Luke couldn’t wait. ‘Mum, I’m going to London. With Danni.’

  As a cop, Jackie had had to learn to keep her mouth shut when it counted. She exercised the skill now, because every ounce of her being wanted her to say Over my dead body. Instead she said, ‘For how long?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, knowing her well enough to sense displeasure. ‘For good, maybe. I’ll join her there as soon as I can.’

  In the silence that followed, Danni, seemingly oblivious to Jackie’s reaction, said, ‘I can’t live here. Too provincial. Europe’s where it’s at.’

  Jackie ignored her. She asked Luke, ‘What about uni?’

  ‘I’ll take time off. Or transfer to a uni over there. In the meantime, I can get work as a barista. I did the course.’

  A waitress came up to ask what they’d like to drink. Jackie revised her no-alcohol resolution. She ordered white wine and Luke and Danni chose tequila. The interruption gave Jackie time. She said, hearing her voice tighten, ‘How do you expect to pay for this?’

  ‘I’ve got enough from my part-time job, at least for a few weeks. And I – I might have to ask Grandpa.’

  ‘Yes,’ Danni chimed in. ‘He said he’d help you if you needed money.’

  Still focused on Luke, Jackie said, ‘You’ve asked him already?’

  ‘No, of course not! He just told me once if I ever needed money to come to him.’

  Danni said, ‘I’m starving.’ She clicked her fingers for the waitress, making Jackie clench her teeth. They all ordered fajitas. Jackie kept her attention on Luke, who looked spooked, as if he’d like to cut and run. Too bad. If he was old enough to consider buggering off with this girl, then he was old enough to deal with awkwardness at dinner.

  On one hand, Luke was nineteen, old enough to do what he wanted. On the other, well, she’d be damned if she’d lose him to this piece of work. ‘No,’ she said, ‘you’ll wreck your life.’

  Danni muttered, ‘Told you.’

  Luke tightened his jaw. ‘I hoped you’d be okay with this. Sorry you aren’t. It’s not going to stop me.’

  To come back at him now, Jackie realised, was to declare war. She was strategic enough not to do that. Instead, she said, ‘I see. I need time to think.’

  ‘I’m going whatever you think.’ His head was up, his mouth firm. Jackie’s heart lurched with fear; for him, for herself as well.

  ‘I heard you.’ She spooned some filling into a tortilla, took it up and nodded at Danni. ‘Bon appétit. As they say in Europe.’

  ***

  The dinner, which had started off badly, kept going steadily downhill, and by silent consent they ended it early. As soon as she got home, Jackie rang Stanton. She wanted to talk about Luke’s plans, but he cut her off, asking what was happening with the case. So she described the interviews with Bensimon and Wardle, omitting Pauline Wardle’s mention of her mother. Frankie Rose was a forbidden subject, something Jackie learned long ago.

  Stanton didn’t comment on Bensimon’s interview. He had more to say about Wardle. ‘Yeah, yeah. Poor old Dickie Wardle means well, but when I worked with him he was forever getting the wrong end of the stick. You don’t want to give him too much air.’ He changed the subject. ‘A heads-up. The media have been onto me to give an interview about the case. Liddell thinks we should go in together.’

  ‘You spoke to the commissioner?’

  ‘She phoned me. Wanted to know how the consultation was going. I told her you and I were working on it.’

  Jackie thought of her father hiding his connection to Belle Fitzgerald. ‘I don’t think giving an interview is a good idea.’

  ‘No, Jacks, listen. It would look off if I didn’t respond. They just want a feel of what it was like in the Cross at the time. I’m there for background, that’s all.’

  Rubbish. Her father lived for the spotlight. She changed the subject. ‘You’re supposed to be a consultant. Kinsella and I want to talk to you about the case. Tomorrow?’

  ‘I don’t need both of you. It’s not an official interview. Why don’t you come over tomorrow night? You can consult and fill me in on what’s up with young Luke.’

  10.

  He’s got eyes on you in any case. Belle couldn’t get the words out of her head. Monroe had to mean Stanton Rose. Who else could it be? She couldn’t believe that whatever was between Stanton and herself was built on a lie. Surely not! It felt so strong, so real. Yet, when she thought about the timing of Stanton coming into her life, it made sense.

  She had to wait a week before she saw him again, and when she did, the moment he walked through the Forbes Street door, she fronted him. ‘I have to know. Did Russell Monroe send you to spy on me?’

  He stood still for a beat, then closed the door carefully behind him, taking his time, checking it had clicked shut. He turned to face her and she saw he’d changed. There was a hardness to him now, a wave of menace coming off him that alarmed her. He made no move to close the gap between them.

  His voice quiet, he said, ‘How come you’re asking?’

  Belle had, as Nelson asked, not mentioned him to Stanton and she wasn’t going to betray Nelson now. Thrown off balance by the difference in Stanton, she didn’t answer. She took a step backwards and he must have seen her alarm because his expression changed. He dropped his shoulders and with an effort brought himself back. He drew her into him, said, ‘Jesus, Belle. You know me by now. How can you possibly think that?’

  He held her so tight she could feel his heartbeat through her body. She did know him, didn’t she? They were as close as two people could be. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It matters a lot.’ Stanton moved back, separating himself. Hands on her shoulders, he looked unblinking into her eyes. ‘Belle, I’ll say this once. I’m on the side of the good guys. That’s all I can tell you. You just have to believe me. Can you do that?’

  ‘But –’

  ‘No buts.’ Stanton shook his head. His mouth was set. ‘If you can’t trust me, there’s nothing more to say. If you don’t believe what I tell you I’ll walk away right now.’

  ‘I believe you. I do.’

  He sighed, pulled her to him again. They stood like that and then he said, ‘One day I’ll be able to tell you all about it.’

  He was so strong, Belle thought, and when she was against his body like this, so close they were practically one being, everything felt right. Was this love? Maybe it was. Maybe she loved him, although they’d never spoken of it. I love Stanton Rose. She tried the idea out in her head. It sounded stilted, false. Was that because even after his assurances, she didn’t trust him? Or was it because they were so different in where they came from and how they wanted to live? She couldn’t be sure.

  ***

  Then there was Trevor. The action group might have wasted away – it was completely defunct now – but Belle’s mission to stop the Catherine Street development and Richter in particular was as robust as ever. Trevor’s article would bring Richter and his cronies down, she was positive. Trevor himself was proving hard to get hold of, but eventually, one Friday afternoon, she tracked him down via his office, where a young female voice informed her that Trevor was having lunch with Toby Marshall.

  Like Trevor, Toby Marshall was a presenter at Channel 9. That meant the Bridgey, and for Belle, a taxi across the harbour. The Bridgey, short for The Bridgeview, was a pub, an anomaly. Its old-fashioned red-brick facade, swirly patterned carpets and scratched dark tables belonged in the inner city, not the tasteful North Shore. The Bridgey was Channel 9’s watering hole of choice and sure enough, by the time Belle arrived Trevor, Toby Marshall and three other journos were well into a very long lunch and marathon boozing session.

  Trevor wasn’t drunk yet, but on the way. He didn’t see Belle coming and it wasn’t till one of his mates gave a low wolf-whistle that he looked up. When he recognised Belle, he half-stood, then sat down again as if he couldn’t decide whether to be proud of knowing such a looker or resentful at being bailed up.

  Belle, playing to the table, leaned over to kiss Trevor’s cheek. Then she took out a cigarette and held it to be lit, at the same time displaying quite a nice cleavage. Three of the men rose, lighters at the ready. Belle smiled thanks and said, ‘Trevor, I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Join us,’ one of the journos urged.

  ‘Thanks,’ she countered, ‘can’t. I won’t keep him long.’

  Trevor acknowledged defeat. He rose and, clutching his beer, followed Belle to a corner table. ‘I’ll have a glass of chardy,’ she told him, flicking a finger at the bar.

  When he brought it back, she got down to business. ‘Listen, Trevor. What’s happening with the Catherine Street article? You’ve been working on it for months. When’s it coming out?’

  Trevor, seeking answers from deep within his beer, said, ‘Been meaning to tell you. They knocked it back.’

  ‘What do you mean, they knocked it back? Who knocked it back?’

  ‘Everyone. Channel 9. The producers didn’t think the story was a goer.’

  ‘Did you try the ABC? The Herald?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  For a journo, Trevor was a terrible liar. And there was something else, a shiftiness above and beyond what she’d asked him to do. Belle said, slowly, ‘Bullshit. It was a good story. You gave up on it, didn’t you?’

  Finally, he met her gaze. ‘You don’t understand.’

  Trying to keep her temper under control, she said, ‘Explain it to me.’

  ‘Belle.’ He reached for her hand. She moved it away, took out another cigarette and lit it herself. As she did, Nelson and his bruised face came to mind. ‘They got at you, didn’t they?’

  Trevor dropped his head.

  ‘Answer me!’

  He cleared his throat, took a sip of his beer. ‘Well. I had to talk to Oliver Richter for the story, obviously. The same day I interviewed him, late that night, two guys showed up at my house. My house! I was asleep. My mother …’ He opened his hands and held them out, pleading.

  Belle had never been to Trevor’s house. She knew he lived with his mother in Randwick and couldn’t move out because she had health problems, though he’d never elaborated. ‘Mum answered the door. She was beside herself. One of them had a baseball bat, of all things.’

  A baseball bat. In a flash she was back to the night she was bashed. She felt the whoosh of the bat as it came down, the hard pavement beneath her. She shook it off.

  Trevor was explaining, pleading. ‘They forced me outside and said if I went any further with the Catherine Street article they’d use the bat on my mother and something worse on me. Then they took off.’

  He hung his head. Belle could see he was miserable. He said, ‘I didn’t want to tell you, Belle. I don’t want you to think badly of me. I knew you wouldn’t like it, but what could I do? My mother …’

  Belle wasn’t listening. She stubbed out her cigarette and stood, knocking over the glass of chardonnay. People at neighbouring tables turned to look. Hands flat on the table and leaning over Trevor, she hissed, ‘You little wuss. Call yourself an investigative reporter? You … worm.’ Raising her voice, she called over to his lunch companions, watching the exchange with happy interest. ‘You can have him back, guys. Enjoy your lunch. Try to grow him a pair while you’re at it.’

  Then, slinging her black bag over her shoulder, she marched out of the pub.

  11.

  The marimba notes of her phone came into Jackie’s consciousness first as a dream and then, slowly and painfully, as a reality she had to confront. She reached out, eyes closed. Scrabbled with her fingers, managed to bring the screen in front of her face. Squinted. 5:05 a.m. The first thing she thought of was murder; she was a homicide detective after all. Then she remembered she wasn’t on call.

  Harwood, his voice loud and wide awake. ‘Rose? Thought you ought to know. Bensimon’s dead.’

  Jackie’s brain was refusing to cooperate, last night’s poor sleep making her slow. ‘What?’

  Harwood sounded excited. ‘Maurie Bensimon died. Last night. Talk about timing!’

  ‘But I spoke to him yesterday. We interviewed him.’

  ‘Old age, of course,’ said Harwood, talking over her. ‘He must have been at least ninety. It’s a wonder he lasted as long as he did. Still, given the Fitzgerald thing, the media will be on it. We need a response, so as soon as you get in, come and see me.’ He ended the call without waiting for an answer.

  Jackie lay back, trying to process this new information. As far as the Belle Fitzgerald case went, another door had closed. No hope now of getting Bensimon to explain yesterday’s cryptic comments.

  She clicked on her phone again, brought up the Sydney Morning Herald. Scrolled down until she saw the story.

  King of the Cross Dies Alone

  Prominent Sydney identity, Maurie Bensimon, has died. He was 92. Mr Bensimon, who died late yesterday at a private medical facility in the Eastern Suburbs, consistently denied his reputation as a crime boss and successfully sued at least two journalists who described him as a gangster and king of Sydney’s underbelly. There is, however, no doubt that Bensimon, together with his associate, the late Russell Monroe, established a reign of terror throughout the city.

  The story went on to say Bensimon had been ill for a while and according to their sources, had died alone. He’d divorced his wife decades earlier, after their only child, David, died from a drug overdose. Finally, the writer pointed to rumours of Bensimon’s involvement in the disappearance of Belle Fitzgerald, said it was probable he’d taken the secret of her fate to his grave.

  There wasn’t much on social media. Bensimon was ancient history as far as younger people were concerned. Jackie switched off her phone and rested it on her chest, thinking about what his death meant for the case.

  ***

  She spoke to her father on her way to work. He’d already heard about Bensimon’s death. He said, ‘The phone hasn’t stopped. Woke us up at sparrow fart. What’s the official line?’

  Us meaning Rae, Jackie supposed. She said she’d find out more and call him back later. As soon as she clicked off the call, her phone rang. Unknown number.

  ‘Inspector Rose?’ A man’s voice, educated, older.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘This is Trevor Curran. I saw you at the press conference the other day.’

  ‘Oh yes, Mr Curran. I’ve been reading your book –’

  ‘Can we meet? I want to talk to you.’

  ‘Good. I was hoping to interview you. I’m on my way to work now. I’ll sort out a time and we can –’

  ‘We?’

  ‘My partner, Sergeant Kinsella, and I.’

  ‘I need to see you alone.’

  ‘That’s against our policy, I’m afraid.’

  Hesitation, and the slightest chuckle. ‘I don’t think you want anyone else there.’

  ‘As I said, we usually work in pairs. ‘

  ‘It concerns your father.’

  She answered cautiously. ‘I’ll phone you back.’

  ‘Make it soon.’

  ***

  Harwood was waiting behind his desk, hardly able to contain his body in his chair. ‘Have you spoken to your father?’

  ‘Yes. I spoke to him this morning. He’s heard about Bensimon and wants to know what to say to the press.’

  ‘Tell him to emphasise Bensimon’s criminal past.’ Harwood flapped a hand, dismissive. He was sitting on something exciting and couldn’t wait to tell her about it. ‘This case is big enough already,’ he said, ‘and Bensimon’s death has just –’ he couldn’t find the words ‘– has just made it bigger.’ He hurried on. ‘The commissioner and I have been talking to Public Affairs. They want to get on the front foot. As it happens, this morning they got a call from The Week on Sunday.’

  He paused for a reaction. Jackie obligingly nodded him forward. She was intrigued. The Week on Sunday was an insti­tu­tion, a panel discussion broadcast live in front of an audience. It dealt with one major news issue each week. It was Channel 7’s flagship, one of the nation’s highest-rating current affairs shows.

  ‘Well.’ Harwood rubbed his hands together. ‘The Week on Sunday are teaming up with Great Australian Mysteries. They’re in the same stable, you know.’ Harwood emphasised stable, insider talk. ‘They’re going to do a show on Belle Fitzgerald and want to do it with us. They’re still working out how it will run. Marsha Quintana, the Week on Sunday presenter, will host as usual, but Alan Grant from Great Australian Mysteries will be involved as well. They’ll fill us in on the format later. It’s our chance to get a bit of balance on the show. Barnett’s done well.’

  Barnett was Mitch Barnett, the short, arrogant head of Public Affairs. An event like this would normally be handled by one of his media underlings, but Barnett was in the firing line over the commissioner’s poor response to the drive-by shootings and that was probably why he’d put himself in charge, and why he’d taken this risk. Because it was a risk. Until now, Alan Grant and his team had made it a point of honour to slide the dagger into the police every chance they got, and there was no reason to suspect they’d play nice this time.

  ‘When do we see the script?’ Jackie asked. ‘We’ll want to approve it.’

  Harwood looked shifty. ‘Ah. That’s not how it works. We don’t approve every word, but Barnett assures us they’ll work with us to develop content. We’ll take the viewers through the investigation, step by step.’ He couldn’t sit still any longer. He stood and, coming around the desk, leaned back against it, crossed one leg over the other. Recrossed. ‘Therefore our aim, Rose,’ he said, looking down at her, ‘is to have the case wrapped up by the time the interview takes place. Sunday night.’