The Gilded Madonna

by Garrick Jones

  “Troubles with the gorgeous one?”

  I patted my chest over my heart. “Only these sorts.”

  “May those be the only pangs you ever suffer, Clyde.”

  I sat down on the day bed next to her and kissed her cheek.

  “Tell me something, Shirley.”

  “What’s eating you, oh stoic one?”

  I laughed. “You’re the second woman in the space of a week who’s described me as stoic.”

  “Oh really?” she said in a very good Eve Arden, sardonic sort of way. “Two women saying the same thing. You’re the detective, Clyde. I wonder what that might mean? Could it be a clue, or something closer to the truth, perhaps …?”

  I slapped her arm playfully, mindful I was swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, like a kid. “I’ve decided to go see a psychiatrist.”

  “Oh, my! You almost sound like an adult, Clyde. I think I might faint.”

  I laughed loudly and then put my arms around her.

  “War stuff biting you in the arse is it?”

  “Every time I think of what Mark Dioli’s grandfather and other men at the boys’ home did to him, it brings back terrible memories of the camp, Shirley. I don’t know anyone else who went through the same thing as me. I’m sorry, perhaps I shouldn’t bring it up with you, but you’re the only other person I know who shared the same experience and who came back with their head on their shoulders after years as a prisoner of war.”

  “Shh, Clyde,” she said, leaning her head against my shoulder. “Bloody men, honestly! I bet you never shared your fears and your terror and your pain with anyone while you were captive. Am I right? We women, that’s what we do. We express ourselves. We tell our girlfriends about the humiliation and the pain, we unburden ourselves, we describe our rapes and tortures and share our burdens. But you guys? I’ve heard it before. No, it becomes a competition between yourselves to see who can be the blokiest, the man who’s able to put up with anything and yet not show the teeniest flaw in his armour and then who can scoff at the men who break down, who appear to be too weak to survive. Ever wonder why there are so few suicides among the women who came back from the war compared to the number of men? The answer’s in what I just said.”

  “It’s the way we’re brought up, Shirley. And don’t misunderstand me, but our mothers were and are implicit in teaching us that behaviour too …”

  “I know, Clyde, I know. But I think it’s a terrific thing you’re going to have therapy. You can channel all the shit in your life that doesn’t belong to either your work or to your life with Harry into the relationship you have with your therapist. They’re punching bags for your anger, depositories for your fears, backstops for your hopes and dreams. You’ll be fine, I promise you.”

  “Thank you, Shirley. I mean it. But now, I have to go tell Mark Dioli that I’ve just sent his grandfather to prison for the rest of his miserable life, with the possibility of a court martial and possible firing squad.”

  Shirley chuckled. “You and your exaggerations, Clyde.”

  “Who said I was exaggerating, Shirley? They might just go shoot the old bastard for what he did in the Great War.”

  “Oh …”

  “‘Oh is the least of it. Wish me luck.”

  “I’m sure you won’t need it, Clyde.”

  I hugged her and then stood, playing nervously with the brim of my hat for a moment before leaving the room. She looked very wistful when I said goodbye. Well, wistful wasn’t really the word. It was the same sort of expression my mother had used when she’d sent me off to school of a morning when I was tiny. A combination of sadness and fondness. I liked Shirley, a lot.

  *****

  “So your theory is still just a theory, Smith?”

  “What else do I have to go on, Detective Sergeant?”

  I’d arrived just as Warwick was checking his bandages. I couldn’t help wincing when I noticed opened shallow cuts along some of the long narrow bruises left by Terrence Dioli’s steel quad, where the edges had bitten into Mark’s flesh. Evil old bastard, I thought, as I watched Warwick inspect them carefully, making notes in his hospital folder. Christ, that walloping must have hurt—I rather hoped I’d repaid the favour when I’d laid the miserable sod out on his kitchen floor and given him a good thrashing with the same implement.

  “So your preference is that the Bishop case is opportunistic?”

  “Unless it’s two people, yes. However, I can’t remember ever reading about a couple with such different agendas. A murderer and a kidnapper paired up is extremely unlikely. There’ve been plenty of couples, one who kidnaps, the other who tortures and murders the men or women they’ve taken. But like this? Children disappearing and then killings out in the open, sexually motivated and violent? It just doesn’t make sense. I still think the murderer wanted to start killing again, although, after three years of non-activity, I’ve still no idea why. Then he saw the Bishop children’s abduction was unsolved, knew I’d probably get involved in the murder case again because it was mine originally. Or maybe he didn’t even know I wasn’t a cop anymore and decided to get me out of the way, side-tracked and ineffectual, chasing after spirits, mediums, and wild geese?”

  “Maybe, Smith. But I’m still inclined to think there’s something personal in it now your card has been found in the pocket of the latest victim. It’s like you told me your friend Harry Jones said, the killer’s taunting you.”

  “That’s the least favourite of my ‘druthers’, Dioli. But there’s some merit in what he said.”

  “So this plan of yours, you said you wanted to pass by me?”

  “It’s your case, Detective Sergeant, but I discussed it briefly with D.I. Fox, who’ll be your new boss in a few weeks, and he said it was up to you. He also said he’d back you one hundred percent if you think what I have to say is a good idea.”

  “Okay, shoot.”

  “We need to get all the public conveniences in the Waverley and Randwick areas shut down after sundown for a fortnight. Post up notices saying they’re under repair or renovation or something. Maybe even get something in the local papers as a public announcement. The killer’s due to strike again, and if he murders around New Year, we won’t be prepared. We need another week.”

  “To do what?”

  “To assemble a task force of undercover men who don’t look like cops, to act as lures.”

  “That’s blasted dangerous, Smith.”

  “Yes, I know. But, if we get the council to open maybe two lavatories at the end of a fourteen-day period, we only need one or two decoys at each one, and a half-a-dozen cops hiding nearby. Now we’ve got a sketch of the killer, we just need some signal from whoever it is he lures into the toilet, so we can pounce before he strikes.”

  “There’s something more though you’re not saying. I can hear it in your voice.”

  “Here’s where it gets a bit awkward. The witness told me the killer likes to inspect the goods first, so …”

  Dioli grinned. It was something I didn’t expect. “So, somehow we have to get a few of Sydney’s finest to allow some pervert to play with their dicks in the dark?”

  His grin was infectious. I began to chuckle. “We could offer them danger money.”

  Our mutual amusement turned into laughter.

  “Who’s going to hold auditions?” he managed to say, before we both ended up almost helpless with laughter. It was stupendously inappropriate, but all cops shared the same black sense of humour.

  “All right,” he said, once he’d calmed, wiping his eyes. “Once I get out we can talk it through in detail. It’s not a bad idea, but I’d have to run it past the chief super first.”

  “Of course. As for the men we’d use for entrapment, I was going to suggest a better idea than using serving police officers—a few of my ex-army buddies. Men who are trained in self-defence and hand-to-hand combat. There’s no point exposing untrained members of the police force to personal danger. The blokes I’m thinking of can look after t
hemselves in any situation. Your men would be in charge of each scene, of course.”

  “Under those circumstances, I think bringing in some outsiders would be prudent.”

  “I don’t want any kudos,” I said, as I noticed he’d begun to look a little uncomfortable. The more I got to know him, the easier he was becoming to read. He didn’t like not being in control. “This can be your idea when you pass it up the line. I’m just the consultant, remember, this isn’t my case—it’s yours.”

  “Dr. Samson said I could go home on Saturday. How does Saturday afternoon suit you to get together to work out some details?”

  “Sorry, I’ll be away over the new year, and before you say anything, that’s not the reason I think the toilets should be closed then. It’s nothing to do with me being around or not being around. It’s to make the murderer more desperate, more liable to take chances and make mistakes when we do re-open them. He’ll have missed his regular ‘fix’ and his need to kill and to have sex will be stronger than his caution. I’ll be back on the second of January. Perhaps we could meet late morning?”

  “All right. But as I’m laid up here for another day or two, who will contact the council and make arrangements for the toilets to be closed?”

  “Your new D.I. of course.”

  “What’s he like? Fox, I mean.”

  “Brendan? Once of the nicest but toughest blokes you’ll be lucky to ever know. We go way back. Most men of a similar age who served during the war and who live in the same area or work in the same types of employment get to know each other. He worked as a translator for us in North Africa.”

  “A translator?”

  “Yes, his parents are Egyptian, so he speaks not only Arabic but Berber and French too.”

  “You?”

  “Me? Italian, because of my time in the camps, a smattering of other European languages that I learned while I was there—”

  “Camps? You were a …?”

  “Prisoner of war, yes, Mark. Three years. Italians first and then Germans.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “I thought you did your homework on me?”

  “Well, only as far as your policing goes. Was it …?”

  “Look, let’s just say I’ve seen your injuries, I know how you came to get them, and I suffered just as bad, sometimes worse, nearly every day of those three years. I can understand you might not want to feel we have something in common, other than policing, but when I say I do understand what you’ve gone through, I mean it. I’d prefer to talk about what happened to me at another time, if you don’t mind. There’s something else very important I need to tell you.”

  “About the case?”

  “No, Mark. It’s personal. Lionel Greyson is in custody right now and has confessed to historic crimes against children.”

  He clenched his eyes closed and turned his head to one side.

  “It would be wrong of me to hide the fact that I spoke with him and he told me what happened to you at the boys’ home. I won’t mention it again, until you bring up the subject, and that’s only if you want to talk about it. I just want you to know I don’t pity you and I don’t judge you. My life as a victim of violence taught me abuse is something each man deals with in his own way and at his own pace.”

  “Christ I need a smoke,” he said suddenly. Beads of sweat had started to collect on his forehead.

  I stood from where I’d been sitting on the end of the bed and opened the French doors out into the courtyard, the very same space in which Augusto had confessed that it had been him who’d killed Daley Morrison. I lit two cigarettes and passed one to Mark Dioli.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll take the rap if anyone comes in.”

  “What you said about dealing with things in your own way. I’m not ready to talk about Greyson right now. But, you said there was more.”

  “Well, there’s good news and there’s bad news. Depending on how you feel, it might be all good news, who knows.”

  “Tell me the bad news first. Blunt is best.”

  “That’s what I always say too, Mark, usually with a great deal of regret after I hear the facts.”

  He puffed vigorously and then smirked. “I don’t like that we have so much in common.”

  “You’ll get over it, sweetheart,” I said.

  “I doubt it. Go on, then.”

  “Well. First of all, your grandfather’s in a military hospital right now.”

  “What?”

  “I went to visit him to let him know how you were getting on.” That wasn’t the precise truth, but he didn’t seem too disturbed to hear the news, so I continued. “He attacked me and I defended myself.”

  “Oh.”

  “And I used the piece of metal quad he beat you with. I’m ashamed to admit I lost control momentarily and may have fractured his leg, according to the medical officer who helped take him away.”

  “Wait! You said military hospital?”

  “Yes, Mark. You may as well know it, but your grandfather is on the army radar for a historic war crime. The murder of two civilians during the Great War.”

  “I don’t believe it …”

  “We weren’t entirely sure, but after examining the wartime diaries of his A.D.C., we found that he’d been coerced into making an alibi for your grandfather.”

  Mark Dioli handed me his cigarette butt, which I took outside and extinguished in the dirt of the small rose garden. When I returned, he asked for another.

  “What did he do?”

  I shook my head. “You don’t really want to know, Mark.”

  “Yes, I really do want to know, Clyde.” My name came out hard, steel in the sound. He was right. I’d been treating him like a child.

  “He made two French boys strip at the point of the gun, tied them up, and then beat them so savagely with his riding crop he tore strips of flesh from their backs and their arses and then masturbated onto their bloodied bodies before shooting them both through the head.”

  Mark Dioli gulped once or twice and then turned his head. His projectile vomit hit the other side of the room.

  “Nurse!” I called out into the corridor.

  *****

  Fifteen minutes later, Warwick Samson at my side, I asked Mark if he was ready to hear the good news.

  “Mark, this might be distressing to hear, and I honestly don’t know how you’ll receive this bit of information, but that’s why I’ve asked Warwick to be here. You trust him, don’t you?”

  Warwick had told me he’d established a decent line of communi­cation with Mark Dioli and they seemed to get on well.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “It seems unlikely, no, I should say impossible, that your grandfather will be returning home. Although what happened is forty years ago, he lied and covered up a serious crime. Unfortunately, his A.D.C. is no longer with us to corroborate what happened, but military investigators are pretty good at finding ways to get men to confess to their crimes.”

  “Interrogators, you mean.”

  I nodded. “Did you know the house in Rozelle is in your name?”

  “What?”

  “Your grandfather signed the ownership into your name when you turned eighteen. Maybe he’ll tell us why he did so, but he was certainly reluctant to tell me when he handed over the documents I’d asked him for. There’s not an inconsiderable sum of money he’s also been investing using a fund set up in your name, and presumably without your knowledge?”

  “I had no idea …”

  “Tell me, Mark. Do you know how you came to be placed in Petersham Boys’ Home?”

  “Yes, of course. After the ferry accident, there was no one to look after me.”

  “Did you know your grandfather paid Lionel Greyson fifty pounds to ‘adopt’ you?”

  The merest hint of tears, just a film over his eyes, appeared as he shook his head. “Paid … fifty quid? For a child’s life?”

  “Yes, Mark. I’m sorry, but in view of what might come out over the next few days while both
your grandfather and Greyson are being interrogated, it’s best if you hear it from someone who cares.”

  “Cares, huh?” Dioli turned his head against the pillow, working his jaw.

  “I’m not unaware of how learning something of this magnitude would affect anyone, Mark. Being a good policeman isn’t all about being tough on the criminals, it’s being able to show you’re a human being when it counts. I can get someone else to tell you if you dislike me that much, but if I were you, I’d prefer to hear everything from someone who has first-hand information.”

  “I don’t dislike you, Smith. You irritate me. That’s a different thing.”

  I put my hand on his knee and rubbed it. “You’re in good company then, mate. There are a lot of worse things people have described me as being. Irritating is minor in comparison.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment. “He bought me? Like a piece of fucking furniture? He paid money?”

  I wasn’t quite sure what to do, but Warwick saved the day. He shifted his chair closer to the bed and took Dioli’s hand.

  “Don’t dwell on it yet, Mark. Give it some time,” he said.

  I watched in amazement as the policeman squeezed Warwick’s hand, stroking the back of his fist with his thumb a few times. There was nothing intimate in it, just the sense of thanks for a gesture of kindness.

  “It will take a long time to soak in. I’m simply not in a good enough place within myself to deal with it just now.”

  “I completely understand. But Clyde did say there was good news, Mark,” Warwick said.

  “Oh, yeah, Smith? You moving to a different suburb?”

  Both Warwick and I laughed. Dioli smiled at his own smart remark. How often we men did that sort of thing, diverting away from our strong emotions by an inappropriate remark or a dig at someone else.

  “All right. If I can have another smoke, I’ll be ready for the good news.”

  Warwick raised his eyebrows at me, but I just lit cigarettes for all three of us and passed them around.

  “Well, the good news is that he lied to you.”

  “Who? My grandfather. Why would lying to me be good news?”

  “Because not only did he fork out fifty pounds to adopt you, he sent off the same amount of money to your uncle and aunt, who’d written when they heard of the ferry accident, saying they were prepared to take you and look after you.”