The Gilded Madonna Page 10

  “I swear to you, Clyde, in the briefing we were told the woman had come to the desk to report it missing and the desk sergeant hadn’t taken her name—it made me so ropeable I was fit to burst—but never once was the twenty minutes mentioned. As I said, I only read that bit in the papers, just the same as you did.”

  “But you were part of the plan to put the mannequins out on the street …?”

  “You don’t understand how Dioli works, do you, Clyde. Consultation doesn’t fit his style. The first I knew of it was when I arrived at work and saw them outside the shop. It was the desk sergeant who’d had to explain it to me … Clyde?”

  I’d jumped to my feet and with my hands behind my neck, craning to look up into the sky, stunned at what I’d just heard. It was a setup—it had to be. A fucking inappropriate, ill-thought-out scheme to get publicity and to get the case back on the front page of the papers, and—

  “Who did the press briefings, Vince?”

  “Well, it was Dioli of course—”

  I knew it. Even though he’d handed the case over to Vince, or plonked it on his desk—that’s what Vince had said—Dioli still wanted to be seen as being in charge of the investigation.

  “You think …?”

  “I think you’ll find that the desk sergeant might be extremely evasive if you confronted him about details of the woman who supposedly reported the mannequin had gone missing. No one, and I say it again, absolutely no one at Randwick nick is so blasted stupid and derelict of duty they’d forget to take a statement or to ask one of the plods to interview the woman. No one! It’s a little publicity stunt cooked up by your favourite D.S. to put himself in the spotlight while you—”

  “Clyde, you’re shouting!” Harry said, grabbing me by the shirt­sleeve and patting the blanket, inviting me to sit down.

  I glanced around. Everyone nearby was certainly staring. I was saved further embarrassment by loud cheers from those spread out on the grass of the embankment.

  “Howzat!”

  Someone had been bowled out and I’d missed it.

  *****

  We’d been getting dinner ready when the phone rang. Vince and I had made and rolled out pasta sheets and were preparing mushroom and spinach tortellini while Tom helped Harry bone out two chickens. I dusted my hands off on my apron and went to take the call.

  “Is that Clyde Smith?”

  “Yes, that’s me, operator.”

  “Long distance call. Putting you through. One moment please.”

  “Hello, Captain Smith?”

  “It’s a long time since anyone called me that, but yes, you’re speaking with him.”

  The man chuckled. “I used to be a lieutenant colonel, too, I know how you feel. My name is Howard Farrell, and I believe you’ve been trying to find out about Terrence and Mark Dioli.”

  *****

  “Howard Farrell, that guy who owns Zephyr, the big racehorse stud outside Bowral? That guy who was mixed up with the Daley Morrison case?”

  “Yes, Harry, and you and I are meeting him for dinner on Wednesday night.”

  “I can’t, Clyde. There’s no way I could get down to Bowral and back in time for a meeting first thing on Thursday morning.”

  “He’s invited us to the Union, University & Schools Club in the city.”

  “Ah! That’s a nice place. Good dining room and very private.”

  “You’ve been?”

  “Only twice. Dad’s a member.”

  Vince and Tom had left an hour ago, after we’d cleaned up. I’d promised I’d think about what Vince should do next. I couldn’t imagine the grief and pain the Bishop family would suffer when they found out what Dioli had done—if they hadn’t been consulted that is. It was inconceivable someone would have such little empathy and not discuss the plan with the family first to see whether they were willing to go along with such an obvious and hideously inappropriate stunt.

  “Clyde?”

  “Yes, Harry?”

  “You didn’t finish telling me what Farrell said. You simply came back into the room before and didn’t say who’d called.”

  “I just didn’t want to get back into a discussion about Farrell with the others. They both were so connected to the Morrison case, I didn’t want the conversation to veer away from how we could help Vince.”

  “And?”

  I laughed. He already knew when there were things I’d not said.

  “And Farrell has inside information on Dioli and his grandfather. I guess someone in central records let him know I’d been asking questions when I took afternoon tea in for the fellas.”

  “And?”

  I kissed him. It almost turned into something else for the second time since our guests had left. We’d been stretched out on my bed, the sheets in disarray, and with the lights turned out.

  “More kisses later, Smith. After you’ve spilled the beans.”

  “He’s invited us for the long weekend over the new year.”

  “To …?”

  “To play tennis, go for walks, ride his horses, and swim in his pool. We’ll be his only guests for the holiday period. And, before you ask, I did make it perfectly clear that’s all we’d be interested in.”

  “I’ll have to get clearance, Clyde. You know that.”

  Howard Farrell had been Australia’s man on the spot, always at MacArthur’s side during the Pacific war, and nearly always seen in press shots, wearing sunglasses and standing behind the American general. He was one of the few men in the country who didn’t have an Army Intelligence file. I knew that because I’d tried to find out about him earlier in the year.

  “We’ve got almost two weeks to organise someone to look after your parents while we’re away.”

  “We’ve only just got back, Clyde.”

  I said nothing. I leaned over him and picked up my cigarettes. I lit two and handed him one and then got out of bed.

  “Clyde …”

  I ignored him. I was angry—again. Although my parents had died years ago, while I’d been growing up I’d been given a lot of freedom. I’d never been asked where I was going or what time I’d be home. I’d loved them and they’d loved me back. I wasn’t used to the concept of parents needing to be looked after. I knew it was selfish, and had I been more confident about myself, perhaps I’d just have sighed and felt disappointed. But I wasn’t like that.

  “Clyde!” he called out again a minute later.

  I walked to the bedroom doorway from the kitchen and leaned against the doorframe.

  “You know I—”

  “I went to fill up Baxter’s water bowl, Harry. Didn’t you hear him meowing?”

  “Come here,” he said, beckoning me with a toss of his head.

  “Why?” I could smell one of Harry’s games in the offing.

  “Come on,” he said, patting the bed.

  I took a long puff of my cigarette and raised an eyebrow.

  “Gimme a reason,” I murmured.

  He pulled the sheet from over his waist and arched his back while he ran his hands between his legs and licked his lips.

  “Come on, Clyde. Come back to bed …” His voice was dark and slightly gritty. I found myself responding, despite myself. He knew how much I liked it when he played these sorts of games.

  “You miserable bastard,” I said, shaking my head, trying not to smile.

  He crawled out of bed on all fours and began to playfully kiss my feet, occasionally glancing up trying to make me laugh. I made a token play of resistance, right up to the point when he licked my big toe.

  “I’m sorry, Harry …” It was out of my mouth before I could stop myself.

  “I’ll give you sorry, Clyde,” he growled.

  “I’d prefer it if you gave me what you’ve been playing with while you’ve been sucking on my toes.”

  He sat up quickly and leaned back. He was as hard as a rock. “What, you mean this?”

  It was then I laughed.

  “Harry Jones—”

  I was a b
ig man, but he picked me up effortlessly, draped me over his shoulder, and carried me back to the bed.

  “Which side up?” he asked.

  I don’t remember my answer. My mind tended to go blank when I cracked one. I guess I was not unlike most of the other blokes in the world in that sense. But, somehow, I knew we’d be spending four days enjoying Howard Farrell’s hospitality.

  I could work miracles too when it came to Harry Jones.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  On Monday morning I arrived at Billy’s chambers early. Our meeting was scheduled for ten, but I’d been feeling down in the dumps and had decided to check out a new European-style café in Rowe Street before our appointment. It had turned out to be a dud. Their idea of European was a few travel posters on the wall and a waitress in a dirndl with a paper flower poked into the bun at the back of her head.

  I’d had the most dreadful row with Harry last night and he’d stormed out the door, slamming it so hard behind him I’d heard the crockery rattle on the sideboard in the kitchen. Baxter had gone into hiding under my bed and hadn’t reappeared until the wee hours of the morning.

  I’d precipitated the argument. At thirty-six years of age, I’d finally lost my marbles over a man for the first time in my life. My inside world was so confused at times I wasn’t sure I recognised who I was half the time. Even though I knew why I’d kicked it off, I hadn’t been able to either explain to him or stop myself launching into a stupid “If you really cared” type discussion.

  It came from finding out on Sunday morning, when I’d run into Craig at the newsagent, that not only had Harley already moved in with him but also that Sam had given up his flat in Milford Street and had gone to live with Billy in his fabulous, expansive flat in Darling Point. Of course it had led to me feeling like the bridesmaid, when my other pals had taken a huge leap and had tied the figurative knot of commitment.

  Although we’d had a terrific day together on Sunday, I’d had a few too many glasses of wine over dinner and before I could stop myself, I’d heard the words fall out of my mouth. I’d spent half the evening formulating a subtle conversation in my mind that led step by gentle step into suggesting a possible, one day, perhaps type scenario. Instead, I’d blurted out, “Let’s go look for somewhere we can live together”.

  Of course it had been totally the wrong thing to do, only made worse by the phone ringing in the middle of a heated discussion, which by that point had almost disintegrated into finger-pointing.

  “Yes, Mother,” I’d heard Harry say, after I’d handed him the receiver.

  It wasn’t her fault, I really liked her. But he’d just been yelling at me that because my parents were both dead, I seemed to think that everyone else could forget theirs or just ignore them.

  The main reason for her call was to tell me she’d be only too happy to babysit Baxter when Harry and I were away over New Year. He must have told her in the morning while I was cooking breakfast and when he’d rung to check with the nurse who’d been looking after them whether everything was all right. Of course, that had brought about enormous feelings of guilt and then anger with myself. I should never drink. How many times had I said to myself that three glasses was my limit. I was a maudlin drunk, tending to vacillate between huge enthusiastic moments and deep, desperate moments of self-loathing and contrition for imagined wrong-doings.

  “I can’t bear it when you’re like this, Clyde. You’re impossible to love when you bloody well beat yourself up. There’s simply no room for me to care. I suggest you sleep it off and we’ll talk about it when you’re sober.”

  I’d got halfway through telling him I wasn’t drunk when he’d stormed off and slammed the door almost off its hinges. I can’t say I blamed him. The fucking war had done it to me. I wasn’t shifting the blame. Three years of torture, deprivation, and degradation had broken many men in the camp. I was one of the few that had been able to string words together when Billy had finally liberated us, but so much of who I had been was still broken inside.

  My mother would have hated the man that had come back in forty-six. My father had wept over the changes. He’d held me in his arms and apologised to God and to the rest of mankind, but he could never forgive the hardness and grief he’d seen flash over my face from time to time.

  “Fy machgen hardd …” he’d whisper into my ear as he’d rock me in his arms in the early days after coming home, when I’d wake screaming in the middle of the night. I’d give anything for one more night of my beautiful boy, murmured in Welsh in my da’s gorgeous lilting accent, even if it meant living through the worst of the worst in my dreams again.

  *****

  Mary Jones arrived at Billy’s chambers at quarter to the hour. I stood and kissed her cheek, enquiring about her morning.

  Earlier that year, I’d “inherited” an enormous sum of money, illegal earnings from drug dealing, fixed sporting bets, and extortion. Having worked in the police force, I knew the money would never have been used well, or would have ended up lining the pockets of senior corrupt cops and their minions, so had decided to donate it to Legacy, the charity set up to help war widows and their children. However, they wouldn’t accept such a large sum without knowing where it came from, so it had been Billy’s idea to form a limited trust, with him as the chairman, and Harry’s mother and myself the two board members. Billy had invested the money, and we met every few weeks to discuss how to distribute the interest earned over the previous month, which was not inconsiderable. A hundred pounds divided between four different families every month would seem like a win on the lottery to struggling widows and their children.

  We were meeting this morning to discuss the idea of a bursary for deserving kids to help them with their schooling. Maybe a fiver every year to help with textbooks and stationery. It had been Mary’s idea.

  Not long after she’d arrived, Billy’s articled clerk informed us that Billy was running a little late, and asked if we’d like a cup of tea in the meeting room.

  “You know, Clyde, marriage is an odd thing,” Mary said, quite out of the blue, after pouring our tea.

  “Really? In what way, may I ask?”

  “After the initial intense bonding, one is left with either a long-lasting love affair, the closest of friendships, or merely the habit of staying together because one is used to it.”

  “Are you and Arnold …?”

  She laughed and then set her cup and saucer back on the tea tray. “No, Clyde, nothing of the sort. I was just thinking on my way here that the best of friendships are those in which people talk to each other. Any strong relationship, whether it be just friends or partners in a marriage, depends upon open communication, the freedom to express tiny doubts, big issues, or even irrational thoughts. None of us are perfect—I said so to Harry this morning over breakfast.”

  I could feel my cheeks burning. “Oh?”

  “Yes, he stormed in the door last night and clomped to his bedroom like a pack of heavy-footed wild elephants and then came to breakfast this morning with a face like thunder. I gave him a good talking to … about friendships and freedom.”

  “Freedom?”

  “Clyde, has anyone ever mentioned you often speak or ask questions in single word utterances?”

  It was my turn to laugh. “Yes, quite frequently as a matter of fact. I’ve been told it’s one of my least attractive qualities.”

  “Let an old woman tell you that you have many more other attractive qualities that more than make up for your frequent spare use of the language.”

  “Why thank you, Mary.”

  She leaned over and patted the back of my hand.

  “As I was saying: freedom. It’s important for Harry, and it’s something he seems to feel he’s not entitled to. When our daughter Sybil died, Harry threw everything in without asking us. His career in the army, whatever personal life and space he had, all terminated instantly. We really didn’t want him to come back home. It was his choice. We could have managed by hiring someone to look after us.
Our house is far too big for two elderly people. We’ve space aplenty for a live-in nurse or housekeeper. But no, Harry always has to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.”

  “Really?”

  “You did it again, Clyde.”

  “Oh, yes, sorry.”

  “Arnold and I are delighted about your new joint business proposition and the fact he has a very close friend with whom he can go on holidays, or even, as you’re about to over the new year, spend time together away for weekends in the country. He’s no longer a child, and both of you have missed out so much of the period in your lives when you should have been out doing what young people do. Wars are such horrid things.”

  “I like Harry, Mary.”

  “And we like you, Clyde. I feel like you’re part of our family. You remind me so much of my brother, Percival, that it’s uncanny. The very first moment I met you on Australia Day at Parsley Bay, I wished you’d become one of our little group of Joneses, and now you have.”

  Mary Jones was no one’s fool. She knew exactly what was going on between Harry and me. It was just impossible for any of us to talk about it openly. She’d given me her blessing without saying anything, so I leaned across and kissed her cheek.

  “Harry’s been banned from the house for three days a week, Clyde. Arnold and I talked it over in bed last night when we heard him growling to himself in the kitchen while he made a cup of cocoa. The boy needs to get a life of his own, away from the regimented life he had in the armed forces and away from his parents. He fusses too much. To encourage him to flex his wings, we’ve arranged for one of Nurse Watson’s friends to stay from Friday to Sunday. She needs the extra income and she has a delightful little girl who Arnold and I both adore. They can sleep in Sybil’s room—there are twin beds. It will be lovely to have the sound of a child around the house again. And the bonus is she can drive too, so perhaps we might take a few outings.”

  “Oh!”

  “Don’t sound so surprised, Clyde. He may not show it, but I’ve seen the look on Harry’s face when he cleans Baxter’s bowls after we’ve been cat-sitting for you. My son loves Baxter too, just as much as I do. As he’ll be scolded for not spending the weekends enjoying himself, perhaps your spare room might find itself occupied more frequently. As long as you don’t mind visitors, that is?”