‘It’s called Maribel House. It’s in Potts Point,’ Bennie said. ‘Bensimon’s been there a few years now. I checked.’ He looked from Jackie to Kinsella, a child sensing tension between parents.

  ‘Okay. Might as well get going,’ said Jackie. They’d have to drive all the way back to town. Bloody Harwood.

  Bennie said, ‘I’ve just about sorted out the Fitzgerald files. It would be good to take you through them. Will you have time today?’

  ‘Yes. We’ll come back here and you can bring us up to speed. Then we can work out who else to talk to: for example, that friend of Belle’s, Margie Solon, and Trevor Curran as well. He’s a journo. Remember, Kinsella, the one who spoke up at the media conference? Get hold of their details, will you?’

  ‘Sure, boss.’ Bennie looked wistful, and Jackie wondered what it must be like to never be part of the action. She opened her mouth to say something, thought how patronising she’d sound. She clapped Bennie’s shoulder. ‘See you later.’

  Kinsella showed no sign of moving. ‘You know what’s weird?’ he mused. Nobody answered, and he went on. ‘Belle Fitzgerald was a looker.’

  ‘So?’ Kinsella wasn’t usually old-school sexist.

  ‘Been thinking about this for a while. So I watched the doco last night. From what I could find out, Belle always had a bloke in tow. More than one, sometimes.’ He counted off on his fingers. ‘Boyfriends at uni, a couple at the same time. Lives with a couple of guys, one after the other, after uni. Aged twenty-five she goes to London. Gets married there, divorces within a year. Keeps her married name, Fitzgerald. Her maiden name was Adair. That’s why it took a while to make the connection to who her family was. In any case, she comes home, moves into Catherine Street, gets involved with Trevor Curran –’

  ‘Wow.’ Jackie thought of the desiccated man she’d seen at the conference. Oh well, she supposed, he must have been young once. She said, ‘She seems to have made quite the impression on Curran. He won’t let the case go.’ She returned her attention to Kinsella. ‘So far so good. What’s your point?’

  ‘Belle Fitzgerald meets Curran in Darlo just after she gets there, in 1986. On and off for a couple of years, and according to him, off from sometime in ’87. His choice, he says. My point is, after Curran there’s no bloke.’

  ‘So?’ Jackie found herself defensive. ‘Maybe she realised she was happy on her own. Maybe she was growing up.’

  ‘Or maybe there was someone we don’t know about.’

  ‘Could be,’ said Jackie, feeling her stomach tighten. ‘Something for us to find out.’

  ***

  Outside, the day was blowy, the wind biting. Clouds scudded across the sky, disappeared over the tops of buildings. Inside the car it was pleasantly warm. Jackie and Kinsella drove in silence. Kinsella cleared his throat. ‘You okay?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine.’ She was going to make him work for this.

  He knew it. Sighed, said, ‘Last night. I was upset. About my daughter.’

  It wasn’t an apology, but it would have to do. ‘I get it. Are you going to go to Perth?’

  ‘Dunno. Thinking about it. Got a couple of contacts, and I’ll find out what’s cooking over there first. Would be a lot cheaper.’

  ‘Yeah.’ She’d already told him she’d miss him if he went. Damned if she was going to behave like some sort of teenage girlfriend. She was his boss, after all. ‘Let me know if you need wheels oiled.’

  He didn’t answer.

  They would have to work together all day. Jackie said, ‘How about we stop somewhere for breakfast first? I could murder a cheese toastie. Maybe two.’

  Kinsella grinned, relieved. ‘Remind me why you aren’t the size of a blimp?’

  ‘My brain burns it all.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  ***

  They found a parking spot off Victoria Street and walked down Macleay Street towards Bensimon’s nursing home. Any facility located around here meant it catered to the rich. Potts Point might be one of the most densely populated areas of Sydney, but if you were thinking of moving in you’d need a million and a half for a studio, and prices went vertical from there.

  They made their way past graceful, well-proportioned apartment blocks fronted by wide pavements and plane trees, past outdoor cafés and eclectic shopfronts. They almost missed the entrance to Maribel House because it was so well disguised. Two discreet white gateposts, a black wrought-iron gate, no numbers, no signs. Jackie buzzed and flashed her badge at the camera positioned above a post. She explained to a tinny voice and the gate clicked and swung open to reveal a secret world, a tarred driveway winding through greenery and gardens.

  The driveway ended at the pillared entrance of an imposing building which must, long ago, have been someone’s home. White-plastered, turreted, expansive and aware of its own importance, it looked out over lawns bordered by Moreton Bay figs. Once upon a time those lawns would have rolled all the way down to the harbour.

  Getting in to see Maurie Bensimon wasn’t as hard as expected. All they had to do was sign a visitor’s book and be directed to a lift which took them to the first floor, to a white-painted corridor with doors leading off the left. Plenty of space, and the past had been erased here. Now it was strictly medical, with the feel, and the hovering antiseptic smell, of a hospital ward.

  The room nearest the lift had been converted into a nurses’ station. A bespectacled nurse, Indian, Jackie guessed, asked them their business. She seemed surprised to hear that police were interested in Maurie Bensimon. Clearly she didn’t know his history. She said, ‘He is very sick. Very sick. You can stay a few minutes only. Don’t upset him.’ Then she led them towards the back of the building, knocked on a door which stood ajar. ‘Mr Maurie? You have visitors.’

  ‘David?’ The quavering voice came from a wheelchair facing a window looking out across the harbour to the North Shore. The view did something to mitigate the barred hospital bed with its hanging winch and overbed table, the oxygen tank in the corner.

  ‘It’s not David,’ sang the nurse. She turned to Jackie and Kinsella. ‘He’s …’ She waggled a hand. ‘This is the high-care section, you understand?’ She turned the wheelchair around so Maurie Bensimon faced them rather than the city he’d once controlled. That done, she patted his shoulder, smiled, and left.

  The man in the wheelchair was a pathetic caricature of the pictures Jackie had seen. He was small, almost child-sized, his slippered feet resting on raised steel pedals. He wore a woollen dressing gown over striped pyjamas. His thin white hair had been meticulously combed and parted. It spoke of care that cost money. His hands, gnarled and spotted, lay loosely in his lap.

  Bensimon’s head was fallen forward and to one side. He seemed unable to lift it. He looked up from under it with milky blank eyes, said again, ‘David?’

  This was going to be a wasted trip. Jackie replied, ‘No, it’s not David. It’s the police.’

  Something clicked inside Bensimon. His head stayed bent but his eyes came alive, focused. ‘Police?’ he quavered. ‘Again? You were here before. What do you want?’

  ‘Before?’ Jackie asked.

  Bensimon seemed confused. ‘Long time ago.’

  Jackie said, ‘We’d like to talk to you about Belle Fitzgerald.’

  He didn’t have to ask who she meant, though the answer was mumbled. ‘Cunt. Can’t get rid of her.’ His hands trembled, whether from palsy or memory it was hard to tell.

  Kinsella said, ‘You went after her, didn’t you? Long ago now, you can tell us.’

  Bensimon tried to lift his head, failed. ‘I’m dying, son. You know that?’

  Kinsella didn’t reply immediately. Then he said, ‘Yeah. Looks like it.’

  Bensimon gave a thin chuckle, had to catch his breath after. ‘Good boy. No messing about. Sit. So I can see your faces.’ He pointed to two visitors’ chairs. They each took one. Bensimon, now at eye level, looked from one to the other. He said, ‘She was giving us grief. Then she was gone. Poof.’

  ‘We found her,’ Kinsella said.

  ‘You found her? Where?’

  ‘In someone else’s grave.’

  Bensimon’s sunken mouth stretched into a death’s-head grin, and for a second they saw the man he had been, the fear he could engender. ‘Good one,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think he’d do it.’

  Jackie held her breath. ‘Who? Who are you talking about?’

  Bensimon worked his lips together. ‘Barrel of crap. Monroe was onto me to get rid of her but I was like this with the father.’ He raised a trembling hand an inch from his lap, the first two fingers joined together. Dropped the hand. Said, ‘You know who Monroe was? He shopped me, you know that? Turned rat on me.’

  Ancient history. Monroe had turned informant, scored immunity and until his death, a taxpayer-funded life in Bali. Whatever he’d told authorities hadn’t been enough to nail Bensimon, or else Bensimon knew people powerful enough to prevent it.

  Bensimon raised his eyes from under his drooping head. ‘Who are you?’ he asked, politely interested.

  ‘We’re police,’ repeated Jackie. ‘Detectives. This is Sergeant Kinsella and I’m Inspector Rose.’

  ‘Rose? Rosie Rose. Rosie ring around the roses Rose.’ Bensimon chuckled, began to cough, wheezing helplessly. Kinsella found a plastic glass of water with a straw, took it over. Bensimon fluttered a hand. Kinsella held the straw to his lips. Bensimon summoned up strength, managed a small suck. The wheezing subsided. ‘Rosie Rose,’ he said again.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Jackie, not keen to explore those paths. ‘What can you tell us about Belle Fitzgerald?’

  But they’d lost Bensimon. He’d drifted far away. ‘Rosie Rose. Like a son to me. Working for the Feds, all the time. What a con. Shopped me. I’ve got the stuff. Somewhere.’

  Jackie asked. ‘Stuff? What stuff?’ She gave it one last try. ‘Belle Fitzgerald? Were you responsible for her death? Did you order it?’

  Bensimon didn’t hear or didn’t understand. ‘Supposed to be … You should ask him. Rose, Russ. Russ … the fucker shopped me, you know that? Turned rat on me. I’ve got the last word.’ His eyes seemed to film over, the life gone from them. ‘Who are you? Where’s David?’

  The nurse appeared at the door, told them their time was up. Kinsella returned Bensimon’s wheelchair to the view and they left.

  ***

  ‘So what do you reckon?’ Kinsella asked. They’d walked back to Macleay Street and were seated inside Gypsy Espresso, the first café they’d come across. It wasn’t warm outside, but the wind had died down and the pavement tables were full of customers chatting and eating and watching the passing parade. Inside was almost deserted, and they could talk in private.

  Gypsy Espresso boasted home-brand coffee. Kinsella ordered his usual long black and Jackie a skinny cap. She wasn’t hungry after her toastie, and settled on a poached chicken salad with hummus. Kinsella chose a scrambled egg and bacon roll, which the menu emphasised came with jalapeño mayo and a ciabatta roll. Gypsy Espresso was definitely upmarket.

  ‘Reckon about what? The case?’ Jackie asked. She was distracted, her mind still on Bensimon’s comments, particularly those about her father.

  ‘What else?’ Kinsella sighed. ‘It doesn’t make sense. From what Bensimon said, he either ordered Belle Fitzgerald’s death or knew about it. Plus everything you read or hear about her disappearance says organised crime was responsible, Bensimon or the cops or the developer, blah, blah, blah. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Still doesn’t explain the way she was buried. When have you heard of crims killing someone and laying their body out so carefully? It’s weird. Ritualistic, almost. Remember I said it was strange Belle Fitzgerald didn’t have a man hanging off her? We’ve got to find this secret boyfriend. He’s the key. We have to speak to your father.’

  This was the time for Jackie to reveal she’d already spoken to her father, that he’d met Belle Fitzgerald in the Cross, that he’d bought a ring for her on Monroe’s behalf. But it would mean placing Stanton front and centre, and he’d spelled out the consequences. Besides, there was Kinsella’s strange behaviour at the restaurant. He’d shown her a part of him she hadn’t seen before, and she couldn’t predict how he’d react now. Would he support her? After all, what she’d done was actionable as far as the service was concerned. She couldn’t take the chance.

  She said instead, ‘Look, Kinsella, truth is, I’m having trouble working out how to approach my father. It’s complicated. It’s hard being his daughter and dealing with him on a professional level at the same time.’ She lifted her shoulders in a helpless gesture. What she’d told him was true as far as it went, and part of the truth was better than nothing.

  Kinsella didn’t answer. He had the ability to manage silence. It was a useful technique when you interviewed someone you knew wasn’t telling you everything, and now he was using it on her. Well, two could play at this game. She shut up, but the waiter spoiled her strategy by appearing with their food.

  She cracked. ‘Come on, Kinsella, stop playing the cop. I’ll talk to my father and set something up.’

  The Kinsella grin returned. For a few minutes they concen­trated on eating. To change the subject, Jackie said, ‘Thought any more about Perth?’

  He made a face, shrugged. ‘Depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  Kinsella’s eyes changed. It was as if a shutter came down. He looked at Jackie for a second and went back to his food. He was telling her the subject was off limits and she knew not to pursue the conversation. Instead she picked at her salad, aware of him across the table, not knowing how to break the impasse. The ease they’d built up over the past years seemed to have vanished. Whatever was bugging him at the restaurant hadn’t gone away, and it was affecting both of them.

  It was her turn to keep quiet. She gave up on her food, looked at Kinsella instead. His head was still down and she took him in, his dark hair falling over his forehead. He lifted his head and caught her looking.

  There was an instant, something. Jackie felt heat in her cheeks. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Finish your coffee. Time for some paperwork.’

  ***

  The afternoon passed uneventfully. Bennie, in his usual thorough way, had dissected and collated the information in the Belle Fitzgerald files and he guided Jackie and Kinsella through the madness of nearly forty years of the city’s biggest mystery and the theories springing from it. Every now and then someone would front up to a police station and say they’d spotted Belle Fitzgerald in Barcelona or Paris or Woolies in Woy Woy. Some of these supposed sightings, the more likely ones, had been followed up. Most had not.

  More disturbing were claims from people who swore they had evidence of what had happened or knew someone who did, and who had the definitive story on Belle. She’d been killed by Bensimon himself, by Richter, by corrupt cops, by a politician. She’d been fed through a mincer. She’d been tied to a Kooka stove and dropped into the harbour. She was buried in the Blue Mountains, under the third runway, in the market garden at La Perouse. She’d been shot in a nightclub, axed in an alley, strangled in Rose Bay. And so on and so on. None of it helped them now.

  Eventually Kinsella sat back, arched his body in a stretch. ‘I don’t know why we’re trawling through this crap. Bensimon was off the planet when we spoke to him, but it’s clear he knows who killed Belle Fitzgerald, even if he didn’t pull the trigger. We should talk to him again and perhaps we’ll get him on a good day. Meanwhile, as I keep saying, we need to find the secret boyfriend.’

  Bennie said, ‘No word on a boyfriend in the official files, but a few of the players are still around.’ He counted off on his fingers. ‘First of all, the cops. Except for Sergeant Wardle, all the cops directly involved in this are dead. The only other policeman would be your father.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jackie. There was no way out. First Kinsella, now Bennie. Whichever way you looked at this, she’d have to involve Stanton in a formal sense. Their conversation about the ring was best kept quiet. ‘Kinsella, we’ll talk to him soon. Tomorrow, if he’s free.’

  Bennie said, ‘You’ve got to see Margie Solon first. I told her you’ll be there in the morning.’

  Jackie nodded. A reprieve. ‘Okay.’ She consulted her watch. ‘Too late to do any more today. Tomorrow I have to brief Harwood first thing, so meet here, then we see Margie, then my father if he’s available?’

  Kinsella gave the thumbs-up sign. Bennie began to gather his papers.

  ***

  The Flying Fajita Sisters, a block’s walk from Jackie’s house, was notable for its authentic Mexican food, its wobbly, slightly sticky wooden tables and its deadly cocktails. Jackie considered them, but her body felt surprisingly fragile after the night before and she decided to stick to sparkling water.

  Luke arrived, and to Jackie’s irritation, Danni was with him. They came in holding hands. Danni stretched herself over the table to kiss Jackie hello and Jackie had to fight not to jerk her head away. Instinct. Something about the girl set off warning bells, and it wasn’t just a mother’s reaction. Danni was pretty, with a great sense of style, a body that liked being shown off and a self-awareness that turned heads. But there was a selfishness behind it all, something that women could see but men couldn’t, or overlooked. Jackie didn’t trust Danni and wondered, not for the first time, why she’d taken up with her son. Luke, tall and gangly with curly brown hair and a round, clever face, was attractive enough, but no match for the confident, worldly Danni.

  Now, as they settled opposite her, she saw how happy Luke was and berated herself for not making more of an effort. She took another look at him. Yes, he was happy; too happy for someone whose sweetheart was about to leave the country. Her heart tightened in her chest and she saw what was coming before it hit.