The Gilded Madonna Read online

  “It’s going to be hard not waking up and finding you next to me.”

  “Yup.”

  I didn’t want to think about it. Ten days away together, sleeping in the same bed, sharing our daily lives, and spending time as a couple had made me want it to last forever. Maybe one day it might be possible, but for now, two men living together, unless they were very broke, or relatives, caused tongues to wag. Not that I cared for myself, but for Harry and his parents. People could say what they liked about me. They could point fingers as much as they liked, but it was all just hearsay, and I had the experience of nine years upholding the law to be able to use it as a weapon if anyone even dared try to expose my private life.

  “See you tomorrow?” he said.

  “Tell your mum and dad I’ll call by in the morning to pick up Baxter.”

  “One day Mother isn’t going to relinquish him, you know.”

  “There’s plenty of strays, Harry, why don’t you get one for yourself?”

  “Oh, I’ve got one already, and he’s more than I can handle.”

  He gave my bum a quick grope with our final kiss, and I stood in the gateway and waved to him as he opened his front door.

  “Coming up for a drink?” I said to Vince as soon as I was back in the car.

  “A drink?”

  “Yes, a drink, Vince. And while we’re having one, how about you tell me what’s on your mind. I guess you need help with something at work?”

  He grinned and shook his head. “Am I that transparent, Clyde?”

  “If you didn’t want to talk to me, then it would have been Philip driving the car, not you. Am I right?”

  “Got me.”

  His deep sigh told me I was probably not going to like what I was about to hear, and I’d bet my boots it had something to do with Randwick police station.

  *****

  “Tom’s resigned?”

  “Yes, Clyde. He couldn’t take it any more.”

  “What about the new D.I., didn’t he stick up for him?”

  “The new D.I. hasn’t arrived yet. We’re being co-managed by the head of Kensington branch, and he turns up one day a week on Fridays at four in the afternoon for a progress report. It’s an arse of a thing, either running back and forward to his office or telephoning his senior sergeant for instructions, or—”

  “When’s he due to finally move in?”

  “First week of January.”

  “That’s almost a month away!”

  “If it wasn’t so soon, I’d be handing in my badge too. I tell you, Clyde, the new D.S. is a piece of work.”

  “Dioli, you said his name was?”

  “Yeah, Mark Dioli. I know it’s an Italian name, but he says it goes way back.”

  “And he called Tom a poofter?”

  “He’s a bully, Clyde. You know what a nice kid Tom is. He’s quiet, he’s a good worker, he’s polite. Dioli doesn’t like him because Tom smiles a lot and he’s not one of the lads.”

  “He’s hardly a kid, Vince. He’s how old, twenty-one, twenty-two?”

  “He’ll be twenty-three in April. But he’s still shy—you remember what he’s like. When I stood up for him against what I considered Dioli’s inappropriate language and behaviour, I got an earful and a bollocking too.”

  “Jesus, this guy sounds like a real arsehole.”

  I asked Vince to tell me more about the new detective sergeant while I poured us another scotch. I’d left the cake tin open on the kitchen table. The fruitcake, although I’d made it nearly two weeks ago, was still delicious. It made me smile as I watched Vince dunk his slice into his scotch and then eat it, holding a paper serviette under his chin to catch any drops and crumbs.

  “Mark Dioli is twenty-nine, he passed his sergeant exam in September, and this is his first posting as D.S. As soon as the first vacancy popped up, he held his hand up. Sam walked out the door and Dioli entered it on the backswing.”

  “You miss Sammy?”

  “I miss my nights with him when you were on late shift.”

  I shook my head and smiled. Vince had been one of Sam Telford’s standbys when I wasn’t available or away for work.

  “So things have been a bit dry then?”

  I knew a smirk when I saw one, and the way Vince pretended to be interested in the slice of fruitcake he was lowering into his glass told me more than words.

  “Someone I know?”

  “I’ll tell you later, Clyde. I don’t want to jump the gun, and I think it needs to come from the horse’s mouth.”

  I had no idea who it could be, and I wasn’t that interested right now, my mind was focused on the trouble at the police station and on Tom. I really liked him. He’d been one of the best, despite his relative youth.

  “So Dioli,” Vince continued. “He was a D.C. in Marrickville before he came to us. I wish it was just temporary, Clyde, but you know these D.S. jobs, if he likes the place he could be with us for decades. Hopefully when the new D.I. arrives to take charge, he’ll sort Dioli out.”

  “Any dirt?”

  “Haven’t looked yet.”

  “Leave it to me,” I said.

  “He’s one of those glamour boys, Clyde. I’ve no idea whether he’s good at his job yet or not because all he seems to do is to allocate tasks and shake hands with people who count.”

  I grunted. The only thing I hated more than bent cops were career cops. They’d ride roughshod over all and sundry and hold their hand out for a reward when it was their subordinates who’d done all the work.

  “Not only that, Clyde, you know the thing I like about him the least?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Remember Daley Morrison’s study? Every book ranged in size and grouped in colour in the bookcases, every pen and pencil all neatly lined up? Well, Dioli’s worse. His desk looks like a newspaper advertise­ment for the perfect office. He even has two shirts and a spare suit in his locker at work, just in case he manages to get something on either of them.”

  “And then there’s the poofter jokes and taking out his aggression on those who work in the office who are the meekest. I bet he goes to town on Jack Lyme …?”

  “Jack’s threatened him, and in writing. Says if he doesn’t start treating him with respect and doesn’t curb his strong language and rudeness, they can look for another forensic medical officer.”

  I chuckled.

  “You know what they say about the squeaky wheel?”

  “The squeaky wheel gets the oil?”

  “You got it, Vince. Man who is fastidious in his clothing, more neat than the average, cares about his public image, and bullies young men by calling them poofters …”

  “You think?”

  “I think nothing, Vince. But I can tell you that during the war, some of the meanest most aggressive bullies were those who’d wander down in the dark where the night-time action was happening and then get stuck in with the rest of them. Few of us always said the biggest bigots were the ones who were the quickest to drop their daks and who played the hardest with other blokes when they thought they could get away with it.”

  Vince fiddled with his glass. “I dunno, Clyde …”

  “Tom doesn’t deserve this. Pity he resigned. I could have sequestered him to work on our Crown investigation if he was still a cop. It’s rough on anyone being out of work … especially these days. Tell you what though, I’ve got an idea. Do you know where I can get hold of him?”

  “He’s bunked up on my enclosed front veranda, Clyde. He was so ashamed of handing in his resignation he hasn’t even had the guts to tell his mum. She’ll be heartbroken.”

  “Tell him to come to my office tomorrow morning. I’m going to pick up my cat first thing and have breakfast with Harry and his parents. He can catch the tram from where you live—there’s a stop right outside my office door. I’ll have a chat with him, and between Harry and me, we’ll see what we can do about his situation.”

  “Jeez, Clyde, he’ll be so happy. He looks up to you so
much you know.”

  “Phht! Nothing much to look up to, Vince.”

  “Come on, Clyde! He’s a nearly twenty-three-year-old whose first stoush included being clobbered over the head, targeted by a drugs mob, and then forced to hide out with my family to keep safe. It was you who put him straight when the coast was clear and after he came back. You were kind to him when he was expecting to be yelled at. Of course he likes you.”

  “Well, he might not if he starts doing odd jobs for me.”

  Vince raised his eyebrows, rolled his eyes, and murmured, “Tu? Abbai ma non mordi!” Roughly, in Italian, he’d insinuated my bark was worse than my bite.

  “You and Philip still …?” I said, as a way of changing the conversation. I didn’t like people paying me compliments—I wasn’t one of those sorts of blokes.

  “Yeah, still … you know.”

  “And the new guy? How does he fit in?”

  “Philip’s a great kisser, Clyde, but he’s not into some things, so the new bloke fills a hole, so to speak.”

  I laughed. I’d heard Philip Mason was limited in his repertoire. I made no judgements. I’d met men who just liked to touch and that’s how they got their jollies. But from what Sam had told me about what he and Vince had got up to, I guessed there were some more vigorous cravings that kissing and a bit of gentle body contact wouldn’t satisfy.

  “Well, long may it continue, and with both of them, if that’s what keeps you happy.”

  “Cincin!” he replied, touching my glass with his own as I raised it in a toast.

  “So, Vince … what’s this problem up at the station you want help with?” I said. “The one that isn’t about, what’s his name again? Dioli?”

  “Problem, Clyde?”

  The way he said it fooled no one, let alone me. I sighed and then filled up our glasses, not sure I was going to be able to help at all, especially if it was, as I suspected, problems with an ongoing case. Still, he was a mate, and it wouldn’t hurt to listen … that’s what I thought, anyway.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Baxter lay on his back in the hollow between my thighs, idly batting my hand as I gave his tummy slow rubs and absent-mindedly pulled the thick fur between my fingers. Occasionally, he’d wrap his paws around my arm and give me love bites—usually when I’d been caught up in my own thoughts and I’d stopped moving my fingers while staring out of my office window.

  The rhythmic stroking of my cat allowed my mind to dwell on what Vince had told me—the real reason he’d wanted to speak. As I’d suspected, he was floundering with a difficult case and wanted my help.

  Dioli had dumped the Bishop kids’ investigation on his desk, telling him to write a daily memo to keep him up-to-date, and to leave it in his in tray by four every afternoon.

  Vince was a junior in the squad, still a detective constable, and now, without Sam guiding him, and Tom to help him out, he was reliant on the dross weight of uninterested, lazy detectives who I’d managed to get mobilised by the force of my personality. That’s what I liked to think I’d done—the reality was closer to threatened violence, exposure of misdeeds, and not a few rounds at the bar after work that had got their reluctant cooperation.

  I could be the pleasantest guy on earth if I liked people, or even if I didn’t and they pulled their weight. But my old nick had been mainly staffed with leftovers. Most of the detectives who worked at my old station were men who’d shirked their duty during the war and had stayed at home to line their pockets by turning a blind eye to misdemeanours, slipping the odd brown paper envelope into their pockets, or taking “protection” money from Starting Price Bookmakers, or “S.P. bookies” as we called them, brothels, and illegal gambling dens. I could often be quick of the tongue and easily provoked into handing out the worst jobs to those whose first action in the morning was to make coffee, head off to the bog and lock themselves in a cubicle for half an hour to read the paper, and then amble back to the main office and put their feet up on their desks.

  Sam and I had basically run the joint when I’d worked there and before I’d handed in my notice in a fit of indignant rage. Oh yeah, I was that guy too. Once I’d had a gutful of anything, I’d slam the door behind me with a kind invitation to all those on the other side to go get stuffed.

  At first, I’d pleaded with Vince that I was far too busy to help with the Bishop kidnapping.

  Although we were at the point of finalising our official investigation into crime and corruption involving the former drug lord Rinaldo Tocacci and Deputy Police Commissioner Marvin Keeps, there was still the issue of my weekly newspaper reviews and the monthly crime report to do, not to mention my fledgling private investigator business—the mound of correspondence that had been on the floor inside my office when I’d first walked in the door that morning had made my heart sink.

  However, at the back of my mind was that hook, same shape and purpose as the one you tied at the end of a line when you were out for a day of trying to catch a fish for dinner. Just as sharp, and once it was embedded, almost impossible to remove. I was a detective, a detective torn by the love of writing and journalism, but a detective nonetheless. As Vince had stood in my doorway last night when he’d wished me goodnight, he’d thrown me one of those sad, “I suppose I’ll manage … somehow” looks, and I’d found myself reluctantly agreeing to have a look.

  Baxter dug his teeth in. “Ow!” My hand had been motionless for more than his three-second rule allowed. I’d been punished. I picked him up and held him in the air, nuzzling his soft tummy against my nose before depositing him back on the desk and then brushing down my trousers with my hands. Grey tabby cat versus charcoal grey slacks: cat 1, trousers 0.

  The biggest surprise when arriving this morning at my office had not been the pile of mail, but a removal van parked out in the street. Mr. Kovacs, the stocking mender who’d run his business out of the office next to mine for thirty years, had decided to call it a day. He’d explained that no one, except the very wealthy, wore silk stockings anymore because imported American nylons were not only very, very cheap, but had flooded the market and weren’t worth the price of repair. He’d shaken my hand and had wished me good luck.

  I’d wandered through his empty space. Had it not been for the view over the beach from my big easterly-facing window, through which I’d been staring when Baxter had bitten me, I’d have rung the real estate agency and offered to move into Mr. Kovacs’ much larger, three-room office suite. There was a reception area with a built-in desk, off it a large room in which he used to keep his machinery, and then a storeroom that looked out over Waltham Street.

  It had given me an idea and I’d phoned Harry, having only left him less than an hour before, inviting him to come and meet Tom with me at ten. Harry arrived a few minutes before Tom turned up. I smelled the sausage rolls even before he’d opened my office door. The bakery was two blocks away.

  “Milkshakes?” I asked, without looking up.

  “Nope,” he said, leaning over my desk and kissing my forehead. I raised my mouth for a return, but found half a cream matchstick hovering a few inches away from my face. Harry’s beard was smeared with cream, just under his chin. He knew I loved matchsticks—the pink-icing-coated, crunchy puff pastry slices, filled with a layer of raspberry jam and half an inch of stiffly whipped, sweetened cream. I gobbled it down and then got my kiss.

  I laughed through the stickiness of it, wiping my mouth after he’d sat on the edge of my desk. I handed him my handkerchief.

  “More in your beard than in your gob,” I said.

  He waggled his eyebrows, and I smirked, realising far too late what else it could refer to.

  “You say the sexiest things, Smith.” He grinned at me, so I squeezed his knee and then ran my hand over the top of his thigh.

  “Go next door, Harry. Have a look around.”

  He raised an eyebrow, but shrugged and did as I’d told him.

  “Oh, hello, Tom,” I heard him say from outside my door. He’d been gon
e a couple of minutes, and I suppose he’d run into the young former detective at the top of the stairs.

  “What’s that I can smell?” Tom said, holding out his hand to me.

  “Sausage rolls for morning tea, courtesy of Mr. Jones.”

  “I’ll go make some tea, shall I?” Harry asked.

  “You better be quick about it, or there’ll be none left by the time you get back, Harry,” I said.

  “You think I’m stupid, Clyde? I ate three in the car on the way here.”

  *****

  “Honestly, I think it’s a wonderful idea,” Harry said, after I’d laid out my plan.

  “When I saw that Mr. Kovacs had moved out, I rang Griff Llewellyn at Lowry’s real estate agency and enquired about the empty office. He said he’d been finding it tough to lease business premises, so if we could make it a fiver a week all up, we could take over Mr. Kovacs’ lease and have this whole floor to ourselves.”

  “Instead of driving my parents crazy and working from home, I’d run my adventure tours company out of there—”

  “And we’d share Tom. He could organise your groups, and at the same time do leg work for me. I’m snowed in with the backlog of jobs I’ve got on.”

  “How much were you earning as a policemen, Tom?” Harry asked.

  “Four pounds ten, Mr. Jones.”

  “So we’re looking at eleven quid a week between us, then. Five pounds ten apiece. Reckon you could cope with that, Clyde?”

  “Hang on, Harry. How do you come up with eleven quid?”

  “Five for the two offices and six for Tom.”

  “Six pounds a week?” Tom’s eyes bulged in disbelief.

  I was about to say that was a lot of money for a not-quite twenty-three-year-old, but the look on Tom’s face made me think that perhaps working for me and for Harry at the same time probably deserved a bit extra.

  “Well, if you decided you’re happy with our offer, the first thing you’ll need to do before I can employ you is to go to Bathurst Street, in the city, to register as a private investigator—I’ll give you the letter of employment—and then Harry and I can arrange for you to take a stenography and typing class—”