RILEY WOKE IN the unfamiliar room to her phone ringing. She had no idea where she was. She slanted her mobile, saw it was O’Neil, saw it was after eight a.m.
‘Steve,’ she said, groggy.
‘We found the dog.’
Riley rolled over. ‘Where?’
‘In the yards behind the Dunlop house.’
She sat up.
‘Someone slit its throat, buried it in a shallow grave. Not far from the John Deere shed. Cadaver dog found it. I’m here now. Rise and shine.’
She dragged herself to the toilet, splashed water on her face and brushed her teeth as she dressed. She thought about waking Patel but decided to let her rest. There was a new constable in the main room. Riley grunted at him and went out the door, watching the clock on the dash as she drove. It took nine minutes.
The carcass had been bagged in clear plastic, but there was no bagging the smell, an obscene rancid sweetness. In Homicide you got used to that smell before breakfast. The area around the grave was taped off, Shoe and Tyre were combing the ground.
‘Buried about a foot and a half down,’ O’Neil said. ‘Pretty amateur, but deep enough to keep the flies away. No maggots, and decomposition was slowed so you can still see the trauma.’
It was a black-and-tan cattle dog, midsize, bit of Kelpie in it.
‘It turned up one day a few years back, according to Bruce,’ O’Neil said. ‘Marguerite started feeding it, and it never left.’
Riley straightened and scanned the abandoned yards. Broken fences, lean-tos, outhouses. The shed with the John Deere was fifteen metres away. Ghost Gum was up the hill, hidden by the windbreak of poplars.
‘He likes it here, our boy,’ she said.
O’Neil frowned agreement. ‘Lots of cover.’
‘Yeah, but there are people around. St Anne’s is there’—she jerked her head—‘the Spratt house is across there. Spratt’s like Mrs Mangel, sees everything. Whoever this is, he’s blending in. Part of the furniture.’
‘Well, that’s not Bowman.’
Her mouth was dry. ‘I asked him point-blank last night about his brother’s death. He’s got no idea Preston was involved.’
‘Did you tell him?’
‘Course not.’
‘In any case, we ran his plates again,’ O’Neil said, ‘just to be sure, given the new timeframe of Fiji and the dog disappearing. If he came out here then, it wasn’t in his car.’
Riley’s head ached. She needed coffee.
‘The Dunlops go to Fiji and someone kills their dog,’ O’Neil said. ‘Why?’
‘They want it out of the way because they intend to come back.’
‘Alright,’ O’Neil said. ‘And we think they’re local. You said there were sleeping tablets in the Spratts’ bathroom?’
‘Stilnox.’
‘Let’s ask Jenny Spratt whether she took a tablet on Wednesday night? Plus, did Tom Green see anyone hanging around? You go back and ask him—take Farquhar. But for Christ’s sake, get some coffee first.’
Riley sneered but she didn’t argue. Not at this hour, not with a tea drinker. In the Commodore, she looked in the mirror, wiped sleep from an eye and retied her hair. Coffee? No shit, Sherlock. She looked like The Hound of the Baskervilles.
She called Farquhar as she drove out of the school and down the hill to the strip of shops at Kingsdene. She ordered a toasted sandwich and a triple-shot flat white from the milk bar and ate in the car. With the psychiatrist in tow, she was going to turn up on the Greens’ doorstep unannounced. The trick would be not setting off too many alarms with Farquhar’s presence. She finished her breakfast, popped the glove box and took out a packet of antiseptic wipes to clean her hands and her mouth.
Farquhar’s Volvo was parked at the school gate. He got out as she pulled up and they drove to the house together. Scott Green answered the door. Riley hadn’t seen him since he was interviewed in the police gazebo at the scene. Nine days, she counted.
‘Mr Green,’ Riley said. ‘Sorry to disturb you.’ He stared at her, a petulance to the mouth under the moustache. Schoolmasters, men dealing with boys all day, perhaps they never grew up. There was movement over his shoulder and a young woman appeared. Hair out loose, a canvas carry-all, dressed for the beach. Maybe eighteen. Just a girl. Riley smiled. ‘You must be Sam.’
The girl nodded and slid past her father out the door.
Riley wanted a look at her and she felt Farquhar’s interest too. ‘Where are you off to?’ she said.
‘Clovelly.’ Sam Green brushed hair from her face. ‘Have a swim before work.’
‘Nice. I’m Detective Riley. This is Doctor Wayne Farquhar. He works with us in victim support.’
The girl nodded quickly.
‘What is it you want?’ Scott Green said.
Riley kept her eyes on the daughter. ‘We’ve found the Dunlops’ dog,’ she said. ‘We understand Tom was looking after it?’
Sam Green nodded again. ‘Yeah. Probably.’
Sarah Green had come down the hall and was standing in the doorway behind her husband.
‘We’d like to ask Tom if he saw anything unusual,’ Riley said. ‘We’re concerned he might find it distressing. Especially as he found Marguerite.’
‘Distressing?’ Sarah said.
‘The dog’s dead.’ Riley half-turned to Farquhar. ‘We thought it would be good if we both talked to him.’
‘Tatters,’ Sam said. ‘That’s really sad.’
‘Tom’s out,’ Scott said.
Farquhar cleared his throat and opened his hands to the three of them. ‘My role, as you may know, is to help the victims of a crime, where necessary. Do you think we might come in?’
Sam Green looked down the path. ‘I’ve gotta go.’
Riley walked with her. ‘Is everything alright?’
The girl looked in her bag for her car key. ‘Yeah. S’pose.’
Riley handed her a card. ‘That’s me, if you need to talk.’
‘Thanks.’ She took it. ‘I talked to the police already.’
Riley smiled. ‘I know. How’s your mum?’
Sam opened the door to the Yaris and threw in her bag. ‘I dunno. The same.’
She drove off with a wave and Riley walked back to the house. Farquhar was sitting with the Greens at the table in the family room.
Scott Green was smiling. ‘You think we’re victims?’
‘The whole school community is,’ Farquhar said, ‘at both the schools. And your family more than most. I’m sorry not to have visited before.’ He put his hands together on the table. ‘It’s good to see Sam is getting on with things and going to her work. She seems well-adjusted?’
‘She works in a bar,’ Sarah said, ‘and comes home twice a week.’
Farquhar stroked his beard. ‘Can you tell me how Tom has been faring?’
‘Good,’ Sarah said. ‘Better.’
‘Better?’ Farquhar said.
‘He had grown surly,’ she said. ‘Withdrawn.’
Riley stood apart, her hip to the bench in the open-plan kitchen. Farquhar asked questions and the mother answered. Tom had been more open, more helpful in the days following the tragedy, she told him. No, there had been no signs of depression, anxiety, fear.
‘And you noted this too?’ Farquhar said to Scott Green. ‘A change in your son’s behaviour?’
‘He never tries it on with me. He knows I won’t put up with it.’
The psychiatrist gave the slightest nod. ‘There’s been no, for instance, hiding in his room?’
‘He’s always hiding in his room,’ Scott said.
‘He’s not the only one,’ Sarah said.
The comment hung. Sarah studied the table. Her collared shirt buttoned, her arms and neck covered, despite the humid heat. It had been the same yesterday.
Farquhar told the parents it was encouraging that Sam and Tom were coping with the event of Marguerite’s death. Scott sat blankly and now let his wife do the talking. Sam seemed disengaged but Tom was following the BMK case in the media, she said, and she was worried about the effect it might have down the track.
‘The drone footage being aired bothered him,’ she said. ‘He got hyper, I think he felt responsible.’
The psychiatrist consoled her: both children’s reactions were understandable in the circumstances. ‘Does Tom get on well with the kids at school?’
Scott Green answered. ‘He’s a loner.’
‘And Sam?’ Farquhar said.
‘She’s finished school.’
‘She’s more sociable,’ Sarah said.
‘Have either of them been in any trouble?’ Farquhar said. ‘Truancy, bullying, shoplifting, things like that?’
‘No,’ Sarah said. ‘Why would you ask?’
‘No arson?’ Farquhar said.
The Greens’ eyes met.
‘Was there some fire setting?’ Farquhar said.
Sarah Green took a breath. There had been a fire, she said, in the bush at the school a year ago, last summer. The fire brigade thought it had been deliberately lit. It was in the holidays. No one was injured, there was no damage to property, no one was charged.
‘But you think Sam and Tom were involved?’ Farquhar said.
Sarah picked at a cuff. ‘Sam was away. Craig Spratt let us know he’d seen Tom in the vicinity,’ she said.
‘I see,’ Farquhar said. ‘Did you talk to your son about it?’
‘I tried,’ Sarah said. ‘He denied it.’ She looked at her husband.
‘Mr Green?’ Farquhar said.
‘I think Craig was telling tales,’ Scott said. ‘Lighting fires was the sort of thing his boys got up to.’
Riley straightened at the bench in the kitchen. ‘Were Spratt’s sons living here at the time?’ she said.
Scott stared up at her. ‘Don’t know,’ he said. ‘They come and go.’
‘One final question,’ Farquhar said. ‘Does Tom have a history of bedwetting?’
Scott Green stood abruptly, smiled, and headed into the kitchen past Riley.
His wife watched him. ‘No,’ she said. ‘We haven’t had a problem with that.’
Riley followed Scott to the sink.
‘Marguerite’s body was found on Thursday night,’ she said. ‘Do you recall what you did the next morning?’
He turned the tap on. ‘Spoke to you,’ he said.
‘No. We spoke on the Thursday night, in the gazebo at the scene.’
He drank a glass of water.
‘You were walking in the school on Friday morning,’ she said.
‘My morning walk.’ He smirked again. ‘Is that a crime now?’
Riley was tempted to ask him about the plastic but stopped herself. He put his glass on the sink and walked out.
Down the room, Farquhar stood and tucked in his chair. ‘Thank you for your time, Mrs Green.’
‘One moment.’ Sarah scuttled off along the rear hall and then was back. She led them to the door and halted. There was more she wanted to say.
‘I found this’—Sarah spoke low—‘when I was tidying Tom’s room.’
She stepped close and slipped something into Riley’s hand. Riley held it in her fingers. A USB stick.
‘It was on the floor under his desk. There was Blu Tack on it and on the underside of the desk. I think he’d stuck it up there and it had fallen.’ Sarah looked with anguish at Farquhar. ‘I don’t know what’s on it, more drone footage, I guess. I just thought the police should see it—they were so thankful when we gave them the hard drive. But I don’t want Tom to know you have this, not after the last time.’
‘The last time?’ Riley said.
‘When they played his footage—in the media.’ Sarah glanced at the closed doors off the front hall. ‘As I said, it got him riled.’
‘Okay, we’ll make a copy.’ Riley felt tentacles of unease. ‘I’ll get this back to you.’
They drove in silence. Riley pulled up beside Farquhar’s Volvo, reached around for her laptop and connected the USB. Password-protected. ‘Bugger,’ she said.
The psychiatrist sat still, a stone druid, lost in thought.
‘What’s with the bedwetting?’ she said.
‘It’s part of a theory.’ He stared ahead. ‘Highly contentious, you could never use it in court. I’ve never placed much stock in it, never actually seen a patient present with it.’
‘The never never never theory. Sounds promising.’
‘It’s called the Macdonald Triad. Published in the US in the sixties. The idea is that if a child presents with three particular behaviours, the triad is a strong predictor of violent tendencies, predatory behaviour. Some go as far as to say it’s the hallmark of a serial offender.’
‘And bedwetting is one?’
‘Yes. And arson.’ He turned to her. ‘The third is cruelty to animals.’
She tilted her head back against the headrest. It sounded good—in theory. ‘But his mother said there’s no history of bedwetting.’
Farquhar ran a finger on the dash.
Riley rolled her neck. ‘You think Tom killed the dog?’
‘I think it’s a complicated family.’
‘Do you reckon Green’s beating the wife?’
‘Perhaps. He might be beating Sam as well. And Tom.’
‘Sarah covers up’—Riley ran a hand down her arm—‘her limbs and neck. Sam doesn’t do that. Or not today.’
‘With the USB’—Farquhar looked at the laptop—‘Sarah doesn’t want Tom to know we have it. But she didn’t want Scott to know either.’
‘Look,’ she said, ‘you’ll think I’m an idiot …’
‘Go ahead.’
‘It’s about the dog. Something Bowman mentioned, actually, a Sherlock Holmes plot—’
‘The curious incident of the dog in the night time,’ Farquhar said.
Riley’s eyes popped. ‘You know it?’
‘It’s a famous story. ‘Silver Blaze’. I read it as a child. In fact,’ he said, ‘I read it to my children.’
Riley frowned. So many books—she was out of the loop. ‘The point is,’ she said, ‘Tom has been feeding the dog off and on for years, whenever the Dunlops went away. The dog would have been used to Tom being up at the house. If he wanted to go there without anyone knowing, he wouldn’t have needed to kill the dog to keep it quiet. The dog wouldn’t have barked at him anyway.’
‘That’s logical,’ Farquhar said. ‘But there’s another way to look at it.’
‘Which is?’
‘Think of Tom in terms of the triad. He didn’t kill the dog in order to keep the dog quiet …’
Riley tapped the steering wheel. ‘Cruelty to animals.’
‘Tom liked killing the dog,’ Farquhar said. ‘He got off on it.’
‘Two out of three,’ she said. ‘That’s still not the triad.’
‘There are various checklists of behaviours,’ Farquhar said. ‘Tom is ticking other boxes.’
‘What boxes?’
‘I would expect a teenager who stumbled on the murdered and dumped body of a girl he knew to show signs of anxiety or fear or worry or withdrawal. To be subdued, mournful, sad—even depressed.’
‘Hiding in his room,’ Riley said.
‘Exactly. But his actual behaviour, according to his mother, has been the opposite. He’s been more solicitous at home. And he appears to have been stimulated by events. The drone footage appearing in the media exacerbated this response. Sarah described it as hyper. That sounds as if he’s agitated, but it could be in a pleasure-seeking fashion, excited by the novelty of what’s happening.’
Riley tapped at her teeth. The possibility the boy might somehow be involved had not occurred to her. She wondered if O’Neil had considered it.
‘But why now?’ she said. ‘Why kill the dog now, when he’s had plenty of prior opportunity? He kills the dog and then Marguerite is killed a week later. Are you saying that’s coincidence?’
‘I don’t know. I’d like to see the boy.’
Her tongue found the ulcer. ‘Let’s suppose you’re right and Tom did kill the dog. What are we looking at?’
‘He’s fifteen, post-puberty. He’s bored, looking for stimulation, lighting fires. He’s killed an animal and found a dead body—and his behaviour at home improves.’
‘You think he’s interfered with the body?’
‘I think he’s done something else.’ Farquhar looked again at her laptop. ‘I think he finds the body and then comes back to his discovery. I think he films it.’