DEDICATION
For Emma and Jane
CONTENTS
Dedication
The Dying Diplomats Club
CHAPTER 1An Unexpected Invitation
CHAPTER 2La Contessa in the House
CHAPTER 3A Torrid Affair
CHAPTER 4Australian of the Year
CHAPTER 5Blackmail
CHAPTER 6PM Unravelled
CHAPTER 7A Gun in the Hand
CHAPTER 8Early Fireworks
CHAPTER 9Flash in the Pan
CHAPTER 10The Dying Diplomats Club
CHAPTER 11Feeling Blue
CHAPTER 12The Mystery Guest
CHAPTER 13The Congress of the Vole
CHAPTER 14A Trifling Problem
CHAPTER 15Death Valley
CHAPTER 16The Reckoning
CHAPTER 17Gold!
CHAPTER 18A Bullet for Baxter
CHAPTER 19Unmasked
Epilogue
We’re All In This Together
CHAPTER 1Dangerous Liaisons
CHAPTER 2The Inheritance
CHAPTER 3An Unwelcome Visit
CHAPTER 4Feeling the Heat
CHAPTER 5Dognapped!
CHAPTER 6A Very Stylish Victim
CHAPTER 7The Mystery Arborist
CHAPTER 8Funeral Clues
CHAPTER 9Intruder!
CHAPTER 10It’s Not So Good to Talk
CHAPTER 11A Room of Suspects
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Matthew Benns
Copyright
THE DYING DIPLOMATS CLUB
CHAPTER 1
An Unexpected Invitation
The red crowding the edges of detective Nick Moore’s vision gradually turned to black as the hands on his throat pressed more insistently against his windpipe, cutting the flow of oxygen to his brain. It was no good. As unconsciousness threatened, he desperately fought the hands away and took a deep, ragged breath.
‘Oh, darling, we almost had it that time,’ said La Contessa, his highborn Italian wife. ‘It’s only the collar button to go and this dress shirt will fit perfectly.’
‘I have always admired your optimism, my Venetian visionary,’ he gasped. ‘But this dress shirt last fitted properly on our wedding day and it would be too impolite to specify the time since then in actual years.’
‘But Nicky, you look so handsome in this shirt rather than that old fuddy-duddy one you normally wear.’
‘That old fuddy-duddy one, as you so disparagingly call it, is very comfortable,’ said Nick, his tone registering his injured pride. ‘Whereas this one makes me feel like an English sausage squeezed into a chipolata’s skin.’
‘Oh well, have it your own way. It’s a very special occasion and I really wanted you to look your best.’
‘Well, if you think it’s such a good idea why don’t you see if you can squeeze into your wedd—?’ The rest of Nick’s sentence was fortuitously interrupted by Baxter, their intrepid beagle, who suddenly jumped off his mink-covered gel pod on the sofa in the garden and hurtled to the front door in a whirl of slipping paws and wild yelping.
‘That will be my delivery from Net-a-Porter,’ said La Contessa delightedly, skipping lightly to sign the driver’s paperwork. She returned bearing the cardboard equivalent of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
‘Now, what was that you were saying, darling?’ she said as the boxes crashed onto the pavers in the back garden. ‘Something about me squeezing into something?’
‘Hmm? Oh no, nothing important,’ said Nick, thankfully patting Baxter’s head and helping to pick up the boxes and stack them on the glass-topped outdoor coffee table. ‘I was just hoping you would have a lovely figure-hugging number in these boxes.’
‘Me too,’ La Contessa said excitedly, ripping open the first one and skimming the handwritten note before pulling out a shimmering silver-beaded dress and holding it against her body for Nick to admire. ‘You boys are so lucky – you just keep wearing the same old dinner suit, whereas we have to keep buying new clothes. Admittedly,’ she continued, shrugging out of her active leisure wear and wriggling into the silver dress, ‘you did have to buy another one because the original became, shall we say, a little snug.’
‘It’s funny how that only happens to boys,’ said Nick, casting a worried glance at the windows of Turner Towers opposite to see if La Contessa’s impromptu burlesque performance was being overlooked.
‘I know,’ said La Contessa. ‘It’s the elastane in girls’ clothing. It’s well known it shrinks over time, meaning you simply cannot fit into your old dresses. All my old girlfriends tell me it’s the same with them.’
Nick nodded sagely and wisely chose to keep his counsel on that point. Instead he busied himself by heading over to the outdoor bar fridge to retrieve two ice-cold cocktail glasses from the top shelf. They frosted instantly in the warm summer afternoon air. With practised ease Nick rattled ice into a stainless steel cocktail shaker, added three measures of gin, one of vodka and a half of Lillet and shook vigorously. He poured the frosty martini into the glasses and ran the rind of a lemon around the rim of his wife’s glass before dropping the lemon slice in and handing the glass to her.
‘Are you sure we should be drinking this before we go out tonight?’ she asked, taking a long and appreciative sip before standing it on the table and ripping at the packaging of the next box.
‘Absolutely, my Milano marvel,’ said Nick. ‘Just what we need to get the motors running. And I have to say you have never looked lovelier than over the rim of a martini glass, in your undies in the back garden.’
La Contessa’s cheeks coloured slightly and she gave him a coquettish look from under long curled eyelashes that immediately took Nick’s thoughts away from the fashion issues at hand.
‘I know that look, Nick Moore, and we don’t have time for any of that nonsense. I have to find a dress for this evening. After all, we haven’t been given very much warning.’
‘No, it is all rather unexpected,’ said Nick, regretfully settling back onto the sofa after slipping into his larger, more comfortable shirt and watching as his wife squeezed into a blue velvet dress with a daring heel-to-thigh split. ‘Still no idea what prompted it?’
‘No, the same as you. I have heard nothing more. The first I knew of it was when the invitation dropped into the letterbox yesterday morning.’
Nick picked up the embossed invitation and thoughtfully turned it in his fingers. It was certainly unusual to receive an invitation from Kirribilli House at short notice. In fact it was unusual to receive an invitation from Kirribilli House full stop. They had never been there, despite La Contessa’s long-standing friendship with Patricia Monaro, the wife of Prime Minister Robert Monaro. It had never caused them any extra thought: contact with Patricia and Robert had dropped away as his political career took flight. That was just par for the course and they assumed it would pick up again when politics took a back seat. That made it even more surprising to receive the invitation. Perhaps they were being drafted in to make up the numbers, mused Nick, thought that seemed unlikely.
‘Personally I would have thought parties at Kirribilli House would have been organised and booked out months ago,’ said La Contessa, breaking into his thoughts.
‘Especially on New Year’s Eve,’ said Nick. ‘Funny they would pick such an important night to suddenly squeeze us in after such a long break in the acquaintance.’
‘Speaking of squeezing us in, can you help me with the zip on this one?’ said La Contessa, turning her back so Nick could tug manfully at the proffered zipper. ‘I think they may have got the sizing wrong on the box.’
‘Undoubtedly,’ agreed Nick absent-mindedly, still pondering the
invitation. Robert Monaro was flying high in the polls and widely regarded by the electorate as an all-around good bloke. Which, in Nick’s long experience of the Prime Minister, was a pretty good assessment. Being a war hero did not hurt either. He had served with the Special Air Service Regiment in Iraq, before the regiment’s name was tarnished by later events in Afghanistan, and had been awarded for his service. Looking good in uniform was a winner with the voters. ‘Why do you think Rob and Patricia suddenly want to catch up with you and your retired policeman husband? We are hardly useful on the political front.’
‘I prefer to describe you to my friends as a “resting detective”,’ said La Contessa. ‘And I have absolutely no idea why the sudden invite at short notice.’
‘Perhaps they remember your penchant for fireworks,’ said Nick, prompting a puzzled and potentially dangerous look from his wife. ‘I mean, it’s New Year’s Eve and Kirribilli House has the most amazing view of the fireworks, right on the harbour, opposite the Opera House and virtually underneath the Harbour Bridge. It will be amazing.’
‘Yes, but it still seems curious . . .’ The rest of her sentence was interrupted by a knocking on the wooden back gate. Uncharacteristically, Baxter did not bark but instead stood by the fence happily wagging his tail. La Contessa urgently pulled up the bodice of the red satin gown she was now trying on as Nick quickly stood up and strode over to the gate, throwing it open to reveal the portly form of their old friend Detective Inspector Dave Cleaver and his even chubbier bulldog, Brian.
‘Happy almost New Year,’ he said, stepping into the garden as Baxter and Brian acquainted themselves with each other’s bottoms. ‘Is that one of your legendary martinis I see there on the table? Don’t mind if I do.’
‘What plans do you and Brian have for this evening?’ asked Nick, rattling fresh ice into the cocktail shaker.
‘Nothing too exciting,’ said Cleaver, the British accent still present despite 30 years living in Australia. ‘A quiet night in with my twelve-year-old.’
‘Oh, how lovely – is that your nephew Glen you talk so much about? You know, Glen Fiddich?’ asked La Contessa.
‘The very one,’ said Cleaver, casting a look at Nick, who discreetly shook his head. ‘And where might you be off to in that simply stunning red dress?’
‘Do you like it?’ asked La Contessa, performing a delighted pirouette that lifted the dress in a flowing swirl to reveal a flash of her long legs. ‘Well? Say something.’
Both men stared, slack jawed. Transfixed. Nick was the first to recover. ‘That is, well it’s, I mean, really . . .’
‘A knockout,’ said Cleaver.
‘Exactly,’ said Nick. ‘That’s the one to wear tonight.’
‘Ah yes, so where are you going?’ asked Cleaver, recovering and taking a sip of his martini.
‘We are going to Kirribilli House for what is described as “an intimate dinner” with the Prime Minister and a few very close friends,’ said La Contessa.
‘Of course you are.’ Cleaver laughed. ‘No really, where are you going?’
‘You know my wife is incapable of those kinds of extravagant jests,’ said Nick. ‘It’s true.’
‘Really? So how do you know the PM and his wife?’
‘I went to university with Patricia,’ said La Contessa. ‘In fact I was there when they met.’
‘Was that when he was in the army?’ asked Cleaver.
‘Yes, he was just a captain. Patricia had a thing for men in uniform. Everyone used to call her Duntroon but I never understood why.’
‘I imagine that’s because most of the army went through Duntroon at some stage,’ said Nick. La Contessa gave him a reproving glare. ‘Is it safe to say that she had more than one military beau?’
‘Oh yes, quite a few at the same time as I remember,’ said La Contessa. ‘Of course poor old Robert had no idea what was going on. He was really sweet and would be turning up at our share house with flowers and in his best uniform, brass buttons all polished and sparkly. He was such a goody-goody; that’s how he got his nickname.’
‘What nickname?’ asked Cleaver. ‘Minor Monaro? I thought he got that during his time as Treasurer because he only ever passed on minor tax cuts.’
‘No, silly,’ said La Contessa. ‘We used to call him “Scout” because he was like the last boy scout. Always doing the right thing.’
‘So when did they get married?’ asked Cleaver. ‘Didn’t he serve in Iraq in the second Gulf War? I thought he was Special Forces or something.’
‘Yes, he popped the question after he got his posting to Iraq and they married in a real hurry. It was very quick and make-do,’ said La Contessa. In fact the proposal had taken many by surprise at the time. Monaro had certainly not been considered the front runner for Patricia’s hand: his best friend and a fellow Special Forces operative clearly had won her affections more completely than anyone else but Monaro had got in first with the question. To everyone’s surprise she accepted, leaving Monaro’s friend and rival heartbroken and bereft as the couple swept into a whirlwind marriage. ‘I barely had time to buy a decent dress. I remember it was ivory and I was worried I might overshadow the bride,’ reminisced La Contessa fondly. ‘We had the reception in the garden of the house and the next day he was off to battle. Very romantic really.’
‘And did she wait loyally and faithfully for him?’ asked Cleaver.
‘Yes, well in her own fashion: more loyal than faithful really,’ said La Contessa. ‘I do remember the odd visitor of military rank paying house calls.’
‘Hmmm,’ said Nick. ‘And now after all these years we suddenly get an invite to spend New Year’s Eve with them at Kirribilli House.’
‘Have you kept in touch?’ asked Cleaver.
‘Oh yes,’ said La Contessa. ‘Not really intimately but we have kept in contact and caught up for occasional dinners and such like. Robert adores Nicky but since he became Prime Minister he has obviously been a bit busy for social engagements.’
‘Which is why this is such a surprise,’ said Nick as La Contessa started to rip open the last of the packages at the bottom of the pile. ‘Do you really need to open that one? I think the red dress will be just perfect.’
‘Oh, this is not for me,’ said La Contessa, pulling out a tiny dinner suit with a black velvet bow tie already attached.
‘I will never fit into that,’ said Nick.
‘It’s not for you, darling,’ she responded with surprise. ‘This is for Baxter. He can’t turn up at the Prime Minister’s residence in just a collar. And it is black tie.’
‘Of course,’ said Nick in astonishment. ‘We are taking the dog?’
‘Naturally, darling. We couldn’t leave Baxter at home on New Year’s Eve with all those pyrotechnical bangs and things. I called up and Patricia said it would not be a problem.’
Nick shook his head. ‘Another martini, Detective Inspector?’ he asked.
‘I think I had better,’ said Cleaver, trying to smother his smirk. ‘Let me know what time you are heading over and I will give all three of you a lift.’
*
The black heavy bag shook with the punches as the cut man threw combinations of punches. The sinews of his arms stood out like cables as he delivered the blows with resounding thuds. His body, the hair shaved close to match his head, glistened with sweat, and droplets hit the concrete floor of the basement garage as he pummelled the bag suspended on a chain from a beam in the ceiling. After another nine-blow combination, he dropped his black-gloved hands and pivoted on the ball of his right foot to bring his extended left leg in a sweeping arc that connected at optimal velocity with the bag. His heel left a solid dent in the vinyl. The man followed the kick with a series of kicks and blows that were an amalgam of jujitsu, the Japanese martial art created by the Samurai, and Krav Maga, the self-defence and fighting system developed for the Israeli defence forces. His moves were at once fluid, controlled and explosive. After another five minutes he stopped, took off the gloves and dropp
ed to the concrete floor for three repetitions of 30 push-ups before going into a series of warm-down exercises and stretches. Eventually he stretched his arms above his head, grabbed a small white gym towel and wiped his face.
Along the wall of the basement ran a long workbench with tools and a vice. Hanging on hooks above it were a number of guns ranging in size and velocity from Heckler & Koch automatic pistols to an Australian Army issue Accuracy International SR-98 sniper rifle and, incongruously, a brace of British Purdey shotguns. A laptop computer sat in the middle of the bench, the screen saver randomly bobbing across it. The man walked over, tapped the keyboard and studied the grid of faces that appeared on the screen. Many were familiar from nightly news bulletins and newspaper reports on politics and business. He had already committed them to memory but thorough preparation had been drilled into him. The man took a last look and then closed the laptop.
It was time.
CHAPTER 2
La Contessa in the House
‘This feels really rather fabulous, Detective Inspector,’ said La Contessa from the back seat of Cleaver’s 1987 British Racing Green Jaguar XJ6 saloon. ‘And I think Baxter is enjoying the ride too.’ The excited beagle, dressed in his dog-sized dinner suit, was standing with his back legs on the tan Connolly hide back seat and his front legs on the arm rest between the two front chairs to give him the best possible view of the road ahead. His wagging tail alternately flicked Nick and then La Contessa.
‘Yowf,’ said Baxter, spraying a grimacing Cleaver with a fine mist of beef-flavoured dog spittle. He sniffed at Cleaver’s breath and turned away hurriedly, the lingering martini fumes bringing into question the detective’s decision to drive.
‘Yes, it’s very kind of you to give us a lift,’ said Nick from the back seat next to Baxter. ‘It does make me feel rather like some Hollywood star.’
‘Well, remember you almost made it big on the silver screen, so you should feel rather comfortable with it.’ Cleaver chuckled.
‘What’s this?’ piped up La Contessa. ‘I don’t know anything about my husband having a film career.’
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