It was like being plunged into ice. Belle found it hard to breathe. Yes, Stanton had told her about being with her on Monroe’s orders but hearing it confirmed made her feel violated. After a while she put her hand to her cheek and found it wet, without having realised she was crying.

  Nelson snuggled closer in. ‘You poor thing. I couldn’t tell you. At first you were so happy I didn’t want to spoil things. Then you asked if all the cops in the Cross were bent and you mentioned a Sergeant Rose, so then I asked Russ if Sergeant Rose was the same person as Rosie Rose and that’s when he smacked me, remember? I should have said something then.’ He began to cry in sympathy. ‘I’m sorry.’ He hiccoughed.

  Belle patted Nelson’s back, absently. She was thinking about Stanton. The bastard. She couldn’t wait to tell him exactly what she thought of his betrayal. No, talking wasn’t enough. There had to be some way to hurt him for what he’d done to her. Making her a public laughing-stock, turning her into a whore. Meanwhile, next to her, Nelson still snivelled.

  ‘Stop crying,’ she said. ‘You’ve got nothing to be sorry about. You were in a hard place.’ She disentangled herself, found her bag and lit a cigarette. ‘Nel,’ she began, ‘I need a favour.’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘Tell me what you found in Monroe’s briefcase.’

  Nelson jerked back, horrified, raising his free arm and knocking over his mug. It clattered noisily on the floorboards, spraying tea. They both ignored it. ‘I can’t tell you that! He’ll kill me if he knows I told you. He’ll kill you, too, if he thinks you found out.’

  ‘He won’t know where you are.’

  ‘No. Can’t. If I tell you and anything happens to you, I’ll never forgive myself.’

  ‘Nelson,’ Belle said, evenly, ‘you owe me.’

  He deflated. ‘Give me one of those ciggies.’

  ‘Not when you’re on pain pills. Now tell me.’

  ‘Well, it happened like I said before. I was bored and cross and drunk and found the briefcase and fiddled with the locks till I cracked the combination.’ He shook his head in wonder. ‘Wasn’t that hard. Did I tell you it was 007? Typical Russ.’

  ‘What was inside?’

  ‘It had a gun, and money, and a folder with papers. And a video tape, but I haven’t got a player, just a TV. I thought of taking the money, but even half-drunk I realised he’d know I’d been stickybeaking. So I looked at the papers.’ Nelson turned to Belle and she saw real fear in his eyes. ‘You sure you want to hear this?’

  ‘Sure. Tell me exactly, in detail, what you remember.’

  ‘Okay.’ He screwed up his face, remembering. ‘The papers were – they were photocopies, pages from a notebook, like a cashbook, you know?’ Nelson had a habit of kicking up the end of sentences when he was unsure. ‘With columns? On one side there was a date and lists of names, and on the other side numbers. One column of numbers was headed Owing and next to that a column headed Received.’ He looked at Belle to see if she was following.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, the names! Never heard of most of them but I recognised a couple. Like, for example, Richard Hawkins.’ Nelson paused. Never averse to drama, he waited for the name to sink in.

  Belle raised her eyebrows. Richard Hawkins was the son of Clive Hawkins, the newspaper mogul. ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘Well, the Owing column for him had two entries, half a million dollars each. The Received column had entries totalling around $750,000, as near as I can remember. You could see they’d been written at different times, with different pens. It took me a while to work it out but in the end I decided Russ must’ve lent money to people, and these were the records. He lent about a million dollars to Richard Hawkins and Hawkins paid most of it back.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ Belle said slowly. Richard Hawkins, according to the papers, loved to gamble. ‘But why photocopy your own ledger? And Hawkins wasn’t the only name listed, you said?’

  Nelson shook his head. ‘No. I didn’t count, but there were quite a few.’

  ‘Nel, would Russell Monroe himself have lent these people money? Wasn’t Maurie Bensimon in charge of things like that? Wouldn’t he be the one doing the lending?’

  Nelson considered. ‘You know, it wasn’t even in Russ’s handwriting. More, like, spidery. You could be right.’ Then he prodded Belle with a finger. ‘But get this,’ he said. ‘Another name was Doug Foley. Also around a million. And the Received column just says Paid.’

  ‘Shit.’ Doug Foley was premier of New South Wales. There’d always been rumours about his connection to organised crime, and here was proof the rumours were true. If this got out, all hell would break loose.

  ‘There were other names, too,’ Nelson said. ‘I can’t remember them now. I just flicked through them. Then I came to – guess what?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘This one page, the name at the top was Oliver Richter.’ He looked over at Belle. ‘You know, the one who wants to develop your street.’ Belle, speechless, blinked. Nelson continued. ‘In the Owing column it had two million. In the Received column it had nothing. And underneath it someone wrote Two years at 30 per cent. Confirm.’

  ‘And that’s when I looked up and saw Russ standing over me.’ Nelson stopped talking, sank back, lifted his good hand helplessly. ‘You know what happened next.’

  Belle didn’t reply. She closed her eyes, counting point by point. One: Monroe, or more probably, Bensimon, had lent money to Richter and he hadn’t repaid it. No, that wasn’t right. Start again. One: Monroe and/or Bensimon hadn’t yet lent money to Richter, but they were going to, because Richter had run out. That was why development had stalled and why nothing had happened in Catherine Street since the beginning of the year. But Richter was supposed to have money, wasn’t he? Her father had said so. She’d have to check. All she knew was that once Richter got the loan he’d be able to go on with the development and secure more investment. She had to stop him.

  Two: Richter was involved with organised crime. Belle wondered if his co-investors knew, or if they did, cared. She’d have to think about how to handle that, but it explained things, like her bashing and the threats to Trevor. From Richter to Bensimon to Monroe. Connections.

  Three: Bensimon had some pretty big names over a barrel. Nelson’s report didn’t amount to hard evidence, but just knowing about it gave her power. Surely she could use this somehow?

  And finally, four. She returned to her earlier point. ‘Why did Monroe have those papers?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Like I said, Monroe wouldn’t photocopy his own records. He’s Bensimon’s deputy, isn’t he? He takes orders from Bensimon. Would he be in charge of money, and would Bensimon even let him have access to those records?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  Belle didn’t take it further. She had an idea. If she was right, even a little bit right, she could use it to turn everything around. ‘Maybe Monroe’s stealing information from Bensimon?’

  Nelson read her mind. He stared at her in horror. ‘Fuck, Belle, don’t even think about it!’

  He had a point. Even if she was right, going head-to-head with Monroe was a recipe for disaster. ‘I’m going to take this to Trevor Curran,’ she told Nelson. ‘He’ll know what to do with it. He’s a pain in the bum, but he understands what’s happening in this town. He’ll be able to find an angle, maybe expose Bensimon and Richter at the same time.’

  Nelson said, ‘I think you’re mad to get involved at all.’ He sighed. ‘But you won’t listen to me, will you? Just promise me you’ll leave it for a few days, to let me get as far away as I can. Promise?’ He waited until she nodded.

  ‘Promise.’

  ‘And talking about getting away, you should go now. You want to be home when Monroe sends someone to look for me, if he hasn’t already.’

  For a few minutes they sat without speaking. Then Belle pulled Nelson close. His body was fragile, bony, like a bird. Suddenly he pushed out of her hold and pulled up the St Christopher charm around his neck. ‘Take it off. I can’t do it with one hand.’ Belle did as she was told and held the chain out to Nelson. He shook his head. ‘I want you to have it.’

  ‘I can’t take it. Your mother gave it to you.’

  ‘You have to have it. You saved my life. Plus, as I said, you’re a crazy dame. You’re always getting yourself into trouble and you need something to protect you. This is all I’ve got to give you, so please don’t say no. Put it on.’ He watched as she fixed the clasp at the back of her neck and turned to show him how it looked.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, patting the charm. ‘I’ll never take it off.’

  Nelson sniffed. ‘Look at me, blubbering like a baby.’

  There were tears in Belle’s eyes too. ‘Look after yourself, Nel. Will you contact me?’

  ‘Can’t, my darling.’ He blew her a kiss. ‘Go find the others.’

  When Ivan and Rowley came back Nelson said, ‘Take this girl away before I do her an injury. I hate goodbyes.’ To Belle, he said, ‘You’ll forget everything I told you?’

  ‘Sure will,’ Belle replied, smiling down at him, both knowing she’d do exactly the opposite.

  Gary Rowley saw them to the front door. Belle held back, said, ‘Thank you for taking care of Nelson.’

  He shrugged. ‘Worth it if you give me your phone number.’

  She shook her head. ‘Sorry. Another time, maybe.’

  He made a sad face. ‘Pity.’

  ‘Yes, pity,’ she echoed, making her way to her car.

  ***

  Ivan drove Belle back to the Cross, assuring her that neither he nor Narelle would breathe a word of the drama to anyone. Belle checked her house to remove all traces of Nelson and fell into bed. An hour later she was awakened by a ferocious knocking. Penney, the same fat cop as before, with a different sidekick this time. Had she seen Nelson? Did she know where he was? Penney banged around her living room and kitchen, sent the sidekick to check out upstairs. He must have been satisfied because he told her to contact him if Nelson showed up.

  ‘Nelson Guthrie? Haven’t seen him for months,’ Belle lied. ‘What’s he done? Why are you looking for him?’

  Penney grunted, left without answering.

  15.

  Jackie dreamed she was in a multistorey building and couldn’t find her way to a conference room where she was due to make an important speech. She fought out of sleep to find Kinsella gone and the bed empty. She lay still, grateful to be free of the dream and its anxiety, and then her father and Belle Fitzgerald and Trevor Curran and Luke crowded into her brain and she was hit with the enormity of what she faced.

  No good lying around feeling sorry for herself. That wouldn’t solve anything. It was time to fight back, and she started with what seemed like the simplest problem. She phoned Luke, not caring whether she woke him or not. A sleepy Danni answered and put him on. He sounded satisfyingly concerned. ‘Mum. You okay?’

  ‘Fine. Just wondering what’s happening with you and your trip to London?’ Jackie heard her voice, crisp and too formal.

  ‘Well,’ said Luke, ‘I spoke to people at uni. They’re prepared to let me take compassionate leave.’

  Compassionate leave? Jackie bit back a comment. ‘For how long?’

  ‘A year max. And I’ve applied for a UK visitor’s visa.’ A moment, and Jackie could almost hear him summoning up courage. ‘Mum, I’m leaving as soon as it comes through.’

  Her turn to be silent. Luke rushed in, ‘Can I see you? Just to talk, to explain?’

  Jackie said, ‘I’m busy with this case, but ring me in the next couple of days and we’ll make a time.’

  ‘Mum,’ he said, ‘don’t be like that.’

  ‘We’ll talk.’ She hung up. She knew she was being childish, but she couldn’t bear it. His decision. Not up to her to make it easy.

  Next, her father. What to do? She didn’t know. You’re a cop, Jacks. Think like one. She made coffee in her little Bialetti and, sitting in her small living room, forced herself to replay the scene with him. He’d forbidden her to contact her mother. It was the mention of her mother, in fact, that had cracked him. Which meant her mother knew something. Jackie checked her watch. Too early to phone Dick Wardle’s wife Pauline. Give it a couple of hours. Till then, what? Swim? No, she decided, not today.

  She went upstairs, switching the radio on while she stripped the bed. Sydney local radio, and she caught the middle of the morning current affairs program, AM. ‘To give us an idea of life in Kings Cross under Maurie Bensimon,’ the presenter said, ‘we asked decorated policeman Stanton Rose to tell us –’

  Jackie turned it off. The last thing she needed to hear was her father reliving his glory days via interview. Where did he get the effrontery to pontificate about Bensimon’s sins after what he’d done himself?

  Jackie sat on the bare mattress, a bundle of sheets in her arms. Her father. Had he killed Belle Fitzgerald in passion? A lovers’ quarrel? Or was the killing, the murder, call it what it was, a cold-blooded response to Bensimon’s orders? He’d refused to discuss it. He’d refused to say anything, in fact, just ordered her out. The last she’d seen of him he was standing at the kitchen counter staring into the night.

  However it had happened, the pressing thing was that Trevor Curran had proof of Stanton’s affair with Belle and in two days’ time, unless she could stop him, he’d blow them all sky-high. So first things first, she needed to talk to Curran.

  She also had to tell Harwood about Curran and the photos. Should she do it today? No, she’d stick with her plan. Leave it one more day. There. She felt she’d taken control, the first time in this whole catastrophe. She retrieved last night’s wet swim gear from the car and pegged it out to dry on the line in her courtyard. It was going to be a lovely day. Then she made the bed with fresh sheets, showered, dressed and set off for work.

  ***

  At Homicide, Jackie found the Wardle phone number. She took herself off to the small interview room, closed the door, and dialled. Pauline answered. When she heard what Jackie wanted, her delight came through. ‘That’s wonderful. Frankie will be so happy to see what a lovely woman you’ve turned into.’

  Jackie apologised, said she was at work and couldn’t chat. Pauline apologised too, unnecessarily, and went away to fetch her address book. She was gone a long time and Jackie imagined the slow dragging of half a body across the house. Eventually she returned and read out a mobile number and an email address: ‘Frankiemurray, one word,’ said Pauline, ‘all lower case, at gmail dot com.’

  Heart thudding, Jackie keyed in the phone number, but couldn’t bring herself to go further. The thought of hearing her mother’s voice was unbearable, like digging up a second grave, exhuming a second corpse. So she opened her laptop and sent an email, trying several beginnings before settling for Dear Frances. She wrote Pauline Wardle gave me your contact details. I need to talk to you on an important and urgent matter. Could you please contact me as soon as possible on the number below. She signed off Regards, Jackie Rose. Added her personal email and home address. Before she could rethink anything, she pressed send.

  She checked her work emails. They contained a summons to a meeting at nine in the Level 5 conference room. It came from Public Affairs and the subject line was TV Event. Mitch Barnett. The meeting was probably him laying down the law about how the Week on Sunday panel should be conducted. Grimly, Jackie realised her father would be involved, might even show up at the meeting today. She steeled herself. Nothing she could do about that.

  As she returned to her desk, a crow of triumph from Bennie Wang. ‘Found him!’

  ‘Who?’ asked Jackie.

  ‘Nelson Guthrie. Remember, you asked me to track him down? Hard work, because he changed his surname, but I got there. He’s Nelson Green now. Address in Wollongong. I’ll give him a ring, see if he’ll talk to us.’

  ‘Well done, Bennie. How the hell did you manage that?’

  Bennie, full of bashful pride, said, ‘No luck with any of the usual places. Not TAFE either, as you suggested. So then I checked to see if a Nelson Guthrie had registered a change of name. And bingo!’ On a roll, Bennie continued, ‘Want me to set up an interview with the journalist, Curran?’

  ‘No, hold off on that for the moment. I need some background on Curran before I talk to him. Do a check, will you? Deep as you can. All his contact details – email, address, everything you can dig up. Okay?’

  Bennie nodded eagerly, reached for the phone. Jackie said, ‘I’ll phone this Nelson Green guy myself.’

  Bennie lifted a shoulder, a little put out. ‘I can do it.’

  ‘Yeah, I know you can. But he obviously wanted to hide himself, so maybe it would be better coming from me.’

  It wasn’t a good reason, and Jackie could tell Bennie saw that. But to overexplain would make it worse. Because she was faced with a problem. According to Margie Solon, Belle Fitzgerald and Nelson Guthrie were close, and if Nelson was going to name Stanton Rose, Jackie wanted to be alone to hear it. Which meant that she had to interview him without Kinsella. In fact, everything she planned to do from here on had to be done without Kinsella. She needed him off the case.

  She hadn’t had time to think about Kinsella, about last night. It had been good. Better than good, but so what? Nothing could come of a fling with him, and not just because they worked together. On the plus side, he wouldn’t be around long. He’d be in Perth. He’d promised to keep the jeweller’s book secret, but perhaps that was because he thought he was going to sleep with her again. If she told him it was a one-off, what would he do? What a mess.

  At that moment Kinsella himself appeared, looking washed and polished and hoisting three coffees on a cardboard tray, his excuse for being late. He greeted everyone as usual, but Bennie, no fool, picked up a vibe. ‘Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed today, mate,’ he said. ‘What’s up?’