The Gilded Madonna Garrick Jones (ebook reader online .txt) 📖

bloke I know from Malaya. Lost a leg in the war. Lives alone and comes here every so often, looking for company. Sits in his car up on the road under that second tree, waiting for someone to walk past and ask for a light. I rather hoped he’d be here tonight.”

I chuckled.

“What’s so funny?”

“I know where you’ll find him most afternoons about five after he knocks off work.”

“What? Is he someone you—”

“No, but I’ve seen him. Mate of mine owns the men’s sea baths at the north end of Coogee Beach. Your friend’s a regular there.”

“Oh …”

“Don’t tell me you’re hankering for more than a brief encounter?”

“Maybe … I don’t know. He’s a really nice bloke and we often talk for hours. Besides, he knows what I like and he’s very happy to …”

“Fill an empty space?”

Steve laughed quite loudly. “Christ you’ve got a way with words, Clyde.”

“Tell me about what went on here tonight, Steve.”

“I’m scared about what might happen if people find out.”

“About you?”

“Yes, I have kids to worry about, Clyde.”

“Look, mate. I’ve already got a few ideas on how to protect you. Keep your name right out of this. But …”

“But, there’s a price.”

I nodded. “I told you I’ve seen the pictures; all of them. Those that were taken in Ray Wilson’s studio, and some that were taken without your knowledge or permission through peep holes at Mike Hissard’s house.”

“What the—?”

“Hang on. They’re not out there in the public. But in return for your protection and keeping your involvement in what happened here secret, I might ask you to make a deposition in camera about a threesome you had with a certain public figure.”

“One second, Clyde. If you say you have a picture, why do you need my deposition?”

“Because the photo’s taken from above and you’re looking over his shoulder with the biggest smile in the world on your face and with your legs wrapped around the man’s waist.”

“And you can only see the back of his head in the photo? Is that why you need me to identify him?”

“Yes, mate.”

He sat back, leaning against the tree, and then gave me a very dirty grin. “There were plenty of those blokes, Clyde. I told you I liked the same thing in bed that my wife wanted from me. But, if I was smiling, I must have enjoyed it.”

“Does that narrow the field?”

“Not much, to be honest. If they knew what to do, I always smiled. But, if you can keep me out of this, I’ll do my best. If word ever got out about what I do in my private life, I’d never see my kids again. So yeah, ask me your questions about tonight, and I’ll come in to wherever you are and see if I can’t put a name to the cock.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

It was just as well I rang Balmain hospital first thing in the morning, for when I did, I discovered that Dioli had been transferred in the early hours of the morning to the Prince of Wales hospital, not far from Randwick nick, where there was a specialist treatment area for injured serving police officers.

I knocked on the door of Luka and Gălbenele’s shop not long after eight. Luka came to the door, unshaven, yawning and scratching his tummy.

“Come in, Clyde,” he said, but I refused his offer, asking him if he’d like to join us for lunch at Craig’s baths. At first he was reluctant, but I told him there’d be around twenty or more of us, many were war veterans who had scars of their own, and therefore he had no reason to worry about stripping off to swim.

“I dunno …” he replied, but I slapped his back and told him from what I’d seen, people would be too busy looking everywhere else but at his scars.

“You mean my …?”

“Your broad hairy chest, cheeky grin, square jaw, and piercing blue eyes? Yes, that’s what most of my friends will be interested in, Luka.”

*****

Shirley Watson was on duty when I arrived at the hospital, and she pointed me in the direction of Dioli’s room. I asked after my friend Warwick Samson, who was not only a close pal but who also worked as a consultant doctor at the hospital. Shirley told me she’d round him up, and in the meantime, I could spend as much time as I wished with Dioli. Word had already spread among the nurses he was a surly, angry man who just wanted to be left alone.

“Fallen down stairs, Shirley?” I asked her.

“Stairs that might be about two inches square with sharp corners that may have miraculously torn themselves free and then battered his neck, shoulders, and back.”

“For fuck’s sake,” I mumbled. She’d been describing a bit of two-by-two timber quad or a squared profile metal pole.

“Always the eloquent one,” she said and then kissed my cheek. “There’s also a history of cigarette burns over his torso and buttocks, and injuries consistent with severe corporal punishment on his back, arse, and upper thighs, some of them fairly recent, I’d say within the last week or ten days—probably a cane and a wide belt or something like that.”

“Riding crop and razor strop?”

“Possibly. Whoever did it laid in, that’s for sure. I’m not the expert, but as you know I spent years in a Japanese camp. I’ve seen how those sorts of thrashings can age and how they look when administered over a long period of time. I’d hazard a guess and say he’s been severely beaten for a very long time—probably since he was a child—a few of the scars are showing adhesions, something not common with people with his pale complexion. Hard, brutal beatings can do that.”

I felt the anger rising in my throat—it tasted hot, bitter, and disgusting.

“Has his grandfather been to visit?”

She looked at me long and hard. “His grandfather? He’s responsible for those beatings? What a miserable old bastard he must be …”

“I didn’t say it was him, Shirley.”

“You didn’t need to, Clyde.