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

is fastidious in his clothing, more neat than the average, cares about his public image, and bullies young men by calling them poofters …”

“You think?”

“I think nothing, Vince. But I can tell you that during the war, some of the meanest most aggressive bullies were those who’d wander down in the dark where the night-time action was happening and then get stuck in with the rest of them. Few of us always said the biggest bigots were the ones who were the quickest to drop their daks and who played the hardest with other blokes when they thought they could get away with it.”

Vince fiddled with his glass. “I dunno, Clyde …”

“Tom doesn’t deserve this. Pity he resigned. I could have sequestered him to work on our Crown investigation if he was still a cop. It’s rough on anyone being out of work … especially these days. Tell you what though, I’ve got an idea. Do you know where I can get hold of him?”

“He’s bunked up on my enclosed front veranda, Clyde. He was so ashamed of handing in his resignation he hasn’t even had the guts to tell his mum. She’ll be heartbroken.”

“Tell him to come to my office tomorrow morning. I’m going to pick up my cat first thing and have breakfast with Harry and his parents. He can catch the tram from where you live—there’s a stop right outside my office door. I’ll have a chat with him, and between Harry and me, we’ll see what we can do about his situation.”

“Jeez, Clyde, he’ll be so happy. He looks up to you so much you know.”

“Phht! Nothing much to look up to, Vince.”

“Come on, Clyde! He’s a nearly twenty-three-year-old whose first stoush included being clobbered over the head, targeted by a drugs mob, and then forced to hide out with my family to keep safe. It was you who put him straight when the coast was clear and after he came back. You were kind to him when he was expecting to be yelled at. Of course he likes you.”

“Well, he might not if he starts doing odd jobs for me.”

Vince raised his eyebrows, rolled his eyes, and murmured, “Tu? Abbai ma non mordi!” Roughly, in Italian, he’d insinuated my bark was worse than my bite.

“You and Philip still …?” I said, as a way of changing the conversation. I didn’t like people paying me compliments—I wasn’t one of those sorts of blokes.

“Yeah, still … you know.”

“And the new guy? How does he fit in?”

“Philip’s a great kisser, Clyde, but he’s not into some things, so the new bloke fills a hole, so to speak.”

I laughed. I’d heard Philip Mason was limited in his repertoire. I made no judgements. I’d met men who just liked to touch and that’s how they got their jollies. But from what Sam had told me about what he and Vince had got up to, I guessed there were some more vigorous cravings that kissing and a bit of gentle body contact wouldn’t satisfy.

“Well, long may it continue, and with both of them, if that’s what keeps you happy.”

“Cincin!” he replied, touching my glass with his own as I raised it in a toast.

“So, Vince … what’s this problem up at the station you want help with?” I said. “The one that isn’t about, what’s his name again? Dioli?”

“Problem, Clyde?”

The way he said it fooled no one, let alone me. I sighed and then filled up our glasses, not sure I was going to be able to help at all, especially if it was, as I suspected, problems with an ongoing case. Still, he was a mate, and it wouldn’t hurt to listen … that’s what I thought, anyway.

CHAPTER THREE

Baxter lay on his back in the hollow between my thighs, idly batting my hand as I gave his tummy slow rubs and absent-mindedly pulled the thick fur between my fingers. Occasionally, he’d wrap his paws around my arm and give me love bites—usually when I’d been caught up in my own thoughts and I’d stopped moving my fingers while staring out of my office window.

The rhythmic stroking of my cat allowed my mind to dwell on what Vince had told me—the real reason he’d wanted to speak. As I’d suspected, he was floundering with a difficult case and wanted my help.

Dioli had dumped the Bishop kids’ investigation on his desk, telling him to write a daily memo to keep him up-to-date, and to leave it in his in tray by four every afternoon.

Vince was a junior in the squad, still a detective constable, and now, without Sam guiding him, and Tom to help him out, he was reliant on the dross weight of uninterested, lazy detectives who I’d managed to get mobilised by the force of my personality. That’s what I liked to think I’d done—the reality was closer to threatened violence, exposure of misdeeds, and not a few rounds at the bar after work that had got their reluctant cooperation.

I could be the pleasantest guy on earth if I liked people, or even if I didn’t and they pulled their weight. But my old nick had been mainly staffed with leftovers. Most of the detectives who worked at my old station were men who’d shirked their duty during the war and had stayed at home to line their pockets by turning a blind eye to misdemeanours, slipping the odd brown paper envelope into their pockets, or taking “protection” money from Starting Price Bookmakers, or “S.P. bookies” as we called them, brothels, and illegal gambling dens. I could often be quick of the tongue and easily provoked into handing out the worst jobs to those whose first action in the morning was to make coffee, head off to the bog and lock themselves in a cubicle for half an hour to read the paper, and then amble back to the main office and put their feet up on their desks.

Sam and I had basically run the joint when I’d worked