However, dinner was the only exception to “do whatever you like”. Cocktails at seven and then a formal evening meal at seven thirty. Tom had informed us that one of Howard’s staff had phoned on Friday to tell us to bring our dinner jackets.
I had to admit I wasn’t surprised at the food when Two started to lay out lunch. I immediately assumed Augusto must have had a hand in the menu. The food could have been something one might have been presented sitting at the Lido in Venice, or on one of the trattorie that lined the canals at Ostia, outside Rome. Antipasti, panzanella, insalata di pomodoro e mozzarella, carciofini ripieni, and the most splendid, but enormous, Budino, the Italian word for crème caramel.
The food was absolutely delicious, and Howard informed me it had been prepared by a cousin of Augusto’s who’d moved to Australia a few years ago and who now worked at Zephyr as the chef/baker. “Where is he, by the way, Howard? I’d have expected to see him when we arrived, jumping up and down on the front stairs.”
“Augusto’s in Melbourne, choosing some horses for me, Clyde. I’ll tell you all about it later, after lunch, when we go for a walk.”
The word “we” had a definite inflection; he meant he and me going for a walk. Harry picked up on it as well, but as cool as a cucumber, turned to Dai and asked if he’d be able to show him around the property, with the excuse that he’d need to walk off his lunch.
*****
“How do you cope with so much beauty?” I asked an hour later, while Howard and I walked through what seemed like an endless green garden. A “Foliage Garden” he’d called it. Nothing to distract the eye except for the few white flowers that peeped out randomly from a strap-leaved lily Howard explained was a weed. It looked beautiful to me.
“How do you cope waking up every morning faced with such beauty, Clyde?”
“Who, Harry? I’m not sure, Howard. I still think he’s a dream and I’m going to wake up and find my life where it was a year ago with Sam, who used me for sex, and two casual partners on the side with whom I never had truly satisfactory relationships because of my guilt over him.”
“Why on earth would you feel guilty over Sam Telford. He’s a nice enough man, but not in Harry’s league.”
“Isn’t that a bit judgemental, Howard? I mean you don’t really know Sam.”
“Ah, but I do know Vincenzo Paleotti.”
I stopped, not only because I was surprised to hear what he’d just told me, but because a flock of rainbow parakeets had flown into a tree above us and had begun to chatter noisily, chewing on whatever seedpods they’d found up there, the remnants of their feast falling down over us.
“Come, this way, Clyde,” Howard said, taking my elbow and leading me between two enormous bushes into an open, grassy clearing. “Sit here beside me on the lawn,” he said.
He took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and then slipped his sunglasses onto the top of his head while he lit two, offering one to me.
“Vince?”
He laughed and then lay back on one elbow. “I know he told you he had a new lover to augment his rather dreary sex life with Philip Mason.”
“You do?”
“Uh huh, and I also know he laughed when you said something about his new bloke ‘filling a hole’.”
“No it was him said that, not me!”
“Well, his ‘new bloke’ is your mate and my employee, Augusto Cerrone.”
“Well blow me down …”
“I’d be grateful if you keep that to yourself. Let them tell you. They’ve both been as nervous as anything about telling you. I think Augusto might have said something while you were here, had not we heard of this New Year’s auction in Melbourne and I’d had to send him down south.”
“Howard,” I said, rolling onto my tummy and staring off into the trees on the other side of the clearing—I could have sworn I’d glimpsed the rounded shape of a koala and her cub in one of the branches.
“Yes, Clyde?”
“Huey, Dewey, and Louie?”
He rolled onto his back and roared his head off. “Don’t let them hear you call them that, whatever you do, and no … work only. No hanky-panky.”
“A lot of men would pay a lot of money for an experience like that.”
“Why, are you two interested?”
“No, nothing like that. Harry’s my first truly monogamous relationship, and I love him far too much to play around. It’s not that we don’t talk about other attractive men, but speaking for myself, why ruin something I’ve wanted my entire life?”
Howard reached over and gently squeezed my earlobe.
“How’s Mark Dioli?” he asked.
“As shaken up as you probably are, Howard. He was a mess when I left him.”
“And Greyson?”
I sat up and clutched my knees, leaning my head on them.
“I didn’t say this, Howard, but I could arrange an hour for you with him in a private cell in Long Bay.”
Howard stared at me for what seemed an age, without blinking, and then slowly shook his head. “I’d probably kill him,” he said.
“I’d clean up for you. Don’t worry, no one would ever find out.”
“I’m sure you would, Clyde, I’m sure you would.”
“As for Terrence Dioli, I’d like to see him flogged within an inch of his life, sodomised by a platoon of angry men and then shot through the guts and left to die slowly, strung up in a cell full of hungry rats.”
For a brief moment, I wondered if I’d let the anger speak and had crossed a line.
“Far too good for him,” he replied and then with a broad grin, added, “Now, about the platoon of angry men … that’s something I’d find hard to turn down for myself.”
We both laughed. More black humour. We men did it to hide the depths of our emotions, whether angry, sad, distraught, or even in love. Inappropriate sex talk was the panacea that healed all ills as far as blokes were concerned.
“Howard, I might need your help.”
“Sure, Clyde. What is it?”
I told him the story of my confused cases, the abduction of the Bishop children, the Silent Cop killer case, and how they seemed to be linked to me.
“Why do you need to share, and what do you think I can do to help, Clyde?”
“Look, please don’t take this the wrong way, but as you have parties down here that include men from all sorts of backgrounds, I was wondering if you think any of them might be interested in looking at the sketch of the suspect. I know most of your pals are business men, or athletes, but do you know of any who don’t mind trawling for partners in parks at night? Or do you have any acquaintances who might know those sorts of men? We need to get the photo circulated to see if anyone can recognise him, or at least have seen him about. You know my circumstances. I’m an ex-cop. I’ve never been into that sort of thing, and I don’t know many who are. I know it’s a long shot, but I’m pretty desperate, Howard.”
“Let me think about it, Clyde. It’s never been my sort of thing either—that random picking up of strangers. I never did it during the war either, like so many of my friends did. Of course you know we do have one acquaintance in common who likes to frequent places that you and I might not find particularly savoury.”
“Someone we both know, you say?” I was puzzled who that could be.
“He’s often a centrepiece at my parties—the parties I’m unlikely to invite you and Harry to attend.”
“Ah! I think I know who you mean. Does he by any chance work in men’s fragrances in David Jones?”
“Yes. But I didn’t tell you, all right? I make no judgements on what any man does to find pleasure, as long as it’s not coercive in any way. He’s a big grown-up boy who knows what he’s doing. But, there might be a problem.”
“What’s that?”
“The area. You told me all the murders are within the Waverley municipality. Simon Appleby lives on the North Shore.”
“The witness I told you about lives in Milson’s Point and trav
els to the Eastern Suburbs to be far from home, and therefore have less chance of running into anyone he knows. Look, I think Simon is a long shot to be honest, but I’ll put him on my list in case we run out of other leads, or can’t find locals to help us out.”
“You won’t find him now anyway, Clyde. He’s taken time off work to look after his grandmother out west until mid-February.”
“Any way of phoning him?” I asked.
Howard shook his head. I understood. Such a conversation would have to be face to face. Who knew what happened on country telephone exchanges or who could be listening in.
“It’s a tough one, Clyde,” Howard continued. “If I was one of those men, no matter how much I thought I’d be helping the police, I’d lie my arse off, just in case one of the crooked ones came back to me in the future and tried to blackmail me, no matter what guarantees I was given.”
“And that’s why I’ll be the one asking, Howard. A private investigator with maybe a fiver for your trouble and no questions asked about who you are or where you live.”
“And you’ll go to these meeting places yourself?”
“I’ll be watching, ready to jump in if the killer turns up, but I intend to recruit guys I fought with to be the bait.”
“Can I come to auditions?”
“That’s what Mark Dioli asked.”
“But I’m sure he was joking,” Howard said.
I really liked him.
*****
New Year’s Eve was a quiet celebration. Just Howard and Dai, the triplets, Augusto’s cousin the chef, five groundsmen, three men who worked in the stables, the two ladies who cleaned—who we met for the first time that night—and Harry and me.
Eighteen in all. Everyone dressed up, and instead of the usual sit-down silver service we’d had every night for dinner, we all took food from a buffet and then returned to our seats around Howard’s enormous dining room table, which had been extended for the evening. Some dishes were kept warm in bain-maries and in chafing dishes, and I kept prevaricating over choices. There was simply far too much to eat.
We raised our glasses to absent friends and toasted the new year. It felt like something from another age, the guests dressed in evening clothes, the table laid in gleaming silver with a sea of polished crystal glassware, and lively chatter as we swapped places throughout the meal.
“Did you have enough to eat?” I asked Harry, as I fell onto our bed face down, groaning with the amount in my tummy combined with an excess of alcohol, something I’d kept under check until tonight, or last night, as it was three in the morning when we’d eventually staggered upstairs to bed.
“I don’t think I’ll eat until the end of the month,” he replied, stretching out on top of me.
“Oh, don’t jiggle, I’m so full I might throw up.”
He laughed and then rolled off my back, lying on his at my side. “Here, Smith, roll on top of me for a change.”
I turned my head and peeked at him through one eye, keeping the other firmly closed. “Do I have to?”
“I could always put my head out into the hallway and summon that groomsman you were talking to. You know, the one who looks like William Holden?”
I chuckled against the bedding. “Isn’t it a bit late to be playing fantasy games?”
“Uh huh, no, Clyde. While I’m unbuttoning your pants and pulling them down to your knees, I could whisper to him, this stallion needs breaking in. Don’t bother about a saddle, just ride him bareback, I’ll—”
Someone knocked at the door.
“Hello?” Harry called out.
“Safe to come in?” It was Howard’s voice.
“At your peril!” I yelled back and then dissolved into laughter.
“Sorry to disturb you, Clyde,” Howard said, his head around the door, “but there’s a phone call for you.”
“What? At three in the morning.”
“It’s Vince, otherwise I’d have told him to call back. He said to tell you there’s been another one, and Dioli’s at home so drunk he’s almost unconscious.”
“Sorry, Harry,” I said. “I better take this.”
“I think we’re going to hit the road by the sound of it, Howard,” I heard Harry say as I left the room.
“Neither of you are fit to drive. I’ll get One to take you in my car and then I’ll drive Clyde’s back tomorrow in the afternoon.”
“Thank you,” Harry said, and that’s the last I heard because I picked up the telephone in the hall landing and took Vince’s call.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Speed limits did not exist on N.S.W. country roads, and Howard’s Rover seemingly glided effortlessly, although I was rather nervous while watching the speedometer hover around one hundred miles an hour for most of our trip home.
I didn’t realise how much and how often I’d been applying invisible brakes in the back seat until we pulled up at the dog leg of Neptune Street, on the edge of Trenerry Reserve in South Coogee—my calves were cramped.
“I’ll leave you here, Clyde,” Harry said from the front seat. “I’ll get One to drop me home to pick up my car and then drive over to check on Dioli. He’s alone, and even if he’s dead drunk, like Vince suggested, he’ll need sobering up.”
The first indication this murder was going to be particularly gruesome was the sight of the young photographer I’d spoken to briefly at the last murder scene. She was leaning against the wall of the public lavatory, alternately holding her handkerchief to her mouth and then removing it quickly as she vomited.
I spied Dave, so made a beeline for him. “Hey, Dave, where’s Vince?”
“In his car, taking a breather, Clyde. He’s parked up there, you can see him sitting in the passenger seat with his legs out and his head in his hands.”
“That bad?”
“I only saw one, Clyde, and that’s done me in for a week.”
“One?”
“Yes, Sarge, there are two bodies. One inside the toilet, the other down the hill a bit.”
“I’ll go have a quick bo-peep inside first before I chat with Vince … and, Dave? I’m not your sergeant anymore.”
“You’ll always be my sergeant, Clyde … and my mate, I hope.”
“We’ll have to catch up and have a beer sometime. Light yourself a smoke, that’ll calm you down. Anyone says anything about having a fag while on duty, tell them I said you could and they can take it up with me.”
“Right you are, and thanks.”
Sunrise was due at six. I checked my watch. Five forty-five. One had driven us from Bowral to Sydney in two and a half hours, quicker than the train service from memory. I looked around the inside of the facility. Although there was ambient light from the east, the sun hadn’t yet crept over the horizon to give good clear light. In a minute or two, the wall behind the cubicles would be patterned in squares of gold and orange when the sun shone through the ventilation holes in the wall above the long, old-fashioned porcelain urinal.
The body was still in situ. I was about to turn around and walk outside to ask why, when Vince spoke from behind me. “Left him here until you got here, Clyde.”
“Thanks, Vince, but no need. I’d have been happy with photos.”
“Who was it told me not to touch anything until after the experts had done their bit?”
“I suppose you’re going to tell me it was me?”
“Jack’s been. He’s gone down to the workers’ café at Bondi to get something to eat. Should be back soon and then we’ll take the victim back to the forensic lab. But, from initial examination, same modus operandi—it’s our guy again.”
“Any identification?”
“Yes, local man. Bit early to wake his wife and tell her the news.”
“How do you know he’s married?”
“He’s got form. Some bastards still work through the night at central records, even on New Year’s Eve. Phoned through an hour ago on the off-chance. Petty crim, married with three kids. Two formers of indecent exposure—playing
with his sausage in the change room at the Domain baths, and caught with another bloke’s dick in his hand upstairs on the Many ferry—the rest is typical minor-gang stuff, you know the sort of thing: extortion, street fighting, language.”
“Most of those street thugs have arrangements, Vince. They either have a girl in the local knock shop or a bloke or two on the Q.T.—if that’s their thing. Never heard of a crim being caught in a public place before.”
“Warm night, ants in his pants, wife with a headache. ‘I’ll just take the dog for a walk’. Men are men, Clyde.”
“Have you ever …?”
“Never needed to,” Vince replied. “I’ve always had a secret stash of willing helpers.”
“Then why Augusto, mate?”
“Oh, you know about that.”
“Howard let it drop …”
“We were going to tell you, but I was worried how you’d take it, and he’s still pretty hung up about what he gets up to …”
“I couldn’t be happier, if that’s what you want, Vince. He’s a great guy.”
“I like that he’s a bit rough around the edges. Don’t get me wrong, I’m fond of Philip, but Augusto’s like a beast gone wild under a full moon sometimes.”
I was about to say something completely inappropriate, when Jack’s voice rang out with a soft “halloo!”. He appeared in the doorway behind us, munching on an egg and bacon roll. Despite my avowals to Harry, not more than three hours ago, that I didn’t think I could eat food ever again, my stomach rumbled.
“Have you seen the other one yet, Clyde?”
“No, I was just about to ask Vince.”
“Follow me,” he said.
I’d always taken it for a given that forensic people did their job because they were immune to blood and guts, same went for doctors, ambulance men, and field medics during the war. Jack had once confessed to me that the only thing that turned his stomach was child mutilation, either deliberate or as the result of a car accident.
Therefore, I wasn’t at all surprised to see him take his handkerchief from his pocket and press it to his mouth, not to supress the urge to throw up, but to blot a bit of runny egg from his roll that had gathered at the corner of his mouth.
The Gilded Madonna Page 29
