Jane had taken cocaine before she left home. It was rare for her to touch drugs of any description, but tonight, when confronted with yet another evening of mindless boredom, she’d thought why not? It would help her through it all. Now she was regretting it. She made a vow then and there never to touch the stuff again. She’d seen a ghost. That was it. She’d seen an apparition induced by cocaine.
She recovered her composure, powdered her nose and rejoined Stan Ames, whom she found alone at a balcony window. She continued to wave and smile at people, but all the while her eyes searched the room for the face.
‘When do you reckon we’ll be able to leave?’ Stan asked.
‘Not before the official guest,’ she replied looking in the direction of Sir Murray Macleose, the Governor of Hong Kong. ‘And judging by the way he’s knocking the whisky back, I’d say that won’t be long.’
‘Can you arrange a late night visitor for me?’ Ames asked greedily.
‘The usual, Stan? Blonde and dumb with big tits?’
‘Is there any other sort?’ Stan grinned lasciviously.
She smiled icily. ‘Yes, there is, Stan, but strength and intelligence in a woman would be anathema to you.’
‘What?’
Jane was about to twist the knife when she saw the face again. It was a man in his early twenties. And it was a very handsome face capped with a shock of blond hair. The owner was six feet two inches tall and his finely-proportioned body rippled with muscle under a well-cut lounge suit. She stared at the face. The strong jawline and handsome smile caused it to light up, but it was the eyes that arrested her. It was those eyes that had caused her initial panic. She’d seen those eyes before.
‘Who is that young man over there, Stan?’ she asked, despising the faint tremor in her voice.
Ames looked at her quizzically and then glanced across the room. His face broke into a broad grin. ‘Did you think you’d seen a ghost, Jane?’
‘Who is he?’
Ames looked into her eyes. ‘Shayne Everard, Harold’s boy. He’s a dead ringer for his grandfather, isn’t he? Same temperament too. He’s the police heavyweight boxing champion and he’s only twenty-two years old.’
‘He’s a policeman?’
‘Yeah. He’s been stationed at Dubbo for the last year.’
‘I thought he went to University.’
‘He did. Graduated too, in Law.’
‘Then what’s he doing in the police force?’
‘Harold couldn’t stop him. That’s all he’s ever wanted to be. A cop. Like his grandad. He idolised old George, you know.’
‘If he’s stationed at Dubbo, what’s he doing here?’ Jane couldn’t stop herself from staring at the boy. The resemblance to his grandfather was remarkable.
‘Harold had him transferred to the City Watch. He’s one of a number of uniform men here tonight. They’re getting a taste of plainclothes work. Security duty for the Governor. It’ll stand him in good stead when he applies for detective work.’
‘Detective work?’
‘He’ll make a beauty too, as soon as he learns to control his temper. He’s got a clever mind and he can fight like a thrashing machine.’
It didn’t take Shayne long to find out who she was. The beautiful redhead who kept staring at him was Jane Smart, the most famous madam in Sydney. He’d heard of her, of course, she was a legend. He’d always imagined her as an old crone, but here she was in the flesh, not a day over thirty by the look of her and definitely giving him the eye at a Vice-Regal cocktail party. Holy bloody hell, he thought, she’s heading straight for me.
He watched her glide across the floor until she was standing right in front of him. ‘Hello,’ she said, ‘I’m Jane Smart.’ And looked so deeply into his eyes that he became tongue-tied.
‘I’m er … how do you do? I’m Shayne Everard.’
‘Yes, I know. I knew your grandfather.’
Christ! he thought, as he looked down into her eyes. She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Her eyes, her perfect nose, her soft full lips. Jesus, Shayne, he shook himself. Say something. You must look like a real dill. Her lips were moving, but he hadn’t absorbed a word of what she was saying.
‘I’m sorry,’ he managed to mumble.
Her voice was soft, caressing. ‘I said I knew your grandfather.’
Before Shayne could get his brain into gear, they were interrupted by his father.
‘I see you’ve met my son, Miss Smart.’ Harold crashed between the pair like a steam train. ‘Shayne, you must have work to do. Would you excuse us? I’d like a word with Miss Smart.’
Shayne’s mind dragged itself back from heaven. ‘Certainly sir,’ he replied, and walked away, feeling rather embarrassed.
When he’d gone Harold turned on her. ‘You keep away from my son!’ he hissed.
‘Relax, Harold,’ Jane said calmly. ‘I was only saying hello.’
‘Well, now you’ve said it don’t ever speak to him again. Am I making myself perfectly clear?’
Now it was Jane’s turn to become angry. ‘Are you frightened I might tell him you shot his grandfather?’ she whispered viciously.
He grabbed her arm. ‘You fucking bitch! If you ever speak to him again I’ll—’
‘You’ll what, Harold?’ Jane let the sentence hang in the air as she watched the blood suffuse his face. She saw the rage rise within him. ‘You’ll what, Harold?’ She produced her prettiest smile for the benefit of several people watching the exchange. ‘Will you excuse me, Mr Everard?’ she asked sweetly. ‘I’m afraid I must be going.’ Jane walked off, leaving Harold struggling desperately to control his fury.
‘That was a stupid thing to do,’ muttered Stan Ames as she returned to his side.
‘He’s paranoid!’
He snorted. ‘He has every right to be!’
‘Rubbish, Stan,’ she said persuasively. ‘I just wanted to say hello to the boy. Do you think I’d jeopardise everything we’ve worked to achieve?’
Ames crossed his arms. ‘Yes. I do.’
‘Then you’re a bigger fool than Harold,’ she said impatiently. ‘Now come on, take me home and I’ll find you a child bride. We’ve been here long enough, wouldn’t you say?’
The minute Jane was safely ensconced in her Potts Point mansion, she made a telephone call.
‘Zoe?’
‘Yes, Jane?’ the voice on the other end of the line replied.
‘Any appointments you have in the immediate future, I want you to cancel. That includes any modelling assignments either here or overseas.’
‘Yes, Jane.’
‘I have a special job for you. You are to see no one—and I mean no one. That includes any boyfriends you may be seeing, do you understand?’
‘Yes, Jane.’
‘There is a certain young man. A police officer. I want him to find you, Zoe. Can you arrange that?’
‘Yes, Jane.’
‘And then I want you to fall head over heels in love with him. Is that clear?’
‘Is he good-looking?’
Jane laughed. ‘Yes he is. Now shut up and listen to me, girl!’
Shayne Everard placed the roses into receptacles fixed in place around the grave. He wiped the marble headstone with his sleeve, then sat back on his haunches and read the words inscribed on it: In Loving Memory of Vera Everard. Wife of Harold, Loving Mother of Shayne and Penelope. Born June 17th, 1931. Died June 17th, 1961. Gone To The Arms Of Her Loving Father.
Shayne stood up and inspected his work. He had always been the one to tend his mother’s grave. His father had never once been near it. When he was younger he’d wondered why, but as the years had passed, he’d realised that people showed their grief in different ways. His father obviously found it too painful to remember her. Not even a picture of her remained. He’d barely mentioned her name in the fourteen years since she’d died. He supposed it was also because she’d suicided.
Shayne had learned the truth of his mother’s death by acciden
t, when he was seventeen. He’d overheard his father talking with one of his old mates, Superintendent Ames. Shayne and his sister Penelope had been told that their mother had died of cancer and it came as a terrible shock for Shayne to hear it was otherwise. He’d interrupted his father’s discussion and accused him of lying. Harold had begun to cry and Mr Ames had told Shayne that he’d better talk to his father the following morning.
Shayne had done so and his father had said that his mother had suffered from deep melancholia. There was nothing much known about the mental illness of melancholia in those days and during one particularly severe bout of it, his mother had taken an overdose of barbiturates. It had happened on her thirtieth birthday. And to make matters worse, it was only days after Grandfather George had been shot to death while on duty.
The day he’d seen Harold break down, Shayne realised that his father had suffered enough. From that day on, Shayne had taken it upon himself to visit and tend his mother’s grave. He had done so regularly until he graduated as a police constable and was sent to Dubbo, four hundred kilometres west of Sydney. That had been a year ago and since then the grave had been neglected. Now he’d returned to clean it up and as he stood looking at his efforts, he felt sure his mother was watching and it made him feel good.
Shayne turned from the grave and walked down towards his marked police car. It was the first time he’d worn his uniform to her grave. He hoped she was looking down and feeling proud to see him in his blues, just like his father and old Grandpa George.
Shayne’s determination to become a police officer had shown itself at an early age. When he was only five or six, he could remember rushing around his grandfather’s house, wearing his father’s police hat and brandishing Grandpa George’s old hickory nightstick. They called them batons now, but that old hickory club had come all the way from Ireland. One of Grandpa George’s mates had got it for him and in Ireland, in the old days, they had called them nightsticks. And his Grandpa had another name for it—a shillelagh. Shayne smiled at the thought of his giant grandfather, strutting around his lounge room singing, ‘With a shillelagh under me arm and a twinkle in me eye, I’ll be off to dear old ….’ Somewhere or other—Shayne couldn’t remember all of it, but he remembered laughing at his grandpa’s antics until he thought he’d burst and then his mother would intervene and stop it. Then his Grandma Maude would yell at old George as though he’d just shot the Pope.
That’s when Shayne had first wanted to become a policeman. And nothing anyone said could ever change his mind. His father had insisted he attend university and he’d done so. He’d graduated in Law with Honours and enlisted immediately in the New South Wales Police Force. His father had ranted and raved and threatened to block his application, but Shayne had stood firm. He was tougher by far than his father and they both knew it. He loved his dad, but Shayne was Grandpa George Arthur Everard reborn and there was nothing he nor anyone else could do about it.
He got into the police car and drove slowly towards the cemetery gates. He thought of his mother and grandfather and then his thoughts strayed to his sister, Penelope, the brains and good looks of the family. He loved her very deeply.
Both Shayne and Penelope had attended boarding schools for most of their young lives. Their father had been too busy to raise them and so had shunted them off each year, ‘for their own good’, as he used to say, to the dreaded boarding schools. They only saw each other during holidays, but their love and friendship had lasted through thick and thin.
Penelope had been a brilliant student and was now in her first year of Medicine at Melbourne University. Tonight would be the first time he’d seen her in eighteen months. She was flying home to Sydney and he was to meet her plane and take her to the hotel she’d chosen in the city. Penelope wouldn’t stay with their father. She despised him.
His sister and father had never been particularly close, but about two years ago, something had occurred between them that set them apart forever. Shayne didn’t know what it was and had never asked her. He knew Penelope would tell him when she was ready. Secrets between them never lasted long.
What the hell, he thought as he drove through the cemetery gates and increased speed. Pen’s coming home, even if it’s only for the weekend and I’ve got two rostered days off. We’ll paint the town red!
CHAPTER TWELVE
Inspector Tom Bromley raised his head, closed the front cover of the Deceased Personnel file he’d been reading and looked at his watch. Eight o’clock. He stood up, yawned and stretched his aching back muscles. He moved to the window of his office and looked out over the dark city. The night had crept up on him once again. It was time to go home. The end of a day’s work was not something he looked forward to.
Ten minutes would see him in the Rose and Crown Hotel. Two beers and a counter meal and it would be time to cross the road and catch the late bus. Another ten minutes would see him safely ensconced in his lounge room.
He sat down again, turned on the desk lamp and opened yet another old file from the stack in front of him. A name from the past leapt from the page. It was a signature on a covering letter made fourteen years before, by the then Chief of Detectives, Joseph Hartford. The letter recommended that Sergeant Harold Everard of the Thirty-Three Division be promoted to O.I.C. of that same unit, owing to the vacancy created by the death on duty of his father, Superintendent George Arthur Everard. Bromley stared hard at the letter—somebody very powerful must have got to Joe Hartford to have him make a recommendation like that. Sergeant to Superintendent! And Harold Everard, of all people! Bromley continued to gaze at the letter until his vision blurred and his mind wandered back to that bloody Sunday in 1961.
The meeting in that Surry Hills garage had been one he’d never forgotten. They’d decided to kill Everard—just like that! And he’d gone along with it. He should have spoken up. He should have told someone what was going on. But he hadn’t. He’d let it happen. Stan and Harold had shot the old man to death in the street outside Jane Smart’s apartment and then stupid Harold had lost his gun. The bloody murder weapon! Tommy shook his head wearily, closed the file and went again to the window.
Jane Smart had shown a lot of guts that night. She’d been there when the killing took place and had had the presence of mind to take the gun. And then she’d pissed off to Melbourne with it! He smiled at the thought of that young girl outwitting the lot of them. Bromley remembered the frantic search they’d all been involved in later that night: find her at all costs, had been the word. Then a year later she’d turned up as bold as brass, made a deal with Harold and Stan and then started working to create the biggest brothel empire Sydney had ever known. What a woman!
The next morning, the uniform boys had found Knocker Reid’s corpse in an alley in Chinatown. According to the Coronial Inquest, the cause of death had been heart failure brought about by being over forty and overweight. Total bullshit it was! And Bromley knew it. Everybody knew it. Knocker had been fixed, just like George.
Two weeks later, Superintendent Harold Everard was boss of Thirty-Three and Joseph Hartford had retired, a frightened and broken man. Tommy had gone to his farewell at the Travellers’ Club. It had been a sad and subdued affair. Hartford had hung around for ten minutes after the official speech and then he’d gone out of their lives forever. Some said he went north to Queensland, others said west where he bought a property near Albany, south of Perth in Western Australia. The fucking weak bastard.
Tom Bromley shook his head sadly and returned to his desk. He sat down and became lost in the black thoughts roaring around inside his skull. ‘That’s the pot calling the kettle black!’ Bromley sat bolt upright and realised it was his own voice which had bellowed a response to his unspoken thoughts. He looked out into the main room of the Personnel and Records Branch, of which he was Officer-in-Charge, but no one had heard him. Not one of his young officers, their heads bent industriously over their work, had even turned to look at the lonely man haunted by the ghosts of his past.
/> Bromley sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He closed the file and threw it onto a pile of similar ones in his out-tray. He wished he’d never seen Joe Hartford’s name. But then again just about anything would bring the past rushing back to him these days, he thought, and a sad smile creased his lips. ‘You silly old bugger!’ he said aloud. ‘Time to go home.’
‘Good evening, Mr Bromley,’ the young barmaid smiled as he entered. He wished he could remember her name. ‘Oh, er, good evening … er …’
‘Victoria,’ she said and smiled again. ‘What’ll it be?’
‘A beer please. Just a middy and …’ he studied the counter-meal menu assiduously, ‘the sausages in onion gravy, please.’
The girl poured his beer and gave him a counter-meal ticket. ‘Don’t bother listening for your number to be called. I’ll bring your food over to you when it arrives.’
‘Thank you, er … Victoria.’
Bromley looked around for a quiet booth. There seemed to be ever increasing numbers of young people in the Rose and Crown these days, he thought wearily. Especially on Friday nights. If it got any more crowded he’d have to find somewhere else to eat. He moved towards an empty booth against the far wall and sat down heavily.
As he contemplated the young people before him, playing their mating games and trying desperately to hurry on through the years, the front door opened and a young couple walked in and sat at the bar. The boy was in his early twenties and for a moment Bromley found him vaguely familiar, but his eyesight wasn’t what it used to be and he didn’t know anyone of that age, except for a couple of the young men in his office. The girl was very pretty and Tom watched them from the corner of his eye. They were so animated and attractive. The joy they derived from each other’s company was obvious.
His meal arrived then, and he tucked into it with a great show of energy, but his eyes kept returning to the girl and boy, until he found himself staring openly at them. Staring at himself and Josie sharing their happiness in one another, all those years ago. The young couple at the bar made it seem like yesterday.
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