by B M Carroll
‘I swear he didn’t tell me any details, other than the location and time … I had no idea someone was going to be shot … I used the override function and that was all … I swear that was all …’
‘Backtrack a second. When did you meet Dylan? Was it the same night you met Thomas? At the nightclub?’
‘No, no.’ Hayley uses her fingertips to wipe under each eye. ‘It was earlier this year. Around March. He found me.’
Bridget briefly looks at Sasha and sees her own confusion mirrored on the young detective’s face. ‘More details, Hayley. How did he “find” you? Why did he “find” you?’
‘They’d had a school catch-up,’ she whispers, fresh tears clouding her eyes. ‘Apparently, Thomas was high on cocaine and trying to hit on every woman in sight – fortunately, the women were smart enough to keep away. He got more bitter as the night went on. He started to rant about me, calling me a “stupid fucking bitch” for going to the police. Dylan was appalled, but pretended to be sympathetic and kept him talking until he got my name. Then he messaged me and asked to meet up. He said he was one of Thomas’s victims too!’
Bridget bulges with incredulity. ‘What? Why would he say that? He was an accomplice, not a victim!’
Hayley’s red-rimmed eyes bounce between Bridget and Sasha. ‘Thomas gave Dylan GHB too. To loosen him up, apparently.’
Bridget holds her breath. ‘And Dylan told you this for a fact?’
Hayley nods vehemently. ‘He explained about the court case, about those other two girls, how Thomas had been spiking drinks as far back as then. Even more bizarre and awful, was that Dylan had been drugged too, with a smaller dose. And he had no clue, only that all his inhibitions were suddenly gone … He was a victim, too.’
Members of the jury, I spoke earlier about the character of these young ladies and how it helps us understand their behaviour in a wider context. Now let’s discuss the character of the young men who are accused. You have heard testimony from Thomas Malouf’s football coach regarding his leadership on the field and commendable encouragement of other players. Dylan O’Shea also displayed admirable qualities, both at school and at his part-time job. Remember the words of his employer: ‘Dylan is the most gentle, honest and respectful of boys. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.’ And that, ladies and gentlemen, concludes the defence’s closing address.
57
BRIDGET
The drive across the city will take thirty-four minutes, according to the navigation system. Sasha puts her foot to the pedal while Bridget makes some calls. She tries Katrina twice and catches her the second time.
‘Sasha and I are on our way to Dylan O’Shea’s house. We need to do a more comprehensive search.’
Bridget visited the house when the missing person report came in. She spoke with the parents and took a cursory look around Dylan’s bedroom. This time she needs to employ a different lens. Dylan had prior knowledge of the attack on William Newson. Dylan saw himself as a victim of Thomas Malouf. These facts, if true, turn everything on its head. These facts, if true, mean that Dylan is implicated up to his eyeballs.
‘Do not even think of asking me to approve another warrant,’ Katrina warns, and Bridget is glad that the detective inspector is not on speaker: bureaucracy can have a disillusioning effect on young detectives like Sasha.
‘I’ll see how far I get with the parents,’ she says, looking out the window as the car emerges on to Sydney Harbour Bridge. ‘If they’re really concerned about their son, they won’t be worried about paperwork.’
Traffic on the bridge is thick but moving quickly. Sasha zips in and out of lanes with confidence. Her face is intent and animated: she is enjoying this. Bridget, on the other hand, is waning slightly. She has covered practically the entire city today, from Hornsby to Pymble to Parramatta to Redfern, and now back to Pymble again. It’s been one of those strange disorienting days, where too much has happened to process it all.
She takes a moment to rally herself before calling Dave. ‘Where are you?’
‘At a family barbecue,’ he replies warily.
‘I need you back in the office. Sorry.’
His sigh is resigned. ‘I thought you might say that.’
She spends the next five minutes instructing Dave on what needs doing. Verification of contact between Dylan and Hayley Webster. Information on how call-centre personnel can override the ambulance dispatch system. A timeline of Dylan O’Shea’s movements on 20 August, the evening of the shooting. A review of his bank statements for suspicious transactions that could relate to the purchase of a gun or motorcycle.
They’ve exited the freeway. Six kilometres to go. Bridget’s imagination is bursting at what they might find when they get there. How much do the parents know? What could be lurking in the garage and sheds, places she didn’t think necessary to check last time as Dylan had said goodbye in the morning and supposedly left the house?
‘Dylan knowing about the shooting is one thing,’ she murmurs. ‘Pulling the trigger is quite another … We must remember that.’
Sasha flicks on the indicator to turn right and thrums her fingers on the steering wheel while she waits for a break in the oncoming traffic. ‘If it was Dylan, what were the motorbike and gun doing in Thomas’s storage facility?’
‘Good question … Maybe Dylan and Thomas were in cahoots and Thomas couldn’t live with himself afterwards and decided to end it all.’
‘Maybe …’ Sasha says doubtfully, pressing heavily on the accelerator to make the turn, the tight margin causing Bridget to wince. ‘But Thomas doesn’t come across as the remorseful type, does he?’
‘No, he doesn’t.’
The O’Shea family dwelling is on the high side of the street, a dozen or so sandstone steps leading to the front door.
Sasha rings the bell and they wait. Mr O’Shea opens the door. He is pale-skinned, with the same unruly hair as his son.
‘Oh, it’s you.’ His face registers recognition when he sees Bridget. Then dread seeps into it. ‘It’s not bad news, is it?’
‘No,’ she assures him, with a restrained smile. ‘No news yet. But we have some further questions to ask and would like to take another look around, if you don’t mind.’
‘Of course I don’t mind. Come in. My wife is out.’
So far so good. Cooperation makes everything so much easier. Warrants are a bureaucratic pain in the ass.
The house is furnished with heavy antique furniture and chintz fabrics. There are original watercolours on the walls of the front room and Bridget is reminded that Dylan, Thomas and Jess all come from privileged backgrounds. Megan was the odd one out. Still is.
Mr O’Shea, despite being cooperative, divulges little information of use.
‘Have you ever met or heard Dylan speak about a young woman called Hayley Webster?’ Bridget searches for – and fails to find – recognition at the mention of Hayley’s name.
‘No. Dylan isn’t much good with women. Never so much as had a proper girlfriend.’
‘Do you know if Dylan and Thomas got back in contact?’
Mr O’Shea frowns and purses his lips. ‘I doubt it. Dylan doesn’t like Thomas very much at all.’
‘Does Dylan own or know how to ride a motorbike?’
The older man is visibly puzzled. ‘He had one in his early twenties. Few nasty falls and sold it after a couple of years. Why is this relevant?’
‘Do you know Dylan’s whereabouts on the evening of Tuesday, August twentieth? Approximately four and a half weeks ago,’ she adds, to help him navigate back through the weeks.
He shakes his head before answering. ‘Dylan is a grown man. He might live at home, but he keeps to his own schedule. Besides, it’s difficult to recollect what happened last week, let alone August!’
With Mr O’Shea’s permission, Bridget and Sasha have another, more thorough, look in Dylan’s bedroom. The room is sparse and rather sad, encapsulating how a neat unimaginative single male adult might live. In one of the bedside drawers
, Bridget finds various membership and loyalty cards, one of which is for a shooting range. The shiny bright-blue card is obviously quite new. Hairs stand up at the back of her neck.
She flashes it in front of his father. ‘Did you know that Dylan was a member of this club?’
‘No … but the club is legal, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Of course.’
‘As I said, he’s a grown man. He doesn’t need to tell me everything.’ Mr O’Shea’s words are at odds with his tone. Doubt is creeping in.
Bridget and Sasha, with Mr O’Shea in tow, proceed to the garage. It contains a car, a few bicycles, some cast-off furniture and an unpleasant odour. Bridget notices a shabby brown door inset into the sandstone wall.
‘What’s in there?’ she asks, stopping in her tracks.
‘Just a storeroom. We don’t use it much. Too damp and dingy.’
‘Can we have a look?’
‘Of course. Of course.’
The door handle is rusty and grimy. Bridget turns it and the door opens a mere crack before the stench forces her back.
Jesus … Oh no …
She knows that pungent, distinctive smell. It’s the scent of her job, the scent of rotting flesh. Bridget swallows the urge to gag and holds out her arm, to prevent Sasha and Mr O’Shea from going any further.
‘Wait … don’t …’
The older man barges through, clicking a light switch inside the doorway.
His howl is one of pure agony. ‘Dylan, what have you done, boy? What have you done!’
58
BRIDGET
‘He was here all the time … he never left at all …’ Mr O’Shea is sobbing into his hands. A uniformed officer is sitting next to him, on camping chairs located from elsewhere in the garage, patting him on the back. ‘Why would he do this to us, in his own home, with his mother and father upstairs? Why couldn’t he talk to us?’
Dylan had obviously reached the stage where words wouldn’t suffice, the stage where he thought the world didn’t need him or care for him, where he believed himself beyond help or redemption. A piece of rope looped around an overhead beam, a chair that was kicked away when no longer needed. He would have felt lightheaded after a few seconds, his hearing and vision fading before eventually losing consciousness. A few minutes until death and irreversible oblivion.
The house is swarming with paramedics, forensics and uniformed officers. There are four emergency vehicles parked outside: two police cars, an ambulance and fire truck. Family services are on their way. Mrs O’Shea still isn’t home but her arrival is imminent. According to her husband, she went for a walk to clear her head. Unfortunately, she didn’t take her phone with her, so all they can do is await her return. Poor, poor woman.
Kate, one of the forensic specialists, emerges from the storeroom holding a box in one hand and a set of plastic gloves in the other.
‘You might want to look at this,’ she says to Bridget. ‘We found it next to the body.’
Bridget snaps on the gloves before opening the old shoebox. There are three things inside: Dylan’s phone, with his passcode written on a Post-it; a solitary key, with a tag saying ‘storage unit’; and a plain white envelope, which she assumes contains either a suicide note or a confession.
Bridget steps outside with the envelope, away from the distraction of Mr O’Shea’s keening. Night has fallen. The temperature has plummeted. She turns on the torch function on her phone, carefully unfolds two typed sheets of paper and begins to read.
My name is Dylan O’Shea. This is my statement …
Tiny drops pepper the paper. The same tiny drops are on the sleeves of her jacket. They’re coming from the dark starless sky: drizzle.
‘Excuse me. Can you tell me what’s happening?’
A woman in her sixties has materialised and is standing in the driveway, surveying the haphazardly parked emergency vehicles. She’s illuminated with borrowed light from the garage: coiffed grey-blonde hair, face white with terror, the mist lending her an ethereal air. Her eyes instinctively fix on the sheets of paper clutched in Bridget’s hand, somehow understanding that they contain the answer to her question.
Dylan’s mother is home.
My name is Dylan O’Shea. This is my statement. On August 20th, I shot William Newson twice outside his house. I also intended to shoot Thomas Malouf but found the experience unsatisfying. I wanted more from Thomas. I wanted a confession, an acknowledgement of the wrongs he’d done. I wanted to see him terrified and helpless, like I’d felt during the trial. I planted the motorbike and gun in his storage unit, took photos of ‘the evidence’ and told him he was going to get locked up for murder. He laughed in my face, said that his lawyer would get him off. Then I told him about a recording I had on my phone, where he’d admitted to giving women GHB. I played the recording for him, but he laughed again, said there was no way a court would allow it as admissible evidence. It became obvious that I couldn’t scare him, or get him to confess, or get any reaction at all other than mockery, and so I pushed him in front of that train.
I’ve murdered two men, and the truth is I’m not sorry; I’m actually proud that I saw it through. You’ve no idea what it took. All the planning, knowing there was a good chance I wouldn’t have the guts when it came to it. Thinking constantly about my mum and dad, who deserve so much better. Not sleeping properly for months. It started that school night-out in March. I hadn’t seen Thomas or any of that gang for years, but I went along because I was at a real low point. Late in the night I was sitting next to Thomas. He was snorting cocaine, talking incessantly. He told me about Hayley, and the more he blabbered the more I realised that it wasn’t just Jess, Megan and Hayley: he’d raped other women, too. Then he said something like this: ‘Don’t look so shocked, Dumbo. GHB is magic stuff – you should know. You were so fucking uptight at that party, remember? So I did you a favour, put some in your drink. And it worked, you bonked that bitch stupid. You should try having some again. Might get some action, eh?’
He started thrusting his hips, laughing raucously. Suddenly it all made sense. How everything about the party night was blurry and surreal. How my awkwardness mysteriously disappeared. How I ended up having sex with Megan, even though she’d rejected me earlier. She hadn’t changed her mind; she’d been semi-conscious, and I’d been too drugged to notice or care. Thomas had engineered it all. He’d ruined my life as much as hers.
I shot William Newson because he enabled Thomas, twice. Our barrister never delved into what really happened on the night of the party, he glossed over the details and focused more on what the girls did wrong than what we did wrong. At the time I found this disconcerting but I was too scared to resist the process. I didn’t want to go to prison, that’s all I could think about. I was sorry and ashamed, but incredibly relieved when we were acquitted. I thought I could walk out of court, leave it all behind me, and finally start my life. But something like that doesn’t go away. It affected every relationship I had, every job I interviewed for. To be upfront or not. To tell the truth, or hope they’d never find out. I’d thought of myself as a decent bloke, but I didn’t trust myself any more. I felt dirty, ashamed, and scared of doing the wrong thing again. Thomas felt none of those things; in his mind he was invincible. Meeting Hayley Webster was an eye-opener: here was another real-life victim, proof that Newson was enabling Thomas. Who next? Other guilty blokes were walking free, too. Google Laura Dundas and you’ll see what I mean. Newson needed to be stopped as much as Thomas did.
I decided early on that Megan and Jess should be involved. If William was going to need an ambulance, who better than Megan? There was even a chance he might recognise her and apologise, but he was too far gone for that. Then I arranged to meet Thomas at Artarmon station with the idea of having him confess in front of Jess – but he laughed at me, changed platforms to get the train home, and you know the rest. I wanted Megan and Jess to know that justice was finally being served. And I also want them to know that I hate myself even mor
e than they hate me. The guilt and shame have only got stronger over the years. I don’t want to go to prison now any more than I did back then, and so there’s only one way to end this.
Mum and Dad, I’m sorry about everything. The embarrassment I caused you. The fact that you never really trusted me again. All the money you had to fork out in legal fees. One of you is going to find my body and I’m sorry about that, too. I intended to use Thomas’s storage unit but the police have it cordoned off. At least now you know about the drugs and that it wasn’t all my fault. I’ve killed two men and you’re going to be devastated. Please forgive me but believe this: these men being dead is a good thing. The world is a better safer place.
I finally did something right.
59
MEGAN
Jess is delighted to see them. ‘You came! I can’t believe you came! You too, Seb. This is great.’
They’re standing in the foyer of the community hall, where an area has been sectioned off for the fighters and their coaches. Alex is here too, and Jess’s sister, Natasha. Megan introduces Seb and they form their own little group.
‘The canteen is open, if you want drinks,’ Jess says, fidgeting with the lanyard around her neck. ‘If I were you, I’d go through to the hall pretty soon. The seats are filling up. I’d better get back to Billy. See you later!’
Billy, wearing blue, is sitting on a plastic chair, on the receiving end of a pep talk from Vince. He is listening and nodding, but his inky eyes stare in their direction. Megan assumes his opponent’s in red. Which one is it? Each looks as terrifying as the next.
‘Who’s for a drink?’ Alex asks, and takes orders before zigzagging through the crowd towards the canteen. He returns holding four cans in his huge hands.
‘To old friends,’ he says, raising his can of Coke with a hang-dog expression that suggests he doesn’t often find himself at no-alcohol events.