RILEY HAD ARRANGED for Crime Scene to leave her a key to Bowman’s house. She let herself in, glad to have the place empty and quiet. Pulling on booties and gloves, she started with the bedroom. She flipped the mattress, went under the bed, sifted through drawers and the wardrobe, patting down jacket pockets and looking in shoes. She went through the bathroom cabinet and then the kitchen.
She worked methodically, but it didn’t feel right, going through Bowman’s things. What was she looking for, trophies? She didn’t know, she just figured she’d know when she found it.
In the living room, she stared at the bookshelf. Her eye was drawn to a block of blue spines. A History of the World in 100 Objects, A Suitable Boy, The River Capture. Drinking and reading … Bowman had a world below the surface. For Riley, it was just drinking and TV. And homicide—always homicide. It was homicide that had brought her here now.
She pulled down the river book and leafed through it. It was about the Sullane, in Ireland. There was a farmer named Lynch. There was a quote at the start: ‘In theory, there is a gravitational attraction between every drop of sea water and even the outermost star of the universe.’
Everything was connected. She put the book back. The danger was in trying too hard, imagining connections that weren’t there.
She knew O’Neil was only tolerating her diversion, giving her room to work through her suspicion and doing his best to expedite the process. If Bowman had taken his knife to the school and stabbed it into Preston’s door, how had he got there? There was no electronic trail from the Nissan plates or his phone. Satyr detectives had canvassed Balmain East, door-knocking Datchett and Duke and Darling streets, seizing the CCTV at the pub and the ferry wharf. No one had seen anything.
O’Neil called. Bowman had arrived at the Parramatta unit and then gone shopping for supplies. They had a tail on him.
‘What’d he buy?’ Riley said.
‘Alcohol and cleaning products,’ O’Neil said. ‘Plus salad and three steaks. Must be tea for you and Priya.’
Jesus, Mary and Joseph, another fucking dinner party? Riley could only shake her head. She went to the front door and peered at the shadows assembling in the lane.
‘You should go and get some rest,’ O’Neil said. ‘I’ve got a detective in the apartment with Bowman, plus another in yours. We’ve told Bowman it’s for his protection. We’ll keep them there on a roster so you can get some sleep.’
She locked the cottage and drove to her flat in Rozelle, one of a dozen in a 1970s white-brick block with chocolate trim, as shabby inside as it was from the street. She hauled a suitcase from the hall cupboard, opened it on the bed and threw things in from her wardrobe and drawers and bathroom.
A bottle of Jack Daniels stood on the coffee table between her beige leather couch and the widescreen TV. She sipped, felt the burn in her throat and the warmth as it hit her empty stomach. She swigged again and then again, screwed the top back on and put down the bottle.
At this hour, in holiday traffic and with a hefty slug of Tennessee Diesel onboard, it took twenty minutes to get to Parramatta. She toggled between the commercial FM stations, blasting music, enjoying the release brought on by the first drink of the day.
The Homicide apartments were in a secure mid-rise block overlooking the river. A new development, ugly, although Riley knew they hadn’t been leased for their looks. She rang Patel to open the garage and parked underground.
Bowman had his door ajar and must have been listening for the chime of the lift, because he stuck his head out as she wheeled her suitcase down the corridor.
‘I’m cooking dinner if you’re hungry.’ He pointed next door. ‘That’s you. Priya’s in there.’
He was enjoying it: the commotion, the company. ‘Thanks,’ she said.
Riley knocked and a young female detective opened the door. ‘Sarge,’ the constable said. She wasn’t Satyr, but Riley knew her face from the squad. Homicide was based a block away, at police headquarters, and O’Neil would be raiding the place for plebs to put on an eight-hour babysitting roster.
‘It’s Needham, right?’ Riley said. ‘Jane?’
‘Sarge,’ the constable said.
‘You here overnight?’
‘No, till eleven. Then Dawson’s here till seven.’
Riley looked around. ‘Patel’s here?’
The constable indicated the hallway. ‘In the shower, I think.’
The unit was all chrome and glass and blonde wood, with odd blocks of matte colour that hammered home the soullessness. The bedrooms were identical, all with ensuites. Patel’s stuff was in one. Riley chose another and closed the door.
She unpacked, showered and was dressing when there was a knock. ‘Yeah.’
Patel opened the door. ‘Hi.’
‘Water pressure’s good.’ Riley looked up from her shoes. ‘You up to speed?’
‘Steve briefed me on the dog and the Bowman story. You went to his house?’
Riley stood. Patel was in a grey T-shirt and black trousers, her hair pulled back and still wet.
‘No gun?’ Riley said.
Patel’s hand went to her hip. ‘We’re going next door for dinner. Do I need it?’
Riley picked up her Glock from the bed and clipped it onto her belt. ‘You tell me.’
‘I’ll tell you one thing. Whoever attacked me this morning, it wasn’t Adam Bowman.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘Height, weight.’ Patel paused. ‘Inflection. It wasn’t him.’
‘So you did hear something in the voice.’
‘I hear something in Bowman’s voice. They’re different.’
‘He was wearing a mask and something in the mouth. How can you be sure?’
‘Aura.’ Patel held her eye.
Riley pouted. You couldn’t argue with that. ‘Let’s go.’
Needham had her laptop open on a table. ‘We’ll be just down the hall,’ Riley said.
A young male constable opened Bowman’s door. Riley greeted him and sent him off to wait with Needham.
The apartment had the same layout, the same chrome and pale wood. Bowman had his back to them, working at the bench, as they came into the kitchen.
‘Evening,’ Patel said.
He half-turned and acknowledged them with a sip of wine. ‘Christ, I forgot to ask,’ he looked at Patel. ‘Do you eat beef?’
‘No sacred cows in Taree.’
‘Phew.’ He raised his glass at Riley like a mincing TV chef. ‘How are your new digs?’
‘Nicer than my place,’ Riley said.
‘Never seen your place.’
She saw herself at his house, rifling through drawers.
He pushed two glasses and a bottle of red towards Patel and turned to the stove. ‘Won’t be long.’ Meat spat in a pan and he upended a takeaway container of salad into a bowl. They sat around a green-glass oval table to eat.
‘Cheers,’ Patel said and they clinked.
‘Tell me’—Riley looked at Bowman—‘on your travels, have you ever heard the Dunlops had a dog?’
Bowman chewed. ‘Nup. Did they?’
‘Yeah,’ Riley said. ‘No one mentions the dog.’
‘What of it?’ Bowman said.
‘It’s missing.’
‘To the curious incident of the dog in the night time,’ Bowman said.
‘To the what?’ Patel said.
‘It’s a Sherlock Holmes plot,’ Bowman said.
Riley pinched salt onto her steak. ‘Do tell.’
‘If you think the same person killed the dog and Marguerite, you might want to use Sherlock Holmes’s logic, which would mean the person who killed Marguerite didn’t know the dog.’
Logic and extrapolation. ‘Go on,’ Riley said.
‘The point is,’ Bowman said, ‘if the person who killed Marguerite knew the dog, then the dog wouldn’t bark at them. So they wouldn’t need to get rid of it beforehand. That was the curious incident in the story. The dog made no sound at the house on the night the crime was committed, so Holmes deduced that the dog knew the person who committed the crime.’
Riley speared a piece of potato salad. Her first thought had been that someone had removed the dog to have a clear run at Marguerite. O’Neil’s instinct had told him there was something amiss about the trip to Fiji, and he’d been right—something had happened at the Dunlop house while the family was away. It pointed local—someone who was watching the family and knew their movements. But she found Bowman’s point interesting.
He wiped at his mouth with a serviette.
Riley took a chance. ‘I heard about what happened to your family at the school,’ she said. ‘To your brother.’
Time stopped. Bowman’s cutlery was suspended over his food. ‘Okay,’ he said after a while. ‘It’s no big secret.’
Patel’s voice was gentle. ‘You didn’t think to tell us?’
‘It was thirty years ago.’
‘What happened?’ Riley said. ‘I heard a version, it might not have been accurate.’
He put down his knife and fork and told the story with his eyes on his plate. His brother had been playing hide-and-seek with his mother in the bush, he’d slipped and fallen off a rock ledge. His mother had pulled him out of the creek but he was already dead. She had carried him home.
‘No one else was there?’ Riley said.
He looked up with consternation. ‘Like who?’
Riley waited, willing him to answer. She couldn’t say Preston, but maybe he would.
He looked from her to Patel. ‘I can’t believe you’re asking me this as if it’s relevant,’ he said. ‘Is this coming from Preston again?’
‘Why would you say that?’ Riley said.
‘He’s smeared me once, remember? With Diamond.’
That was true. The NeedFeed article had poked into Bowman’s past. It hadn’t gone so far as to mention his brother’s death, but it had insinuated that disgrace and alcoholism had destroyed the family. It was beyond grubby that Preston was the source for the piece, given his role in it all. And that Diamond had beaten it up on the sly.
‘Look, there was no scandal,’ Bowman said. ‘Plenty of people know the story. Bruce Dunlop wanted to talk to me about it this afternoon. Spratt’s heard it. Sarah Green told me she knew my mother.’
‘You spoke with Bruce Dunlop?’ Riley said.
‘Yeah.’ Bowman looked sheepish. ‘I went to visit.’
‘For a story? Well—that’s a dog act.’
‘Editor’s orders,’ he said. ‘Anyway, if Preston is saying things about my past, it’s a distraction. He must have something to hide.’
‘Like what?’ Patel said.
Bowman looked at Riley. ‘Your mate Hugh Bishop called me today.’
Riley rubbed an eye. Bishop was in damage control. He’d be linked to Zabatino and know Preston was exposed. It was a side issue. ‘What did he want?’ she said.
Bowman recounted the phone call.
‘How did you leave it?’ Riley said. ‘Did you agree to meet?’
‘No, he hung up to catch his flight. What’s his story?’
Riley glanced at Patel. They needed to put Bishop and Preston behind them.
‘Off the record,’ Riley said, ‘we know Preston is involved in some low-level graft. Bishop is probably in on it and has figured out Preston’s dead meat. I think Bishop is scrambling, trying to figure out what you know. He might try and use you to cut Preston loose and save himself.’
‘Graft?’ Bowman said. ‘Is it about Marguerite?’
‘No,’ Riley said. ‘I might be able to give you more soon.’
She pushed some salad around. She felt certain Bowman was unaware of Preston’s role in his brother’s death. It wasn’t much of a motive if he didn’t even know he had it. She thought about what he had said, about how talk of his past would be a distraction. But it hadn’t been Preston who had dredged up Bowman’s history. It had been Sarah Green.