The Gilded Madonna by Garrick Jones (ebook reader for comics TXT) 📕

is over, I’ve decided to take whatever Luka says on face value, and I’ll be happy to be disillusioned if it all comes to nothing. But for the time being, I don’t have an answer, sorry.”

“It’s getting close to midnight,” Mark said. We were seated on a park bench in a cleared area at the top of a small rise, about two hundred yards away from the public toilet. There was a thicket of native bush between us and it, but as we were up high, we could see comings and goings easily from where we sat with our night-time binoculars, but in the dark it would have been hard for anyone down there to see us.

We’d chosen to take the park at the south side of Maroubra Beach, at the bottom of Fitzgerald Avenue, near the ocean. We’d been there since it had got dark, and I’d been surprised to see the number of cars that had arrived, their drivers disappearing into the bushes or into the lavatory and then driving off tens of minutes later. I’d had no idea places like this would be so popular—but then again, we’d closed perhaps fifteen or twenty other public toilets in the Waverley district, and word seemed to have spread, it was very much busier than it had been the night before. At eleven it had become quieter and only occasional glimpses of my two mates could be seen as they wandered around outside the toilet or moved between clearings in the bushes.

I could hear the waves breaking on the beach, there was a soft warm breeze from the north-west, and Mark had finally begun to relax in my presence. I realised it was because there was no one else around. We’d been chatting very softly, almost in a whisper, since we’d arrived, talking about other things than the case—what the police station had been like when I’d first arrived, why he’d decided to become a policeman, and then, just as I was about to open my Thermos, a dark shape ran across the grass in front of us. For a moment, I thought it might have been a native animal, but it was far too big for a wombat and the motion was all wrong.

“He’s here,” I whispered.

“What do you mean?”

At that moment, a large shaggy dog ran up to us and sat at our feet, its mouth open and tongue lolling.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” a voice said from behind us. As I reached for my gun, Mark stood to pull his from his holster. A muffled shot rang out and he fell to the ground, groaning and clutching his shoulder.

I turned quickly, surprised to see that despite his rigidly aimed weapon pointing at a spot between my eyes, Kemeny seemed amused at my reaction. His hat was pushed so far back on his head he looked for all the world like some two-bob gangster from a B-grade movie. I still had my hand on my gun, my finger on the trigger, wondering if I could throw a slug into his gun-arm shoulder before he shot me in the head.

“Stop!” he said as I started to crouch down to see to Mark. “If I’d wanted to kill him, he’d be dead.”

Mark grimaced, but nodded that he was okay, drawing in breath noisily between his teeth, one hand pressing his handkerchief over the bullet wound.

“Did you really have to do that?” I said, trying to unsettle Kemeny with an off-the-cuff, seemingly inappropriate remark, to give myself a few extra seconds to weigh up my options. Him or Mark, I wasn’t sure which was the priority right at that moment.

“Don’t even think about it, Smith,” Kemeny said, noticing the slight movement of my arm as I adjusted the grip on my gun. Before I could react, he aimed his weapon at Mark. “I’ll shoot your mate in the head before you can pull the trigger. Now, put one arm in the air where I can see it, spread your fingers and wriggle them around so I can see you’re not holding anything, then withdraw your weapon and throw it over there in the bushes.”

I couldn’t stop staring at his bright green eyes—even in the moonlight I could see the oddness of their colour.

As I did what he asked, he turned his gun on me, watching as I slowly withdrew my Beretta from my underarm holster. I threw my gun where he’d indicated. It made little noise, crashing softly into the undergrowth. He whistled to the dog, who’d started to run after the gun as if it was a stick I’d thrown for him to fetch.

He smiled as he caught my swift glance at his weapon. It was an Enfield No. 2, as we’d guessed, with an awkward-looking jerry-rigged silencer attached.

“Made it myself,” he said, laughing quietly. “Don’t get excited, Smith. It might have been loud enough to you up here, but down there where your mates are, it would have sounded just as if someone had stepped on a branch while they were fucking in the bushes.”

I glanced down again at Mark, who’d been grunting occasionally while Kemeny and I had been talking. He had both hands pressed over the spot where he’d been shot, near the point of his shoulder. Even in the dim ambient light I could see blood seeping through his fingers.

I ignored Kemeny’s earlier order to stay where I was and crouched down at Mark’s side. He was in a lot of pain, but otherwise seemed all right—shocked, as you’d expect, but clear-headed. “Don’t fuss, Clyde. I’m okay,” he said.

He’d been shot at close range, so I hoped the bullet had gone right through. After gently removing Mark’s hands, I scrabbled in my pocket for my handkerchief and pressed it to his shoulder. It was soaked through very quickly. I glanced up at Kemeny. “Have you got another handkerchief?” I asked.

Kemeny put his hand in his pocket and threw it to me. His gun didn’t waver for a second,