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

interrogation, so he could listen in and perhaps guide the line of enquiry. It would come in handy if Greyson was leaving things out, or tried to gloss over his own involvement, and easy enough for Howard to interrupt and correct any “accidental” omissions or straight-out lies.

He’d offered no objections when I’d explained how I’d thought it best to deal with Terrence Dioli, merely grunting into the phone and telling me he’d organise things at his end.

I quickly checked my watch and then leafed through my notepad once more. What Greyson had told me made for gruesome reading. Tocacci hadn’t been into children, but he’d sometimes arrived with men who were, and had sat in the office drinking wine and sharing hits of cocaine with some of the male staff while his friends had had their “fun” in other parts of the building. The information Greyson had given me of how Keeps, Dioli, and Tocacci were connected, and what they’d done at the orphanage between them, was enough to lock Mark’s grandfather up and throw away the key.

Satisfied I’d remembered everything I needed to, I locked my notepad in the glovebox, got out of the car, and then went to the phone box on the corner of Manning Street and telephoned the lockup as I’d told Tom I would do, hoping Jeff had arrived.

Dave answered the phone and I asked him if I could speak with Tom, who informed me they hadn’t started questioning Greyson, because Jeff had arrived perhaps ten minutes beforehand and was having a cup of tea and a smoke before they got stuck in.

“Did he get hold of Howard? Do you know, Tom?”

“Yes, Clyde. Seems your friend Howard Farrell insisted on driving down from Bowral himself. Hang on, Colonel Ball wants to speak with you.”

“Are you sure about this, Jeff?” I asked him, once Tom had handed him the phone.

“Well, I’m not sure, but he was insistent. He said he needed to face his demons.”

“You know Greyson raped him?”

“Jesus! No! I knew there was physical abuse, but why would you want to confront someone who did something like that?”

“All I can say is that every day I think of those German guards in the camp and what some of them did to me, Jeff, I just wish I’d had the opportunity to face them when I was in a position of power.”

“I think I understand, Clyde. I’ll try to keep a lid on it.”

“Ring Billy if you need someone who’s got a good handle on abuse, Jeff. He saw enough of what went on while he was fighting his way through Italy.”

“How long will you be?”

“I’m just about to have the friendly chat with Terrence Dioli I told you about this morning, and then I’m supposed to be hosting a Boxing Day get-together of friends. I’ll call you at around two o’clock.”

“Sounds good. Farrell should be here from Bowral quite soon I think. He left not long after I phoned him at seven this morning.”

“Just make sure your men are here to collect Dioli at midday, Jeff, and keep Greyson on his toes please.”

“I’ve interrogated more than one arsehole in my career, Clyde. Don’t worry, I’ll manage with Greyson, and my men will be there at Rozelle waiting to collect Dioli, right on the dot of noon.”

*****

The curtain twitched in the front room of the house a second after I opened the gate. It squeaked.

There were dried bloodstains on the herringbone pattern of bricks placed down the centre of the gravel pathway. The smear started near the flagstone paving at the front door and finished on the path a few yards before the gate. I couldn’t imagine how that must have hurt.

I banged on the front door and waited. How many times had I done the exact same thing during my police career. There were several periods in my life as a detective when I’d gone from house to house for most of a day threatening and roughing-up crims and petty crooks to get what I wanted. I was out of practice. The session with Greyson in the car had left me feeling strangely vulnerable. I thought it odd to realise how much I’d changed since I’d said goodbye to the twenty-four-hour, seven-days-a-week life of a “tough” city detective.

“Open the door!” I yelled, pounding even more loudly. “I know you’re in there.”

“Go away!”

It was a rather timid reply; one that didn’t seem to go with type of person I’d imagined Terrence Dioli to be.

I squatted down and pushed the letter flap open with the barrel of my Luger. “You see what this is? Open the fucking door.”

“Put the gun away first.”

I was sick of being nice. I put my shoulder to the door, and when it only partially opened, stood back and kicked it. Hard. It flew open with a bang, hitting the wall of the hallway.

Terrence Dioli was standing at the end of the hallway holding a long piece of square metal rod in both hands, dressed in his pyjamas, with a cotton dressing gown hanging loosely open over them. He was tall and very thin, one might have said gaunt, but had obviously once been a powerful-looking man. One could always tell by the frame.

I marched down the hallway with my gun pointed at his face. “Drop the weapon,” I said, and then when he didn’t, I grabbed it with my left hand and wrenched it from his grip. It clattered onto the bare boards.

“Who the hell are you—”

I slapped him hard across the ear and then put my gun back in its holster. “Kitchen this way?” I growled, grabbing his pyjama collar and pushing him into the room behind. Bullies were invariably compliant when confronted by someone who acted tougher and showed no fear. He allowed me to push him backwards across the room until his arse hit the edge of the kitchen sink.

“What the—”

“Shut up!” I yelled, slapping him again. He spat in my face, so I pushed him so he was