It was a candid shot, taken in daylight. The sky wasn’t visible but the light suggested a grey day. The couple stood close to each other on a pavement next to a tarred road, the edges of parked cars visible to one side. The way they were standing gave a sense, a feeling, that they were parting. Stanton, in a brown leather bomber jacket Jackie knew well, was half in profile, his hand on Belle’s hip. Belle, facing Stanton, was front-on to the camera, which captured her face in full. She was looking up at Stanton with complete concentration. One arm was obscured by his body, the other was raised to her shoulder, adjusting or holding the strap of a big black handbag. She was smiling slightly. It was clear they were lovers. There was nothing else they could be.

  Before Jackie could say anything, Curran produced a second photograph. It showed the top of an iron-lace railing, beyond it a window framed by drawn-aside white curtains and beyond that, a room dominated by a big white bed. Stanton and Belle lay stretched out on the bed. Him on his back, his arm around her shoulder, drawing her in. She on her side, her head nestled into his body, her long hair curled on the pillow. They were naked, in a mess of rumpled sheets. Jackie, unable to stop herself, turned her head aside and pushed the photograph back.

  Curran chuckled. ‘Seen enough?’

  The young waitress approached with Jackie’s order and Curran hastily gathered up the photographs. He replaced them in the envelope. The distraction gave Jackie time to process what she was seeing. She took a sip of her sparkling water, surprised to find her hand steady.

  Curran seemed annoyed at Jackie’s lack of emotion. ‘You see what this means?’ he said, tapping the envelope. ‘Stanton Rose was fucking Belle Fitzgerald. A couple of weeks before she disappeared. These photos are dated, in case you didn’t notice. Rose was supposed to be undercover, but in the meantime he was …’ He seemed to run out of words.

  Jackie realised she’d been expecting something like this ever since she saw her father’s signature on the receipt for the ring. That bad feeling again, that inner consciousness about who Belle Fitzgerald’s secret boyfriend might be. Still, it was like being dumped by a wave, like trying to find air in a tumult of foam and tumble. Proof that her father had lied to her. About this – and if so, what else? That was for later.

  She held out a hand for the photos. ‘Thank you for offering these to the investigation,’ she said, hearing her voice calm. ‘Although I don’t see why you didn’t produce them earlier.’

  ‘You kidding?’ Curran curled his fingers around the envelope. He looked as agitated as she felt. ‘You shitting me? I hand these over and I never see them again. That’s the first thing. The second thing –’ Suddenly he raised a hand to attract the waitress. ‘Espresso,’ he called. ‘Double shot.’ He turned back to Jackie. ‘The second thing. You want to know why I kept these to myself?’

  ‘Why did you? They would have made explosive reading. In your book, for example.’

  ‘And I would have been a goner.’ Curran put a palm to his chest, as if envisaging the scene. ‘Under a cement slab somewhere. Or fed through a meat grinder, like they said Belle was. I told you already, I know about Bensimon. He had connections. Some of them are still alive. They’re judges now, board chairs, heads of major corporations. I had to wait till he died.’

  Jackie’s brain was cranking into life. ‘Show me those photos again. Show me all of them.’

  Curran raised his eyebrows, distaste on his face. But he presented them again, one by one, making sure to retrieve each one after Jackie had seen it. There were five, all of Stanton and Belle, and all except the one in the street were of them in the bedroom. The one on the pavement had been taken on 10 June 1988. The four in the bedroom had been taken on 17 and 24 June 1988. Each a week apart.

  ‘Is this what you got up to on your day off?’ Jackie asked.

  Curran let that pass. ‘I’ve got a couple more,’ he said, ‘showing the two of them fucking. I didn’t bring those. Seemed the decent thing to do.’

  Ignoring the bait, Jackie looked up from the photo she was examining. ‘This looks like a terrace. The upstairs room. Where were these taken from?’

  ‘Across the street.’

  ‘Telephoto lens?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’m a journo. So what? Belle was news.’

  ‘News, how? You took these before she went missing. What were you trying to prove?’

  Curran’s head went up. ‘Trying to prove? That Australia’s great white hope, the people’s hero, Stanton Rose, that while he was pretending to be undercover he was screwing a woman who had no idea what a sleazy shit he was.’

  ‘No. When these were taken, nobody knew he was under­cover. To all intents and purposes he was a bent cop, one of many. And the woman he was with, Belle Fitzgerald, you’d been involved with her. So I ask again, why were you taking photos of them with a telephoto lens from across a street?’

  No answer. Curran’s espresso had arrived and he downed it in one hit. Coughed slightly. Patted his pocket like someone who wanted a cigarette, but no smoking in the Tramsheds’ cafés.

  ‘Tell me, Mr Curran,’ Jackie said, feeling more in control of the conversation, ‘why you felt it necessary to see me alone and not with my partner?’

  ‘I told you. I thought you should know. I want your father to pay for what he did. I’m writing another book and this one will say everything I couldn’t say before. These –’ Curran tapped the envelope ‘– that’s not all I know. There’s other stuff too.’ He made to take up his coffee cup, realised it was empty, retracted his hand.

  Jackie nodded slowly, remembering Bensimon saying I’ve got the stuff. Meanwhile, something else was going on with Curran, something she couldn’t identify. He was after something. It couldn’t be money. He’d held on to these photos for decades, when he could have made a small fortune hawking them to any number of takers. Time to force the issue.

  ‘What do you want, Trevor?’ she asked, using his given name for the first time.

  He frowned. ‘To be clear, I’m the only one who knows about this – this affair.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ said Jackie, wanting to take the smug look off his face. ‘Not according to our sources.’

  ‘Your sources? Such as who, for example? Uncle Dickie Wardle? Dippy Margie Solon?’ He snorted.

  Jackie took a moment to understand what he was telling her. ‘You been following me, Trevor? Stalking me?’ Suddenly things became clear. ‘Like you stalked Belle? Perving? Watching her make love because you couldn’t have her yourself?’

  Two spots of red appeared high in Curran’s cheeks. He brought his head close, fervent. ‘Someone had to look after her. I told her she was self-destructing, and I was right, wasn’t I? She had no idea what she was getting herself into, going after the developer, getting involved with …’ He waved a hand at Jackie. ‘She wouldn’t let me help her, but that didn’t stop me. I loved her, you understand. I loved her. And she loved me too. She just … went off track.’ He petered out, his eyes on the car park beyond the window.

  Jackie let time pass. After a while she repeated, ‘What do you want? Money?’

  Wrong thing to say. She’d relit the fire. Curran was distraught now, his voice hoarse and low, his fists on the table. ‘You people. You and your father both. Money’s all you think about. Well, surprise, surprise. I’m not interested in money. You ask what I want? I want your father to suffer the same way I’ve suffered for nearly forty years. It was his fault in the first place. I’m not asking here. I’m telling. I’ve been invited to be on The Week on Sunday on Sunday night – I’m the expert on Belle Fitzgerald, remember – and that’s where these photos will appear. And they’re just the start. I’ll blow the lid on what Stanton Rose actually did, and how he was in Bensimon’s pocket all the time. Just wait for my next book. That’s where I’ll tear down the lie that is Rosie Rose, once and for all.’

  Curran had been leaning over the table. Now he flung himself back in his chair. He was breathing heavily. Again he felt for a cigarette. Pushed his glasses up his nose.

  Jackie said, ‘I don’t understand. Why did you bring this to me first? Why not wait for the TV show and surprise us all?’

  ‘Because you’re in charge of the case,’ said Curran. ‘I want to see what you do. I’m betting you’ll go straight to Rose, tell him about these.’ He tapped the envelope. ‘And after the crying and wailing you’ll dob him in.’

  ‘What makes you so sure I’ll do that? And if you were scared of what Bensimon might do, why aren’t you worried about my father?’

  Curran placed the envelope of photos back in the folder, zipped it shut. He stood, gathered up his folder, said, ‘I know all about you, lovey. Dedicated cop. Ambitious, too, though it’s been a slow climb up the ladder. I can’t be sure what you’ll do, but I’m betting you come down on the side of law and order. It’s a risk I’m willing to take because on Sunday I’ll reveal I showed these to you, and if you haven’t done anything about them, your career will be right in the shitter. Your father’s a goner whatever you do. Also, if anything happens to me, people will find these and you and daddy will go to jail together. Not a good look.’

  He inclined his head in a small bow, clamped the leather folder under an arm. ‘See you Sunday night.’ He’d taken a few steps when he came back, leaned over the table, and grinned, a nasty sight. ‘Want to know why I’m telling you this now, and not waiting till Sunday?’ He paused, preparing the punchline. ‘It’s like Paul Keating said. I want to do you slowly. You and your father both.’

  Curran left the café and stalked to his car, lighting up as soon as he got in. When he’d driven away, Jackie stood, as shaky on her feet as an old woman. She went to the counter to pay.

  ‘You haven’t touched the friand,’ the waitress said. ‘Want it to go?’

  Jackie shook her head.

  12.

  On 20 April 1988, her thirty-first birthday, Belle discovered she was pregnant. She’d been feeling strange for about a week. Her breasts seemed to tingle and even the air on her skin felt different. On her birthday, over coffee and a cigarette with Margie Solon, Belle said she thought she was getting flu. Margie heard the symptoms, raised her eyebrows, asked, ‘So when was your last period?’

  ‘Oh, bloody hell.’ Belle knew without doubt Margie was right. She bought a test kit from the chemist in Oxford Street and took it into the women’s toilets at the tech. Positive. What a drag. She took Margie aside and told her the news.

  ‘Great birthday present,’ joked Margie. ‘You aren’t going to keep it, are you?’

  ‘No fear. I’ll go to Preterm.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s a good clinic. I’ll come with you if you like. Besides, they don’t want you going home alone. Meanwhile, who’s the daddy? And are you going to tell him?’

  ‘Thanks, Margie. The father’s nobody in particular. And yeah, I should probably let him know.’

  ***

  Belle and Stanton met that night. Three weeks now since she’d asked him whether he was in Monroe’s pay, and things were still awkward between them. The only way they came together was with sex and even then it felt strictly physical. Belle couldn’t forget what Nelson had said and a part of her questioned Stanton’s denial. On his side, he seemed to have constructed a force field of untouchability around himself. She couldn’t breach it. Surely it was only a matter of time before he told her the affair was over. Something was broken and neither of them could fix it.

  They were in bed in Forbes Street. Outside it was still warm, but the leaves on the plane trees were losing their green. Soon they’d fall. Belle turned to face Stanton. ‘Don’t panic.’

  His head went back. ‘Don’t panic? Famous last words.’

  ‘I’m pregnant.’

  He didn’t answer and she rushed to fill the gap. ‘Don’t worry. I’m going to get rid of it.’

  Still he said nothing. She made to get up. He caught her wrist. ‘No. Don’t do that. I want you to keep the baby. It’s our baby.’

  It was the last thing Belle expected him to say. She’d spent the day mentally rehearsing how things would play out when she told Stanton she was pregnant. He’d be shocked, of course, but when he realised he wouldn’t be called to account he’d be relieved at the ease with which he’d escaped. Maybe he’d offer to pay for the abortion, or at least half. They’d dress and he’d mumble something about phoning her and of course he wouldn’t. And that would be the end of things between them. What Belle hadn’t expected was the stab which shot through her at the thought of losing him. Shit. She wondered again if she loved him. She couldn’t. Stanton Rose was a cop, for God’s sake. Even if he wasn’t being paid by Monroe to spy on her, he was still a Darlo cop, probably on the take, probably involved in gangs and drugs and God knows what else. That was the attraction, wasn’t it? The forbidden bad boy? Love didn’t – couldn’t – come into it.

  Yet here he was, the bad boy, talking about our baby. Now he said, ‘Don’t go. I’ve got something for you.’ He swung out of bed and took up the jacket he’d slung across the back of a wicker chair, felt in the pockets and brought out a small box, not wrapped. He held it out to her and said, ‘Happy birthday.’ He got back into bed, drew the sheet to his waist, propped himself against the pillows and watched her open it.

  Inside the box on a velvet base was a wide gold ring. It was rough on the outside, a lovely thing. She took it in her hand, feeling its weight.

  ‘Look inside,’ he said, turning on the bedside lamp. She sat on the bed next to him and held the ring under the light. Inside was engraved 7639 ~ 20 April 1988. ‘It’s the number on the lock of this place,’ he explained, although she’d realised that. ‘Nobody except us will know what it means.’

  ‘It’s beautiful.’

  He touched the ring on her palm. ‘I bought it because I didn’t know how else to tell you how I feel about you. I love you, Belle. I’ve spent the past few weeks hoping you feel the same.’ He took the ring from Belle’s palm and slid it on the ring finger of her right hand. ‘See? Perfect fit.’

  He rushed on, speaking faster now. ‘I wanted to give you something to bind us together. The ring’s just for the time being, till we can show ourselves to the world. Then I’ll buy you the real thing and put it on your left hand.’ He stroked a strand of hair back from her forehead. ‘I know this is out of the blue. I would’ve played it cooler, taken more time, but then you told me about the baby and I want you to keep it. I’m glad about it.’ He pulled her close. ‘I want to be with you. I want to leave Frankie – Frances – and make a life with you.’

  Belle pulled away from his embrace. ‘Are you crazy?’ Those were the first words that came to her. ‘You can’t leave your wife. Yes, you’re fantastic and the sex is out of this world, but think about it. We’re totally different. We don’t have anything in common.’

  Suddenly she wanted to force him away so she didn’t have to think about what he was saying. She played her ace. ‘You’re a cop in the Cross, and we both know what that means. I’ve turned a blind eye to it but even if I did love you – and I’m not saying I do, don’t get me wrong – but if I did, I couldn’t be with anyone as morally suss as that, working for God knows who, like Maurie Bensimon and Russell Monroe. For all I know, you could be saying all this because he told you to keep me sweet.’

  ‘We talked about that. I asked you to trust me.’

  ‘I do. I think I do. It’s just … I can’t …’

  He didn’t reply at once. Instead he reached over, took a cigarette from a packet on the side table and lit it, sucked in, blew out a ribbon of smoke. In silence they watched it drift to the window. Then Stanton seemed to come to a decision. ‘I’m going to tell you something I shouldn’t. Something you can never ever tell anyone else.’

  She rolled her eyes, thinking of Nelson. ‘Oh God, all this secrecy. I’m sick of it. Every time I speak to someone I have to take a vow to keep my mouth shut. Pass the smokes.’

  He reached for the packet, stopped, put it down again. ‘You’re pregnant. You shouldn’t be smoking at all. You’ll harm the baby.’ He took another drag, exhaled, coughed slightly. ‘You asked me if I’m tied up with Bensimon and Monroe. When I told you I was a good guy I meant it. Belle, I’m with the Feds. The Federal Police. I’m working undercover.’

  He saw her blank look, went on, ‘You know what it’s like here. Cops as bad as crims. It’s been that way for years and it goes right to the top, to the politicians as well. The Feds have tried everything, inquiries and so on, and nothing’s worked. So they sent me in to see if I can find a way to crack the whole business open. To do that, I have to pretend to be one of them. You see?’

  She wasn’t sure. ‘So they believe you’re crooked as well?’

  ‘Yes. And they have to keep on believing that.’

  ‘Isn’t it dangerous?’

  He gave a humourless chuckle. ‘You don’t know the half of it. If Bensimon or Monroe find out about me, I’m dead. Literally. I’m not exaggerating. And if they think you know about me too … Jesus, Belle. Only five people – six, now, with you – know about it. Even my wife thinks I’ve just been seconded to the station. Now do you understand why I need you to keep this quiet?’

  ‘Tell me something,’ said Belle, working it out. ‘In the beginning – no, even right now – are you supposed to be spying on me for Monroe?’

  He twisted his mouth in a shamefaced grimace. ‘That’s what happened at first. But –’

  ‘So I was right when I said you’re just keeping me sweet.’

  His cigarette forgotten, he spoke urgently, his voice low and sharp. ‘You really think that’s what I’m doing here? Yes, Monroe thinks I’m with you just for him, but Belle, that’s not the case at all. Listen to me. I meant what I said. I love you. I want us to be together. A family.’