‘Course. He knows everything. When I get back he asks me all about you.’

  ‘So he sends you to spy on me?’ Again, her thoughts went to Stanton Rose. Had Monroe sent him to spy on her as well? Was that what last night was all about?

  Nelson was offended. ‘Maybe. But that doesn’t mean I tell him anything. I’m not stupid. I say we talk about books and stuff. Girl stuff.’

  ‘God, Nelson, you need to be careful. He’s a dangerous man.’

  ‘Nah, not with me. You should see him. He’s got a really soft side. Brings me flowers and everything. And he gave me this.’ He pulled open the collar of his shirt to reveal a heavy gold chain. Saw Belle’s face, grimaced. ‘Yes, I know. Makes me look like a Hungarian gangster.’

  ‘It’s a bit … over the top,’ Belle admitted, lifting it for a closer look. It was entangled with another chain, a fine one, with a circular gold St Christopher medal hanging from it. ‘Didn’t know you were religious,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, not me.’ Nelson fingered the St Christopher. ‘It belonged to my mum. Look.’ He turned it over. It was engraved with letters MG, the letters themselves looping and curling across the small disc.

  ‘It’s pretty,’ Belle said. ‘Like you.’ She felt a tug of pity for this lost boy. She separated the chains and patted them, and the shirt, back in place.

  ‘I never take it off,’ said Nelson, putting his palm to the place where the medal hung. ‘It keeps me safe. Oh, and by the way, Russ gave me this as well.’ He held out his frail wrist to show off the square silver watch, and saw the time. ‘Christ. I’d better go.’ He looked worried. ‘You still want to see me, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course. Next week, if we can.’ Belle got up too and, on an impulse, hugged Nelson tight. ‘Listen, kid, let’s make a pact. If either of us is in trouble the other will help them. Right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ***

  In November, after the Melbourne Cup, Sydney began to slow down and by December it had fallen into its summer coma. Tech had broken up for the year and so, it seemed, had everything else. New Year’s Eve came and went. Usually nothing happened until after Mardi Gras, but not this year, because 1988 was the Bicentenary. Two hundred years since the First Fleet landed, and Sydney launched itself into an orgy of celebration.

  Not Belle. Under Margie’s urging, she and some of the other teachers joined tens of thousands of people protesting what they called the Invasion. Bannered and chanting, they marched through Sydney, demanding land rights for Aborigines and later, in Hyde Park, hearing about how the colonisation of the country was based on hypocrisy and lies, and how badly off the Aborigines actually were. It was thrilling. After the protest, and still euphoric, she went with the rest of her party to the Fortune of War where, beers in hand, they toasted their endeavours.

  The protest was a spike of activity in an otherwise quiet time. Action against the developers seemed to have stalled. No activity from Richter, and for the moment, the residents of Catherine Street went about their lives. On the strength of the warnings Belle had received, she and Margie cancelled the November meeting. Belle didn’t say where she’d learned about the raid and Margie didn’t ask. Margie had moved on to other causes, the Bicentenary among them; the action group hadn’t been much of a success anyway. People were losing heart and numbers were dwindling. It was clear that without the unions at their back, residents couldn’t stop development by themselves. Belle needed another approach, and that meant Trevor Curran’s exposé of Richter, his development plans and his connections.

  Trevor was away for work. She’d have to wait till he got back, and to be honest she didn’t mind. Right now the centre of her world was Stanton Rose. Whenever the phone rang her heart leapt. They had to snatch whatever time they could because he never knew when he’d be available. If getting away was possible, he’d say this afternoon? Or in an hour? And she’d say yes, please. Being someone’s mistress, she realised, meant learning to wait.

  Stanton impressed on her the need for secrecy. It wasn’t just because he was married, he said; there was something else. He couldn’t go into it, but it was imperative, critical, that nobody found out about the two of them. That meant they couldn’t meet at her place because he’d be seen coming and going. Instead, he gave her an address in Forbes Street, just down from and diagonally opposite the tech. He gave her the combination she needed to open the door lock: 7639.

  It was a house, one of a row of terraces all in need of painting. Belle keyed in the numbers and the door clicked open. Inside it was dim and, after the punishing summer sun, cool. Facing her was a narrow passage, uncarpeted, and beyond that a steep and narrow staircase. There was a sense of emptiness.

  He called to her. ‘Upstairs.’

  Upstairs was a white-walled bedroom dominated by a huge low bed, its headboard carved teak, its bedclothes white and severely tucked in. The only other furniture was a teak wardrobe which matched the bed, a couple of rattan chairs, white-cushioned, and in one corner a large stone Buddha. Whoever decorated this place, Belle thought, must love Indonesia. As with the passage, the floorboards had been left uncovered. Like the house, the room felt un-lived in, though it was spotless and someone must be cleaning it. Belle wondered if Stanton had prepared it for her.

  He was standing in front of the windows, between sheer white curtains that trembled slightly in the breeze, looking out over the balcony to the buildings opposite. He stepped towards her and took her in his arms. They fell on the bed.

  Later she asked him, ‘What is this place? How did you find it? Who owns it?’

  He avoided the questions. ‘The owners are overseas. Meanwhile …’ He pulled her against his body, spooning. ‘Meanwhile, it’s perfect. All you have to do is leave work and walk a block. And make sure nobody knows where you’re going.’

  She wanted to ask him why he was so insistent on secrecy and then she thought no, it suited her. She didn’t want it getting out she was screwing a cop, never mind a Darlo cop.

  ‘You know what they say,’ she murmured, turning to face him and propping herself on an elbow.

  ‘What do they say?’ His hands were busy with her body again.

  ‘That the cops at your station are bent, all of them.’

  His hands stopped, then started again, with purpose. ‘Not all of them.’

  ‘You mean, not you?’

  ‘I mean not me. Stop talking.’

  ***

  Aside from Stanton and the house in Forbes Street there was work – it was February and they were enrolling – and the last vestiges of the action group. She’d told Stanton a bit about it, though he hadn’t asked; perhaps he knew it was falling apart. He didn’t talk about his job at all and she didn’t press him. Nor did he mention his wife or daughter, and she knew not to pry. He was one of those men, she thought, able to compartmentalise their lives. Instead, they told each other their histories. He wanted to know everything about her and was happy enough to tell her about his parents and growing up in Glebe. On her side, she made him laugh with disaster stories about her failed marriage and boyfriends, including Trevor.

  By the end of the month Trevor had returned to Sydney. He asked her out to dinner and she quizzed him hard. How was his piece on Catherine Street going? Had he found anything out about the developers? Nothing yet, he said, he needed to dig deeper and she should be patient. He kept telling her she looked lovely, that she glowed, that he was sorry he’d dumped her.

  He’d dumped her? Belle didn’t call him out on it even though it had been the other way around. That was men for you; they couldn’t bear losing. Her time with Stanton had made her tolerant so she humoured Trevor. It seemed to encourage him and he pestered her, offering tickets for shows, dinners and even a weekend away. Once or twice he turned up at her door unasked, drunk and maudlin. He was a nuisance, but until he produced his report on Catherine Street, Belle was stuck with him.

  Because she kept quiet about Trevor – no use making a fuss before his exposé appeared – it seemed as if she’d abandoned her fight against Richter. Her father thought so, anyway. They met for lunch at Machiavelli’s, where they sat under a massive black-and-white photograph of Malcolm Fraser and where he could show her off to tables of suited men. He had just upgraded his yacht and wanted to take her out on it. Perhaps they could sail regularly? What were her plans for the future? She headed him off good-naturedly and when they parted he kissed her cheek and said with some relief, ‘My girl. Growing up at last.’

  If by growing up her father thought she’d abandoned her fight against Richter, he didn’t know her at all, none of them did. She had a secret life now. Once Trevor’s exposé was out, the public would see what was happening in Catherine Street, how wrong it all was. There was an election this year and Richter’s political mates, if they knew what was good for them, would withdraw support. He’d have no choice but to abandon the development.

  She mentioned the article, in a vague way, to Stanton. He didn’t appear interested. After all, it didn’t affect him. A press report wasn’t anything to do with the police. As far as Belle could see, this was going to be a win–win.

  7.

  Jackie had an unsettled night. A southerly gusted in, and the wind rattling her windows disturbed her. Once awake, her whizzing brain worried away at her problems. There were two. First, the receipt book. She’d pushed back against her father wanting to keep it secret, reminding him that suppressing evidence could get her sacked and maybe sent to jail. But he’d worn her down and eventually she’d agreed to hold on to it for a couple of days. Then, she insisted, she’d have to hand it in.

  It was only now that Jackie realised the longer she kept the book, the less likely she’d be able to explain her actions. She’d have to come up with a watertight reason for not producing it earlier, because Harwood, eager to keep his own nose clean, would definitely not bend the rules for her. On the other hand, hadn’t Harwood himself said this was in essence a PR exercise? So maybe the book wasn’t as important as all that. Maybe she’d find other evidence and get the results she wanted without the ring and its secrets. Maybe.

  Then there was the thing she didn’t want to admit considering. Was her father telling the truth about the ring? No reason for him to lie, but her instinct told her something wasn’t right. Was there another reason Monroe had wanted the ring, something to do with Belle’s disappearance? Did Stanton know Belle better than he pretended? Jackie had picked up on his use of her first name. If you find anything else that connects Belle and me, he’d said, Belle’s name in his mouth sounding familiar, as if they’d been friends.

  What if they’d been more than friends? Jackie knew, when it came to women, Stanton was a player. She’d sometimes wondered if her mother had left because he’d become involved with someone else. Even if that were true, it was no excuse for her dumping her child so comprehensively, cutting off contact forever. Jackie caught herself becoming enmeshed in the old bitterness, the betrayal she tried so hard to suppress. She told herself to get her mother out of her head, not to invent scenarios about what her father might or might not have done. Interview people. See what’s what. Most probably Belle Fitzgerald will have been killed by organised crime, like everyone says. Do your job, Jacks. Gather evidence, find facts. Get justice for Belle.

  She set her alarm for six, went down to the pool and swam, and was first to arrive at work.

  ***

  When Kinsella asked how she’d gone at the jeweller, Jackie told him no luck. The lie came easily. Kinsella shrugged, said, ‘Well, a hundred to one shot in any case.’

  Bennie arrived a minute later and wheeled himself over to Jackie’s desk, Kinsella following, for the daily morning briefing. There was a formal weekly briefing as well, but when a team was on call or on a case, they met every morning to catch up and plan the day.

  Bennie held the floor. He hadn’t gone through all the paperwork, but had worked late to get a definite sense of the earlier investigation. According to the files, he said, the first person to miss Belle was Margie Solon, her fellow teacher and joint-organiser of the action group. Belle hadn’t turned up for a class and Margie had had to step in. Margie claimed she knew immediately something was wrong. Belle hadn’t called in sick and she wasn’t answering her phone. And they’d been feeling unsafe, Margie told investigators later, because of the threats against the action group.

  After class Margie went around to Belle’s house. It was locked, but Belle’s neighbour, Narelle Docherty, had a spare key and she let Margie in. A coffee cup on was on the table, the bed unmade. No sign of Belle.

  As the day wore on, Margie grew increasingly concerned. She contacted all the hospitals she could think of, then the city morgue. No Belle. By the next day, when there was still no sign, she fronted up at Kings Cross Police Station and reported Belle missing. She told people later she’d known in her heart, even then, that Belle was dead.

  Nothing happened for twenty-four hours. Then someone realised Belle Fitzgerald’s father was Huntley Adair and the system swung into action. Politicians telephoned, orders came down from above. Investigators arrived, in the form of Lance Penney and Dick Wardle.

  ‘Dick Wardle,’ Jackie said the name out loud.

  Bennie lifted up his head. ‘What about him?’

  ‘You don’t know who Dick Wardle was?’

  Bennie shrugged. ‘Nope.’

  ‘Haven’t you watched Sin City?’ asked Kinsella. ‘The TV series?’

  Bennie looked blank. Kinsella shook his head in sorrow. ‘You kids. Well. Wardle was a cop who thought he’d like to work in the big smoke so he got himself transferred from Woop Woop to the Cross.

  ‘Big mistake. Wardle was the odd man out. The cops there were crooked, but Wardle? Nope. Wardle was straight as a die. He was a God-botherer, a committed Christian. So they got rid of him by booting him upstairs. They made him a detective in the CIB.’

  ‘CIB stands for the Criminal Investigation Branch. An early version of what we do,’ Jackie interjected.

  Kinsella stretched his frame out in his chair, making a long diagonal, and continued. ‘Well, not long after Wardle joined the CIB he realised his boss there was in bed with organised crime in the form of Russell Monroe and Maurie Bensimon. You know about them, don’t you?’

  Bennie made a face. ‘Sort of. Bensimon’s the old guy you said is in hospital now.’

  ‘Yeah. Big crime lord in his day, and Monroe was his lieutenant. Anyway. Wardle decided to become a whistleblower. He went straight to the commissioner, told him about the CIB and about the cops at the Cross, Penney and company. Said he was going to take the whole thing to the Feds.

  ‘What Wardle didn’t know was the commissioner himself was bent as a paper clip and happy to receive his own brown paper bags from Bensimon. Next thing, Wardle’s in his kitchen at home one night when someone shoots at him through a window. With a wife and two kids under five in the next room. Doesn’t kill him, but he’s badly hurt. Nearly dies. As soon as he gets out of hospital he resigns from the force and legs it to nobody knows where.’

  Jackie said, ‘Bennie, did you find out if Wardle’s alive?’

  ‘I did. I think he’s alive. If this is the same guy, he lives here, in Forestville. Right age.’

  ‘Good,’ said Jackie. ‘Thanks, Bennie. Well done. Keep going.’ She said to Kinsella, ‘We’ll start with Dick Wardle.’

  Bennie took himself to his desk, and Jackie began to gather her stuff. Kinsella got up, grabbed the back of his chair, hesitated. ‘Doing anything tonight?’

  Jackie, whose mind was on her father, said, ‘Dunno, why?’

  ‘Grab dinner?’

  ‘Ah –’

  ‘You’ve got to eat.’

  She glanced up at Kinsella. He looked awkward, worried. They ate together often, sometimes out, sometimes pizza at one or the other’s place. Both single, neither interested in cooking, though Kinsella could rustle up a great curry. He claimed he’d learned the art from his mother’s Charmaine Solomon cookbook.

  Like Luke, Kinsella lived in Newtown. It was only a few minutes’ drive from Glebe. He’d chosen the suburb, he told Jackie, to be near his ex-wife and daughter, who were in Tempe.

  Now, wanting to get going, Jackie said, ‘Sure. Dinner?’ Then, without much thought, added, ‘Over your way? Thai Potong?’

  Kinsella relaxed a bit. ‘Yup. Seven okay?’

  ‘Yup,’ echoed Jackie. ‘C’mon.’

  ***

  The drive to Wardle’s house took them over the Roseville Bridge, where lowering skies weren’t stopping day sailors heading out towards Middle Harbour. Jackie didn’t understand why people chose to sail around and around the harbour. She’d tried it and after a couple of outings got bored. Ocean sailing was different, of course, and she could see the point of racing. She’d once toyed with joining a club, but they’d demand commitment and that was the one thing a cop couldn’t promise.

  In Forestville, Kinsella followed the GPS down suburban streets to Lady Davidson Circuit. He drew up in front of number 130. Halfway up a rise, the house was hidden by gum trees. It faced a mirror slope of blond-brick bungalows, carports and native gardens. These were streets where kids rode bikes, where neighbours knew your business and where you could park your tinny outside your front door without anyone giving you a hard time.

  Which was apparently what Dick Wardle had done. In front of his letterbox sat a trailer with a tarp-covered motorboat waiting to be taken back to sea. Next to it, a steep driveway rose up to a carport, above that the house. Next to the driveway a narrow set of concrete steps, homemade by the look of them, wound past rocks and succulents to a newly stained front door.

  An older woman, wearing cargo pants and a linen overshirt, answered the bell. Her silver hair was pixie-cut, her chin sharply pointed.

  Jackie held up her badge. ‘Morning. I’m Detective Inspector Jackie Rose and this is Detective Sergeant Jason Kinsella.’