The failure to secure this property is contrary to everything we were led to believe.
In the aftermath of one of Queensland's darkest acts of extremist violence, the families of two slain police officers were offered something rare in grief — a concrete promise: that the land where their loved ones fell would be transformed into a place of memory rather than left to chance. That promise has now dissolved. The Wieambilla property where Constables Rachel McCrow and Matthew Arnold were murdered in December 2022 was sold on the open market in April 2026 to an unknown private buyer, and the families learned of it not through those who had made the assurance, but through a real estate listing — a quiet, devastating reminder that institutional goodwill and personal grief do not always move at the same pace.
- Families who had held onto a promise of a memorial park for over three years discovered the property had been sold through a public real estate advertisement — not a phone call, not a conversation.
- The Queensland Police Union believed it was negotiating in good faith, but the owner ultimately accepted another offer, leaving the union's president to express hope — not assurance — that the new owners would treat the site with dignity.
- The families have named the sale an outright betrayal, calling it an insult to the memories of Rachel McCrow, Matthew Arnold, and neighbour Alan Dare, who were all murdered there by extremists in December 2022.
- Their deepest fear is not abstract: the property could become a destination for those who sympathise with the extremist ideology of the Train family killers, or simply be occupied by someone indifferent to the weight of what happened on that ground.
- The Police Minister offered condolences and acknowledged the shootings as one of Queensland's darkest days, but the families needed more than acknowledgment — they needed the land secured, and it was not.
In December 2022, Constables Rachel McCrow and Matthew Arnold responded to a missing persons call at a property near Wieambilla, Queensland. They were shot dead there, along with neighbour Alan Dare, by three members of the Train family, who held extremist views. The killings shook the state, and in the weeks that followed, the Queensland Police Union began working to secure the property — hoping to prevent it from becoming a shrine to extremist ideology and to create instead a dignified memorial where the families of the dead could grieve.
For more than three years, the families of McCrow and Arnold held onto a promise: the union would purchase the land, the house would be demolished, and the site would become a quiet memorial park. It was something concrete to hold in the midst of loss — what the families themselves described as a shred of comfort.
Then in February 2026, the property appeared on the open real estate market. The families found out not through any official communication, but through a public listing. By April, it had sold to an unknown private buyer for $190,000. No one had warned them it was coming.
In a joint statement, the families called the sale an insult to the memories of Rachel, Matthew, and Alan Dare — a betrayal of everything they had been led to believe. The prospect that a stranger now owns the ground where their loved ones died, and that the site might attract extremist sympathisers or simply be treated without reverence, was something they said they should never have had to face.
Shane Prior, the union's president, acknowledged the disappointment and expressed hope that the new owners would understand the weight of what had occurred there. But the families had been promised certainty, not hope. Aidan Train, son of two of the shooters, had indicated a preference to sell to the union, yet negotiations stalled and the property went to market regardless. Police Minister Dan Purdie offered his thoughts and called the Wieambilla shootings one of Queensland's darkest days — but the families had needed action, not reflection. They are left now to wait and wonder what an unknown owner will do with the land where their loved ones were murdered.
In December 2022, Constables Rachel McCrow and Matthew Arnold responded to a missing persons report at a property on Wains Road near Wieambilla, Queensland. They were shot dead there, along with neighbour Alan Dare, by three members of the Train family—Gareth, Nathaniel, and Stacey—who held extremist views. The killings shook the state. In the weeks that followed, the Queensland Police Union began exploring how to secure the property itself, hoping to prevent it from becoming a shrine for those drawn to extremist ideology and to create instead a place where the families of the dead could grieve and remember.
For more than three years, the families of McCrow and Arnold held onto a promise. The QPU would buy the property. The house would come down. The land would be transformed into a memorial park—a quiet, dignified space where people could reflect on the sacrifice these officers had made. It was a concrete thing to hold onto when everything else felt broken. The families spoke of carrying "a shred of comfort" based on that assurance.
Then in February 2026, the property appeared on the real estate market. The families learned about the sale not through official channels, not through a conversation with the government or the union, but through a public listing. By April, it had sold to a private buyer for $190,000. No one had told them. No one had warned them it was coming.
In a statement, the McCrow and Arnold families described the feeling as a betrayal. They called the sale "an insult to the memories" of Rachel, Matthew, and Alan Dare. The idea that a stranger now owned the ground where their loved ones had died—that someone unknown might live in that house, or that the property might become a destination for extremist sympathizers—was something they said they should never have had to endure. "The failure to secure this property is contrary to everything we were led to believe," they wrote.
The Queensland Police Union had negotiated what it believed was a good-faith purchase. Shane Prior, the union's president, acknowledged the disappointment. "It's disappointing the owner has decided to accept another offer," he said. He expressed hope that the new owners would treat the site with dignity, that they would understand whose blood had soaked into that ground and act accordingly. But hope is not the same as certainty, and certainty is what the families had been promised.
Aidan Train, the son of two of the shooters, had indicated he would prefer to sell to the union. Negotiations, however, had stalled. The property went to market. Someone else bought it. The families were left to discover this through a real estate advertisement, left to imagine what might happen next on that piece of land, left to wonder how a promise made in the aftermath of tragedy had simply evaporated.
Police Minister Dan Purdie issued a statement acknowledging that the Wieambilla shootings "remain one of the darkest days in Queensland's history." His thoughts, he said, remained with the families. But thoughts are not the same as action, and the families had needed more than thoughts. They had needed the government and the union to follow through. They had needed the property secured, the house demolished, the ground consecrated as a place of memory rather than left to the uncertainties of the private market. Instead, they are left waiting to see what an unknown owner will do with the site where their loved ones were murdered.
Notable Quotes
For over three years, we carried a shred of comfort based on a promise to tear down the reminders of that horrific night and transform the property into a sacred memorial site.— McCrow and Arnold families
It's disappointing the owner has decided to accept another offer.— Queensland Police Union president Shane Prior
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why does it matter so much to these families that the property itself be controlled—that it become a memorial rather than just remain a private home?
Because a place holds memory in a way that words alone cannot. If a stranger lives there, if the house stands unchanged, the families have to imagine their loved ones' final moments every time they think about that address. A memorial transforms it from a crime scene into something sacred.
But couldn't the families simply choose not to think about the property? Why does ownership matter?
Because they can't control what happens there otherwise. The new owner might welcome curiosity seekers. Extremists might visit. The house might become a pilgrimage site for the wrong reasons. A memorial park, controlled by the police union, would have been a place where the families could go and know the space was being treated with respect.
The union president said he hopes the new owners will treat it with dignity. Isn't that enough?
Hope is what you're left with when you've lost control. The families were promised certainty. They were told the property would be secured, the house torn down, the ground transformed. That promise held them through three years of grief. When it broke, it wasn't just about the property—it was about being told one thing and having another thing happen.
Did anyone explain why the sale went through? Why the union's offer wasn't accepted?
The source doesn't say. That's part of what makes this so painful for the families. They found out through a real estate listing. No one told them the negotiations had failed. No one prepared them. It just appeared on the market and was gone.
What happens now?
That's the question the families are asking too. An unknown person owns the property. The families have called on the government and the union to step in, but there's no indication they can or will. The site where three people were murdered is now in private hands, and no one knows what the new owner intends to do with it.