She settled down with Wardle’s notebooks, extracting those relating to Belle Fitzgerald. She hadn’t expected them to yield anything new, but she was disappointed when they didn’t. Wardle’s notes were clear, his handwriting crabbed but legible. In some cases he’d scribbled a few words and filled in details later. His interviews with Belle’s neighbour, Narelle Docherty, with Margie Solon, with other teachers at the tech, they were all there. Nothing from the developer or any organised crime figure. That tallied with what Wardle had told them.

  Eventually she gave up. She passed the notebooks to Bennie, made herself a cup of tea, and opened Five Belles. Published in 1992, she noted. It began with a prologue, dramatic and compelling:

  We can’t say exactly how Belle Fitzgerald spent her last morning, but when we collate accounts from those who knew her, and those who saw her that day, we can reconstruct her movements with some accuracy.

  July 11 1988 was a Monday, and it was cold. Winter in Sydney can be punishing and Belle’s terrace, over a hundred years old, was uninsulated and draughty. It must have been icy that morning in July.

  Belle liked to stay in bed as long as possible, smoking and planning her day. Most probably she got up around ten, wrapped herself in her tartan dressing gown, showered and dressed and went downstairs for the first coffee of the morning. She left her house around eleven-thirty. We know that, and also what she wore, because her neighbour, Narelle Docherty, ran into her as she was leaving.

  Mrs Docherty said Belle had on an orange shaggy coat, black trousers and black high-heeled boots with fringes. There might have been a poloneck sweater as well; she wasn’t sure. She did notice Belle’s black leather hold-all, slung as usual over a shoulder, and her jewellery, her large, gold hoop earrings.

  Belle stopped briefly to chat with Mrs Docherty. No matter how rushed she was, Mrs Docherty said, Belle always had time for a chat. That day, however, she told Mrs Docherty she couldn’t stay long because she had to meet someone, and she wasn’t looking forward to it at all.

  Belle Fitzgerald set off along Catherine Street and up William Street in the direction of Darlinghurst Road. We can verify this because she was seen by a couple of locals, even waved hello to them. Many people in the area knew Belle.

  Another local, this time a working girl Belle had befriended, thought she noticed Belle head towards Darlinghurst Road around 11.45 that morning.

  It was the last time anyone saw her.

  Jackie, immersed, turned the page. She read on until Bennie tapped her shoulder to tell her he was going home. She checked her watch and realised that if she, too, didn’t leave quick smart, she’d be late for dinner with Kinsella.

  ***

  Jackie saw Kinsella before he saw her. He’d scored a window seat and was studying the menu, a glass of wine in front of him, an ice bucket with a bottle inside it to one side. He spotted her and lifted a hand, fingers spread. He must have had time to change because his white shirt was freshly ironed. It was stuffy in the restaurant and he’d rolled his sleeves to the elbow. She couldn’t help noticing the muscles of his forearm. Kinsella was a good-looking man.

  The Thai Potong was Jackie and Kinsella’s go-to dinner venue. Cheap, with excellent food, near to both of them, and the absolute opposite of intimate. A vast buzzing terminus of a restaurant, it stretched over several shopfronts and continued lengthways as far as the eye could see. It was a blast of colour and noise, crowded with wooden statues, bowls of flowers, gold hangings and here and there clusters of balloons signifying birthday treats.

  By way of greeting Kinsella set a wineglass right side up, extracted the bottle from the ice bucket, unscrewed the top and poured. A pinot gris, a label she didn’t know.

  ‘This is new,’ said Jackie. They usually settled for beer at the Thai Potong. ‘What’s the occasion? The whole bottle for me? Trying to get me plastered?’

  ‘Wouldn’t be the first time. No, I just felt like wine. I’ve ordered some starters. Hope you’re hungry.’ After nearly three years together they’d honed their choices.

  Jackie sipped and sipped again and felt warmth run through her body. Her muscles softened and relaxed. Yes, indeed. The stress of finding the receipt, her father’s response, Pauline Wardle’s mention of her mother, all that began to recede.

  Their entrees arrived, a selection of Thai fish cakes, soft-shell crab salad, betel leaf prawns. They ordered their main dish, a whole steamed snapper, which would take time to cook. For a while they ate in silence. Jackie, still feeling the effects of the past couple of days, downed her wine too fast, refilled her glass. Kinsella, seeming edgy, drank even faster.

  When they’d finished their entrees, Jackie said, ‘Come on, Kinsella, what’s bugging you?’

  Kinsella pushed back the lick of black hair that fell across his forehead. ‘It’s Shannon. You know.’

  She didn’t know. Because of his refusal to talk about his private life, Jackie hadn’t heard much about Kinsella’s ex-wife. She knew more about his daughter. They’d met a few times. Tess was tall and gangly, the sort of teenager who might grow into beauty. She was also withdrawn, acknowledging Jackie with her eyes before fastening her attention on drawing birds, her preferred occupation.

  Jackie had met Shannon only once, as a passenger in the car when Kinsella picked Tess up one afternoon. She’d had the impression he would have preferred Jackie not to be there, but he wanted to be punctual and dropping her off wasn’t an option. Shannon and Tess were standing on the pavement, waiting. After she’d seen Tess fasten her seat belt, Shannon had walked to the driver’s side window to issue instructions. She was a fit-looking woman, attractive, with long blonde hair and a ready smile. She greeted Jackie briefly, blew a kiss to Tess, watched them drive off. She and Kinsella had seemed easy together. Jackie had considered commenting, thought better of it. The no-go zone.

  Now Kinsella said, ‘She’s met someone. She told me the other day she’s moving in with him.’

  Jackie was surprised. Kinsella hadn’t struck her as still emotionally involved with his wife. Kinsella saw it, said, ‘No, it’s not that.’ He looked at his glass, seemed surprised to find it empty. ‘That phone call earlier today? I thought it was about Tess, but it turned out Shannon wanted me to meet the new bloke. Apparently he’s only in town for a day.’

  He sighed. ‘I knew she was seeing someone and that’s fine with me. A relief, really. Ainsley. His name’s Ainsley. He’s a doctor, he’s okay with Tess, he’s in love with Shannon … and he lives in Perth.’

  ‘Perth.’ Jackie understood. ‘Shannon’s moving to Perth.’

  ‘Which means Tess is moving to Perth too,’ Kinsella said. ‘Nothing against Ainsley. He seems a good enough sort. Knows about autism, so that’s a plus. And I can see they’re into each other. But to be so far away from Tess? I don’t know.’ He hesitated, reached for the wine, poured for both of them. The bottle was nearly empty.

  Kinsella added, as if forcing the words, ‘So Shannon said why don’t I get a job over there, where I can be close to them.’

  ‘You’re not going?’ She said it without thinking. The thought of losing him came like an unexpected blow.

  Their snapper arrived. Both stared at it as if it were a foreign body. Using a spoon, the waiter stripped first one side and then the other from the bones, deposited fish into bowls, placed the bowls neatly, turned to leave. Kinsella called him back, holding up the empty bottle. ‘Same again.’

  ‘Whoa!’ said Jackie. ‘I’m supposed to be driving home.’

  ‘You’re over the limit already,’ declared Kinsella, nodding at the waiter to bring the wine. He seemed determined to write himself off. Generally, when they ate together, they drank a glass or two of something, beer or wine. Once or twice they’d overdone it, taken taxis home, but it wasn’t a habit. She should stop while she was ahead, Jackie told herself, but she knew she wouldn’t. It was as if a spring inside her had snapped, releasing all her built-up tension. And now Kinsella. She said again, ‘You gonna go?’

  He was defensive, testy. ‘Thinking about it.’

  ‘I’ll miss you. It’ll be tough working without you.’

  Neither of them was eating. Kinsella said, ‘Bullshit. You’d just move on to the next poor sod.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I mean we’ve been working together for – how long now? Two years? Three? I’m your partner and we’ve been in some pretty bloody tight places together. But can a person get to know you? Nope. It’s like you’re – like you won’t let anyone get through.’

  ‘What’s got into you, Kinsella? Where’s this coming from?’

  He hadn’t finished. He pushed his bowl of fish away and folded his arms on the table. ‘I watched you last year, with that South African bloke, Lourens. Reckon you only took up with him because you knew the thing had an end date. Made it safe.’

  ‘Jesus. As if that’s any of your business. Meanwhile, what about you? You aren’t exactly forthcoming about what’s happening in your life. Ever thought I might be taking my cues from you?’

  ‘You have no idea,’ he said, opening his hands out to indicate the scope of her ignorance. ‘No bloody idea. For example, today. The whole day you’ve been off. Something’s been going on with you. I’m expected to work with you, have your back, and I don’t know what’s bothering you and you won’t tell me. How can I cope with that?’

  Jackie realised Kinsella was spoiling for a fight. This hadn’t happened before and she was at a loss. All she could say was, ‘Yes, there’s something, but I can’t talk about it, Kinsella. I wish I could.’ She reached across the table and touched his hand. He snatched it back.

  He looked around as if seeing the restaurant for the first time. ‘Got to get out of here,’ he said. He stood up abruptly, dropped his serviette on the table and walked away, moving fast and almost colliding with the waiter bringing them their second bottle of wine.

  By the time Jackie paid for the meal and left the restaurant there was no sign of Kinsella. She stood on the pavement wondering what to do, feeling bruised and badly done by. The responsibility of the case, the stuff with her father, and now this, Kinsella deciding to throw a tantrum. He was behaving like a child. Should she go after him? He lived only a few blocks away. She decided against it. She should let him stew. No good could come of following him.

  It was cold and Jackie pulled her suit jacket close. What did she care, anyhow? Let him go to the other end of the country, chase after his ex and her new man like a spare wheel. She didn’t need him. She didn’t need anyone.

  8.

  February morphed into March. Belle loved Sydney this time of year, when the humidity retreated and the city shone blue and gold. The air, still warm, grew gentle, and she and Stanton Rose lay entwined in the bed in Forbes Street watching a slight breeze ruffle leaves in the plane tree outside their window.

  The first few weeks of their affair had been so intense, so drenched in sex, that Belle expected it would burn itself out. A fling, she told herself; it would die quietly and they would both smile when they remembered it.

  That wasn’t what happened. The sex changed, became kinder. Because the house was close to work, she usually arrived before Stanton, and sometimes when he got there he was so hyped up she could feel the thud of his heart as he held her. They’d make love and gradually he’d grow calmer, although he never really separated himself from his job. He had a cordless phone, the smallest one Belle had ever seen. When it rang he left the room to answer. A couple of times he dressed and left in a hurry. A brief kiss, and ‘See you later,’ and he was gone.

  Was he involved in a case? Or was he one of the corrupt cops everybody seemed to know about, at the beck and call of crime bosses? Belle couldn’t believe it. Yet what if he was? What would she do about it? Would she drop him?

  As the weeks went by, it nagged at her. She needed to find out and it was only when Nelson came over for one of what they called their ‘girly nights’ that she realised he was the right person to ask. She waited until they’d had a couple of wines before casually remarking, ‘You know the cops at the Cross? They’re all in Russell Monroe’s pocket, right?’

  ‘Sure are.’ Nelson sounded proud. ‘He tells them to jump and they say “how high?” ’

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘Pretty much. I hear Russ talking about them on the phone. One or two holding out, but not for long.’

  ‘Do you know who?’

  Nelson was carefully pinching dope onto stuck-together cigarette papers. Now he looked up. ‘Why? You in trouble?’

  ‘Oh, not me,’ Belle lied. ‘One of the girls I run into. Her pimp’s bashing her and she needs someone to make him stop. Doesn’t want to get a do-gooder who’ll fuck everything up.’

  This seemed to satisfy Nelson. He licked the paper and rolled, twisted each end of the joint. He said thoughtfully, ‘There’s a guy named Wardle. Keep away from him. I heard Russ say they’re going to shift him somewhere to get rid of him.’

  ‘Anyone else? What about the cops who came looking for you – I think their names were Penney and Rose?’

  Nelson busied himself with the joint. He lit up and sucked in, passed the joint to Belle. When he expelled his breath, he gasped, ‘If they came to look for me on Russ’s say-so, they’ve gotta be working for him, hey?’

  ‘Yeah.’ This wasn’t what Belle wanted to hear. ‘If you find out any other names, can you let me know?’

  ‘Sure thing.’ But Nelson was swimming into a gentle trance, the wine and joint working their magic.

  ***

  Three days later Nelson turned up again. He hadn’t phoned and Belle wasn’t expecting him, but was glad to see him. She went to hug him and then saw his bruises, the swollen cheek.

  ‘Nelson! What happened to you?’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, throwing his hands up in mock-drama. ‘You should see the other guy.’

  She led him inside and sat him down, shining the lamp on his face as Stanton had done after her attack. ‘Darling, what happened?’

  He began to sniff. ‘It was my fault.’

  ‘Russell Monroe do this?’

  ‘My fault,’ he repeated, tears coming now. She drew him to her and held his head to her chest as if he were a little boy. Slowly he grew calmer. Finally he said, his voice muffled, ‘I nearly didn’t come tonight. But I had to tell you.’ Hiccupping, he lifted his head and continued, ‘You know how you wanted to find out which cops are bent? I asked Russ. He told me they all are. So then I went, “But aren’t any of them straight?” and he went, “Only one, and he’s not long for this world.” Then I went, “What about Penney and Rose? They came to look for me at the tech.” He wanted to know why I was asking. I told him the truth, that you told me about a working girl who wants the hard word put on her pimp. I thought that was okay, and we went to bed. I fell asleep and then he woke me up. He had his hand around my throat. You know how big he is? I thought … he said I’m not allowed to come here again.’ Tears running down his face, Nelson added, ‘Then he did this. Afterwards he said he loves me but if I poke my nose into his business any more a couple of slaps will be the least of my worries.’

  Belle sprang to her feet. ‘Jesus, Nelson, you took a hell of a risk coming here. What if he’s having you followed? He’ll kill you. You’ve got to go home.’

  ‘I had to tell you,’ Nelson repeated. Now he stood too, held a hand to his cheek as if he had toothache. ‘Russ said the only reason he let me come here in the first place was so he could keep an eye on you. You know how I said before he always asks about you? I never thought …’ Nelson was crying again. ‘I’m sorry!’

  ‘There’s nothing for you to be sorry about. You said you told him all we do is drink and gossip.’ Belle tried to remember if, apart from warning her, she and Nelson had ever discussed anything as serious as the Catherine Street development. ‘Don’t worry. You haven’t done anything wrong.’

  ‘Then Russ said –’ Nelson burrowed in his pockets for tissues ‘– I’m not allowed to see you anymore because he’s got eyes on you in any case.’

  9.

  Jackie climbed out of bed, sat back down. Damn Kinsella and his accusations. He was obviously upset about his daughter moving to Perth, but that didn’t explain his attack on her. You won’t let anyone get through. That’s what he’d said. Bullshit, of course, utter bullshit.

  She’d had serious relationships in her life, of course she had. Although to her, serious meant a few months, not the decades other people seemed to achieve. And yes, she was usually the one to end things when she felt the arrangement falter. Better to be the one leaving, wasn’t it, than the one left? She thought about Schalk. That was different, wasn’t it? She’d even asked him for commitment, a first if ever there was one. Although it was true she’d cut him off when he said he wasn’t coming to live in Sydney. If she were honest, wasn’t there relief in her heart when it all came apart? Had Kinsella been right when he said she’d felt safe because Schalk was leaving anyway? And now Kinsella might leave himself. Dammit, she’d miss him. He was a bloody smart cop, a good mate as well. Smart enough to know there was something bothering her. Still, he’d been out of line last night, and she wasn’t going to take it. She was, after all, his superior.

  They hadn’t drunk any of the second bottle of wine, but Jackie felt hungover anyway. Only one cure for that. Swim time. It would clear her head.

  ***

  She’d agreed to brief Harwood daily and he was bureaucratic enough to insist on a face-to-face meeting, which meant a time-wasting trip to Parramatta. By the time she’d finished telling him about Wardle – Harwood impatiently rolling his head and shoulders – Kinsella had arrived. She greeted him with a curt nod and joined him at Bennie Wang’s desk for their own morning briefing. Kinsella had told Bennie they wanted to interview Bensimon, and Bennie produced the address of his nursing home.