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

chief superintendent’s go-ahead, Vince. Tom’s my assistant, and he’s an ex-cop, he’s hardly likely to stuff up a quick interview to get the basics from a witness. And, if you really want to know, he wouldn’t tell me where the crime scene was until I promised to pick him up and bring him with me. Harry drove us—”

“You brought Harry with you too?”

“Harry was in my bed when Tom phoned. What was I supposed to do? Leave him there? It’s Christmas night for fuck’s sake. He’ll stay up near the car and wait for me. He won’t get in the way, I promise you.”

“Dioli’s nose will be so out of joint when he finds out you and Tom were here, Clyde, it’ll point back over his shoulder—even if you are here on the super’s go-ahead. You know what he’s like about his cases.”

I patted his shoulder. “I’m just here to help, Vince, and Dioli can take it up with the chief superintendent if he’s got a problem. As far as I’m concerned, it’s your crime scene. I’m just here as a reference tool because the previous Silent Cop murders happened on my watch. Now, let’s go have a quick squiz at this body. I won’t touch it. I promise. I simply want to see the arrangement of the corpse and where it is.”

I stood in the darkened toilet and wrinkled my nose. It stank. Summer heat, unflushed urinals. It reminded me of piss tins in the desert in North Africa. At least we’d shat in trenches and covered our business over with sand. Urine was collected. It had too many uses. Uses I’d never bothered investigating. I’d just lifted my toe to push open the cubicle door when Jack Lyme arrived.

“Merry Christmas, Jack,” I said.

“Hello, Clyde. Thought you might be here.”

“You did?”

He smiled at me and waited for me to move to one side before he crouched down with his torch to give a preliminary once-over. “I rang the chief superintendent the moment the news came in, while they were still trying to track down Detective Sergeant Dioli. It was my suggestion to contact Vincenzo and to get you to help him, especially as you were so familiar with this series of killings.”

“Ah, so it’s you I have to thank for the chief superintendent ruining the perfect end to my Christmas celebrations?”

“When’s a murder ever spoiled anything for you, Clyde?”

We chuckled. Gallows humour.

“Shall I start taking pictures now?” The police photographer, a young woman who was new to me, hovered nervously behind. I guessed Vince had told her to wait until I’d arrived.

“First murder?” I asked her with a smile, to put her a little at ease.

“You can tell?”

I nodded. “It’s the smell isn’t it.”

She turned her head and pressed her mouth and nose into the fabric of the shoulder of her coat. One never got used to it—even in the war—that metallic smell of blood combined with the stink of urine or faeces. I’d always thought there was another smell hanging around sometimes in the air. I defined it illogically as fear.

“He’ll only speak with you,” Tom whispered from behind me.

“Who?”

“The witness, Clyde. He says he’s a friend of D.S. Telford’s and he recognised you.”

I caught Vince’s glance and rolled my eyes. “Just what I needed,” I said.

“Did he give you his name, Tom?”

“No, Clyde. He asked me if you were the investigating officer, and when I told him you retired last year, he said he wanted to speak with you. I asked him if he wanted me to ring D.S. Telford, but he nearly went crazy. He said, ‘get Clyde, he’ll know what to do’.”

If someone knew me, but didn’t know I’d retired, it had to be someone from long ago. Why did he say he was a friend of Sam’s and not one of mine? It confused me. There was only one way to find out.

“Tom, do us all a favour will you?”

“Sure, Clyde, what is it?”

“The bulb’s missing from the light fitting above. I noticed the lights are still on in the ladies’ convenience on the other side of the football field. It’s going to be a benefit for everyone if they can see without torches.”

“Righto, Clyde. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

No more than a few minutes later, Tom arrived breathless, holding the light bulb from the ladies’ lavatory in his handkerchief. I took it from him and reached up and twisted it into the light fitting. Bright, yellowish light flooded the area in which we were standing. The young photographer gagged. We were standing in a pool of vomit and blood.

“Whose vomit is this?” I asked.

“Mine,” the young lady said, tears welling in her eyes. “I’m sorry … before you got here. The smell … you know.”

I patted her shoulder and gave her my handkerchief. She smiled at me wanly and pressed the square of linen to her face. I supposed her own had been soiled already and crammed into a pocket of her jacket, or thrown into the garbage can in the corner of the room. She’d get used to it … well, as much as anyone ever could.

“I’ll leave you to it, Vince,” I said. “I’ll go see what the witness has to say, all right?”

Vince nodded, pressing a handkerchief of his own to his mouth. He gave me a thumbs up and then waved me away.

I made my way across to the large fig tree, under which the witness was sitting, accompanied by one of the junior constables, who I recognised. He’d been an office staff member during my time. I’d heard he’d applied to join up.

“D.S. Smith,” the young man said, holding his hand out to me as I approached.

“Not anymore, my friend. Been gone for over a year now. They keep you locked up in a cupboard without the latest news, do they?”

“Nah, it’s just you’ll always be the one and only detective sergeant at Randwick to me, Clyde.”

“I’ll have a word alone with the witness, son, if you