Belle bit her lip at the cliché. A family! Was this guy for real? She tried to sort out what she was hearing. Stanton loved her. He didn’t want to break up after all. Instead he was talking about families, hinting at marriage. Christ! She wasn’t ready for any of that and even if she was, would it be with this man?

  Did she love him? Possibly. She didn’t know. Even if she did, would it last? Or, as she acknowledged in a burst of self-awareness, would she stop loving him now she knew he was attainable? And then like the thrust of a sword came the thought: the relationship was based on a lie. He’d started it as a job for Monroe. Maybe he was still lying. Maybe the story about his being undercover was part of an elaborate strategy to stop her interfering in the Catherine Street development. Oh God, she’d told him about Trevor’s article. Shit. Perhaps the men who threatened Trevor had been tipped off by Stanton, not by Richter after all?

  Even if what he said was true, that he was working undercover, their backgrounds were completely different. Belle imagined presenting him to her father. This is my fiancé. Working class, a cop. Oh, and by the way, I’m going to have his baby. Maybe, she thought fleetingly, it would be worth doing just to see her father’s face.

  How should she respond now? All she could do was to say how she felt. She held out her hand, fingers spread, to look at the ring. ‘Thank you for the beautiful present,’ she said. ‘But the rest of it … it’s a lot to take in. And sudden. I’m going to have to think about it. I was married once before, remember, and it turned out a complete disaster. I promised myself I wouldn’t stuff up my life like that again. As far as a baby’s concerned, that’s not where I am right now. I don’t see myself as a mother, full stop, never mind with a kid and a husband who’s a cop and who’s probably never home. Can you imagine me as a housewife? Also, I don’t want to break up anybody’s family. I couldn’t live with myself if I did.’

  He rushed in. ‘You wouldn’t break up my marriage, Belle. I’ve been unhappy for a while and I’ve only stayed in it because of Jackie, my daughter. She just turned seven.’ He took a deep breath, sighed. ‘I guess you need to know the whole deal. If this works out we won’t only have –’ he rested a hand on her belly ‘– whoever this little one is. We’ll have Jackie as well. At least some of the time.’

  Belle imagined herself saddled with a baby and a seven-year-old. She had a violent urge to giggle and with difficulty, suppressed it. She didn’t want to hurt Stanton so she laid her hand on his arm. ‘It’s a lot to take in. I can’t promise anything.’

  It wasn’t what he wanted to hear. ‘You don’t have to decide right now. Take some time to think about what I’ve said. I won’t be doing this job forever. I’ll leave the force if you like. I’ll get another job.’

  Now Belle did laugh. ‘You’re a cop to your bones, you idiot. What else would you do? Stand for parliament?’

  He grinned. ‘Yeah. I see myself in parliament. “Mr Speaker, honourable members …”’

  A wave of warmth overcame her and she kissed him. ‘Thank you for the ring. Tell you what, I’ll keep it on while I think about things. As long as I’m wearing it, we’re together. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Then come here and give me my birthday present.’

  13.

  Jackie left the Tramsheds and headed towards her father’s house. It was a short drive, but halfway there the adrenaline that had sustained her while she was with Curran drained away and she was overcome with nausea, as if she’d eaten something rotten. She pulled over in Wigram Road and laid her head on the wheel, waiting for it to pass. Thought about confronting her father. She needed to calm down before she saw him. She had to work out what to say, decide what she wanted from him. Going in half-crazy wouldn’t get her anywhere.

  She raised her head. On the pavement next to her a couple, older, stood craning their necks in concern. They were dressed for an afternoon walk, run-down labrador at their heels. She wore a soft-brimmed hat; he a wide straw number, the sort Bunnings sell cheap. Any minute now they’d ask if something was wrong. Jackie lifted a hand to tell them she was okay and started the engine.

  She turned away from her father’s house and drove without any clear idea where she was headed, over the bridge and on, operating without thought until with surprise she found herself in Military Road, near Spit Junction. She headed for the zoo, turned into Raglan Street and kept going down the hill until she hit Balmoral Beach. She swung into a parking spot on the waterfront.

  She couldn’t imagine what had brought her here, to the civilised, flat waters of Middle Harbour, balustraded promenade on one side, on the other the homes of people who drove expensive cars and sent their kids to private schools. The whole thing was surreal, as far from her state of mind as possible. Yet here she was. For a while she sat mindlessly watching yachts dip and weave in the distance. Slowly, slowly, the chaos in her head subsided and she allowed thoughts to enter.

  So her father had lied about Belle Fitzgerald. So what? Why should she be so upset? Everybody lied, and she could understand why he’d wanted to hide this. After all, he wasn’t a saint, she knew that. Case in point, the things he’d had to do while undercover, to prove himself to his colleagues. Maybe the affair with Belle had been part of that.

  Then an image of Belle’s carefully arranged skeleton in its makeshift grave came to mind and a chill passed over Jackie, enough to make her shudder. Belle had been killed by someone who’d cared enough to lay her out, and Stanton had cared for her, the photos proved that. And also, the thing she must force herself to confront: if her father had lied to her about his affair, what else had he lied about? A lifetime of defending him from rumours of corruption, and now this. What other betrayals lay beneath the shining facade?

  Meanwhile, the photos. How was she expected to explain them to Harwood? Too late to produce the receipt book, but she had no option except to come clean about what Curran had shown her and what he planned to do. If she held back, Curran would expose not only her father but herself as well, and he’d do it on national television.

  Jackie had always taken her job seriously. Being a cop meant you’d chosen a side, and you had to stick with it. She never imagined it would involve dobbing in her own father, who’d been her parent and protector, her bulwark against the world. Destroy your beliefs or destroy your family? How could anyone decide something like that? Yet, in the end, there was no choice. Her father, the man who’d brought her up and protected her all her life. How could she desert him now, no matter what it cost?

  She looked out at the view. The clouds she’d seen earlier had rolled in and an afternoon breeze was sending choppy wavelets speeding across the usually calm Middle Harbour. The sea, pewter under the clouds, looked as cold as it probably was. In summer, the water temperature went up into the early twenties, but now, in September, it would have dropped to about fifteen degrees, the lowest it would go. No swimmers anywhere. The expanse of water, empty and wide, offered a dare.

  Jackie always travelled with her swim bag. She took it out and walked to the public changing room, ignoring the rugged-up people passing by. She changed, put on her cap and goggles and, without stopping, strode onto the beach, waded in, dived under. It was freezing, cold enough to give her an ice-cream headache. She kept her face down and struck out parallel to the bay, towards the wooden pier. It was a battle, like swimming in a washing machine, but exhilarating at the same time. The water was murky, churned up beneath her, and as she came close to the pier pilings she saw dark, waving wings of seaweed and turned. Shivering now, she swam back to shore.

  In the changing room, the shower delivered a timed spray of thankfully hot water. No other takers, so Jackie pressed the button again and again until she stopped shaking, until her reddened limbs returned to their normal colour. Then she towelled her hair, changed, got into her car and drove back to town.

  The swim had taken her mind into places it didn’t want to go. When Stanton and Belle were lovers, Stanton had been a married man. What had her father’s affair with Belle Fitzgerald meant for her mother? Had she found out about the two of them, and was that why she’d left? A lifetime ago and now, with a stab of misery so strong it almost made her moan, Jackie knew she would have to open those doors. If anyone could shed light, Frankie could. She would have to talk to her mother – but not yet. Not yet. Her father first, and that was where she was going now. She would think about her mother later.

  The larger question facing her was how to negotiate the imperative to go to Harwood with what she knew, and at the same time keep her father out of it. What she needed was a bargaining chip. The television show was on Sunday. Three days to go. Jackie came to a decision. She’d hold off telling Harwood for one more day, and tomorrow, Friday, she’d find something, anything, that would stop Trevor using the photos. Something that could persuade him to another course of action. It was unlikely, she knew that, but at least it was a plan.

  First things first. See what Stanton Rose had to say for himself.

  ***

  It was approaching evening by the time Jackie reached her father’s house. She pulled up behind the silver Audi TT with the offensive registration RAESIE. Rae’s car, the one she’d seen at the pub. Damn. The last thing she needed was to deal with Rae. Then, the front door opened and as if summoned, Rae herself appeared. She wore white sneakers, purple leggings and a pink zip hoodie. A gym bag was slung over a shoulder, a bunch of keys on a pink leather tag in her hand. She looked annoyed. She caught sight of Jackie and gave a half-hearted wave. ‘Hi Jackie,’ she said, ‘I’m off to the gym. See you when I get back?’

  ‘Not sure,’ Jackie said. ‘Depends.’

  Rae was giving her a close once-over and let out a breathless giggle. ‘You don’t look so good. Hope everything’s okay.’ She glanced down at her smartwatch. ‘Sorry. Gotta go or I’ll miss my class.’ She pointed a remote at the car, which beeped. She went round to the driver’s side, made to get in, stopped. Jackie had begun to move away but Rae called to her. ‘You know something?’ she said. ‘I hate to say it, but your father is not an easy man. He can be a real prick. Tell me, is it time for me to get the hell out altogether?’

  When Jackie didn’t answer she gave a short sharp laugh. ‘See you later tonight, maybe.’ A wave and she was gone.

  Stanton must have heard the key in the lock because before Jackie had time to announce herself he came down the passage to greet her. He was carrying an empty whisky tumbler. When he saw her face he stopped. Jackie walked past him, through the house to the back, where she sank into one of the cane chairs.

  Stanton appeared, making for the kitchen counter. He picked up a bottle of Johnny Walker, noticed Jackie watching, said, ‘What?’

  ‘Trying to remember when I last saw you and you weren’t drinking whisky.’

  He came to sit in the chair next to Jackie. Settled in and raised his glass to look at how the light caught the amber liquid. ‘The sun’s over the yardarm somewhere in the world.’ Added, ‘Know why I drink this?’

  Jackie made a gesture for him to go on.

  ‘Because I can,’ he said. He raised his glass. ‘Sláinte.’ He took a sip, smacked his lips. ‘So, what’s up? You look like hell.’

  ‘So they tell me. I’ve had an interesting day.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Looking at photographs.’

  ‘Now I’m supposed to say photographs of what, am I? C’mon, Jacks, stop playing silly buggers.’

  ‘You have no idea?’

  He sipped whisky. ‘I have no idea.’ But he was tense, his back upright, his hand around the glass tight.

  ‘Photographs of you and Belle Fitzgerald. Mostly of you two in bed. Together. Very together, if you get my drift.’

  Stanton’s face went red. He stared at Jackie without speaking, working something out in his mind.

  ‘If it helps,’ she said, ‘some were taken with a telephoto lens. You were in a bedroom, maybe upstairs, maybe a terrace house. White curtains.’

  He spoke carefully. ‘Who took them? Where are they now?’ He was asking for a reason. He’d recovered fast and, as if an outer shell had fallen away, Jackie saw the iron will beneath the charm. His eyes, usually a clear blue, became somehow hooded. He looked mean, a man capable of anything. For the first time she understood how he’d survived in the Cross as long as he had. Curran had been mistaken in dismissing him as a threat.

  She said, ‘Trevor Curran took them. He asked to meet me today. He showed me the photos, but he wouldn’t let me have them. Claims he’s going to reveal them on Sunday night, on television.’

  Stanton blinked, once. His face came back to itself and he said calmly, ‘No.’ Then, ‘What does the little shit think he’s playing at?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s got it in for you, because apparently he was in love with Belle Fitzgerald.’

  ‘Oh, please. She thought he was hopeless, a nonentity. He was long gone by the time I came along.’

  ‘Don’t you see what this means?’ Jackie was almost pleading. ‘Those photos were taken the weeks before Belle Fitzgerald went missing. It puts you in the frame for her death.’

  ‘You think I killed her?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter what I think. Everyone else will think so. As soon as Harwood and Liddell find out they’ll take me off the case and have a very close look at you. You were the one fucking her just before it happened.’

  Stanton gave her a look of disgust, perhaps at the language. ‘So what if I was? What if I was doing it on orders, part of my undercover role?’

  Orders? Jackie didn’t want to think about the ramifications of ‘orders’. She ploughed on. ‘That’s not all. Curran’s planning to write another book. According to him this one’s all about you and Bensimon and contains things he was too scared to let out while Bensimon was alive.’

  Stanton said, his voice softer, ‘Can’t happen. You’ve got to persuade Curran to give up his vendetta. Not to use the photos. And you’ll keep quiet about them –’

  Jackie’s turn to interrupt. ‘That’s not going to work. Curran expects me to tell Harwood about them. He said if I don’t, when he releases them, he’ll say he met me and told me about them. If Harwood finds out I didn’t follow up, even that I met Curran alone, without Kinsella, there goes my job. Plus they’ll have me for perverting the course of justice with the receipt book.’

  Stanton turned the end of his lips down, still thinking. He looked into his glass, emptied it. Stood, headed for the whisky bottle. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’ve got no choice,’ Jackie said. ‘I have to go to Harwood. I can’t make this go away.’

  He gave a sigh of exasperation, set the bottle down on the counter, hard enough to make a glassy thud. ‘Even though, as you said before, if it comes out about Belle and me, the cops will investigate, the media will want blood and everyone will jump to the conclusion I killed her.’

  ‘I need to ask you something else.’ She was heading into the great taboo, but Jackie had to know. ‘Why did my mother leave us? Was it because you had an affair with Belle Fitzgerald?’

  Stanton had his back to Jackie. She saw how it stiffened. There was a beat before he said, ‘What’s brought this on?’

  Jackie was suddenly immensely angry, a wave that roared through her like fire. ‘Nothing’s brought it on. It’s been hanging over my life forever. And now – well, for one thing, she left around the time Belle went missing. There has to be a connection. For another, you wouldn’t ever talk about her. You wouldn’t even let me mention her name. I always imagined the subject was too painful for you, but now I learn you were screwing around and wonder if she was the one hurt, enough to make her walk out.’

  Not caring what effect her words had, Jackie continued. ‘Also, Dad, I don’t know if I can believe anything you say. You lied to me about the ring and got me to bury what I found. If my mother knows anything, I need to talk to her. I can get hold of her contact details and I’m going to see if she can clear the whole thing up once and for all.’

  Stanton took hold of the bottle again, poured himself a couple of inches of whisky and turned around to face Jackie, leaning back against the counter, propping himself on an arm. His face was set hard.

  He seemed to come to a decision. He put his glass down, rolled his shoulders as if to loosen knots. ‘I’ve had enough of this,’ he said, his voice weary. ‘Please yourself. You want the truth? Here it is. You’re right, I’ve been lying to you. I did it. I killed Belle Fitzgerald. Satisfied?’ He held up a palm to stop Jackie speaking. ‘I killed her and put her in that – that grave. Do what you like, I don’t care. Ruin my life, all our lives. Now get the hell out and leave me alone.’

  ***

  Jackie made it as far as her car. She got in, closed the door and locked it. Against what, she didn’t know. For a while she sat staring at the dark moonless street. So this was how it felt to have your father confess to murder. Stanton Rose, Jackie’s idol, foundation of everything she was, had revealed himself a killer. She should be wailing now, tearing her hair and beating her breast. She wasn’t. Just the opposite. She felt calm. No, not calm exactly; it was more a sense of being adrift, a boat come loose from its mooring. Everything fixed was gone now, dissolved.

  Whichever way you looked at it, her father’s life was over, and not just his; hers as well, because even if she kept quiet about her father’s culpability – and in her heart she knew there was no way on God’s earth she would waltz up to Harwood with that information – once the photos surfaced her career would vanish. She’d be taken off the case and whoever replaced her would find out about the receipt and the secret boyfriend and make the leap. Her job, everything that defined her, would be gone. Her disgrace might not be as great as her father’s, but it would be as public. And then of course, there was Luke. Her son would have to carry the family’s shame forever. Just as well he’d be out of the country. She coughed with the pain of it.