THEY DROVE BACK to the unit at Parramatta and slept. O’Neil took the spare room. He kept a change of clothes in the Prado and at nine a.m. he was showered and dressed and sipping green tea. Riley sent Needham out for a bacon-and-egg roll and coffee.
‘Shoe’s in the lab,’ O’Neil said.
She tied back her hair. ‘You want to wait for results?’
‘Nah. Let’s do it. See if he denies it.’
Riley ate. Patel didn’t wake, so they left her and drove to the station. Legal aid had assigned a lawyer and Tom Green was brought up from the cells and put in the interview room. He refused to have his father present. O’Neil went in with Riley and leant against the back wall while she did the honours. She placed a photo of the bloodied Nike before the boy and formally charged him with the murder of Marguerite Dunlop.
Tom showed no emotion. Riley gave him time, but the boy didn’t budge. He offered no confession or excuse or apology. He didn’t deny the crime, nor did he protest his innocence. He didn’t say a word.
O’Neil came up to the table. ‘Did your father help you with the body, Tom?’ he said.
A night in the cells had pinched the boy’s face.
‘We know you moved her, Tom,’ O’Neil said. ‘I’m asking you if your father helped?’
‘You don’t have to answer,’ the lawyer said. Tom didn’t speak.
‘You pretended to find Marguerite’s body on the Thursday night,’ O’Neil said. ‘Why do you think your father was walking behind the maintenance shed on the Friday morning?’
Riley thought about Scott Green, asleep at the hospital. No urgency. Even at the house, bemusement had been his only emotion at the arrest of his son. It was Sarah who had reacted, fainting in shock as if she gleaned the true horror.
‘You asked your mother for money for new shoes,’ Riley said. ‘Why didn’t you just ask your father?’
The boy stood, walked to the door and waited. An ability to retreat. But from what?
O’Neil nodded at the lawyer and watched as the uniforms took Tom away.
Back in the Commodore, they drove to Beecroft and sat down with Bruce Dunlop and his sister-in-law. O’Neil told them, as gently as he could.
Pale and shrunken, the father couldn’t take it in. ‘Tom?’ was all Bruce Dunlop could say.
O’Neil warned them the arrest would break in the press within hours, but most of the details would be withheld. Tom Green could not be identified, due to his age. He would be denied bail in court on Monday and held on remand until his committal hearing before a magistrate. That could be some months, O’Neil said.
There was nothing more to say. The detectives took their leave and sat in the Commodore.
‘We give it to Bowman?’ O’Neil said.
‘Seems only fair.’
‘On the phone, or face to face?’
She started the engine and turned onto the road.
‘Face to face it is,’ O’Neil said.
Bowman opened the door in a sarong and faded T-shirt. ‘Where the fuck have you been?’
‘Taking a break in Bali,’ Riley said. ‘Can we come in?’
Bowman peered out and saw O’Neil in the hall. ‘Is this about Bishop?’
‘No,’ Riley said. ‘Let’s sit down.’
Bowman led them to the table off the kitchen.
‘We just charged Tom Green with the murder of Marguerite Dunlop,’ O’Neil said.
Bowman looked from O’Neil to Riley. ‘Tom Green?’ he said. ‘You mean the father?’
‘We mean the boy,’ O’Neil said.
Bowman sat with his mouth open.
‘You interviewed him,’ Riley said. ‘What did you make of him?’
Bowman blinked. ‘A bit of a skulker …’
‘And?’ Riley said.
Bowman looked past her and she felt her allegiance shift. He was a victim, the saddest of all—a victim of his past. A true detective is there to serve the victim: O’Neil’s top catechism. She saw her mother in her nurse scrubs, the nobility of her public service. Bowman was a victim, her victim. She stifled an urge to fill him in on his past.
His notebook was on the table. ‘Got a pen?’ O’Neil said. ‘Story’s yours if you want it.’
Bowman clicked a Bic. O’Neil was careful. They were giving him the story early, he said, and it was critical that he understood he could not publish Tom’s name, age or photo. The boy was now in the hands of the court and there would be suppression orders. If Bowman got it wrong, he could jeopardise any hope of a trial.
‘You can write that a teenager has been arrested and charged with the murder of Marguerite Dunlop at Prince Albert,’ O’Neil said. ‘You can say he’s been charged with other offences and is to appear before a magistrate in Parramatta Children’s Court tomorrow. You can say sources allege police have extensive forensic evidence, including new drone footage.’
‘And you can say that Marguerite Dunlop’s parents have been informed of developments,’ Riley said.
‘Is that it?’ Bowman said.
‘One more thing,’ O’Neil said. ‘And this is a direct quote, write it down. Detective Chief Inspector Steve O’Neil said the killing of Marguerite Dunlop appeared not to be the work of the killer known as BMK because it lacked his trademarks of cowardice and perversion.’
They stood while Bowman was still scribbling. ‘We’ll leave you to it. Text me when it’s online,’ Riley said.
‘What about the other stuff?’ Bowman looked up. ‘On Bishop?’
‘Don’t be greedy,’ O’Neil said. ‘We’ll talk about it later.’
In the corridor, Riley pressed the button for the lift.
‘Talking of Bishop,’ O’Neil said, ‘Madden left a voicemail from Orange. He showed the girls at the brothel a picture of the minister. A couple of them recognised him. He was there with Preston.’
‘That’s good,’ Riley said. ‘Madden can go on the record. Game over.’
‘I’ll set it up,’ O’Neil said. ‘You can give it all to Bowman in the morning.’
They got into the lift. Riley didn’t have the right to tell Bowman what she knew about his mother and the death of his brother. But she liked the symmetry of him getting Preston’s head on a platter.