The Gilded Madonna

by Garrick Jones

  “So while I was bandaging up Allan’s hand—he only had a shallow cut across his fingers—I asked him to tell me as much detail as he could remember so I could write it down, in case he had to make a statement to the police. But he took fright when I mentioned the police. I had to reassure him it was in case the man he’d pushed into the urinal had followed after him and had taken down the licence plate of his car. I told him I had to know exactly how he’d met the man and what they’d done, only so I could help Allan make up a cover story in that eventuality. I told him not to go home, but to stay with me for a few days. But the cops never did show up, so eventually we realised nothing would come from it.”

  “I bet he was upset.”

  Boyd laughed. “You didn’t know Allan, Clyde. He might have been upset, shaking even, but it didn’t stop him dragging me into the bedroom and having his way with me. He was like that. For him, sex solved everything. Happiness, fear, bad news … a roll in the hay fixed everything.”

  “Do you remember anything special about the razor, did your mate Allan say anything?”

  “He never went near a public toilet again, Clyde. It scared the shit out of him. Instead he used to go to some pub out at Alexandria. There was a back room there, and he said he’d always had so much sex there, the only reason he’d eventually come home was when he got so sore he couldn’t handle any more.”

  The Cricketer’s Arms. That place again. I wondered if it would haunt me to the end of my days.

  “The razor?”

  “Oh, yes, sorry. I still have it somewhere I think.”

  “You what?” I was astounded.

  “When he died, he left everything to me. I stored all his stuff away in the lockup in the basement of my block of flats. He said he kept it to remind himself of how close he’d come to being either slashed or held up for his money after they’d done the deed.”

  “Did he by any chance say what the bloke was wearing?”

  “Only that he seemed to have taken his pants and underwear off before he’d come over to Allan next to the canal. Allan said he was wearing one of those longish seersucker jackets and thought at first that the bloke had short shorts on underneath that didn’t show below the hem of his coat, but then said he got a huge surprise to find when the man opened up his jacket he wasn’t wearing anything from the waist down. Allan only told me that it looked very sexy and made him very interested …”

  The look of slow understanding spread across his face. I was very surprised he hadn’t put two and two together well before now.

  “You mean …?”

  “Yes, your friend Allan was very lucky, Boyd. I’ve reason to believe that the man he met in January, 1953, was this same bloke, the one in the photograph we were talking about earlier, the man with the green eyes Max ran into just before Christmas and who Neil and you saw walking his dog. Instead of your friend Max being found dead in the toilets under the grandstand at Coogee Oval, it was some young army bloke who copped more than he was prepared for.”

  “But there’s been nothing in the papers? I—”

  I put my hand on his thigh and shushed him. It was the thigh of the leg that was missing, but he didn’t react, and I knew better than to show that I’d made a mistake.

  “And you won’t see anything just yet. Please, don’t even tell Neil, Boyd. If you find the razor I’d be very grateful if you could give me a call, and I’ll get my assistant to come around and collect it.”

  “But I thought you’d left the police force, Clyde?”

  “I did, but they’ve brought me in as a consultant. Now do I have your word you won’t say anything to anyone about what I’ve just told you?”

  “Yes. You have my word. I won’t have to make a statement or anything will I? I mean I—”

  I patted his thigh. “No, mate. I have the information, and if I need details I’ll visit you in person. No one will ever know where what you’ve told me came from. All right?”

  “You’re not my type, Clyde Smith. Far too rugged and shut off, but you’re a bit of all right as a bloke, you know that?”

  “Thanks, Boyd. Maybe we could get to know each other a bit better once this business is all over and done with. Harry’s a great guy and we have a very discreet bunch of pals. Everyone’s very laid back and friendly. No pressure, but we’re always looking to expand our circle of friends—for social reasons only, in case you get the wrong idea. Now, remember, my friend, mum’s the word. All right?”

  “All right, Clyde. I promise.”

  *****

  “What are these?” Luka asked, as I piled a handful of soft, yellow and red strips into my Mouli.

  “Here, try a bit,” I said, handing him the jar and a fork from the kitchen drawer.

  “The flavour’s familiar, but the texture is so soft … and it’s delicious.”

  “Capsicum,” I said. “Peperoni sott’olio. I preserve my own. It’s simple—come around one day and I’ll show you how—”

  “Anyone home?” Harry called down the hallway, closing the front door behind him.

  “Kitchen!” I yelled.

  He’d taken off his hat and jacket by the time he entered the room, a bottle of red in his hand, and kissed me on the cheek before embracing Luka. “What’s for dinner?”

  “Chilled capsicum and roasted tomato soup, chicken thighs with garlic potatoes and beans, and fresh apricots and ice cream.”

  “See why I love him,” Harry said, standing behind me with his arms around my waist.

  “I’m sure you love him for more than his food, Harry,” Luka said. “But his cooking is a bonus for sure. How do you two stay so slim if you eat like this all the time?”

  “I run five miles every morning before breakfast and then go to the gym three or four times a week,” I replied.

  “I work a lot off in bed,” Harry said with a grin. “Clyde’s very demanding.”

  “Harry!”

  “Don’t protest too much, Clyde,” Luka said. “Some would say you’re the luckiest man in the world.”

  “Or I am,” Harry said, kissing the back of my ear.

  We decided to have a break between mains and dessert. A long one. There was a lot to tell Harry, and I really didn’t mind if Luka overheard.

  *****

  “… so according to Craig’s receipt and his recollection of asking Green Eyes to leave the baths and never return, it was just fifteen days after Craig gave the man his marching orders that the first ever murder took place, on the fifteenth of March,” I said, waiting to see their reactions to how I’d figured out the timeline.

  Their reaction wasn’t what I expected. Both Harry and Luka fell silent.

  “So you think that—”

  “That’s a huge leap of logic and I’d never ever mention it to Craig,” I said, realising they’d jumped to the wrong conclusion, one that hadn’t crossed my mind. “It would be unfair to assume that being barred from the baths was what tipped him over the edge. Besides, I’ve already told you about the aborted attempt earlier in January. Had he not been disturbed, his first murder would already have happened long before Craig told him not to come back again.”

  “That was a bit of luck, Clyde,” Harry said. “Finding out that information.”

  “My people would say there’s no such thing as luck, Harry,” Luka said. “Only probability.”

  “As someone for whom numbers and mathematics have played a big part in my life, I’m inclined to agree with you, Luka,” Harry said.

  I opened my mouth when the best thing would have been to stay silent—nothing out of the ordinary for me. “But I thought that people like …”

  “If you say people like me or my sister, Clyde,” Luka said with an enormous grin. “I might just jump over the table and bite your nose.”

  “He might like that,” Harry said.

  “Well, maybe not my nose,” I replied.

  “Cheeky bugger, aren’t you,” Luka added. “No, Clyde. Gypsies and luck? How often we’re both misnamed and saddle
d with the burden of bestowing good fortune on some and curses on others, neither of which true Romany people do. That’s carnival stuff.”

  “So, according to you, luck doesn’t exist, it’s merely a name one gives to the chance of fulfilling a probability?”

  “Eight horses in a race, Clyde. One has to win. The probability is that the fastest and the best, barring an accident, will be the winner. That’s how bookies decide on the odds: the probability of a horse winning. Not whether the nag is going to be ‘lucky’ on the day. That’s the future and no one can tell that.”

  I sat back in my chair, falling easily into my thinking pose, my head tilted to one side, staring at a random patch of nothing where the ceiling cornice met the wall.

  “Don’t forget Luka said he might be able to help you, Clyde. If—”

  “Yes, I know, Harry. The gilded Madonna … I hadn’t forgotten.”

  “Barring the unexpected, Clyde,” Luka said after lighting a cigarette, “and as we were talking about luck, the chances that I might be able to help you are more than just carnival fortune telling—me spouting some random fact, or pulling something out of the ether are very slim, wouldn’t you say? Maybe I’ll only be able to tell you things you already know. But now that you’ve given me a lot to go on, perhaps my skills of connecting loose ends in my ‘other mind’ could prove useful. Depends on how brave you are, because there are always unknowns in every reading, and some of them can’t be linked to any logical explanation. I don’t understand how it works myself.”

  I met his gaze. There was a dare there. I drummed my fingers on the table for a moment and then glanced at Harry. He smiled. Whatever I did or said next, I knew he’d back me up.

  Very softly, Harry patted the back of my hand and said, “La Verna, Clyde.”

  All right. I’d deal with the unknowns when I came to them. If his mind could work the way he said, perhaps he’d tie up some loose ends I couldn’t myself. I could do brave.

  “What do you need, Luka?” I asked.

  “I need to speak to Saint Sarah, and to hold her in my hands again.”

  “I’ll make sure you do, Luka.” My mind was decided. In for a penny in for a pound. “Although I don’t know how I’ll convince Dioli.”

  “I have an idea,” Harry said. It was so like him to have figured something out and then to have waited for the right opportunity. “Vince is working on the case too, isn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Luka, has anyone actually verified that the statue that was sent to Clyde was the one that belonged to you and your sister? There must be plenty of statues of Saint Sarah around.”

  “No, no one has, Harry.”

  “Maybe all it would take would be a phone call from Vince telling you that he needs you to come in to make a proper identification. Failing that, are you sure Dioli wouldn’t agree to Luka seeing what he can find out, without going behind his back?” Harry asked.

  I shook my head. “Doubtful … in the extreme. Unless the idea came from him, and that’s highly unlikely.”

  “There is one way,” Luka said. “But I think Clyde will say no.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “I told you before, he has a fear of failure. I hear it in your voices whenever either one of you talk about him. He’s a bully, am I right?”

  “Well …” I began to feel awkward.

  “I’m not making judgements, Clyde, if that’s why you’re being so hesitant. You also feel his pain, that’s why I get the impression you’re trying to protect him from himself.”

  Harry snorted and I glared at him. What Luka had said was right of course.

  “Yes, he can say things that come across as harsh, as a way of establishing and maintaining his status.”

  “You know what stops bullies in their tracks, Clyde? People who are bigger bullies than they are. If you were to stand up to him, to ask him what he had to lose and be really tough about it, he’d back down. It’s like the bull kangaroo once he’s been beaten by the newcomer. He licks his wounds and stays in the background, having been shown his place. You could do that to Dioli. I see that ruthlessness inside you, no matter how hard you try to hide it.”

  Despite myself, I felt the colour rising to my cheeks. I hated it when someone saw through my mask—except for Harry, of course. “Well, in his case, I couldn’t, Luka,” I said. “I’ve lived through torture and mistreatment myself. I only had it for three years, but he’s had it his entire life. I can’t destroy the fragile framework he’s built inside himself that allows him to keep on going as a human being. That’s not manipulation, that’s likely to destroy the man. I never want to have that power over anyone, unless they deserve it. What do you take me for, Luka?”

  He leaned across the table and kissed me on both cheeks and then firmly on the lips.

  “You gave the answer I knew you would, Clyde. For all the tough-guy acting, you have your own fragile framework there inside.”

  Harry ruffled his hair. There was no arguing with what he’d said, and he’d seen right through me again. I wasn’t happy that he had, but it made me feel that I could perhaps let the inner Clyde show through with him—so few people ever got to see that man. It was as my mother had always said: the less you hide of yourself, the easier it is to get on with people.

  “So, I guess we’re playing the ‘going behind Dioli’s back’ strategy then, are we?”

  “Your call, Clyde.”

  “Let me make a quick phone call,” I said, after emptying my glass of scotch. Harry held up the bottle, but I said no. The look of content­ment on his face was worth it.

  I went to the phone in my study and dialled Vince’s number.

  “Ciao, bello! Sono io, raccontami un po’ dell’agenda quotidiana del tuo capo …”

  I returned to Harry and Luka about five minutes later, after Vince had told me what Dioli had planned for the week.

  “Friday morning, I’ll be at your shop at nine. Vince will ring there. Maybe you’ll have a sore foot and I’ll offer to drive you.”

  “It’s what? Two hundred yards from our shop to the police station?”

  “Dioli has a meeting with Brendan Fox over at Kensington. We’ll meet Vince downstairs in the forensic office. Your gilded Madonna will be waiting there for you. I’ve asked Vince to make sure Jack Lyme brings his armchair in from his room for you to sit in or there’ll be a cushion and a camp stretcher if you’d prefer.”

  “Would it be an imposition if I asked to come too, as an observer?” Harry asked. “I’m not uninterested, and I don’t leave for my weekend away until six in the evening.”

  Luka blushed a little. “If you like, Harry. In any case, if I was to give you a private reading, you’d see me writhing around. I can’t say I’m not a little embarrassed about perhaps pissing myself a bit while I’m out to it, like I did with Clyde.”

  “Phht, that’s nothing to worry yourself about, Luka. Clyde wets himself with excitement every time I come home from work, don’t you, Clyde?”

  I could hear Luka chuckling away even over Harry’s hoots of laughter as I chased him around the flat.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Thursday had turned out to be very busy. As I lay in the shower, I went through the day in my mind, occasionally lifting the washer from my eyes and making notes in the pad I always kept on a stool next to the bathtub.

  I’d arrived at the gym at nine, before any of my regular exercise pals had turned up, so had spent fifteen or twenty minutes on the mats, practising my shoulder rolls while carrying a two-pound weight in each hand. They were metal, like dumbbells, but instead of ball-shaped endings, were flat pentagons with unrounded edges. It made the tumbles hard to manage, mainly because it would be easy to hurt yourself if you squeezed a sharp corner against your forearm or chest as you rolled. Great for coordination and awareness though.

  Eventually the crowd had begun to wander in, and I’d spoken one by one with the men I’d thought might be suitable for the task. We were all
connected in some way by either the war or by the police service. I only needed four in all—two for each of the stakeouts we’d decided to use. I also hadn’t wanted to divulge too much about the job until I’d been certain each of them I’d spoken to would agree. I’d given enough information to make it interesting, but not enough to give any hints about the murders, simply saying it was an entrapment deal that might involve the need to be not only quick on your feet but also that there could be an element of danger.

  However, the first four men I’d spoken to had pricked up their ears at the “element of danger” and had agreed before I’d got further than explaining those basics. Twenty minutes after I’d approached the first of my friends, I’d gathered my four volunteers in the stairwell at the back of the gym and explained more and what the operation entailed.

  At first, there’d been a bit of yahooing and laughter when I’d told them it was to do with the entrapment of a homosexual, but then, when I’d explained merely grabbing him on sight wouldn’t stand up in court without there being some actual physical contact, the conversation became serious. I’d explained our target would most likely want to see the goods first, before he invited the intended victim into the toilet block. One or two had raised their eyebrows and had snorted, but none of them had said “no” outright. There’d been one or two nervous comments about “measuring up”, but I’d made a joke, saying what I’d seen in the shower would leave none of them falling short. Bloke stuff—but it worked every time.

  I’d explained we couldn’t let the man get away. There had to be substantial physical contact so we could arrest him on the charge of committing an act of gross indecency. I’d said I’d prefer the capture to actually happen inside the toilet cubicle, so there could be no possible chance the man could give us the slip out in the open. I’d also warned them the man might try to kiss them and ask them to perform fellatio on him. After I’d quickly described the manner in which our man killed his victims, not one of them had turned a hair. I’d made sure they’d all understood they might have to show the man what was in their pants, otherwise it would be impossible to lure him into the toilet. I’d told them to say they were too nervous about doing anything outside, but to offer to go into the convenience.