The Gilded Madonna: A Clyde Smith Mystery

By Garrick Jones

Halloran pulled the sheet down to the man’s waist. What I saw made me take a deep breath: the man’s throat was cut so deeply his head looked like it had almost been severed.

"If you tell me this man was found in the public toilet behind the grandstand of Coogee Oval opposite where I live, I might just need a chair," I said.

Clyde Smith’s quiet, happy life, in love for the first time, working as a private detective and journalist, is suddenly thrown into disarray by the appearance, after a three year hiatus, of a body bearing the distinctive hallmarks of a string of murders he hadn’t been able to solve when working in homicide.

Forced to cooperate with the new detective sergeant who’d taken his place in the local cop shop, Clyde has to not only deal with the enormous chip on the young man’s shoulder, but also with a complex case that involves kidnapping, the re-emergence of the Silent Cop Killer, the historical abuse of young men and boys in orphanages across the State, and a ghost from the past who is out for revenge.

Will Clyde and the new DS be able to find the killer before he finds them? Or will they be his final prize, the last victims in his string of grisly murders? Perhaps only the local psychic, owner of a Romany religious statue, the Gilded Madonna, can provide the clue that might ultimately solve the puzzle, but which will also lead Clyde and DS Dioli into mortal danger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Apr 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781922542618

Garrick Jones

Garrick JonesFrom the outback to the opera. After a thirty year career as a professional opera singer, performing in opera houses and in concert halls all over the world, Garrick Jones took up a position as lecturer in music at the Central Queensland Conservatorium of Music in Australia.Brought up between the bush and the beaches of the Eastern suburbs, he now lives in the tropics in peaceful retirement.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

There’s blood in the water!

Harry leaped to his feet so violently he nearly knocked my notepad out of my hand.

The crowd at the water polo Olympics final roared, and I jumped onto my bench seat to get a better look. Who is it?

It’s Zádor, a man yelled over the noise of the spectators from directly behind me. He leaned forward and grabbed my shoulder. Fucking commie bastards.

I helped him clamber up next to me; he’d lost a leg and was on crutches. His accent told me he was from an Eastern European country, and as the water polo final was between the favourites, Hungary and the Russians, I guessed he was on the side of the red, white, and green.

"Szabadság Magyarországért!" he yelled. It nearly deafened me.

I was about to ask him what he’d called out when the punches started flying. Obviously the two toughs seated in front of Harry and me had understood what he’d said and didn’t like it one bit.

Clyde!

Harry should have known me better by now to understand if someone took a swing at me, even if I wasn’t the target, I wasn’t one to hold up my hands and step away. Bozo number one fell backwards into the crowd in the seats behind him. That’s when the real fisticuffs started.

The new aquatic centre, purpose-built for the 1956 Melbourne Olympic Games and only recently finished, was packed. How were we to have known, when we’d bought our tickets months ago on the way home from our holiday in Tasmania, that the playoff for the Olympic gold medal in the water polo would be fought out by representatives of one country whose opponents’ nation was not only its suppressor and invader but also most hated enemy. On the fourth of November, just over four weeks before this match, the Soviet army had finally and brutally squashed a nationwide Hungarian uprising, killing thousands on both sides, and causing over two hundred thousand people to flee their country.

Police appeared out of nowhere, and had not both Harry and I produced official identification cards, we’d have been pulled out of the aquatic centre along with half-a-dozen of the more violent spectators.

No, not him! I said to the young constable as he was about to haul off my unknown Hungarian friend. He’s with me.

Hey, you’re the bloke from the other day—

Yes, that’s me, I said, shaking his hand. A week ago, the day after we’d arrived in Melbourne, I’d given a lecture to an audience of seventy or more new police, and it seemed that Clyde Smith, the Sydney former detective sergeant, crime fighter and private investigator, had been recognised by the Victorian policeman who’d been about to cart us away.

A roar of outrage made me turn back to the pool. Ervin Zádor was being helped from the water, blood streaming down his face. I grabbed my binoculars; the water polo player’s injury looked like a split eyebrow. As members of his team checked his face, turning it to show the spectators and pointing, the crowd roared its disapproval, and a large number of men and women left their seats to gather at the edge of the swimming pool, shaking their fists, shouting and spitting at the Russians.

Your friend’s hurt, my one-legged pal said.

I glanced at Harry, who was holding a handkerchief to the corner of his mouth. He rolled his eyes at me and shrugged.

He’s a big boy. He’s had worse than a cut lip, I said to my new pal, who returned my smile with a hesitant one of his own. Clyde, I said, holding out my hand. Clyde Smith, and this here’s my partner in crime, Harry Jones.

Farkas, János, the man replied, shaking mine and Harry’s in turn. But everyone calls me Jancsi. It’s Hungarian for Johnny. He pronounced it Yon-shee. Thanks for helping me with that policeman. Are you important? He seemed to know you.

Life of crime, my friend, I said. He looked at me puzzled and then shrugged.

Clyde used to be a policeman, Harry offered.

It seems I am in your debt, Mister Clyde Smith, former policeman and man with a life of crime.

His crooked smile made me laugh.

Well, Jancsi, how about you do me a favour, and we can call it even-stevens. I handed him my notepad and pencil, which I’d left on the seat behind me. Write down what you yelled out in Hungarian, please, and what it means in English.

"Szabadság Magyarországért! Freedom for Hungary, he translated, clicking his tongue and passing me a bright white smile. What else would I be calling out?"

I could think of one or two things I might have said in your place, Harry said. And none of those would bear repeating.

I think we have those same things in Hungarian, Mr. Jones.

What you called out before about commie bastards? Teach me, I said.

I knew what he repeated several times was probably not a direct translation, but I gave it my best.

"Oroszok szopd szét a faszomat!" I yelled.

Jancsi slapped me on the shoulder, shaking with laughter. Those who heard mostly cheered me and laughed, and those who didn’t applaud, gasped.

What did I just say? I bet it wasn’t ‘fucking commie bastards’.

Accompanied by a few loud whistles of approval and some raised fists punching the air, he informed me that I’d just told the Russians they could suck my dick.

*****

Ouch!

Harry Jones, you know better than to play the sympathy card with me. He was sitting on the edge of the bathtub while I kneeled between his legs and tried to get a look at where he’d been hit in the face and what damage had been done.

You know what I’m angling for, Clyde.

You know you don’t have to ask.

But it’s more fun when I do.

Open wide, I ordered. He waggled his eyebrows. I returned his gesture with an eye-roll.

He’d cut his gum against his teeth when the brawny guy in front had missed me and had landed one on Harry instead. He batted my hand away from his face and wound his arms around the back of my neck and pulled me to him. What was I to do but give in? I kissed him.

He tasted of blood. Mm …

You turning into a vampire? he murmured into my mouth.

No, I said, drawing away to look in his eyes. I always moan when I kiss you. Haven’t you noticed.

Try it again, and I’ll concentrate on listening this time.

I’d never been in love before. Infatuated? Sure. In lust? More than once. I’d even convinced myself I had strong feelings for my ex-partner, Sam Telford, who’d run off with my best friend, Billy Tancred. But now, with Harry Jones in my arms, I had a comparison. Love was something altogether different.

What I felt for him wasn’t movie romance, or even mushy book love, it was something far deeper. On one hand less tangible, but on the other the connection with him was something I’d never felt in my entire life. And that went for outside the bedroom too.

I’d been afraid that at the age of thirty-six, I’d never find the one, and after I’d recognised my feelings for him, I’d fought against my better judgement for far too long. I’d thought myself unworthy of someone like Harry Jones. But then, when I’d eventually given in, it had felt as if my life was finally complete. Poetic way of saying it perhaps … but I was a writer, I used words. Those had been my first thoughts when I’d kissed him in the middle of the night, both of us squashed into the confined space of a phone box, in full sight of passers-by.

My life was finally complete.

The words flowed across my mind in a picture, like those on the screen for a sing-along-with-the-bouncing-ball during a matinee at the cinema.

I loved him far more deeply than the inadequate utterances I managed to stumble through when I tried to tell him how much I cared, so I let my actions speak the intensity of my feelings on my behalf. I gave him bits of the real Clyde Smith in tiny portions at a time. Morsels he devoured without begging for more. He accepted everything about me—both the good and the bad—and I had no fear in opening up my inner being to him without the slightest doubt he’d pass judgement. That was true love, and I was the luckiest of men in the world to have found it in six-foot-two of ginger crew cut, short bristly copper beard, and the yellowest eyes I’d ever seen.

Do you want to …? he asked through barely opened eyes. He almost purred, like our shared cat, Baxter.

I always want to, Harry, and you know you don’t have to ask.

Violence makes me amorous.

Kissing is amorous, you’re talking of something else, I whispered.

I kissed both of his eyelids as he began to unbutton my shirt.

Kissing your mouth is amorous, I’m thinking of osculatory adventures elsewhere.

I laughed. So was it you getting socked in the jaw started your motor running?

Nah, Clyde. It was watching the muscles in your shoulders and neck straining against your shirt when you slugged that Russian spy and knocked him onto his arse. You know I love it when you get all blokey.

And there I was thinking you liked my other, less-physical assets.

Oh, I love those too, don’t worry. Now, about the commie agent who missed you and hit me—

How do you know he was a Russian spy?

Play along, Clyde.

Ah!

I got it. Harry liked make-believe. He loved games—amorous, pretend games, usually done and dusted five minutes into the action when lust overtook his sense of adventure. I was more than happy to play along. In fact, more than once it had been the way I’d broadened his sexual repertoire. He’d had a basic bedroom education and had even taken part in a few tussles with groups of friends before he’d met me. However, there were things he’d seen, but had never had the courage to try. Not more than once we’d played Clyde says and Harry had obeyed.

So do I call for room service, ambush the hotel steward, tie him up and make him watch?

He laughed. You’d like that, wouldn’t you.

Maybe, I said.

One day, I’ll feel confident enough to share, Clyde.

I’ve got a little list of contenders …

Your former playmates?

Harley Yaxley, the delivery boy with the dick of death, is high on the list.

Uh huh. He knew I was teasing. Well half-teasing. Even though he’d been the only one in my bed since we’d decided to become an item, it didn’t stop me getting hot under the collar thinking of two of the guys I’d been sleeping with regularly before Harry had staked his claim on my bed and my heart. There’d been two others, but regular wouldn’t be a word I’d necessarily use to describe our sporadic get-togethers.

You’re the only person I know who can look as sexy as all get-out wearing nothing but his shirt, Clyde, he mumbled into my mouth.

I knew what he’d said, even though it had sounded like a navy diver trying to communicate underwater—all glugs, gurgles, and muffled moaning sounds.

What about now? I said, triumphantly, as he released my tongue from his mouth. My shirt landed in the bathtub behind him. I took his hands and ran them around my waist.

Where’s that room service man, Clyde?

My reply was from the heart. We’d had enough teasing play. You’re enough for me, Harry Jones, I said.

I meant it too. We’d shared stories of my former sex life, and his comparative lack of it. I hadn’t held anything back. I’d shared my fantasies with him, and he’d done the same. They weren’t much different from my own, merely variations on the same thing. But, ultimately, when the chips were down and the talk no longer held meaning, all I needed in my arms was my big passionate man who, in my opinion, deserved an Olympic gold in the making-love event.

*****

We’d chosen to stay in the Windsor Hotel at the top of Bourke Street, opposite Parliament House. It had been Harry’s dad, Arnold, who’d insisted we stay there. I had to admit it would normally have been way above my budget, but of late I’d been making a motza. What with my earnings from journalism and the wage I was paid for being a member of an official ongoing investigation into a case I’d broken earlier in the year, I was sitting far more comfortably than most people I knew.

It was a very luxurious, old-fashioned hotel with a well-earned reputation for offering the best of the best. The dining room still served meals that might have graced menus in the late nineteenth century, and I liked the food, but as it was usually a choice of traditional Australian home cooking with a flair or French haute cuisine, I found the former boring and the latter indigestible. I’d lost my gall bladder after a stabbing–shooting incident, and fatty foods really gave me a great deal of discomfort and at times even severe pain.

The great beauty of the hotel was not only its central location and easy access to public transport, but it offered amazing in-house facilities. I’d made good use of the secretarial service over the week we’d been there. The purpose of our trip was not only to attend events at the Olympics but also for me to talk to the local cops about how we did things in Sydney—each Australian State had differing laws. My information session had been arranged as a deal for the mutual benefit of both forces. The investigative unit in Melbourne, unlike that in Sydney, cooperated with local private investigators who helped augment their ongoing cases. I’d had experience in that exact same scenario, but in Sydney I’d been forced to work outside the local police force and without their direct help.

Making use of the secretarial assistance in the hotel had allowed me to write a few articles on the theatre and cinema life in Melbourne, and to keep up with my regular crime reports for the Sydney Morning Herald. I dictated, the ex-military secretary—a stern-looking man in his mid-fifties—took shorthand notes, typed out my text, gave it to me for correction, and then sent off the articles by express post to the two newspaper editors that employed me.

Are we eating in or out? Harry called from the bathroom. I was still supine on one of the twin beds in our room. He’d exhausted me. I wasn’t complaining, just feeling every day of my thirty-six years of age.

Jancsi gave me the address of a Hungarian restaurant down in Little Collins Street.

What?

I said—

Can’t hear you!

It was another of his games. The shower stall in the bathroom was big enough for five, and he wanted me to join him, not lay flat out on my back on the bed like a lizard stretched in the afternoon sun.

I said, Jancsi—

I heard you, he said with a face-splitting grin as I opened the shower stall door. I just got lonely.

I angled myself behind him and rested my head on his shoulder. You get lonely after five minutes?

Hungarian, huh?

We did a lesson at my night class once, but I could never source the ingredients. It was very tasty.

Would I like it?

Harry Jones, you like anything that’s edible.

True, he said and then turned me in his arms. You’re edible.

Aren’t you full?

You’re being dirty again, Smith.

Who me? I tried my hardest to sound innocent. I always failed.

Okay, scrub my back, Harry said between kisses. I’ll put in a reservation when I get out of the shower. What time?

"Say seven? I want to write an article about the water polo match and see if the Mirror will give it a page two."

That newspaper sees you as their food and film reviewer, Clyde. Do you think a sports piece—

It won’t be about the sports, Harry. I want to write about people, ordinary people, in whom violence is hovering just below the surface. I know it finished eleven years ago, but for men like you and me, the war still rages on inside. We saw it out there at the aquatic centre. All it takes is—

A bit of a nudge in an excited, charged atmosphere and then—

The fists start flying. That’s what I want to write about, Harry. Not the new post-catastrophe age we pretend to live in, but the legacy we who served, and those of us who lost loved ones, still carry with us, deep down inside.

Crickey, Clyde. A lot of people won’t like to read about their buried demons. But I think you’re on the money; it needs to be said.

I just write about stuff I feel.

What are you doing down there, Clyde?

Feeling stuff I’d like to write about.

Is pornography your new calling?

I didn’t bring a pornograph with me, I mumbled into his mouth.

He had the good humour to laugh, especially when I started to use both hands and the bar of soap.

My article could wait. No doubt dinner at seven would be fine, but for the next few hours I knew I’d be at the mercy of what Harry Jones wanted me to do … again.

CHAPTER TWO

This is plush, Harry said.

Too right, I replied. How much did this cost?

I’m paying, Smith. It’s an early Christmas present.

The first-class compartment of the Melbourne to Sydney Daylight Express had been updated to nineteen-fifties modern. Air-conditioning, a lot of chrome, Australian native wood panelling, and an enormous picture window with a venetian blind. I’d read the old Spirit of Progress carriages had been kept after the steam train had been retired a few years ago, but were now drawn by a diesel engine. However, that particular service ran later in the day and didn’t pull into Sydney Central station until nearly midnight.

We’d arrived at Spencer Street station at quarter past seven to find our luggage had already been delivered by the hotel. It felt faintly ridiculous being shown to our compartment by a liveried steward and then immediately asked if we’d like a pot of tea. This morning’s Melbourne newspapers were placed neatly on one of the bench seats.

When is the dining car open for breakfast? Harry asked, even before removing his hat.

I almost laughed. We’d had a continental breakfast delivered to the room before our taxi had arrived to bring us to the station. Harry had been in seventh heaven on our trip down from Sydney. He’d never done a long train journey on which there’d been a proper restaurant car with all the bells and whistles.

As soon as the train leaves the station, Mr. Jones, the steward replied. Your table number is the same as your compartment number. Just let the carriage attendant know when you’re making your way to the dining car so he can lock the door when you leave.

Do you have any Sydney newspapers by chance?

"I have yesterday’s Telegraph, the Mirror and the Sydney Morning Herald."

Do you think—

We’re already prepared for you, Mr. Smith, the man said, reaching into a pocket in the back of the compartment door. "The concierge at the Windsor telephoned the station earlier this morning to make sure these were here for you to read. I hope you don’t mind, but I had a quick peep at the Mirror myself. Your review of The Summer of the Seventeenth Doll was fascinating to read."

"Today’s Herald not here yet?"

It will be available when you transfer onto the NSW service at Albury/Wodonga, sir.

It was 1956 and travellers were still obliged to change trains as they crossed State borders. If felt vaguely ridiculous that every State not only had its own laws but still had its own rail gauge. I knew there were plans to run a unified rail link between capital cities, but even now, in the middle of our so-called post-war prosperity, the plans were still in the heads of engineers and the decisions to go ahead in the hands of Federal politicians—a guarantee that we wouldn’t see such an important thing come to pass for years.

I glanced at my watch. Half past seven—fifteen minutes before the train was due to depart.

Hungry?

No, Harry. Just wondering how much time I had before you galloped down the corridor to the chaff bin.

He’d taken off his shoes and had his feet up on the seat next to me.

Chaff bin, Clyde?

Honestly, I don’t know where you put it.

He wrinkled his nose at me and then glanced quickly into the corridor before running his stockinged foot over my calf and onwards up into my crotch for an instant. I smiled and ignored him, opening the Mirror to look for my review.

Wow! I said. They’d printed not only my theatre review but also my cinema review of The Man Who Never Was. It was the first time they’d published two of my reviews in the same edition. If I knew the editor, I’d find a letter from him when I got home in which he’d be angling to pay me a discount fee.

It’s gruesome, Harry said.

Okay, I’ll bite. What’s gruesome?

Those kids are still missing. Someone stole one of the mannequins from outside your old workplace.

I pulled down the top of the newspaper. The Sydney Morning Herald was the only newspaper in our town that still published in broadsheet format—the rest were tabloid—and it covered his face.

What? he said.

What kids, what mannequin?

Clyde, you need to read more than your own articles in the newspaper, you know—the Bishop kids.

Has some new clue come to light? I thought those children had been missing for months now, and the police had done everything humanly possible to find them.

They disappeared in late September. It’s not that long ago.

Sorry. Yes, I remember reading about it when it happened, but it wasn’t long after we’d got back from Tasmania, Ray Wilson had arrived from Singapore at the same time, and we’d started working on the evidence for the Special Crown Prosecutor, and, as you’re so fond of telling me, I’m no longer with the police force, so—

They dressed two mannequins in copies of the clothing the children were wearing when they left the house to go to the shops for their mother. It’s to jog people’s memories. Well, the model of the young boy was stolen from outside the police station.

When was this?

Day before yesterday, on Saturday. They put the mannequins outside on the street at nine in the morning and then a woman reported to the desk sergeant that she’d stopped to have a look at them on the way to the greengrocer, and when she’d passed by on her way home twenty minutes later, she noticed the boy’s statue had gone.

That’s odd.

Yeah, why would someone only take one statue? I don’t get it, Clyde.

No, that’s not what’s odd, Harry. Why would she report it missing? I mean, they could have been doing anything with it inside—adjusting a piece of clothing for example. Did they mention the woman’s name?

Harry shook his head at me over the top of the newspaper and at the same time gave me that look. The one I was now used to that said, keep your nose out of this, Clyde, you’re not on the police force any longer.

I went back to reading my reviews, double-checking the copy editor hadn’t slashed and burned the best parts of my prose, but I couldn’t get the strangeness of the reported incident out of my mind. I’d bet a fiver the desk sergeant hadn’t bothered to ask the woman for her details. My old workplace had gone to pot since I’d left, and after that, more recently, when Sam Telford, my ex, had put in a transfer request and had gone to work at the station in Double Bay, no one seemed to be running the shop.

I was about to ignore Harry’s unspoken reprimand when the station master blew his whistle right outside our window, his flag in the air. The train gave a small lurch and then we started to roll out of Spencer Street station.

Bye, bye, Melbourne, Harry said. Hope to see you again soon.

He peered out the window, waving to a small group of children who must have been on the platform to bid farewell to someone else on the train.

Now, breakfast, Clyde. You coming or what?

He was almost out the door before I could answer.

*****

I ran through my diary, checking I had my dates right for the movies, the plays, and the sporting events we’d seen while we’d been away.

The Summer of the Seventeenth Doll—I’d missed seeing Ray Lawler’s play when it had opened in Sydney and I’d only read good things. But as an Australian man who’d grown up during the Depression and then who’d fought afterwards in the war, what I hadn’t been prepared for was how close to the bone it had been. The nostalgia had been bittersweet, and not in a good way. Harry and I, although we’d had completely different experiences during the war, had both felt the same. It was a cracker of a play about us, we Australian men of the same vintage as the protagonists in the story, and it hurt like buggery—but I’d loved the pain because of its truth.

Still gloating over your review? Harry teased.

Nah, I was just checking my notes. The food at the Hungarian restaurant was better than what we made at night school. The fish soup, the … what’s this, Harry, I can’t read my own writing.

He smiled when I handed him my diary. I’d written I love you with my red pencil next to the name of the soup: Halász Leves.

I hope you can find the recipe. Mother would love it. There must be an Hungarian community in Sydney … we had so many refugees from eastern Europe after the war. Leave it with me, Clyde. I’ll put finding the paprika and some of that spicy sausage for the layered egg and potato dish on my list.

I held out my hand for my notebook, but he read out my phonetics for rakott krumpli in a way that sounded pretty spot on. He had a better ear for languages than he let on.

Did you know that one of the queens of Hungary was Italian? I asked.

No I didn’t. That’s something else I’ll look up when I get home.

I read somewhere she was responsible for all the tomato and paprika in Hungarian food. I tell you what, though, my friend, I’m going to miss all of those amazing Italian restaurants in Lygon Street. Just a tram ride from the hotel and the best authentic food I’ve had since I left to come home in forty-six.

The highlight for me, other than the oxtail stew you said was too rich for you at the hotel, was lunch nearly every day at Pellegrini’s in Bourke Street.

I smiled. He’d been so understanding. I’d been in my element, chatting with waiters and customers in Italian. I missed that regular connection with a country that, despite the terrible times I’d had in the P.O.W. camp, I’d adopted as my second home. He’d not protested once when I’d had long conversations in a language he didn’t understand. I’d apologised, but he’d said it was only fair. On our second day in Melbourne he’d taken me to catch up with friends of his from the war, when he’d been stationed just outside the city, trying to break the Japanese naval code. They’d shared jokes and stories I’d have loved to have known more about, but hadn’t wanted to intrude into their personal space or poke my nose into history they’d shared, and of course that might have caused some embarrassment and evasion as a large part of it was most likely still top secret.

The dining car steward had been extremely attentive and the breakfast delicious. I’d really only gone to keep Harry company while he ate, but I’d changed my mind when a cart had arrived next to our table and a fully garbed chef had whipped up Harry’s scrambled eggs while we’d watched. I’d found myself saying yes please when the man had asked if I’d like the same. Even the coffee, although percolated, was very good.

Can I get you anything else, gentlemen? he asked.

No, thank you, Harry replied. Is it all right to smoke? There are other diners still eating.

Smoking in the dining car is perfectly acceptable, the steward said as he cleared our table. If you’d prefer to stretch your legs, there’s a lounge in the next car towards the engine.

Harry looked over his shoulder and enquired of the young lady sitting at the table behind us if she had any objections to him lighting up. I watched as they laughed and exchanged a few words. He had a way of engaging with strangers they always responded well to. I could see she was flirting, and her mother, sitting opposite, started to look impatient, so I tapped his shin with my shoe under the table.

What was that for? he asked, leaning over the table as he lit his cigarette.

I think that young woman’s mother was about to box your ears.

You’d have saved me though, wouldn’t you, Clyde?

We decided against the lounge car and headed back to our compartment, where we found a pair of blankets and a few pillows on the bench seat, right next to the door. On the top of the stack was a small card, on which was a printed message that stated if we wished to catch up on some sleep, we should press the buzzer and the carriage attendant would turn down the seats and make up beds.

What do you reckon, Clyde?

I think I’ll pass. But I might pull the blinds and rest my head on your lap while I read for a while.

I can take my pants off?

While I’ve got my head in your lap?

He picked up his newspaper and winked.

*****

At precisely two minutes past nine o’clock in the evening, our stream­lined express train drew into the platform of Sydney’s Central Station.

Well, aren’t you getting up? I asked Harry, who’d still not put his shoes back on.

I forgot to tell you when we changed trains at Albury, the carriage attendant told me we should wait for a few minutes before we got off and our baggage would be waiting outside the carriage door.

How magic is that! Is it going to run down the platform and do cartwheels in anticipation of us getting off the train?

Funny, Smith. A porter will bring it.

I smiled at his ironic tone, and then retrieved his hat from the rack above our seats and threw it to him. He’d lost his new Stetson during the scuffle at the aquatic centre, and we’d made a trip to the famous Melbourne store in Flinders Station, the City Hatters. He’d left with three new hats, including a very spiffy new model from the USA, called the Airflow—woven straw with a very natty, folded-linen band.

I bet the line for the taxi will be enormous, he said.

Nope, it won’t.

Crystal ball gazing again is it, Clyde?

I chuckled. Philip Mason is picking us up.

Philip?

Yes, you remember Philip, the guy you used to—

I know very well who he is, and that’s enough out of you, Smith.

I sent him a telegram this morning from the hotel, asking him to pick us up.

I knew Philip’s evening radio show finished at half past eight and his studio at 2GB was not far from the train station. Philip was one of a group of four guys Harry used to fool around with. They were all mates who’d served together in Singapore before it fell. Philip was also the lover of one of the junior detectives who’d worked under me when I was still in the force, a young Italian man, Vincenzo Paleotti, who’d become my friend. Although Philip was married, it was what we called a lavender marriage. His wife had a special lady friend who was a milliner in the city, and the cover of a marriage of convenience suited him and his spouse.

I was only slightly surprised to find Vincenzo, or Junior T. as he was known in the force, waiting for us outside on the platform.

Hello, Vince, Harry said. Where’s Philip?

I volunteered, Harry. Nice to see you both. He shook Harry’s hand, but gave me an Italian hug, with kisses to both cheeks.

*****

I kissed Harry slowly outside his front door, my arms around him and my fingers interlaced, resting on the small of his back.

Do you remember this spot, Clyde?

Uh huh, I replied. It’s right here behind the hedge in the shadows when you told me you’d wait for me.

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.