Is he right, though?’ Patel poured. ‘No siblings?’

‘What do you think?’ Riley said.

‘No,’ Patel said. ‘You have people. An older brother.’

Riley raised her glass. ‘Two older brothers.’

‘You’re close with your family?’

‘We get on. I spoil their kids.’

Patel passed Bowman a glass. ‘What about you, Adam? Siblings?’

‘A younger brother.’ He found something absorbing in the pan.

The NeedFeed story was more than brand protection. Riley sensed Hugh Bishop behind it, driving the hatchet job in the press. Bowman had them nervous. But there was another issue—Gladesville watched the media. The NeedFeed article could put Bowman in Gladesville’s sights.

He was draining pasta at the sink. Riley waited until she could see his face. ‘Does the name Hugh Bishop mean anything to you?’ she said.

‘The politician?’

Riley nodded.

‘I know who he is. I’ve never met him. Why?’

Patel took a stool next to Riley. Orange.

‘I just remembered,’ he said. ‘I read a magazine profile of Bishop a few years back. He went to Prince Albert.’

Bowman filled bowls and passed them over.

‘So Bishop’s involved,’ he pressed her. ‘What? You think a sex ring?’

‘Thanks.’ Riley took a mouthful. It was good, real food. Gladesville was not a sex ring. But Marguerite Dunlop? ‘Bishop’s name has come up,’ she said. ‘Like Lynch, it’s probably nothing. Keep it in your back pocket, don’t go asking questions, but let me know if you hear anything. Alright?’

He took a seat next to Patel. ‘I heard something today,’ he said.

‘Mm?’ Riley forked pasta.

‘Diamond wrote the NeedFeed piece,’ he said. Riley ate silently as Bowman recounted the conversation with Justine.

‘Sounds like vintage Benny Beat-Up,’ she said. ‘What did you expect?’

‘But you said you weren’t dealing with Diamond?’ There was a hurt note in his voice.

She looked across at him. ‘We aren’t.’

‘Can’t fucking believe Riley. Why would he say that?’

‘Because I won’t talk to him—and there’s a picture of me talking to you.’ She pushed away her bowl. ‘Listen, Diamond’s a fuckwit’s fuckwit and he’s burnt a lot of cops. He gets everything wrong and then he turns up the next day and does it all again. I know that’s the sacred right of the media—but in any other job he’d be sacked.’

Patel refilled the glasses.

‘After the Sheridan murder,’ Riley said, ‘Diamond got a half-leak out of Satyr. We don’t know who, but someone told him the killer had managed to clean things up a bit. Diamond got no detail but he wrote a story anyway, quoting an anonymous crime scene source, who was not part of the investigation, on what the killer might have done to cover his tracks.’

Bowman nodded. ‘I remember the story.’

‘Yeah,’ Riley said. ‘So do I. Nine-tenths of it was wrong and the other bit wasn’t helpful.’

A thought occurred to her: the cleaning at the Dunlop house was more agricultural than Gladesville. The killer might have read the Diamond story … or Gladesville might have read the Diamond story and followed parts of it to fuck with them.

‘I told Alexander about NeedFeed,’ Bowman said. ‘He looked pretty pissed. I don’t think he knew.’

‘Did he confront Diamond?’

‘No. Not yet.’

‘Good.’ Riley drank. Diamond must be talking to Bishop and Preston. It would be interesting to let the conversation run. ‘Tell Alexander to sit tight. I’ll talk to Steve.’

Bowman picked up his phone to text the editor and then started to clear the plates. Patel stood to help and Riley sat and listened as the two of them talked. She learnt some details of her colleague’s life. Patel was twenty-six, no partner, and lived alone in Harris Park.

Riley poured more wine. The drink was doing its job, dissolving the high-voltage current arcing through her brain and allowing weariness to seep in. After the drone footage, O’Neil had decided to pull back, go covert—listening devices, phone taps, car trackers, on Preston, Spratt, Green. The Supreme Court had issued the surveillance powers as a precursor to search warrants. The taps would be running by tonight. Riley’s mood dipped. What else could they do? The strategy now was to attribute Marguerite’s murder to Gladesville in the press, tie him to the school and see how he reacted. They’d fed Bowman the impotence quotes and as a consequence, coupled with the NeedFeed story, the reporter was dangling, fully exposed. She looked along the row of three orange stools. His books on the shelf next door were coded too—organised by colour. His byline on the drone story—that had been disorganised. He’d thrown her words back at her from The Bald Rock: It’s standard. He’d used the rogue byline to explain the NeedFeed story, to justify Preston’s animosity. And now he had more information—an overheard office conversation which pinned the NeedFeed piece on Diamond.

She looked at the pans and the dirty dishes. They’d fed Bowman the quotes and in return Bowman had fed them as well—something warm and nutritious.

He turned from the sink. ‘Back in a sec,’ he said and disappeared down the hall.

Riley slid off the stool. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ she said. Bowman’s empty stubby was on the bench. Riley put her finger in the spout to pick it up and with her other hand pulled an evidence bag from her pocket and waved it open. She put the bottle in the bag as she crossed the room and looked back at Patel.

‘Tell him I’m on the phone, something’s come up.’ She went down the hall and out the front door. After a minute, she heard Bowman’s voice and then Patel was outside with her.

Riley put her head round the jamb, her phone to her ear. Bowman was standing in the main room. Thanks, she mouthed, and walked away up the lane with Patel beside her.