She’d crossed a line, but Rae was too tipsy to notice or care. Jackie looked into her eyes with what she knew was the cop stare, said, ‘My mother left when I was a kid. Nothing else to add.’

  In the awkward silence that followed, Stanton reappeared. ‘Come on, my two special ladies. Time to call it a night.’

  They were in Glebe Point Road, standing on the pavement outside the pub. Rae pointed her key, a square device on a pink leather tag, at a silver Audi TT, number plate RAESIE. Jackie mentally rolled her eyes. The Audi beeped and Rae stepped to the driver’s side. Jackie was about to head in the opposite direction when she suddenly couldn’t wait any longer. She tugged at her father’s sleeve to stop him following Rae, said softly, ‘I need to talk to you.’

  Stanton stepped back, leaned in to hear her better. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Fine. It’s work. You’ll hear it on the news anyway. They found Belle Fitzgerald today. I’m leading the investigation, and they want you involved. As a consultant, on the case with me.’

  Stanton stood motionless, his body still bent towards her. He put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Say again?’

  ‘Belle Fitzgerald, you know, the girl who went missing? They found her. Her bones, anyway.’

  He straightened, his face frozen. Jackie looked at him, puzzled. He seemed far away. He was gripping her shoulder hard enough to make her wince. When she did, he let her go and put up both palms as if to ward her off.

  Rae leaned over, opened the passenger door, called, ‘Stannie? You coming?’

  He blinked, stood still, said to nobody in particular, ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘Dad?’

  He turned his back on her and climbed into the passenger seat.

  ***

  When Jackie got home she settled on her couch and opened her laptop, preparing to get as much background information on Belle Fitzgerald as she could. She wanted to hit the ground running, but she couldn’t concentrate. Why had her father taken off like that? Was it the mention of Belle? He’d been there when she disappeared and he must have known about the investigation. The shock of memory, maybe? She’d talk to him tomorrow, make sure he understood they wanted him involved in the investigation.

  She stared blankly into the night. It was growing cooler and she shut the French doors that led to the minuscule courtyard outside. Better. She loved her house, but like so many places in Sydney, it didn’t cope well with cold.

  The house was in Campbell Street, the shabbier end of Glebe. It was second in a row of narrow Victorian terraces, huddled together like a clutch of old ladies fallen on hard times. It belonged to Jackie’s father. She’d moved in, nominally renting, when she left home. Over the years she’d brightened the place up with skylights and paint, a new kitchen and an upstairs bathroom, trying all the while to stay true to its history. It was, after all, her history too.

  She’d brought Luke up here. By herself, the same way Stanton had brought her up. She’d told Rae she didn’t talk about her mother and really, she tried not to think about her as well. Frances Rose. Frankie. Who’d walked out one day and left a seven-year-old kid behind to wonder when, then if, she was ever coming back. How could a mother do that to her child? Not a word, phone call, birthday present, not even a Christmas card. Jackie gave herself a mental shake. She’d shoved Frankie to the back of her mind for years and wanted to keep her there.

  Thinking of her own child, Luke, she shot him a quick text: All good? The response came back instantly. A thumbs-up emoji, followed by You busy? A second later, her phone rang. Not like someone Luke’s age to phone when he could text. She hoped everything was okay.

  He headed off her concern with, ‘No drama, Mum. Just – got a moment?’

  ‘Sure.’ There was a note in his voice.

  ‘Danni’s going back.’

  Jackie didn’t understand. ‘Going back where?’

  ‘London. Her visa’s about to expire. She has to leave next Monday.’

  ‘London? Oh. Really?’ Jackie tried to sound neutral, but her heart gave a quick joyous leap. Danni – Danuta – and Luke had met in London months ago, and she’d come back with him to Australia. Jackie hadn’t warmed to Danni, and in her opinion nineteen was too young to have a live-in girlfriend. Still, Luke must be devastated at the thought of losing her. Jackie knew what it was like to have people you loved leave you.

  Before she could sympathise, Luke said, ‘Listen, I’ve got lectures tomorrow, but can I come over for a chat later this week? Tuesday?’

  ‘Sure. That’d be good. Looking forward to it.’

  ‘Great, Mum. You’re the best.’ He ended the call.

  You’re the best. He clicked off and Jackie sat for a minute, smiling. Her son had turned into a lovely man, hadn’t he? She put down the phone. Time to focus, to prepare for tomorrow.

  4.

  Two weeks after the cops came, Belle ran into Nelson Guthrie, the student they’d been looking for. She and Margie Solon had got together with Nigel, the art teacher, for after-work drinks at the Oxford. They’d moved on to a huge dinner at the Balkan and then to Nigel’s place in Sturt Street for more drinks and gossip. It was after eleven by the time they split up and Belle made her way home, buzzing from the wine and smiling at the hilarious stories they’d told each other.

  She had just reached The Wall, where a line of young men waited in the shadows, leaning against the prison’s huge sandstone blocks while cars cruised by. Each boy had his own space and Belle was wondering how they organised that when she felt a tap on her shoulder. ‘Miss?’

  She turned, and there was Nelson. He hadn’t been back to class since the police visit.

  ‘Miss?’ She was amused. ‘My name’s Belle. How are you, Nelson?’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘We called our teachers that at school.’ He fell into step beside her. ‘I’m glad to see you. I was thinking of coming in to talk to you.’ He looked more rested than she’d seen him. He was well dressed, in a loose, wide-shouldered jacket over a black T-shirt and baggy cream pants.

  ‘Yeah?’ Belle was wide awake. ‘Feel like a drink?’

  He consulted a large digital watch, too big for his slim wrist. ‘The pubs are shut. What about the Taxi Club?’

  ‘My place isn’t far,’ she said. ‘Come with me.’

  They made their way up Darlinghurst Road. A couple of the boys nodded at Nelson. One called, ‘Changed teams, have you?’

  ‘Not in this life,’ Nelson replied. ‘She’s my teacher.’

  ‘Oooh, fancy!’ The boy arched his neck.

  Without shame, Nelson turned to Belle. ‘Used to work here, with him.’

  ‘Did you?’ Belle knew some of the working girls and boys in the area. A few of them were her students, making enough money at night to see them through their studies. She admired their tenacity. And that explained Nelson’s tiredness in class.

  ‘Yeah. You end up feeling like a human pincushion. I’m on a better thing now.’ He pursed his lips, but didn’t elaborate.

  At home, Belle opened a bottle of riesling – she was going to feel crap tomorrow, but what the hell – and sat on the couch, watching Nelson examine the books lined up on her plank-and-brick shelves. ‘Why haven’t you been to class?’ she asked. ‘Did you know the cops were looking for you?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Want to tell me why? You don’t have to.’

  ‘It’s not what you think.’ Nelson perched on the couch next to Belle. He held up his glass, said, ‘Cheers, dears,’ gulped half of it down and leaned forward towards her. ‘Can you keep a secret?’ Without waiting for an answer, he continued, ‘Well. You know how I said I was on a better thing? I’ve got a boyfriend now. Can’t tell you his name –’ here Nelson waved a forefinger to and fro ‘– but he’s big. Rich. He picked me up at The Wall a couple of times and fell in love with me, just like that. Then I got the flu – don’t worry, it was just the flu, not, you know, AIDS or anything – and couldn’t work for a couple of nights, and that’s when he made the cops track me down.’

  ‘Christ. He must be important, to get them to do that for him.’

  ‘Told you.’ Nelson waggled his glass and Belle refilled it. ‘The cops didn’t know what he wanted me for, of course. But when they found me, he came to see me and he took me right out of that awful boarding house.’ Nelson shuddered. ‘You should have seen the lav. Talk about germ central! But now he’s set me up in my own flat. A little studio. So cute. And plus he’s going to let me decorate.’

  ‘Are you coming back to class?’

  ‘He doesn’t like me going to class. Wants me to keep away from the people I used to see because he says they’ll get me on drugs. Also he’s scared I’ll get AIDS. He made me have the test. All clear, thank God.’

  ‘Does he know where you are tonight?’

  ‘Oh.’ Nelson looked uneasy. ‘He’s working tonight. I was lonely and went to say hi to some of the boys. You know, it gets stuffy being inside so much. I get sick of watching telly.’ He got up and stood looking wistfully at the bookshelves. ‘I miss it. I really enjoyed your classes, Miss – Belle.’

  ‘I enjoyed having you there. It’s a pity you aren’t coming back, because you’re really talented. You’d do well at uni, too.’

  Nelson didn’t answer. He looked very young and vulnerable.

  ‘You know,’ Belle said, ‘you could read the books on the list yourself, and if you wanted to talk about them you could come here. You’re welcome anytime. In fact, if you want to borrow some, you can. Help yourself.’ She waved her glass, splashing some riesling on her jeans.

  Nelson seemed not to have thought of reading. He brightened. ‘Can I? What should I read first?’

  ‘Well, we’re just about to start on The Great Gatsby. It’s not very long, but it’s a masterpiece. Or perhaps you’d prefer something more modern? I’ve just finished reading The Handmaid’s Tale. Margaret Atwood. It’s amazing!’

  ‘Can I take both?’

  ‘Sure. Give me a ring when you’ve finished and we can make a time to chat.’

  ‘I’ll cook you dinner!’ Nelson said, excited. ‘I’m sure Russ wouldn’t mind my seeing my old teacher.’

  So the secret boyfriend’s name was Russ, although Belle didn’t like the sound of the control he was exercising over Nelson. Not her place to interfere. She let it pass, said, ‘You’re on. That’d be great. Here’s the Atwood, and I’ve got a spare Gatsby somewhere.’ She found it and handed him the books.

  Nelson put them inside his jacket, under his arm. ‘I’d better go,’ he said. ‘I’ll keep them safe, promise.’ At the door he turned. ‘Thanks.’ Then, awkwardly, ‘You’re really beautiful, you know that?’

  Belle grinned. She’d had a lot to drink. ‘Yeah. I do, actually.’

  They both burst out laughing.

  ***

  For a few months life seemed to go on quietly, but for Belle it had become a balancing act. She felt she was walking a tightrope, holding her breath in case she made a wrong move and tumbled down. The worst of it was she couldn’t tell anyone.

  It was the family thing, of course, her father. He’d seen the possibilities for developing Catherine Street in the first place and had taken them to his old schoolfriend, Oliver Richter. Richter had jumped at the opportunity and instead of a finder’s fee had offered Huntley Adair a chance to invest in the development itself. Huntley was seriously considering it, as he told Belle when she came home for her mother’s birthday dinner.

  ‘You should see the plans. Impressive. Houses restored to heritage standards –’ here Huntley stretched out an arm, palm up, to show his daughter the scope ‘– and a luxury hotel. A couple of exclusive apartment blocks. Nothing flashy, everything low-rise. Oliver doesn’t see any problems getting the plans through. He’s got the best connections, Oliver, right to the top. Very tempting.’

  Then he delivered the coup de grâce. ‘Oliver’s been buying up the houses in Catherine Street on the QT. He’s got about six so far and more to come. We’ll sell him your place too,’ he added. ‘It’ll be a good deal. You’ll get the profit, of course.’

  ‘No!’ Belle sprang up, horrified. She appealed to her mother. ‘Tell him he can’t! He gave it to me. It’s mine. He can’t take it back!’

  Belle’s mother, at the other end of the table, smiled without interest. ‘Your father knows best, darling.’

  So now Belle herself, like the other residents in Catherine Street, risked being thrown out of her own home. Unless she could stop the development.

  She went back to Margie Solon. They’d let the action group slide, but now they got busy. They named themselves The Catherine Street Action Group, and organised a meeting. They put flyers in letterboxes and one Friday night seven people squeezed into Belle’s tiny front room. When they heard they were to be evicted, they told others. People were initially inclined to disbelieve, but when the first notices arrived there was such a big response they had to hold the next meeting in a classroom at East Sydney Tech.

  There they decided first and foremost to tear up the eviction notices. They’d squat; let the bastards do their worst. Margie was all for going to the unions as they’d done ten years before in Victoria Street, until someone pointed out the unions had their own problems these days. The Builders Labourers Federation, inventors of the original green bans, had been deregistered and union power in general was on the decline. Privatisation was hitting them hard and if that wasn’t enough, the New Right was out to destroy them for good. The unions had bigger things to worry about than Catherine Street.

  Belle and Margie would have to think of something else. Belle left the meeting elated and at the same time apprehensive. Now that the action group had gone public it was only a matter of time before people found out who her father was and – more to the point – that he was connected to the development. The papers would love this. Still, she’d made up her mind. For once in her life she was doing something concrete to help her community. She was one of them now, nobody could deny it.

  By the time the meeting ended it was after nine. The night was cold and dark, and as she left the huge sandstone walls of the tech, Belle stopped to pull her beret down low and button up her new shag orange coat. She’d found it at Sids. Only ten dollars! She headed down Darley Street, and just before the corner of Liverpool she sensed a presence behind her. She turned and as she did she saw something big and hard – her instinct said a baseball bat – come down and across. It caught the side of her head and knocked her to the ground.

  She was dazed but conscious. She tried to raise herself, was pushed back by a boot. Two men in balaclavas stood over her. One squatted low and spoke into her face, close enough for her to smell beer and cigarettes. ‘Fuck off out of other people’s business, bitch,’ he hissed. ‘Got it?’

  She was too groggy to know what was going on. He said again, ‘Understand? Or maybe you need more of a lesson?’ He raised the bat again.

  There was a sound, footsteps. The men melted into the dark. The footsteps got closer. What now? Belle raised an elbow to protect her head. A hand took hold of her arm. ‘You okay?’ said a deep voice.

  It was the plainclothes cop, the one who’d come to the college.

  ***

  He walked her home to Catherine Street, sat her down in her tatty green armchair and disappeared into the kitchen. Belle rested her head against the chair and closed her eyes, thinking about the men who’d attacked her. They must have followed her. Richter must have had his people at the meeting. That meant her father would find out about her, if he hadn’t already. He’d know his daughter was at war with him.

  The next question was why the cop was there, but before she could formulate it properly he came back with a cup of water and a wad of wet tissues. He turned on the reading lamp and angled it to shine on her. Then he went down on one knee beside her and pushed her hair back to get a better look at her forehead. He dabbed at the cut, showed her the bloodstained tissues. ‘Lucky,’ he said, finally. ‘Your hat protected you. You’ve got a lump and you’ll have a bruise, but you won’t need stitches.’ He stood up and without asking went through the kitchen to the bathroom and came back with a plaster.

  As he applied it, Belle had a strong sense of his closeness, his fingers still slightly damp. She must be in shock. She needed a smoke. ‘My bag,’ she said, looking around, panicking when she couldn’t see it.

  He fetched it. ‘I picked it up.’

  He probably thought the men were there to rob her. Belle opened her mouth to tell him and closed it again. He was a cop, a pig. If there was one thing she’d learned while living in Catherine Street it was to tell the pigs nothing. Still, this pig had rescued her. She remembered the certainty she’d felt when she first saw him, that they’d somehow be connected. She found her cigarettes, offered him one and took her lighter from her bag, held it up for him. He bent towards it and lit his cigarette, steadying her hand with his. She saw he wore a wedding ring. He let her hand go, retreated and settled in the corner of the couch, crossing one long leg over the other. The room was tiny and she was again aware of his body near to hers. ‘Want a drink?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said. Then, ‘Maybe you shouldn’t? You might have concussion.’

  ‘Whisky,’ she said. ‘In the kitchen.’

  They drank from tumblers. Belle closed her eyes. ‘I’ve forgotten your name.’

  ‘Stanton Rose.’

  She didn’t know what to say next, so she resorted to sarcasm. ‘Stanton Rose. How come a nice guy like you works for the cops in the Cross?’

  Stanton chuckled. ‘Long story. Something for when I know you better.’

  When I know you better. Then, matching her tone, he said, ‘What’s a rich girl like you doing living in the Cross?’