The Gilded Madonna, Garrick Jones [best fiction novels txt] 📗

“That handsome guy in the middle and the brute sitting behind him are none other than yours truly and our esteemed legal eagle, Billy Tancred.”

“You haven’t changed one bit, Billy,” Brendan said.

“You have,” Billy replied. “You used to be a nice guy.”

Brendan smiled.

“The photo is connected to our Silent Cop killer. It links him with us four mates in the desert in North Africa. At the front is Johnny Edgar, killed not too long after this photo was taken, and at the rear Sonny Mullins, who was beaten to death by a gang of louts outside Garden Island while trying to stop them attacking some poor sailor’s girlfriend.

“Johnny was an orphan. He spent three months in Petersham Boys’ Home in 1927 when he was just six years of age, before being sent to the Dr. Bagshaw’s Home in Mudgee, out west.”

Mark Dioli glanced around nervously, but I smiled at him as kindly as I could to let him know his secret was safe.

“Five years later, in 1932, when our mate Johnny Edgar was eleven years old, a small frightened child was found dumped at the gateway of the home, tied to the cattle grate by a rope around his neck. He was filthy and covered in sores. A note was pinned to his jacket with his name, Dennis Kemeny, born twenty-third of January, 1927. The superintendent of the home appointed Johnny Edgar to take this child under his wing, clean him up, and look after him. Dennis Kemeny is our killer, fellas.”

“And you’re sure, Clyde?” Brendan asked.

“Positive, and now I can tell you why.” I referred to my notes and read out what Howard had written, beside which was an asterisk and several exclamation marks.

“The source says, and I quote: A note was pinned to his jacket with his name, Dennis Kemeny, born twenty-third of January, 1927, and the boy, despite his filthy condition, was the talk of the orphanage, mainly because he had the brightest green eyes anyone had ever seen. So,” I continued, with a slight voilà in my voice, “Dennis Kemeny is our Silent Cop killer.”

“But if you know his name, then—”

“Hang on, D.I. Fox. As I said, he changed his name and it’s all part of the story, if you’ll allow me. The man who sent me this shorthand pad is someone who works as a supporter of children’s charities, having grown up in an institution himself. However, today he is a successful businessman of some considerable wealth with a desire for privacy. He’s also deeply connected to the Crown commission on which Lieutenant Colonel Ball, Harry, Billy, and I sit. For that reason, I can’t reveal his name.”

Vince knew it was Howard. I saw it on his face.

“Not only did he speak yesterday with the superintendent and his assistant who were in charge while Kemeny was there but he also got the names of three boys who were at the home at the same time and who were his friends. It cost him the best part of five hundred quid, plus the promise of anonymity, to get the information I’m holding here in my hand. So, although I haven’t had a lot of time to digest it all, this is what I’ve learned.”

I outlined the contents of the twenty or so pages of carefully written shorthand.

At the Dr. Bagshaw’s Home in the 1930s and up until the end of the war, while Johnny Edgar and Dennis Kemeny had been inmates, a group of three groundsmen and the religious counsellor, Rupert Bishop, coincidentally bearing the same surname as the parents of the kidnapped children, but not related to them, worked at the institution.

It was a perverse enough surname for a hideous man that abused boys and young men on a regular basis. Dennis Kemeny had been Bishop’s favourite, forced to do whatever the counsellor required, always praised for it while he was about it, but then vilified and made to do acts of penitence as punishment for taking advantage of Bishop’s kindness and “good nature” afterwards. The three friends of Kemeny, who Howard had contacted, had often been forced to participate.

Once a week, the head groundsman would come back to the home legless drunk from the pub in town and pick two or three of the boys to come to his loft, above the garage. He’d be loving and kind, caressing, kissing them, allowing them full access to his body, but ultimately violently sodomising one of the boys and then encouraging his two fellow workers to do the same. Dennis Kemeny had been on the end of that brutality more frequently than most of the others.

Our friend Johnny Edgar had protected Dennis as much as he could. They’d formed a bond of friendship. As he’d grown older and stronger, Johnny had been able to prevent some of the abuse, but not always. Dennis had always remained a favourite of both Bishop and the groundsmen.

In 1937, when Johnny turned sixteen, he was no longer eligible to be a ward of the Dr. Bagshaw’s foundation, but the superintendent kept him on for two years, employing him as a kitchen hand and cleaner. Those had been the only good years for Dennis, as Johnny had become a grown-up quickly, developing physically and emotionally before his years, and had been able to protect the younger boy most of the time.

And then the war had come. In 1939, Johnny enlisted. Dennis had been devastated, but Johnny had promised he’d come back and take Dennis away from Dr. Bagshaw’s, and they would get a flat together and try to make a normal life as best friends. Dennis had only been twelve at the time and not only had his world crumpled around him but also his protector was going away. In the presence of several of his friends, and in private, Johnny had made them swear to try their hardest to look after the younger and more vulnerable in the home, and had made them promise they’d never ever hurt a child