She returned the box, positioning it exactly as she’d found it, and took a step back for another look. She had a vivid image of her own teenage wardrobe doors, with their pictures of boy bands and sports stars. Then she unlocked her phone, made a video, took photos. Shut the wardrobe doors and put the key back in its plastic box.

  She went back to Trevor’s bedroom, had another long and careful look around. She switched on the bedside light and left it on. She switched the main light off. Retracing her steps to the kitchen, she checked every other room until she was satisfied, switching off lights as she went, and let herself out.

  It was nearly eight o’clock now, not late. Jackie stood still, listening. She crept down the driveway and, trying to look as casual as possible, crossed the road again. Then she drove home.

  ***

  There was a football match at Moore Park and traffic was at a standstill on Anzac Parade. People, mostly families, streamed down the road. Some had draped themselves in team colours, the blue and yellow of the Parramatta Eels or Manly’s maroon and white. Rugby league. Luke had been into it at one point, had given it up for the pleasures of the beautiful game. Which went against the Rose family tradition of supporting the Rabbitohs no matter what.

  Families. Jesus Christ, families. Hers included a father who’d murdered at least one person and a mother who’d buggered off into the blue. Talk about winning the dysfunctional jackpot. Jackie grinned ruefully at her reflection in the rear-view mirror, added And a daughter who doesn’t know what the hell to do about it. With that, she sighed out some of the tension she’d been holding since the house in Rainbow Street.

  She’d forced herself to walk, not run, across the road. To drive away at normal speed, not to fang her car into a screaming-tyre start. As soon as she was far enough away from Curran’s house she pulled over. Her hands were shaking, not from fear or relief, but from a blast of anger so strong she feared she might lose control of the car. She had an animal need to face her father, howl him into admitting what he’d done, make him buckle under it. Because, if he had murdered Curran, she’d again become his ally, protecting him by leaving the bedside light on. Not to mention stealing the Moleskine. Never mind the bloody receipt book; that was nothing compared to being an accessory to murder.

  Now, as she calmed down, she changed her mind. Truth was, she didn’t know whether Stanton had killed Curran or not. Her cop’s intuition was just that, intuition. It wasn’t enough. She was supposed to be a detective, wasn’t she? Well, then. No good spitting the dummy. Start detecting, she told herself. Investigate. When and if you find something, then you act. First thing tomorrow. Find evidence to rule Trevor Curran’s death murder or suicide. And work out what to do about the Belle Fitzgerald case.

  That made Jackie think of her mother. She remembered her phone was on silent, checked it. No email from her mother. Nothing that couldn’t wait except a text from Luke: Can we talk? Tomorrow? She texted back Depends on work. Will try. And then, because why should she include her son in the family dysfunction, added Love you.

  An emoji, a heart, came through at once.

  She was still looking at the heart when another text pinged through, this one from Kinsella. Tonight?

  Not tonight. Sorry.

  ***

  At home, she locked her front door, latched it as if expecting trouble. She wasn’t hungry. She thought of Schalk Lourens, how they’d sat together examining a flash drive, drinking whisky at the same time. She took out the whisky bottle. That brought to mind an image of her father drinking whisky, and she returned the bottle to the shelf. She settled on a large glass of chardonnay, opened the Moleskine notebook.

  The notebook’s contents referred to current events. The first few pages related to Sydney’s drug wars, and Jackie was jolted to see her name listed along with others in the strike force team. Curran must have been working on this before news broke about the discovery of Belle’s bones, because a few pages in he’d drawn a thick black line under his work and begun to collect material about the reopened case. References to Stanton Rose, his career, his life. Jottings, some of which didn’t make sense. Notes from the media conference. Phone numbers, names. Including Alan Grant and Mitch Barnett. A list of possible titles: Five Belles Revisited: the Truth about Belle Fitzgerald; What Happened to Belle Fitzgerald? On the next page, two more: Feet of Clay and Sydney’s Greatest Deception. And, ringed in black, Sin City possibility?

  Jackie sat back, thinking. This was what Curran had men­tioned at their meeting, a new book to – how had he put it? – swipe the rug from under people’s feet. It would feature Stanton, obviously, and would probably argue that Stanton, acting either alone or on orders from Bensimon, had murdered Belle.

  If Stanton had killed Curran, did he think he’d neutralised the threat? Even if he’d been lucky enough to find the actual photos, perhaps even the negatives, wouldn’t Curran have backups on his laptop? Well, too late now. Too late for her, too, she acknowledged. She couldn’t see a way out of this.

  On that note, she dragged herself to bed and, knowing she wouldn’t sleep, took one of her own Temazepam tablets.

  16.

  The day after what she thought of as the ‘Nelson rescue’, Belle found it hard to concentrate on anything. It was the last day of term and with the winter break ahead, her fellow teachers headed out for drinks. Belle cried off and went home, where she sat in her armchair, smoking and trying to process what Nelson had told her.

  First, of course, there was the mind-blowing stuff in Monroe’s briefcase, the information that would stop Richter’s plans once and for all. She needed to tell Trevor Curran. He’d acknowledge this was a front-page story, one that could send him rocketing into the national sphere. She laid a hand on the phone, stopped herself. Nelson had asked her for a few days’ grace and he was right. Once the news got out, Monroe would know where it came from and if he found Nelson, would surely kill him. And her as well. Besides, she’d promised. Infuriating as it was, she needed to wait.

  And then there was Stanton. Her initial impulse was to confront him with what Nelson had told her, and somehow, she didn’t know how, punish him. The affair had to end, of course it did, but he’d made the whole thing dirty. He’d put her in a light she wasn’t prepared to accept and she needed to shove the knife in, hard.

  Was Nelson right when he claimed Stanton had been following orders the whole time? If so, then how much was Stanton involved with Monroe? He’d already admitted he’d been sent to keep tabs on her. There were all sorts of unexplained things, like where the house in Forbes Street fitted in, how he could get time off to see her without getting caught – everything she’d avoided facing came flooding in.

  And yet. Maybe he’d been telling the truth about being an undercover cop. And about loving her. She could have sworn that was real. Belle remembered how in the first months they couldn’t bear to leave each other. Only their jobs forced them apart, and Stanton’s need for her had been so strong, so vital. You couldn’t pretend at that level, surely?

  She got up and made herself a mug of tea. If she were honest with herself, she had to admit that no matter what Stanton’s motives had been, she was relieved the affair was ending. The turning point had been his reaction to her pregnancy. His profession of love, his willingness to give up his family for her, all that had diminished him in her eyes. Even giving her the ring had labelled him what her mother would call common, something someone of their class wouldn’t do. Belle realised she was being irrational because in her heart she knew the class difference had added to the attraction, to imagining how her family, her friends, might react to the two of them. She sighed. She should be flattered by Stanton’s eagerness to commit and she was, she really was; but she knew she’d be better off without him. She’d have to break it off, and soon. She wasn’t looking forward to the scene.

  As she sat with the thought, her phone rang. She hesitated. Probably one of those nuisance calls. They’d persisted. Nobody speaking, but she could feel someone at the other end. Irritating at first, but after a while the sound of her phone ringing at night made her jittery. Now she debated whether to answer, but finally she put the mug aside and took up the receiver. A woman’s voice. ‘Is that Belle Fitzgerald?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘This is Frances Rose.’

  For a clear moment the name meant nothing to Belle. Then, just as understanding came, the woman added, ‘Stanton’s wife.’

  Oh fuck. Belle felt hot and cold at the same time, a child caught out. ‘Hello?’ the woman said. ‘You still there? You know who I am?’

  ‘Yes,’ Belle said. ‘I know.’ Then, because she had to say something, she added, truculent, ‘What do you want?’

  ‘What I want,’ the woman, Frances, said, ‘is to find out why you’re destroying my family.’

  There was tension in Frances’s voice and Belle understood she was fighting to hold herself together. She made a sudden, intuitive leap. ‘You’re the one who’s been phoning me and not talking.’

  A silence, then, ‘Yes. That was me.’ Then a plea for understanding. ‘You don’t know how hard this is.’ Frances gave a small cough, said with a roughness in her voice, ‘I have to talk to you. You have to tell me why you’re doing this to us.’

  Her pain gave Belle back her edge. She said, ‘I’m sorry, but I assure you whatever I’m doing, I’m not doing it by myself. Talk to Stanton.’

  ‘No. According to Stanton, who by the way is my husband – my husband, you do understand the meaning of that word? According to my husband, the two of you are going to ride off into the sunset, blissfully happy, never looking back.’ Frances had discarded any pretence of equanimity. An intake of breath, then, ‘Never looking back at the bomb craters behind you. What sort of woman are you? And what about our daughter? She’s seven years old, for God’s sake, just started school. How can you build a relationship on someone else’s … someone else’s bones like that?’ The last question a wail.

  How to answer? Ironic, really, given Belle had only just been thinking about ending the relationship. Now her initial shame was supplanted by anger. How dare Stanton tell his wife he was leaving her, when Belle had expressly said she wasn’t ready? Not only that, but how dare he give Frances her name? How dare he! Fuelled by those thoughts, Belle said coldly, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t. I’m not prepared to deal with this. As I said, talk to Stanton.’

  Frances had also worked herself into a fury. ‘Listen to me. If you think for one second I’m going to sit back while you wreck my life, or beg you to give up what’s rightfully mine, you’re very much mistaken. Stanton and I belong together and I’m not letting you or anyone else take him away from me, not without one hell of a fight. I’ll tell you this, Belle Fitzgerald, you selfish little slut: you watch your step, you hear me? Got that?’

  ‘Got it,’ Belle said. But she was talking to a dial tone.

  Belle’s initial impulse was to phone Stanton immediately, tell him what she thought of him and break it off there and then. She’d never before phoned Stanton. He’d given her a number for emergencies only, but she’d never used it. Always him contacting her. Always meeting in secret, never going anywhere, not for a meal, a film, nothing. No friends, no interaction with the world at all outside the bed in Forbes Street. How could she have been so stupid as to think there’d been a relationship in the first place? All they’d had was sex and talk. The force of that realisation made her drop the handset, which she’d been holding, into its cradle. She sat back in the armchair, crossed her legs, took out another cigarette. It was over, definitely over.

  And now, the wife. Before hearing her voice, she hadn’t come into Belle’s consciousness except as a sort of abstract nothingness. Now she was a real person, someone she, Belle, had made suffer. Belle wasn’t heartless. She felt sorry for Frances Rose. But, she reasoned, soon Stanton and Frances could be together again. Or not; that wasn’t her problem.

  She found Stanton’s emergency number in her Filofax, dialled it. No answer. She let it ring out, swore. She’d have to wait for him to phone her. Perhaps it was better to see him in person, after all. That would be the grown-up thing to do. She’d see him, end it, and that would be that.

  On the whole, she’d got out of the affair relatively easily.

  17.

  Saturday morning, and the moment Jackie heard Harwood’s voice, she knew. ‘Trevor Curran, that journo? Looks like suicide. Get hold of Kinsella and both of you get over there.’

  Jackie picked up her phone. Opened her email for the umpteenth time, just in case, but still no word from her mother. Why should she expect anything? After all, the woman hadn’t seen fit to contact her for over thirty years. Then she called Kinsella and told him to meet her in Randwick.

  ***

  The Rainbow Street house looked different in daylight. Maybe because of the crime scene tape, the police cars, the forensic van, a few gawping neighbours and, to one side, two local cops deep in conversation with Kinsella. The cops were both young, one a ginger male with freckles, the other female, dark-skinned and keen.

  Kinsella, all business, acknowledged Jackie with a brisk nod. She nodded back, matching his tone. The female cop, whose name tag read dewi tarigan, said, ‘He shot himself. The pathologist’s having a look now. They reckon he’s been dead at least a day.’

  ‘Who phoned it in?’ asked Jackie.

  ‘His mother,’ Tarigan said.

  ‘His mother?’ Jackie was flummoxed. ‘But … I met the guy. He was over seventy.’

  ‘She’s in a nursing home,’ Tarigan explained. ‘A hundred years old, they said. They say she’s still got her marbles. Apparently her son phones her every morning at seven. Hasn’t missed a morning in however long she’s been there. So when he didn’t phone yesterday morning she asked them to check on him. They thought she was panicking and did nothing, but when he missed this morning as well, she kicked up a fuss until they contacted us. We came round. Nobody answered the door so we went away. When we told the nursing home, the mother insisted we break in. Sergeant’s gone to tell her what we found.’

  ‘Good,’ Jackie said, glad to have dodged that job. ‘Best to get there before she sees it on TV.’ She gestured towards the house. ‘Forensics been here long?’

  ‘Not long. They called the pathologist.’

  ‘Anyone canvassed the neighbours?’ Kinsella asked.

  The ginger cop, whose name tag said caden starling, was visibly frustrated at being ignored. He weighed in. ‘They’re all out for brunch, having cappuccinos and smashed avos.’

  Kinsella stared him down. Tarigan rescued her partner. ‘Just off to do that now.’ She turned to go.

  Jackie called her back. ‘Anyone thought of CCTV?’ She tried to keep her voice casual. The question wasn’t unusual; it was routine in a murder case, but not in a suicide, to collect CCTV from a crime scene and if necessary from further away. But Jackie had plans. If CCTV footage showed Stanton’s car anywhere near Curran’s house, well then, she’d know for sure.

  Tarigan widened her eyes. ‘Haven’t heard. I’ll ask my sergeant. After all, it’s a suicide …?’

  ‘Better safe than sorry,’ Jackie said. ‘Let’s follow procedure.’ Thinking how CCTV would pick up her own car, she added, ‘He didn’t call his mother yesterday, so looks like he died some time on Thursday. Collect CCTV from the area up to Friday morning, especially from Rainbow and Avoca Streets and approaches. Give me the access details.’

  Tarigan replied, ‘Will do. C’mon, Tweetie, let’s see what the neighbours have to say.’ She set off down the pathway, her red-headed partner following wide-legged, as though his genitals had swelled to gigantic proportions.

  At the front door another cop waited, older, paunched and balding. He’d watched the interaction without involving himself. Lack of interest? Or savvy? Jackie wasn’t sure. Now he indicated the inside of the house with a flick of his head. ‘Crime scene bozos.’

  Kinsella stuck his head in, called, ‘Homicide. Okay to come in?’

  A white-hooded, white-masked head appeared from the doorway of the study. ‘Yes, but only you two.’

  A few packets of protection kits sat waiting on the front steps. Jackie and Kinsella, watched by the phlegmatic cop, put on overalls, booties, gloves and masks. Kinsella led the way in, Jackie following. The smell, blood and death and putrefaction, was stronger than it had been the night before. The hooded man beckoned Jackie closer. ‘Jackie Rose? Kashif Abdi, remember?’

  Kashif Abdi, the forensics guy from the crime scene, the one who’d shown them the ring. Jackie lifted a hand, asked, ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Haven’t been here long,’ Abdi said. ‘Kalageris is still busy inside.’ He motioned behind him. ‘In the bedroom.’

  ‘They said it was suicide?’ Jackie asked. ‘So why is Kalageris here?’ It was up to Forensics to rule a death suicide or murder. The fact they’d called in a pathologist, particularly Doris, wasn’t good news.

  ‘Most probably suicide,’ Abdi said. ‘Orders from above, make doubly sure. Apparently this guy was involved with the Fitzgerald disappearance.’