Bridge at the Beach

By Garrick Jones

Clyde's idyllic afternoon in the surf with his mates is interrupted by the news that there's been a quadruple suicide in an apartment overlooking the beach.
Two of the deceased are the parents of Barry Wilkinson, one of Clyde's childhood friends, a man he hasn't seen since Clyde donned the khaki and left for war. Wilkinson engages Clyde to discover the identity of a mysterious woman who has been left a huge sum of money in his father's will.
On the surface, what appears to be a straightforward case evolves into a complex story of deception, lies, violence and murder. Relationships are tested and new ones formed, and Clyde discovers that those connections that seem unrelated are closely linked behind a veil of secrecy.
The early summer of 1957 is a time in which Clyde nearly loses everything he holds dear—his own life included—all because of two couples who died while playing bridge at the beach.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Mar 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9781779416025

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

Contents

Acknowledgements

Monday, September 2, 1957

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

About the author

Acknowledgements

The author wishes to thank the N.S.W. Department of Lands, The N.S.W. Officer for Veterans’ Affairs, the archivists at the State Library of N.S.W., the Randwick City Council, and the Randwick and District Historical Society, all of which have been extremely helpful in providing information, sometimes going out of their way to trawl back through historical records.

I am also extremely grateful to Nicholas Taylor at justwriteright.co.uk and to Bev Sutherland for their eagle eyes while proofreading.

Monday, September 2, 1957

I couldn’t remember a day as beautiful this early in the month. It was warm already, bordering on hot, and had been for several days now.

It was not even two months since I’d reunited Willoughby Purchase with his sister, Eileen, at our charity home, Percival House. Although I’d told myself I’d take time off, today was the first day that I really had, promising Harry this morning when he left that I’d banish all thoughts of work from my mind.

Business had been good all year but, like last year, September was proving to be our quietest month. Back then, things had seemed to get much busier in October and in the lead-up to Christmas; so, in view of our minimal case load, we decided we’d each take a day off once a week for the rest of the month. There was still plenty to do split between me, Tom, Steve, and Janice, all of us pitching in to help Harry’s adventure tour business, which showed no sign of slowing down.

On top of my private investigation work, I had cinema reviews to write, plus a monthly crime report for the Sydney Morning Herald. I’d also recently had a human-interest story published as a double-page centre spread in the Mirror—the newspaper in which my film reviews were printed—about the attractions of Mudgee and Gulgong out west. It focused not only on the sights and the food but also on the Chinese and Italian emigrants who’d integrated into the community in a beautiful part of Australia—one I’d recommended every reader should visit.

I’d chosen Monday as my day off. I had a regular weekly appointment with my psychotherapist and normally went to the gym afterwards to catch up with army mates. It suited everyone else as I was normally away from the office most of the day anyway. Today, I’d already had asession with my head shrinker, Dr. De Natalis, leaving her office shaky in the knees, having to stop halfway down the back stairs, where I sat and smoked two cigarettes before I felt strong enough to stand up to walk to my car then drive to the gymnasium. In view of Harry’s father’s incurable illness and its prognosis, I’d been struggling with the passing of my own father. I’d been so busy at the time he’d died—up to my eyes in cases while working as a detective sergeant at the Randwick nick—that I hadn’t given myself time to grieve.

My da had passed suddenly. He’d had a stroke while fitting shoes for my then life partner, Sam Telford. Ha! In retrospect, was that ever a joke. The only bit of life partner that fitted my ex was that if it was a man and had life in it, he’d be cracking on to it behind my back, me the only drongo in the circle of our acquaintances who was ignorant of the fact. I couldn’t blame them, to be honest. People, even close friends, tended to mind their own business. Besides, I had two mates with whom I’d shared private time when Sam wasn’t available—supposedly spending time with Brenda, the poor girl who thought they were going to marry. Sam and I hadn’t discussed monogamy, but both men I’d been seeing had come along before him and I continued to see them off and on during the time that he and I were together. Those two blokes, Craig and Harley, were now happily shacked up together, living not far from where I was currently standing on The Promenade on Coogee Beach.

I’d made arrangements to have lunch and spend the afternoon with my mate Luka, who, with his sister, owned a second-hand shop near the corner of Avoca Street and Belmore Road. They’d become best friends to Harry and me. Of Romanian heritage, they sold books and bric-a-brac and did a brisk trade in the psychic arts: she a reader of tea leaves and tarot cards, he a psychometrist of some no mean ability. Luka was also one of the lads, and I’d introduced him to our mates and acquaintances. He’d been wont to picking up partners in parks at night when I’d first met him, but after being introduced to the Clyde Smith and Harry Jones Circle of Friends, seemed as happy as Larry with, according to both him and his sister, a very full dance card, as well as having a fairly new partner who lived in the country.

I hoisted myself up onto the rounded top of the sandstone wall of The Promenade and sat on it, allowing my gaze to wander over the sunbathers spread out over the northern end of the beach, looking for Luka. I was a little early and was starving. He’d promised to pick up fish and chips for lunch and grab a couple of bottles of beer from the Coogee Bay Hotel on his way. The sun glinted on the water, barely any white showing on the wave caps. Even Wedding Cake Island sat serenely in the middle of Coogee Bay, the usual sight of foamy waves breaking on its rocks barely showing at all.

I’d just lit a smoke and adjusted my sunglasses when I found myself unceremoniously pushed off the top of the sandstone wall, landing in the sand some six feet below.

Oi, you! I yelled, picking myself up and grinning at Luka’s cheeky face above.

A second face joined him. Look what I found! my Romanian friend called back to me.

Mark? What on earth are you doing here? I thought you hated the beach.

He waved, hoisted himself over the top of the wall and jumped down beside me.

Hello there, Clyde, he said, hugging me, something in itself surprising; he’d only ever done that in private before. Luka made me come. Told me it would do me good to bare my scars in public. I warn you, though, I can’t swim. I’ll just paddle in the shallows.

Not with Clyde Smith, you won’t. I’ll look after you in the water. And as for your scars? Look around you, mate. There are blokes aplenty either missing limbs or with far worse scarring than you on the beach or in the water. There’s a bunch of war veterans grouped up over there in the middle of the beach who would give your scars a run for their money. I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. Anyway, it’s great to see you. I’ve missed you.

Yeah, enforced distance, Clyde. I’m not the most favourite D.S. in the D.I.’s books at the moment.

This because of the Willoughby Purchase case?

Yes, he said. But I’ll tell you later. Let’s not bore the pants off Luka.

What’s this? Luka said, having joined us, carrying a tin cooler very similar to the one I owned.

Just talking about you, not to you, I said, my arm around his shoulder.

Bad stuff I hope, Clyde.

Nah, just the usual. How little it takes to get your pants off.

You two are a rude pair of buggers. Anyone ever tell you that before?

Where’s lunch? I asked. I hope you didn’t put it in the cooler with the beers?

It’s on its way, he replied.

Now that’s enigmatic. Who else is coming? Gălbenele?

No, she’s manning the shop. Here he is now.

Now this was a pleasant surprise. A tall blond man waved as he came down the stairs onto the beach, carrying a picnic basket. It was Oscar Soo, the older of two brothers we’d met while I’d been in the outback working on the Willoughby Purchase case, and with whom Luka had clicked. I made the immediate supposition—with no backup facts, I hasten to add—that the new relationship looked like it might be getting serious. Mudgee was a long way to travel from just to see a casual partner.

Gidday, Clyde, he said, depositing the picnic basket on the sand then shaking my hand. He turned to Mark. You must be D.S. Dioli. I’ve heard all about you, but Luka didn’t tell me what a looker you were.

His broad smile was so genuine that no one could have taken offence. We were far away from anyone else, so what he’d said couldn’t have been heard. Mark blushed spectacularly.

He’s not used to compliments, I offered on Mark’s behalf, and he’s not a—

I know he’s not, Clyde. Luka did tell me. But honesty is a virtue; I was just saying it as it was.

Mark turned to look at me; I grinned. Despite his red face, he burst into soft laughter, shaking his head. If only the girls— he said.

They do, Mark. You’re just oblivious to their glances.

Dear God, Clyde Smith, can we change the subject and have something to eat? I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.

We hired a cabana: a semicircle of bamboo hoops covered in canvas that was staked into the sand, erected as a quarter circle. It served as both a wind shelter and sunshade. None of us was pale-skinned, but I hoped Harry would be able to pull himself away and join us for half an hour—he burned even through his shirt sometimes.

Are we going to the changing shed? Mark asked.

Are you wearing your togs under your pants?

Yes. Luka took me to Wilford’s, the young man’s shop up at Bondi Junction. Made me buy them and a few other bits and pieces.

I caught Luka’s wink. He was crazy for Mark, despite Mark’s as yet, as far as I knew, untested heterosexuality—there was a couple he visited at Kings Cross for intimate therapy, but I’d yet to hear of anything that suggested he’d managed to throw a leg over.

We stripped off, putting our clothes at the back of the cabana out of the way. Mark was the last to pull off his strides. I stopped myself from saying anything. The last thing I’d expected was a pair of pale green speedos; I’d have thought boxer-type shorts would be Mark’s thing. However, I was impressed by how well he filled out his nylon swimmers. We’d been naked together before, but that had been at a crime scene, the two of us having escaped a deranged serial killer, our arms around each other and covered in the murderer’s blood. At the time, I’d been too distraught to notice anything much about his body—I’d seen his torso while visiting him in hospital, so had seen the scars on his chest and back, inflicted by his sadistic grandfather, currently in jail serving a sentence for the rest of his life. But now, Mark shyly stepping out of his trousers and folding them carefully, I truly saw what a handsome man he was. Slim, naturally toned, with a knockout backside and strong, lightly-haired thighs.

These aren’t too … revealing? he asked.

Oscar Soo shook his head and whistled softly. I had to agree with the sentiment.

Just as he stood back up, after having placed his clothes with ours in the cabana, two girls walked past us, one copper-haired beauty wearing white-rimmed sunglasses and a very fetching one-piece swimming costume smiled and waved the fingers of one hand at him.

Why don’t you follow her and say hello? I asked. She was giving you a serious once-over.

She probably saw my scars and was just being polite.

Her eyes were not on your scars, Luka said. I watched. She seemed fascinated by the half dozen handkerchiefs you’ve seemingly packed down the front of your togs.

*****

Harry arrived while I was in the water with Mark. We were standing up to our waists, me teaching him how to turn side on when the breakers came rolling in. He was dumped twice, but didn’t seem to mind, surfacing with a grin and sputtering water.

We’d been discussing the Willoughby Purchase case and Mark’s and my deft manoeuvring around the fact that the man in question was not dead, but still alive and living out in the bush. Brendan Fox, an old war buddy of mine and now the current D.I. at the local nick, had been furious that we’d hidden details of the case from him. He still had no idea that Willoughby was alive and a rancid, corrupt ex-detective was rotting in his supposed grave. Neither was he aware that I’d been present at a now notorious shoot-out on a deserted beach in the tropics and had decided to cover up what I knew to be murders. Mark knew, of course. After our initial distrust of each other, we’d become the closest of mates, and I was able to help him behind the scenes in ways that his boss seemed averse to. Brendan was a great guy, but so tunnel-focused at times I used to wonder how he’d managed to survive the war.

My awareness of Harry’s arrival was having my swimming trunks pulled down to my ankles then a grinning redhead surfacing between Mark and me.

Take your foot off my cozzies, Jones, I said, trying not to laugh and vainly struggling to pull them back on.

Did he pants you? Mark asked.

Yes, and if it wasn’t for you, Mark, Harry said, I’d be twirling them over my head and racing him to the beach.

A large wave slapped us in the face; we’d been so busy laughing none of us had spotted it.

I’ve ordered a float for Mark, Harry said to me. Do you think you could pick it up while I chat with my favourite dick?

Don’t take him out too far, I replied, smiling at Harry’s purposeful innuendo. Mark’s eye-roll was slight, but noticeable.

I’m not totally clueless, Clyde. I know he can’t swim. I just want to show him how to use the float and see if we can’t catch a few waves.

All right. See you in a bit.

I put my shoulder into the next decent breaker and body-surfed to the beach. I recognised the lad in charge of the float rentals. We locals called them floats or floaters, but to visitors they were known by their brand name: Surfoplanes. The long black rubber blow-up surfboard-type things were very popular with people from the western suburbs who weren’t used to swimming in the ocean. They were very cheap: only sixpence an hour to hire.

How’s it going, Barney? I asked. I thought you were working for my mate Craig at his pool these days?

Nice to see you, Mr. Smith, he replied, his eyes fixed on the front of my swimmers. When are you going to wear those sexy yellow speedos I keep hearing about?

You know I’m taken, Barney, and you get to see me naked nearly every morning at the pool …

Yes, but somehow the way men fill out their cozzies and imagining what’s hidden in them is far more alluring than the bare truth … not that you’ve got anything to worry about on either count, Mr. Smith.

I shook my head at his wink and was about to ask him sarcastically how he knew what the word alluring meant when I heard someone call out my name.

Here, take your float, Mr. Smith, Barney said. I just need to nick off for a second.

It was when I turned that I understood Barney’s sudden disappearance. Hello, Clyde, the policeman said.

Gidday, Dave. What brings you down to the beach … and in uniform?

Looking for D.S. Dioli. He told me this morning at work that he was having a half day off and spending the afternoon at the beach with you and your mate Luka Praz.

He’s in the water. Want me to get him for you?

Bloody hot day like this, I’m tempted to take my clobber off and go fetch him myself.

Problems at work?

Yeah, bad one, Clyde. Four dead. Looks like a suicide pact.

I whistled softly. Where?

He turned and pointed to the north end of the beach. Baden Street, number five, top floor.

What, the Wilkinsons’ place?

You know them?

Sure thing, Dave. I hauled Sidney Wilkinson into the nick countless times just after I first started. Petty stuff, mostly: handling stolen goods, moneylending, associating with known criminals. He was the lowest of the low back then, but out of the blue opened a jewellery shop up at Peter’s Corner and seemed to have gone straight. Suicide? You said there were four dead?

I don’t know much about it yet. But the D.I. told me to bring D.S. Dioli in; he wants him on the case.

I snorted. Typical of Brendan, telling Mark to fuck off and take a break because he was annoyed with him, next minute calling him into work by sending a constable on the first half day off Mark had taken in ages. Although Brendan was a very close friend, when it came to business there were very strict lines never to be crossed that sometimes challenged our friendship.

Are we still on for tonight, Clyde?

Of course we are. Last revision on forensic procedures, after which you’ll piss in your detective’s exam on Thursday morning.

What will I bring?

Just yourself. I’m cooking Moroccan food. Harry will be home at half six—he’s in charge of dessert—and we’ll eat around half past seven if that suits you.

Thanks. I owe you one.

You owe me more than one, Dave. But seeing I used to babysit you when you were a toddler, I feel you’re part of the family. Now, I better go get Mark.

Clyde …

Yes, mate?

There’s another personal thing I want to talk to you about sometime. Can I take you out for a bite to eat or for a beer sometime?

Why not tonight over dinner? Harry’s trustworthy.

I’d rather it be just between you and me.

Trouble with Katie?

Well … sort of, but as I said, it’s personal.

Any night but Wednesday, Dave.

Thanks, Clyde.

As I ran down the beach with the float under my arm, I glanced up over the north end. Had I not been looking for them, I may not have noticed how many cars were parked outside number 5 Baden Street.

Chapter 1

Dave was sitting at my desk, his back to me, fending off my cat, Baxter, who loved nothing more than to annoy anyone trying to write.

I’d decided to give him a mock exam to see how well he understood the types of questions he’d expect to be given, then go through his answers to explain what the supervising board would expect to see. I’d dictated the last question, which he’d written down on his answer paper, sat down, lit a cigarette, and had barely taken four puffs when he held the paper up in his hand and announced that he’d finished.

Someone rang my front doorbell. I’ll get it, Harry yelled down the hallway. He was in the kitchen preparing dessert, the lamb and apricot tagine bubbling softly on the stove top. I heard him talking to someone, then footsteps coming down the hall to my study.

Well, this looks cosy, Brendan Fox said, glaring at Dave.

Dave started to stand from his chair, but I gestured for him to stay where he was. I’m helping my friend study for his detective’s exam, Brendan. Something you, as his D.I., should have probably done yourself. Now, I know this is a social visit, otherwise you would have come to see me at my office or asked me to come up to the nick. We’re about to eat. Will you join us?

He looked fit to kill, but when I gave him the number-one Clyde Smith special glare, he apologised and tried to make some lame excuse about being up to his eyeballs at work and forgetting that Dave had applied for the detective’s exam.

Lamb and apricot tagine with pomegranate couscous, buttered saffron rice, and Moroccan flatbreads, Harry announced, having joined us, holding out his hand for Brendan’s hat and jacket. No excuses, Brendan, you’re just another mate as far as I’m concerned, and we always cook enough to feed a Saturday afternoon crowd at the cricket.

Did you expect me? Brendan asked. North African food?

Harry could charm the glass eyes from a teddy bear. Maybe Luka foretold your unexpected arrival when Clyde and I spent the afternoon with him at the beach? Ever think of that, D.I. Fox? I’ll get you three a drink. I’ve just started assembling dessert and it needs to go back in the fridge for a while, so dinner will be another half an hour. Gin and tonic all round, or scotch and soda?

I could tell Dave was still looking uncomfortable, so I took his paper and glanced through it while Brendan leaned against the edge of the desk, rubbing his fingers through the fur on Baxter’s tummy, oblivious to the claws of four paws sunk gently into his wrist.

This is terrific work, Dave, I said, handing the paper to Brendan, who extricated himself from my furry buddy’s embrace.

I wasn’t sure about question five—

I couldn’t have answered it better myself.

Brendan pursed his lips, nodding as he read through the responses to the questions I’d typed out.

How do you two know each other? he asked. Was it from working together?

No, I replied. I’ve known Dave from the day he was born. His father worked part-time at the paper shop next to my father’s business. They lived not far from us, and I grew up babysitting him right up until I went to war.

My mother’s been in hospital since just after I was born, Dave explained.

I was glad Brendan didn’t enquire further because Mrs. Perry had been committed to Callan Park psychiatric hospital and still remained there twenty-six years later. Dave’s father was one of those men that bad luck followed like a lost dog. Unemployed since the Depression, he got by doing odd jobs—mostly manual labour—until he scored three mornings a week at the newsagent, where he still served at the counter and worked in the stockroom. Dave had moved out into his own flat, and I knew that the promotion to detective with its accompanying pay rise would make an enormous difference to both their lives.

Clyde’s been like a brother to me, Dave explained. Paid our rent when Dad was skint more than once, sir.

Brendan’s look softened. He threw me a slight smile. I’m not at all surprised to hear that, Constable Perry. He saved my life during the war, did you know that?

Dave shook his head. Then, when neither of us was forthcoming with an explanation, said that he hadn’t recognised anything that Harry had said we’d be eating. It made me smile while watching Brendan lean forward in his chair to explain the origins of the food and how dear to his heart the cuisine of his homeland was. This was the Brendan Fox I knew during the war. Maybe he needed to adopt a bit more of this man who was speaking so enthusiastically about the country of his forefathers when dealing with his staff, rather than the gruff bastard I’d seen in action of late.

You cooked this, Harry? Brendan asked thirty minutes later, tucking into everything on the table, Egyptian style, gathering food into a torn-off piece of flatbread and eating with the fingers of his right hand.

No, it was Clyde. But I’ve made my own version for as long as I can remember. My parents love food from the Middle East. I was brought up with it, and when Clyde suggested a tagine for dinner tonight, I couldn’t have been happier; it seemed to suit the weather. I supplied the ingredients—that was my contribution to the main course. Oh, and I cooked the rice and made the flatbreads the moment I got in from the office.

Where on earth did you find pomegranates for the couscous?

We have four bushes in the back garden. Mum loves pomegranate juice in her soda water. She always has seedlings sprouting in a pot. I’ll give you some if you like.

How are you finding the food, Dave? I asked.

It’s totally foreign to me and a little spicy for my taste, but it’s delicious. Harry said he’d made dessert?

Well, I happen to know it’s your favourite, I replied, and I used to help Mum make it for you and your dad. But this time it’s all Harry’s work … using my mum’s recipe, of course.

Passionfruit flummery?

Made with my own two hands, Harry said, laughing at Dave’s astonishment.

Your mother used to pass a bowl over the fence to Dad and me, usually on Sunday nights, Dave said. Well, I never …

When you said they lived not far from you, I didn’t imagine next door, Brendan said.

They lived three doors away, but the two houses in between were empty. The people who lived there couldn’t afford to pay the rent during the Depression and had to give them up; they never came back. The houses were empty right up until the war. We pulled off some fence palings so it was easy for us to cross between his place and mine. Mum didn’t want to embarrass Dave’s dad by walking down the street with bowls of food in her hands.

Dave went to help Harry in the kitchen after the main course. Why did you really come? I asked Brendan.

To talk about the Wilkinson case. Yes, I know it’s D.S. Dioli’s case, and I’ve asked him to come to speak with you about your priors with Sidney Wilkinson, Clyde. Thackeray Mendel left a note in the D.I.’s legacy file saying that if anything came up about John Mendis, you were the person to talk to.

John Mendis? What’s he got to do with the price of eggs?

He and his wife were the other couple found dead with the Wilkinsons. Every Sunday night, the Mendises drove from Darling Point to play cards with them. Odd, isn’t it, that people should commit suicide while playing bridge at the beach …

*****

The following morning, I arrived early, surprised to see Janice already at work.

Good morning, I said. You’re early.

I hope you don’t mind, Mr. Smith, but I’d like to leave a little after four this afternoon. I’m catching up with some of the girls I worked with at records during the war for an early cocktail at Romano’s.

That’s swish. Staying for dinner afterwards?

Give me a raise and I might think about it, she said with a wink. No, we’re going to have a quick bite to eat at Repin’s in Market Street, then catch the eight o’clock at the Prince Edward.

What’s showing?

"The Rainmaker. It’s just come out. Burt Lancaster and Katharine Hepburn; we’re really looking forward to it."

Four young ladies out on the town. I’m sure you’ll get up to mischief.

Thank you for the ‘young’, Mr. Smith. Now, I’m going to finish up these invoices before Detective Sergeant Dioli arrives.

Mark is coming around?

Yes, he left a message with our answering service asking if he could call by at half past nine. I checked your diary, then rang him at home to tell him you’d be free—he still hadn’t left for work.

I checked my watch: twenty-five past eight.

I suppose this is about that dreadful business up in Baden Street. Were you friends of the Wilkinsons? she asked.

No, not friends. I had dealings with Sidney when I was a detective. I arrested Dolly not long after I started, when I was still a constable, but—

Dolly?

Clarissa Wilkinson’s street name. She wasn’t always a jeweller’s wife. Sorry, that sounds like gossip.

If it’s the truth, that’s not gossip. I worked with their son, you know.

Who, Barry?

Yes. Poor man. He had a desk two over from mine in Army Intelligence. People constantly used to sneer and make snide remarks about him skiving active service. I felt very sorry for him.

He’s got a f—Sorry, Miss Finch. The word was hovering on my lips, but I stopped myself. "What I meant to say is that he’s got a bloody club foot. He wept tears of blood on the day that Craig Whitcombe and I got on the tram in our new uniforms and went off to war. Poor bugger. He was desperate to fight."

I had no idea you knew him.

We were at school together. He’s two years younger than me, but the brightest kid in the neighbourhood. He got kicked up two classes because of it. In many ways, it wasn’t the best thing, as he got picked on because he was younger than us—and cleverer than most—and then there was his limp. Craig and I really liked him, so we looked out for him. Kidnapped him and took him down to the beach at night to have a swim. He loved the ocean but was ashamed of his disability, so would never go during the day.

Have you caught up with him?

To my eternal shame, no, I haven’t. After I came home I joined the police force almost straight away. I kept thinking about it, but was so busy a year went past before I knew it, so I went around to his parents’ house—they lived in one of those cardboard box flats up near the racecourse in those days—but Dolly told me she’d heard on the grapevine that he’d moved to Queensland to try his hand at some sort of farming venture. Said they’d lost contact and she hadn’t heard from him since before the beginning of the war.

Well, you might like to know that he’s back. I saw him while you were away in Mudgee. If I’d known he’d been a friend, I might have mentioned it to you.

Did you speak with him?

Yes. Still as handsome as ever … more so, if you ask me. The oddest thing was that I didn’t notice any limp. I stood in the butcher’s watching him cross the road to Luka’s shop—that’s when I saw how even his gait was. For some silly reason, it made me happy to think he may have conquered it. He looked in Luka’s window for a while then got in his car. By then, my meat order was ready, and when I left, he’d gone.

Even though they didn’t get on, he’ll be shocked to hear the news of his parents’ death.

He’s living in Kensington, down behind the hospital somewhere, she said. Didn’t tell me where, but said we should meet up for a drink sometime. We swapped phone numbers.

Can I have his? Perhaps I’ll give him a call.

I’m sure he’d like that. He was far less shy than he had been when we’d been working together. He even laughed a bit, something I don’t remember him ever doing.

Maybe he finally met someone and settled down? I suggested.

No wedding ring, Janice replied. Not that that means anything.

Surprisingly, my call to Barry Wilkinson went straight through to Brenda Brighteyes, the same answering service that Harry and I both used. When I asked her to pass on a message to Barry, telling him to call me at home or at work, she informed me that he’d started using her service a month ago, having told her that he’d recently moved back to Sydney from Queensland. He picked up messages once a week and there were usually very few, mostly about his work, which made her wonder why he needed an answering service at all. After I hung up, I looked for his address in the phone book. There was nothing there, so I dialled enquiries. Although I told the operator that I had his phone number and just wanted to know where he lived, she snapped, saying it was an unlisted number and she wouldn’t be charmed into providing his address.

Mark arrived right on the dot. Unfortunately, we’d had a walk-in—one of our regular customers—who’d insisted on seeing me, so I was tied up when he arrived. It was our favourite cat lady, the woman who kept our business in the black by a fiver a week, which is what she paid for one of us to retrieve her very fluffy moggie from her neighbour’s windowsill, where it loved to bask in the sun.

She’d decided to pop in for a chat and pay a tenner in advance, and sat patiently waiting for me to offer her a cup of tea. She was old pals with both Tom and Janice, who were the regular saviours of her Roscoe, but wanted to meet the brains of the operation—that descriptor made me laugh. When Mark arrived, I escorted her in to meet Harry, who’d also just walked in the door. I left her in his good company. His stern glance at me under his eyebrows as I returned to Mark, who’d been waiting outside my office door, spoke volumes.

I hear you had a nocturnal omission last night, Mark said after closing the door behind us.

I laughed. Yes, I omitted to tell Brendan what he’d turned up wanting to find out … on purpose. I think I need to have words with him. He reminds me of you when you first arrived: all piss, bile, and spit.

I had no idea you were such a jelly bean back then.

I’ll give you jelly bean—

Black ones only, please, Clyde. Eileen Yaxley always has a threepenny bagful ready for me when I pop in for my supply.

So, how can I help you, Mark? Brendan told me he was handing you the Wilkinson case.

Well, I bloody wish he would. He’s growling over it like some wild guard dog. I’m on the point of telling him to either pick it up himself or piss off and leave me to it.

Perhaps you should.

Are you serious?

Never more, I said. I’ve known him since 1940. Talk about me being a jelly bean—he’s a marshmallow once you get to know him.

But you and he seem always to be at loggerheads.

And you and me, Mark? Our Sherlock and Moriarty act for the general public?

He sighed, then leaned back in his seat, his eyes turning to the corner of my room where Baxter normally took up residence.

At home today, I explained. It’s Trixie’s cleaning day.

Do you think she’d do my place too? I really need someone to clean, and I could show her how I like my shirts ironed, and—

Why do you need a cleaner, Mark? There’s just you.

I could say the same about you, Clyde. There’s just you …

He winked, so I threw a paper clip at him. All right. I’ll ask her. Now, about this case.

Well, the D.I. wants to know about your historical involvement with Sidney Wilkinson and John Mendis. Something about the previous D.I. leaving a note that you’re the expert on both of them.

Did you try to pull my case notes?

He gave me one of those looks. I guess the hundreds of boxes full of files that had been sent to Darlinghurst two years ago still languished untouched in some cavernous storehouse waiting to be transferred onto the new punch card system.

Come on, Clyde, help me out here, he said.

How much do you love me?

Ah, it’s just as I thought: you have a copy of your case notes at home.

Guilty as charged. I’ll dig them out tonight, but I can tell you off the top of my head what I remember. Fair swap?

Swap for what?

For you telling me all about the crime scene, no details left out.

Jeez, Clyde. The D.I. will have my balls.

You’re a big boy, you’ll survive.

I started with Sidney Wilkinson. He was my da’s age, and like my mate Dave’s father, a man who couldn’t seem to rise above the difficulties of life. Everyone in the suburb knew he was a petty thief and a pickpocket. It was a damned wonder he never got arrested for either of those two crimes, despite his dozens of other arrests. We could never finger him for break-ins; he was a careful crim, never leaving behind any evidence. Suspicion: that’s all anyone had. No one could ever prove it had been him who’d filched grocery money from jam jars in housewives’ pantries, or who’d lifted their husbands’ wallets in the street. However, his reputation as a pilferer was so widespread around Coogee that one friend of my mother’s, who was known for her beautiful scones and pastry, used to boast that her fingers were as light as Sidney Wilkinson’s.

My da told me that everyone was gobsmacked when he married Dolly, one of Coogee’s larger-than-life locals, who used to entertain gentlemen in empty tramcars at Randwick depot. The rumour was that she gave the yard supervisor a shilling for each customer to make sure they weren’t disturbed. That’s how she got her nickname: Tramcar Dolly.

Between the Randwick and Everleigh workshops, which shared staff, there were over three thousand men who worked either in the workshops or on the trams themselves. Dolly was never short of customers, and I heard that the yard supervisor had put away quite a stash during the time she’d plied her trade in the sidings.

Of course, I knew Barry at school and while we were growing up, but had little to do with his parents until I became a cop. Sidney made the mistake of trying to lift my wallet while I was at the pub, and in uniform too. He was half maggoted: on his fifth schooner, according to the barman. At the time, there was much clucking and shaking of heads from some of the detectives and senior cops who thought he was not worth the trouble. He was polite, unabashed, holding his head up high as I threw him in the holding cell. It was a waste of time sending him to the magistrate, so I slapped him with a drunk and disorderly. I allowed him to make a telephone call. Dolly turned up to pay his fine, pulling notes from her bra, much to the amusement of the desk sergeant.

Then, in 1950, word got round that he’d won the lottery. He and his wife bought the Baden Street block of flats. It was one of those three-storey buildings divided into six flats, much like my own. He and Dolly knocked out walls on the top floor, turning it into a very spacious apartment, renting out the four flats on the bottom two floors. Then, out of the blue, Dolly announced to her friends that she and Sidney had bought the jeweller’s shop near the Ritz cinema. After that, she wore so much sparkly jewellery that the locals began to call her the Queen of Diamonds.

The Queen of Diamonds? Mark asked, looking up quickly from his notebook.

Is there something I should know?

I’ll tell you later, Clyde. No other dealings with either of them before you quit the force?

"Nothing,