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

had listened without comment, but after about half an hour had pulled me into his arms and had cried along with me when I’d eventually broken down and sobbed my heart out.

When I’d finished, he’d asked if I wanted him to stay, but I’d told him to go home, I’d have him in my bed for three days over the weekend. He’d promised to talk about his war at another time, saying he wanted that night to be about me. His experiences could wait. Maybe one day, he’d said, when we were out in the bush together on one of his adventure weekends, we could find a rock to sit on while the group did chores, look out over the canyons of the Blue Mountains where there was nothing but blue, misty ridges and quiet, and then he’d start to tell me, a bit at a time.

By six, I’d not only knocked over my column for the Mirror, but I’d written a nice review on the authentic lunchtime specials at Stones milk bar. I’d called in on the way back to the office after visiting the Bishops and had spoken to the young German couple, Gerd and Liesl, asking a little about their history, how they came to migrate to Australia, and what sorts of lunchtime goodies the general public could expect. I’d made it a human-interest story. In the course of finding my journalistic feet, I’d discovered I could write stories about people that made the reader connect to them.

When I’d phoned in my pieces, the editor had pressed me for details of the vandals who’d stolen the mannequin, but I’d impressed upon him they were minors and therefore it was illegal to publish their names. He bought my fib, and he loved my Wiener schnitzel story too, saying he’d link it from page three as not only was it a food review but also a story of how new Australians were fitting into our community—it wasn’t only the Snowy Mountains scheme that benefited from our huge migration from the “old world”.

The crime report could wait. I was torn about reporting the Bishop case and the reappearance of the Silent Cop killer, neither of which I could really write about. I had a few ideas knocking around in my brain, but as it wasn’t due until the end of the month, I could take my time deciding what I’d focus on.

Vince knocked on my door about six thirty. I’d gone home at five to start writing my columns and still hadn’t got around to doing anything about the photos I’d taken of Harry’s blackboard layout to give to Dioli in the morning.

“What’s for dinner?” he asked me when I opened the door.

“I’d completely forgotten about food,” I replied. I’d been preoccupied.

“An Italian always comes prepared,” he said, lifting up a large shopping basket in one hand, his briefcase on the floor resting against his leg. “I’ll cook. You carry on with whatever you’re doing.”

He set to in the kitchen while I started the process of developing and printing the photographs I’d taken earlier that day. There was a roll of film of the statuette and almost another of various shots of Harry’s blackboard array. By the time I’d hung them out to dry on the internal “washing line” I’d strung across my study for the purpose, Vince announced dinner was ready.

Salsicce con salsa verde, patatine in padella, broccolini.

I smiled. What a treat! Sausages with an Italian green sauce made from parsley, basil capers, and garlic, accompanied by sautéed potatoes and baby broccoli shoots. He informed me that as it was my favourite fruit and they were in season, he’d poached half-a-dozen white-fleshed peaches, which he’d peeled and halved. They were now in the fridge, soaking in a little marsala. His mother had sent up a case of mixed stone fruit on the train from Griffith.

It was nice to sit back and chat in Italian. His was peppered with slang from Lazio, the area in which his parents lived and from where they’d migrated back in the 1920s. Mine, when I didn’t concentrate on Italiano puro, was distinctly Marchigiano, the dialect I’d spoken for three years as a prisoner of war. But, we understood each other, sometimes laughing at unusual words or idioms. I hadn’t been particularly close to him when we’d been working together. He was focused, a no-nonsense detective, and I liked him. But it was only since our mutual involvement on the Daley Morrison case that we’d become mates.

At about eleven, he started to yawn, so I told him to go home. I’d made photographic copies of the Bishop case documents he’d brought with him. I’d spend some time maybe the next day, or while Harry was here over the weekend, developing them. It was a far quicker method than retyping the whole lot, or even taking them down in shorthand, and would mean I had my own permanent record of the originals, including the case margin notes.

“Do you think they’re still alive?” he asked me as we stood next to his car. I’d walked him down to the street and we’d had a cigarette. It was balmy, a slight breeze coming from over the ocean—my perfect sort of night, especially as the moon was full in the sky.

I shook my head. “I really don’t know, Vince, and that’s the honest truth. Most of the ‘Mrs. Keepit’ cases I’ve read about have had the children found within the first six weeks. How long is it now? Three months? Unless the kidnappers have moved interstate there’s a strong possibility we should be looking for bodies. I noticed there’s a lot of places that were never searched, like the storm water drain that goes under the tennis courts and discharges onto the northern end of the beach. No one seems to have checked the caves and ledges along the cliff face between Coogee and Thommo’s Bay, nor have there been searches through the rifle ranges at Kensington or Malabar.”

“It’s