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

mentioned as men making love to women while they strangled them, timing the pressure of their hands around their victim’s neck to coincide with their own orgasm.

If the Silent Cop killer had killed again after an absence of three years, where had he been? That would have been my first question had I been in charge of the case. But, as I wasn’t, and helping Vince with the disappearance of the Bishop children was my priority on top of my own private investigative work, I decided to forget about it.

Forget about it? Yeah, who was I kidding. All the way home, I couldn’t stop obsessing over thoughts of those perfect teeth marks, bitten so deeply the victim must have screamed with pain.

*****

There’d been four murders, all within the space of three months. I knew it was that long because I’d been pulled out of the hospital ward to attend the scene of the first murder on the day Sam had fallen down the stairs of the Australia Hotel and had broken his leg, and the last death was the day after I’d gone with him to the police medical assessor to see if he was fit to go back to work.

All the victims had been young men between the ages of twenty-four and thirty and all had been out tomcatting late at night, hanging around in parks or in streets that had an unattended, unlocked public lavatory. The first had been at Charing Cross, followed seven days later by the next at Moore Park, a hiatus of ten days, and then Centennial Park, and finally in a small park in Woollahra, eleven days after the last. All four murder scenes were well-known pickup places to those in the queer community who picked up other men in public places. The details of the murders had never been revealed to the public, nor had anyone come forward when we’d asked through the queer underground. Everyone had been far too scared. I’d heard, only by rumour, had a man not surprised a couple in a cubicle in Rushcutters’ Bay Park, there could have been a fifth victim. He’d been there for genuine reasons, but had shouted at them, yelling he’d call the police. They’d fled. There was supposed to have been a razor dropped at the scene, or found by the intended victim, but as I could never get anyone to open up to me, that lead had come to a dead end.

As soon as Sam had returned to work, our D.I. had given him a case involving a bank robbery gang to focus on, so we’d worked separately, and as we’d decided never to discuss work away from the police station, he’d only known the bare details of my investigation. I’d had another D.C. working with me back then, who’d since had a heart attack and had died. At the time our boss had thought the case unworthy of extra men, so the two of us had had to try to investigate the most puzzling set of connected murders by ourselves. We’d drawn nothing but blank stares of ignorance, disavowals of knowing anything about homosexuals, and downright rudeness from many men I recognised as being “one of us”.

However, what I’d learned over those three months was the level of fear most queer men lived with. I wished I’d been game enough in those days to drop a few hints as I’d had to do during my investigation into the death of Daley Morrison, the cricketer. If there’d been a feeling of trust and less fear that they might have been apprehended or charged if they’d spoken up, perhaps I might have learned more.

*****

Vince and Tom were already in the surf when I arrived. I’d called in to see Clarrie, my bookmaker at the pub, after which I’d picked up a shilling’s worth of chips at Stones milk bar. They were still hot when I threw the newspaper bundle down next to Harry.

I dropped my beach bag and stripped off quickly. “Coming in, Harry?” I asked.

“Sit!” he ordered, pulling out the side of his beach towel and moving his bum to one edge to make room for me.

He’d hired a cabana, a semi-circular canvas hooped affair, that not only gave protection from the sun but also from the wind. It was big enough for the four of us.

“Sorry I’m late.”

“Ten o’clock, Clyde?”

“It’s only half past … aww, were you worried?”

“No, but some greasy-looking half-wit turned up at five past ten asking where you were. How did he know you’d be with me?”

“Ah, that greasy half-wit, as you called him, is Clarrie’s son, and I told him to meet me down here at the north end of the beach just after ten. If he couldn’t find me, I was most probably in the water, and he should look for the tall broad-shouldered redhead with zinc cream on his nose and cheeks, most likely under an umbrella, and wait with him until I came out of the surf.”

“Clarrie, your bookmaker?”

“Yup, called in at nine thirty to put a few quid on a nag at Flemington.” He smiled. “Yes, I put some on for you too, don’t worry.”

I got insider information about “certs” in races every week. I always won something. Even after my big win early in the year, and the expenses of having my car rebuilt, and a ten-day holiday with Harry in Tasmania, I was still a few hundred quid ahead.

“So, Clarrie’s son?”

“Did he say he’d be back?”

Harry glanced at his watch. “Yes, in half an hour. Tell me—”

“I’m putting a tail on Dioli, to see what he gets up to after hours.”

“What?”

I told him about my morning.

Ten minutes later, he was lying on his back with his forearm over his eyes, trying not to laugh. “You kicked him in the cods, Clyde?”

“Technically, I kneed him, but yes.”

“You’re pretty sombre about the whole thing. Whatever possessed you to get so antsy with him? I’ve only known you for barely a year, but I’ve