The Gilded Madonna Page 14

  Finally, there remained just the inner cardboard box, pale grey in colour, of the type that rulers came in when they were ordered a few dozen at a time, but about three times the size. At a rough guess I’d say it was eighteen inches long, about seven wide, and perhaps the same in depth. He gingerly lifted the lid, which covered the top and fitted snugly over the sides all the way down to the base. I smelled it instantly.

  “What’s that pong?” he asked.

  “Urine,” I said. “First piss of the morning by the smell of it.”

  A thick folded layer of white butcher’s paper lay over the contents. He removed the layer with tweezers and placed it into another envelope that Tom held open for him. Under that was a layer of greaseproof paper. He lifted it out by one corner, revealing the contents of the box.

  “Holy cow!” Tom said.

  Nestled into the box was a gleaming, golden statue of the Virgin and child; the lower half wound around with a length of fabric, soaked and reeking of urine.

  “It’s a flag of Wales,” I said. Even though it was folded up, I recognised it. My da had had one in a frame over the mantelpiece of the fire in his study. I used to sit and stare at the green-and-white divided banner with its fiery red, black-outlined dragon rampart across the centre.

  He looked at me. “A flag of Wales? As in the country?”

  I nodded.

  “I didn’t even know they had a flag.”

  I carefully lifted the statue, using a loop of string around its neck, and held it high.

  “Is it gold, do you think?” he asked.

  “Not heavy enough,” I replied. “I’d say it was a cast bronze shell, coated with something.”

  “Here,” he said and then took the scalpel from my toolkit and scraped at a small section of its hand as he carefully held it steady with one cotton-gloved finger. The gold covering came off on the end of the scalpel. “It’s gold leaf.”

  I handed him the string and he held the statue aloft, dangling in the air, while I took a dozen or so photos.

  “I bet there are no prints,” I said, as I rewound the film in my camera and went to look for another roll. I had seen no smudges as it had turned in the light.

  “Why on earth would anyone send you something like this, Smith?”

  “The question is not why they sent it to me, but to the Bishops with my name on it.”

  “It’s a clue,” Tom said. “Just like the Morrison case.”

  “Well, you and I both know it’s not the same people this time.”

  “But the whole clue aspect to solving the case was all over the papers, even if they didn’t mention specifics. You were called the new Sherlock Holmes, remember?”

  I rolled my eyes, picked up my phone, and pressed the button for Harry’s office.

  “Tell the Bishops nothing’s wrong, but just get in here for a minute, will you?”

  “Oh, hello, what’s this?” Harry said as he closed my office door behind him. “Stolen treasure?”

  “It’s gold-covered bronze, Harry.”

  “Who on earth would send you a gilded Madonna, Clyde? You’re an atheist.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  I gave Tom my car keys and asked him to drive the Bishops home. It was a thirty-minute walk to where they lived from my office, and during the cooler months of the year it would have been quite pleasant. However, four days before Christmas, Sydney was cooking up a stinker.

  Before he left, I took him to one side and told him to ask whether he could look through the children’s room and to cast his eye around the house in general, especially to see if they had some sort of backyard from where the house could be overlooked. Who knows if the kidnapping had really been opportunistic. Perhaps someone had been watching the children for some time and had been spying on the family’s routine.

  “I suppose you have some ideas about this,” Dioli said, indicating the figurine, after Tom and the Bishops had left.

  “Not yet,” I said and was about to continue when Harry interrupted.

  “Well I do,” he said. “Come into my office, I’ve had a decent-sized blackboard put up in the big room, and I can show you how we’d tackle something enigmatic like this.”

  “We?” Dioli asked.

  “Harry was a cryptographer during the war, and he still works part-time for Army Intelligence,” I explained. “He’s the one who worked out the gambling scheme in the Daley Morrison case, and it was from that breakthrough we were eventually able to implicate Marvin Keeps.”

  I watched Dioli’s face. He didn’t react to the name. “Keeps, the chief superintendent who copped a stray bullet in that stoush in Alexandria?”

  Harry and I exchanged quick glances. It was interesting that he didn’t seem to know Keeps, and therefore probably didn’t know he’d been his grandfather’s A.D.C. Neither did he seem to know that it was Harry who’d been responsible for the careful shot that had killed Keeps. A stray bullet had had nothing to do with it.

  Dioli had been adopted at the age of six, having been taken into care while still an infant. According to what Howard Farrell had said, small children were only knocked about—a polite euphemism for being beaten—it wasn’t until they became pubescent that the sexual predation and pimping started. Howard Farrell had said he’d been a teenager when men had started “visiting” him. Maybe that’s why Dioli had never run across Keeps, who was only interested in sexual dealings with adolescents.

  Dioli and I pulled up chairs and watched while Harry rolled up his sleeves and then dusted off his blackboard.

  “When we worked out codes in the war, we had well-known methods to follow,” he said. “People have been writing coded messages since the days of the Babylonians, so studying most of the regular ciphers is part of our training. However, codes are one thing, but clues are a completely different kettle of fish. A clue is usually something that associates one object to another—like the word ‘cat’ for example.” He pointed at Baxter, who was sitting on the edge of the long meeting table with his paws folded neatly over the edge. “When you think of cats there’s the usual things come to mind: black cats and bad luck, cat fur and allergies, cats and rodents, cats and Ancient Egypt, and so on.”

  He drew up a grid on the blackboard of five columns. “This is how I’d go about it—”

  “Wait,” Dioli said, pulling out his notebook. Maybe there was a real detective underneath his aggressive and overly protective exterior.

  “The package delivered to the Bishops with Clyde’s name on it has to be a message of sorts, right? So in order to figure out that message, we need to hone in on the specific items in the box. These would be my main headings,” Harry said and then wrote one word at the top of each column from left to right. BVM, Metal, Gold, Wales, Urine. “There could be more, of course, but these are a good start.”

  “BVM?”

  “Blessed Virgin Mary, I believe,” Harry explained to Dioli. “What I’d do next is to list as many associations or synonyms for each of the items at the top of each column.”

  Dioli scribbled furiously and then read out what he’d written. “So, for the first column, under BVM, so far I’ve got Virgin, Mary, Mother, Madonna, pure, blue—”

  “Blue?” I asked.

  “Blue of a particular hue is associated with the Mother of Jesus.” Then when I asked him to explain, he said, “I’m not a Roman Catholic, but I read a lot.”

  Between us, after about twenty minutes, we’d filled the board and then some, adding more synonyms around the edge of Harry’s grid and beneath it with arrows pointing to the column the words belonged to.

  “So, here’s your, or should I say ‘our’ answer,” Harry said, standing back with his arms crossed. “We just have to figure out which words in each column we can link to give us a suggestion.”

  I read out the first words under each heading. “Virgin, brass, wealth, dragon, piss,” I said.

  “Nice one, Smith,” Harry said. “For a writer, you have such a way with words.”

  Eve
n Dioli laughed, which surprised me. The sound of his laughter didn’t seem to fit with the person I’d come to believe he was. It was filled with genuine amusement and seemed to come from deep down inside.

  “All right, Harry,” I said. “I suppose what you want me to do is to find an idea that combines all or some of those words to make a phrase or a sentence that could sound like a clue?”

  “That’s my boy,” he said in his best Mr. Magoo voice.

  I thought for a moment. “Virgin, brass, wealth, dragon, piss, could stand for a high-class prostitute with a bad temper who specialises in urolagnia for her clients?”

  “Urolagnia?”

  I was surprised Dioli didn’t know the word. Most detectives who’d had dealings with prostitutes would have known what it meant. “Some guys like to watch women pee, or get them to pee on them. It’s the proper term for a urination fetish. Most clients, when they want it, ask the brothel owner if Yellow River is available, as if it’s the name of a Chinese slapper.”

  “Good grief,” Dioli said, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “You’ll get to learn the jargon once you’ve been a D.S. for a while. One of the biggest vice problems in the area are the cheap brothels up around the racecourse. On Saturdays, after the meet’s over, there’s not only a lot of grog-fuelled violence, but punch-ups in the knock shops in Wansey Road and Botany Street.”

  “I’ll look forward to that,” he said.

  “Irony, Detective Sergeant?” I said. “You almost sound human.”

  He ignored my jibe, although he did crack a partial smile. “Your suggestion of the high-class prostitute and her Yellow whatsit, Smith. How did you figure that out from those first five words at the top of the list?”

  “Some women, especially those who are into those sorts of specialist activities, don’t actually engage in penetrative sex, hence the ‘virgin’. Brass is an expression we still use for money, and gold would mean a lot of money. Dragon—angry, fire-breathing. Piss meaning she was a Yellow River, as I just explained.”

  Dioli sat back in his chair, checking his notes and occasionally glancing up at the blackboard.

  “Clyde’s is obviously not the answer,” Harry said. “But once you know how to go about it, like I’ve marked it out on the blackboard, it’s one of the best methods I’ve found when trying to deduce clues.”

  “I wish I’d known this method earlier, right at the start of my career, rather than swimming through a million ideas trying to find the best one to fit,” I said. “How about I take a photo of the blackboard for you, Detective Sergeant. I can develop a print tonight and get someone to drop it in to you tomorrow. It’ll save you copying everything down into your notebook.”

  “Thank you very much. I’d appreciate it,” he said. “Now about your involvement in the Bishop case. I can’t say I’m thrilled, but as they’ve approached you, I can hardly ban them. I could advise they don’t muddy the waters with an external investigation, but—”

  “I’ve had a few ideas,” I said. “Ones that don’t involve treading on your toes.”

  “Go on …”

  “I don’t think it would be wise if the other men in the station got to know of my involvement; to them it’s just as if I left last week, not last year. I think you’re probably going to be up to your eyes in the Silent Cop cases—”

  “Cases?”

  “Well, assuming it’s the same murderer, he killed regularly, once every seven to eleven days. There’ll be another body turn up if he operates like he did last time. Anyway, as I was saying about not wanting to appear to be too involved, I can work with D.C. Paleotti here in my office, away from the station. I’ll liaise with him and he can report to you.”

  “I’m glad you understand how difficult it would be for me, if it was to seem like you—”

  I held my hand up. “I don’t have time to take over the case if that’s what you’re worried about. I’ve got too much of my own work on my plate, but my offer to help is there.”

  “All right, under those circumstances I’ve no objections. However, I’d like everything passed by me first, unless it’s something trivial.”

  “Excellent,” I said.

  “So, how do you intend to proceed?”

  “The first thing I’ll do is to call in to see the Bishops later this afternoon to get them to sign my private contract, which will allow me to ask questions as their representative. But there’s something else I think I need to do while I’m there.”

  “And what is that?”

  “How about I just make up a story and say to the Bishops that the mannequin of their son has been returned and it was just a stupid prank by some school children?”

  “Why?”

  “Did you think of the anguish it might have caused them to think it might have been a message from the kidnapper? How easy it would be for a grieving parent to misinterpret the missing mannequin as a message that the boy was dead and now only the girl still remained alive?”

  The blood seemed to drain from Dioli’s face. “I only meant it as a way of reviving the case in the eyes of the public …”

  “I understand your motives, but I’d have let them know first, just to save any heartache.”

  “I didn’t think—”

  “No one’s blaming you,” I said, almost through gritted teeth, for that’s what I felt—it had been a stupid move, despite any benefits that may have arisen from new public interest and possible leads.

  “I—”

  “Sergeant, I have a five-inch column for the Mirror due tomorrow. I’ll write a report that the mannequin has been returned, and that you’ve spoken to the parents of the children and because of the age of the perpetrators, you’ve decided not to make a charge of public mischief. I’ll write it up in a way that it sounds like that’s what actually happened, and I got the information directly from you. When I visit the Bishops this afternoon, I’ll tell them the same story, to put their minds at rest. I hate making things up, but in this case I think you’ll agree that it’s best for everyone concerned … including yourself.”

  “Thank you …”

  “No need to thank me. It was a good idea and it’s something I wouldn’t have thought of myself. The idea of the mannequins, was that yours?”

  He looked rather taken aback at my slight praise. I was being on my very best behaviour, mainly to help Vince not because I wanted to pitch in to help Dioli’s career move forward. In my opinion, he needed a lot more time pounding the pavement and getting his hands dirty before he earned any respect.

  “The Americans do it,” he replied. “I didn’t think of the family. I can see how they might have misinterpreted it. But, in my defence, we locked up both mannequins in the storeroom after the report went into the paper—to discourage time-wasters stopping for a gawk.”

  “Well, I’m here to offer you advice any time, Detective Sergeant. Always happy to help out.”

  I was grateful he couldn’t see Harry’s face—the expression combined disbelief and amusement at my uncharacteristic response.

  “Yes, me too!” he piped up from behind the detective sergeant.

  *****

  “What was that for?” I asked Harry after Dioli had gone.

  He’d moved behind me and wrapped me in his arms and then had kissed the side of my neck.

  “This new, caring Clyde Smith, who didn’t tear into that young bloke, but appeared to be sensitive and thoughtful.”

  “Sensitive and thoughtful is my middle name, Harry,” I said, turning in his arms.

  “That’s two words and since when?”

  “Since I heard about what happened to him in the orphanage and what Clarrie’s son told me about the beatings. When I got into bed last night I hugged the pillow and thought about the cruelty I saw go on in the war … and we were grown-ups, Harry, not innocent children who couldn’t fight back and who were at the mercy of people who were supposed to look after them. As much as he’s full of himself, I can almost understand why.”


  “What can I do to help?”

  “If you feel up to it, come with me once or twice when I go to see Dr. De Natalis. Although you might hear some things you might not want to, you’re as part of my life now as my arms or my legs, Harry Jones. I don’t know if I can go on without you knowing what’s made me the way I am. I don’t want to talk about it much after the sessions with the doctor, but I just feel I need the rock that you are to be there with me, otherwise I won’t have the strength to open up.”

  “I’m a rock am I?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Ever since I’d turned around into his arms, I’d had my forehead against his chest while we’d been speaking. I looked up into his eyes.

  “What makes you think your doctor would be happy for me to be there, Clyde?”

  “Because it was her idea.”

  “You told her about me on the phone?”

  “No, not on the phone, Harry. But I went to talk to her in her office right after I spoke with her. She invited me to come to her rooms for half an hour to discuss what I thought my main problems were. My first appointment is the Monday before Australia Day. Of course I told her about you; you’re as much part of me as I am myself … why wouldn’t I mention the man I was in love with?”

  “Oh, Jesus, Clyde, I can’t tell you how much I—”

  “Then don’t, Harry,” I said and then kissed him. “Save it for the weekend when we have three days for you to show me how much you—”

  “How about now, here on the meeting table?”

  I laughed, and we might have gone further, except for Tom, who’d returned from the Bishop’s house.

  “I ordered Vienna schnitzy-watsits on the phone before I took the Bishops home. Six this time. Two each,” he called out, giving us just enough time to break apart and to assume nonchalant stances, almost as if we were just leaning against the table and about to have a smoke.