BOWMAN SAT IN a hired Hyundai outside a car rental yard in Zetland. O’Neil had instructed him not to return to his house and to ditch the Nissan. Alexander had been told that a threat had been made against Bowman but was given no details. If the editor knew BMK had been to Bowman’s house and stolen a knife he would demand it be written up as a story.
Alexander had agreed to hire a car for Bowman on one condition—that Bowman try to interview the Dunlops. Marguerite’s parents were staying with Beverley Dunlop’s sister. No media had tracked them down. Bowman had called a colleague of the Dunlops and, claiming he wanted to send a card, extracted the address in Beecroft.
Bloody death knock. Bowman thought about shunting it off to Diamond, but he knew Alexander was hot to trot and the story would make the front page. And he didn’t owe Beat-Up Benny any favours. He entered the street name and number into the GPS, sighed and swung onto the Eastern Distributor. He crossed the bridge, picked up the M2 and called The National’s picture desk to get a photographer to meet him at the house.
‘Just tell them to wait in the car and text me their number. I’ll let them know if the parents agree to a photo.’
The sister’s place was a dank Federation, dark brick set back from the street. Bowman opened the gate and followed the path up the middle of the lawn.
The bell chimed in the depths. After a long time, a man opened the door. Slight, bearded, pale like a wraith.
‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ Bowman said.
Bruce Dunlop stood vacantly.
‘My name is Adam Bowman. From The National.’
Dunlop focused for a moment and shuffled aside to let him into the hall. There was a vegetative smell that conjured memories: in a room to the left, a dining table was buried with bouquets—death and its many attendants. They went down the corridor into an open-plan living area spanning the rear of the house.
‘Beverley is resting,’ Dunlop said. ‘We’ve had many visitors.’
‘Of course.’ Bowman looked around the room.
‘Our friends, from the school, said that you had called them.’ Dunlop’s eyes were pools of sorrow. ‘I recognised your name. You would like to talk about Marguerite?’
‘If that’s possible.’
Dunlop gestured to a table. Bowman took a seat and put his bag on the floor.
‘I did my practical training at Prince Albert many years ago,’ Dunlop said, sitting. ‘I was still at Moore Theological College, not long out of school myself. That time occurs to me now for a reason. It involves your family. I’m sure you know why.’
Bowman felt the table turning.
‘I arrived at the school a few months before your brother Charles was lost,’ Dunlop said.
‘Chick,’ Bowman said.
‘Yes.’ Dunlop’s head bowed. ‘I sat with your parents in the chapel, on the evening of the accident, after the police had left. I was twenty-two … I’d never seen grief.’
He’d seen it now. Bowman knew grief. It was looking at him.
‘In grief, you come to understand the grief of others,’ the chaplain said.
‘I’ve spoken with Sarah Green. She said she knew my parents,’ Bowman said. ‘And that Philip Preston knew them too?’
‘I rang Inspector O’Neil today, after I saw the news,’ Dunlop said. ‘He told me he had interviewed the headmaster, but that no charges have been laid.’
Bowman reached for his notebook. ‘Do you hold Preston responsible?’
‘I have been disappointed with Philip for many years. For his impropriety, the way he runs the school.’
Bowman wrote in shorthand. ‘How does he run the school?’
‘By sowing discord,’ Dunlop said. ‘His immorality—it invites evil in through the gates.’
Good quotes. Bowman could see the story. He kept his voice flat. ‘Do you think Philip Preston killed Marguerite?’
Too much: Dunlop caught his eye. ‘This is my wife’s sister’s house,’ the chaplain said. ‘Our son is staying here too.’
‘He’s here now?’ Bowman glanced down the hall.
‘He’s out with his aunt. Melanie has proved … formidable in the circumstances. They’re organising some things for the service. Marguerite is to be released to us.’
‘And Beverley, um …’
‘Beverley is not well. She is in agony. So much regret.’
‘Regret’—with his pen hand Bowman scratched at eczema on his inner arm—‘is that what you feel as well?’
Dunlop stared at the table. ‘For everything. For the fact we weren’t there, that we’d gone away and left her. That I didn’t hug her more, spend more time with her. That I didn’t play with her more when she was a child.’
Bowman scribbled.
‘Beverley had been ringing and texting Marguerite and sensed she was starting to get annoyed. Then when it went quiet, when there was no response from her, we thought she was busy—perhaps enjoying having some space from us.’
‘Mm.’
‘We should have known. Marguerite isn’t like that, she would always respond, even if she felt crowded by her mother. When it mattered, we underestimated her—her love for us. Marguerite is selfless. A beautiful soul.’
Bowman had what he’d come for and felt an urge to get clear of the house. He brought his bag to his lap. ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you.’
The chaplain trailed him down the hall. The door was on the latch and Bowman pulled it open. ‘Oh, one more thing,’ he said. ‘Do you think we could take a quick photo?’
Dunlop was blank, retreating into grief. Bowman guided him over the threshold into the light at the top of the path and moved away to call the photographer.
‘Mate,’ he hissed into the phone, ‘just the father. He’s here now, out the front. Be quick.’
The snapper emerged from a parked car and shot from the gate with a big lens. Bowman stood out of frame on the edge of the lawn. It took fifteen seconds. The photographer nodded to Bowman and disappeared back to his car. Dunlop blinked in the sun. Bowman gave a stilted wave and went down the path to the Hyundai.
He drove a few blocks then pulled over and sat in the car to tap out the story. Thirty minutes later, he filed and arched his lower back. It would take more than a shower to scrub himself clean. There had been some heavy currents in the house. Chick had got him through the door, and then Bowman had posed Dunlop for a photo like a chimp at Taronga.
Alexander called. The editor loved the whole package—the piece and the pictures. ‘He looks like Jesus,’ Alexander said of the forlorn father. ‘He looks like he’s been crucified.’
Bowman rubbed and patted at his spreading rash. The death-knock coverage would look strong and exclusive splashed across the broadsheet. Bowman’s treachery wouldn’t show up on the page—it was a matter for his soul. That was the trade and the trade-off, the journalist’s compact. You’d sell anything—then you had to sell everything.
He was travelling south on Beecroft Road when the phone rang on the CarPlay. Not one of his contacts.
‘Adam speaking.’
‘Miss-ter Bowman.’ A good country drawl. ‘Hugh Bishop.’
Bowman squinted into the traffic.
‘Been reading your coverage,’ Bishop said. ‘Prince Albert—you’re way out in front.’
The car air felt thick with sleaze. Bowman had to swallow. ‘You’re connected with the school, I think?’ he said.
‘Yeah, long way back. I’ve got the kids there.’
Bowman put his window down to breathe. Things were moving too fast. He wasn’t the type of reporter federal cabinet ministers rang out of the blue.
‘Anyway, look, I’ve got to jump on a plane,’ Bishop said, ‘but I wanted to touch base, see if we can schedule a meeting.’
‘A meeting with me?’
‘About the mess we’re in, out there at Parramatta.’
He braked for a light. ‘The investigation?’
‘The whole show. There’s some talk, a feeling Preston’s out of his depth on this one. I thought I might arrange for you to meet with me and a couple of the board. Old boys, like you. Try and recalibrate. Get you what you need, of course.’
Bowman sensed tendrils in the shadows of the politician’s words, the mycelium network feeding into Bishop. Old boys, the old man, Diamond, Preston. He could hear flights being called in the background.
‘I’ve got to get this plane,’ Bishop said. ‘Listen, one of the board’s at Qantas. We could fly you up for a night, first class, get you in the chairman’s lounge. Ongoing membership. Good tucker—and they’re not pouring Yellowglen. I’ll call you when I land.’
‘Fly me up where?’ Bowman said.
‘The Whitsundays. Hamo. I’m there for a week.’