The fuse lit, she swivelled to her right. ‘We’ll start with you, Stanton Rose. May I say what an honour it is to have you with us, and can I ask you to begin by painting us a picture of life in the Cross in the late eighties?’

  And they were off and running. The strategy they’d agreed on was to sketch the background first, to home in on Belle, touch on the theories behind her death, and then, only then, deliver the promised bombshell. Stanton, in his element, obliged. He spoke plainly, summarising the rise of Maurie Bensimon, the iron fist of his offsider Russell Monroe, and the empire of criminals and crooked cops they created. On the screen behind the panel images of Bensimon and Monroe alternated with street scenes from the Cross in the eighties. Stanton kept it brief, and Quintana gave him an appreciative nod.

  Then it was Alan Grant’s turn. He painted in the details of Belle’s disappearance. He described the botched investigations that followed and the general assumption that organised crime, possibly in collusion with corrupt police, was responsible for her death. The screen now showed photographs of the disgraced cops, and several shots of Belle Fitzgerald herself.

  Finally Grant said, ‘As Marsha mentioned, I’m the producer and presenter of Great Australian Mysteries. One of our recent episodes focused on Belle Fitzgerald, and much of the background research for that episode came from journalist Trevor Curran, whom we engaged as a consultant. Mr Curran has been long considered an expert on the Belle Fitzgerald case. We expected Mr Curran to be part of this panel tonight, but –’ Grant drew a breath ‘– I’m sorry to say he has passed. We do not have confirmation yet, but at this stage indications are he took his own life.’

  The audience made a collective sound, a cross between a gasp and a moan. ‘Which brings us,’ Marsha Quintana said, ‘to the present moment. We promised you a major development tonight, and we will keep that promise. It’s significant and it’s also very sad. I’m going to ask Commissioner Liddell and Inspector Rose to take over from here, to describe how and why this case was reopened and what the police have uncovered.’

  The cameras swung around to face Liddell, who straightened in her chair. ‘May I begin by saying how proud I am of the men and women who serve under me. They work day and night to protect the people of this state from harm, yet they are too often the butt of insult, even hate –’ a smattering of applause interrupted this, and Liddell held up a palm in acknowledgment ‘– and their successes do not get the praise they deserve. Tragic as it is, the investigation into the murder of Belle Fitzgerald is an example of the fine work they do.’

  This part of Liddell’s speech was directed at Alan Grant, and the practice at Great Australian Mysteries of highlighting those instances where police had stuffed up or failed. Grant had the good sense to keep his face impassive. Liddell, having made her point, continued. ‘A week ago, Belle Fitzgerald’s remains were discovered. She had been buried in an existing grave in a disused cemetery. What the police have not revealed till now is the fact that her body was laid out with care, just as it would have been in a formal burial. This caused us to question the prevailing theory that Belle Fitzgerald was murdered by organised crime, who would simply have dumped the body rather than making an attempt to bury her with dignity.’ She paused, to let this sink in. ‘I will now hand over to my colleague, Inspector Rose, to describe the investigation and its outcome.’

  Speaking carefully and formally, and without naming names, Jackie outlined the investigation. She recounted her disappointment on hearing of Bensimon’s death, because it closed an avenue of investigation. She explained how one source, an old friend of Belle’s, had revealed that only a few days before her death, he’d given her a St Christopher medal. Finally she came to Trevor Curran. She told the audience how he and Belle had had an on–off relationship and how after her disappearance Curran had devoted his life to keeping Belle’s memory alive. She outlined the crime scene at Trevor Curran’s house.

  Then, although she’d been overruled in the Green Room, Jackie went off-script. She couldn’t say why, exactly, except that even though Curran was a nasty piece of work and a murderer to boot, she felt it was wrong to condemn him so publicly and without a trial. She said, ‘Please note that what I’m saying is provisional. Our discoveries are recent and much of what I am about to reveal is conjecture. We don’t yet have forensic confirmation that Mr Curran’s death was suicide, though everything indicates this is the case. Similarly, the link between Mr Curran and the St Christopher medal in his possession is strong, but circumstantial.’ Jackie paused and, feeling Liddell’s disapproval as a force rather than a physical action, continued. ‘But the link is compelling, because, based on her neighbour’s account, Belle was wearing that medal on the day she disappeared. Therefore only someone who saw her that day could have come into possession of it. The fact that Trevor Curran had it argues that he met Belle, and that he killed her, although we’ll never know whether it was premeditated or an accident, or what caused it.

  ‘As I’ve said, the evidence is provisional. Yet it is compelling, and we as the investigating team believe Trevor Curran killed Belle Fitzgerald, buried her body in a way that emphasised his obsessive love for her, took the St Christopher as a memento and, for the next thirty-plus years, dedicated himself to keeping her memory alive.’ Jackie paused, the television lights in her eyes. ‘That theory,’ she concluded, ‘could also account for Mr Curran’s suicide. He spent decades mourning Belle, and at the same time concocting a story that claimed she was killed by criminal overlords and the corrupt police they controlled. When her remains were discovered, Mr Curran would quite probably have feared exposure. Together with his overwhelming grief and guilt, this could have been too much for him to bear.’

  That was it. Jackie sat back. The audience, now a single organism, had grown completely still, the huge hangar-like studio seeming to transform their silence into a solid, living presence. Marsha Quintana took up the reins. ‘This means, I’m sure you understand, that the case that has haunted Australia for nearly four decades has at long last been solved. It seems almost impossible to accept, and yet it is so. Belle Fitzgerald was a beautiful, smart, energetic young woman who believed in fighting for the rights of others. She was lost far too early. Her family never recovered from what happened. Belle’s mother died a year after Belle disappeared, and her father two years later. Before he died, he funded a drop-in centre in Catherine Street in her memory. That centre, the Belle Fitzgerald Centre, still operates today.’ The screen behind her showed a two-storey block on a street corner. ‘We therefore dedicate tonight’s program to the memory of …’

  Jackie tuned out. Her mind had gone a satisfying blank, saving her from having to think about what hadn’t been said, her own collusion in it. Then, with a jolt, she heard her name mentioned. Marsha Quintana was winding up, thanking each of the panellists in turn. There was a pause. The floor manager indicated a wrap. Norm Petersen appeared. The audience, still quiet, shambled out in one direction, the panel, single file, in another.

  Back in the Green Room, Jackie took up her handbag, planning to leave as soon as she could. Marsha Quintana hung back, her hand on Stanton’s arm. Typical, Jackie thought. Rae’s out, this one’s in. Stanton looked up and gestured for Jackie to stay. Sickened, she turned from him, almost colliding with Commissioner Liddell, who shook her hand and told her she’d done well. Alan Grant, too, nodded approval.

  Foreman reappeared, still shadowed by Harwood, who left his side long enough to stride over to Jackie. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said darkly, ‘my office.’ Jackie nodded, made tracks for the exit.

  ***

  At home, Jackie shut and locked the door behind her, leaning against it for a long moment. Then she remembered her mother and was overcome by a tidal wave of relief to find her gone. Instead there was a note, which read At the Village Hotel. Catch up tomorrow. Love you. F.

  She tossed her mother’s note on the kitchen counter and, in her bedroom, tore off her suit and put on the track pants and top she’d worn that morning. She scrubbed off the television make-up and went downstairs again, opened the fridge, stared into it for a while and closed it again. She needed wine, not food. She took a bottle of cabernet sauvignon from her small bottle rack and cracked it open, poured a large measure into a glass and carried it out to her courtyard. There she stood looking up at the stars and thought about crying.

  She had good reason to be miserable. After all, her world had been blown apart. Her mother, the person she’d hated all her life, now revealed as an innocent victim. Obversely, her father, her idol, exposed as at the very least a devious, deceitful liar. In the past week she’d manipulated evidence for him, lied for him, protected him. She’d gone against everything she believed in, compromised herself irretrievably, so he could continue to bask in the sunlight. Meanwhile she still had to face Harwood and to make things worse, she was losing Luke –

  She caught herself midstream. The self-pity had to stop. She’d spent the week feeling sorry for herself and she was done with it. True, the scaffolding of her life had collapsed, but that scaffolding had been built on lies, hadn’t it? There was only one way forward: to emerge from the rubble, put up a fight.

  She thought about this for a while. Then she raised her arms to the sky in a hero gesture. ‘Superwoman! Here I come!’ she told the stars, laughing at herself through a few tears. She downed the last of her wine and went upstairs to bed.

  20.

  After she left Stanton, Belle spent a long time smoking and listening to the rain outside. She was relieved the affair was over, but she felt empty. Sad, even. Whatever Stanton had been up to with Monroe, she was convinced he’d loved her, and it was her curse not to love men who loved her.

  Which made her think of Trevor. He’d be keen to write something when he heard her story. Had there been enough time for Nelson to get safely away from Monroe? Maybe give him one more day. No longer than that, because if Richter managed to borrow money from Bensimon, he’d destroy Catherine Street for sure.

  A whole day. Was there nothing she could do in the meantime? She had an idea. She phoned her father and asked if she could see him. Huntley said he’d planned to spend the next day sailing and would love to take her around the harbour. So on Sunday morning Belle caught a bus and a ferry to Mosman Bay, where Huntley’s yacht was moored. The yacht was beautiful, a broad-beamed, sturdy craft. She smiled to see its name in curled black letters on the bow, La Belle Dame.

  It was still raining, but Huntley had wet weather gear and they motored out into the harbour proper and set sail. For a couple of hours Belle forgot everything except the slap of water against the hull, the feeling of sails full of wind, the tilt of the craft against it. Sydney was achingly beautiful under the slanting rain, the bridge curtained by soft grey mist. They tacked around Pinchgut Island, went as far as Circular Quay, returned via Kirribilli and Cremorne. There weren’t many crafts on the harbour, just a couple of ferries and some diehards, and it was as if all the houses and apartments lining the harbour were watching them slice their way through the silvery sea.

  The wind dropped. They furled the sails and motored back to the mooring. It was too wet to sit outside so they went down to the cabin, where Huntley unwrapped sandwiches he’d brought. Belle made coffee on the small stove and they sat, rugged in blankets, eating and drinking companionably. Huntley said, ‘Belle, I want you to know how proud I am of you.’

  Belle raised her eyebrows. Her father wasn’t given to praise. He’d always seemed disappointed in her, opposed to everything she did or achieved.

  ‘Everything all right, Dad? You okay?’

  He smiled. ‘I’m fine. I guess I’ve come to realise you’re your own person. I haven’t always approved of what you’ve done –’

  Belle snorted. ‘Make that never.’

  ‘But I’ve got to give you points for trying. You’ve got a steady job, you’ve settled down. You’re a beautiful young woman, Belle, with a great life ahead of you, and if your mother and I have been hard on you, it’s only because we worry about you. We love you, you do know that?’

  Belle put down her mug and took his hand. ‘If you love me, Dad, then listen to me now. I need your help with stopping Oliver Richter.’

  Huntley pulled his hand away from hers, smacked the palm on the table in front of them. ‘Oh, for the love of God, Belle, just when I think things are going to get easier, you come up with –’

  ‘No, Dad, you need to hear this, especially if you’ve got money invested with Richter. He’s a crook, and I can prove it.’

  That stopped him. He waited for her to continue. She said, ‘Have you invested in Richter’s development plan?’

  ‘Not yet. Oliver’s trying to get a big investor on board. I told him I wasn’t prepared to go in until he had more heft.’

  ‘What if I told you the big investor was Maurie Bensimon? That Richter is into him to the tune of two million dollars? Your mate Richter’s in bed with organised crime. You have to stop him.’

  ‘That’s a bit dramatic, isn’t it?’

  The second time in two days someone had told Belle she was being dramatic. Why wasn’t her father outraged? ‘Didn’t you hear what I said?’ she asked.

  He shrugged. ‘I can’t say I like it. The interest will be enormous, for a start. But if Richter thinks he can make the repayments it’s his problem, not mine.’

  ‘But Bensimon! He’s even been linked to the Mafia. God knows what’ll happen if things go wrong and Oliver Richter owes him money, and it comes out you’re connected with it all.’

  Huntley conceded. ‘Good point. Tell you what, why don’t I have a word with Oliver? I’m seeing him tonight, actually.’

  ‘You can’t let him find out you got the information from me! If it gets back to Bensimon –’

  ‘Oh, come on, Belle, that’ll hardly happen. Oliver and I went to school together.’

  ‘Just tell your mate Oliver that if he goes ahead with Catherine Street, the fact he’s practically on Bensimon’s payroll will be on every front page in town.’

  ‘Now you’re looking for trouble. I think you’re overstating the whole thing, you know, but I’ll talk to Oliver. Let’s not fight today, darling. How about I stand you a taxi home?’

  21.

  For the first time in a week Jackie slept soundly, woken from a deep and dreamless darkness by the clamour of the Monday morning garbage truck. She opened her phone, saw missed calls from her father and a text from Luke: My mother the TV celeb, followed by a couple of starry-eyed emojis. Her son, trying to heal the rift.

  Jackie wasn’t ready to talk to him. She answered: Sorry so quiet, will call later today. Then she opened the news apps, all full of the night before. She considered Instagram, decided social media was the last thing she needed right now. Shut off the phone, got her gear, swam laps. Thinking all the while, running through scenarios. The CCTV showed no sign of Stanton’s car anywhere near Rainbow Street on Thursday night, but Jackie wasn’t satisfied. She had to be sure. The person to rule for certain would be Doris Kalageris, at the post-mortem. Doris would decide whether Curran’s death was suicide or murder, and Jackie wanted to be there to hear it.

  At eight she rang her mother, said she was tied up during the day and asked if she could call Frankie later and make a time to meet. Suppressing the urge to say I’ve waited all my life for you, now you wait a few hours for me. Frankie said fine, she planned to stay in Sydney a while anyway. She added, her tone noncommittal, that she’d seen the TV program the night before.

  ***

  At nine, after two large coffees, Jackie rang the morgue. Doris Kalageris was unavailable, but her offsider Les Murphy told Jackie that the PM on Trevor Curran had been brought forward and would happen in about an hour.

  ‘Had the heavies on our case,’ said Les. ‘They want it over ASAP.’ Then, ‘Saw you on the box last night. Whoa!’

  ‘Thanks, Les. On my way,’ said Jackie.

  ‘Good-o,’ said Les, who seemed more confident on the phone. ‘Wouldn’t be up for a drink any time, would you?’

  Jackie let him down softly.

  ‘Didn’t think so.’ Les sighed. ‘See youse later.’

  ***

  The Forensic Medicine and Coroner’s Court was new, its facade of intersecting wood, glass and sandstone an elegant entrance to the world of the departed. Doris and Jackie arrived at the same time. In the car park, Doris stopped, said, ‘Saw you on TV last night. Like a deer in the headlights.’ Then she softened. ‘Did well. I could see you weren’t happy spouting all those details. They force your hand?’

  ‘Yeah. Sort of.’ Doris made to move, but Jackie touched her arm to hold her back. ‘Got a question for you,’ she said. ‘It’s about suicide. Ever come across anyone who committed suicide in the dark?’

  ‘You thinking of Curran?’ Doris looked puzzled. ‘I understood the bedside light was on.’

  ‘Yes, it was,’ said Jackie, mentally crossing her fingers, ‘but, you know, I thought of him lying there, he’s miserable, decides to end it all, the gun’s in the drawer next to him, he knows it’s loaded. Could he have just felt for it, stuck it under his chin, pulled the trigger – could he have done that in the dark? Without putting his glasses on?’

  Doris drew down the ends of her mouth, gazed into middle distance. ‘Possible,’ she said, ‘theoretically. I’ve never seen it.’ She looked sharply at Jackie. ‘What’s on your mind?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Jackie reassured her. ‘Trying to understand Curran’s mental state.’

  ‘Well, stop wasting my time and let’s see what the guy has to say for himself.’