Autumn Maze. Jon Cleary

      ‘I wasn’t talking about them. I was talking about me. I’m getting on, Roger. If we wait for the full term to run, I’ll be eighty by the next election. I want to toss out these bastards, get back in, set up things the way I want ’em, put Denis Kipple in my place and then I’ll retire. Gracefully.’ The thought of his doing anything gracefully seemed to amuse even him: he gave a cackling laugh. ‘Get cracking, son. A stitch in time is worth the needling.’

      Ladbroke couldn’t wait for the graceful retirement. But he would miss the old sonofabitch.

Chapter Five

      1

      In a waterfront apartment out at Point Piper, a narrow diamonds-and-pearls-encrusted finger jutting into the southern waters of the Harbour, another old man was having lunch with his son, his daughter-in-law and his daughter-in-law’s father. This weekly lunch was a ritual with Jack Aldwych and he looked forward to it, though he could have done without today’s extra guest, Adam Bruna.

      ‘I adore this view!’ Bruna clasped his manicured hands and gazed out at the Harbour. ‘Why don’t you move over this side, Jack? Why do you have to live way out there in the Outback, Harbord or wherever it is?’

      It amused Aldwych that he might have felt at home here on this tiny peninsula. It had been named after a colonial naval officer, a rake who laid women like stepping stones and who, when it came to making money, had as much dedication to principle as he had to celibacy. Aldwych had never been a womanizer, but he had had little regard for principle if it stood in his way.

      ‘I couldn’t afford to live over here.’ He was one of the country’s richest men, albeit one who never appeared in the rich lists. Wealth based upon prostitution, bank hold-ups, extortion and fraud was not publicly assessable, although in the Eighties fraud had been an almost acceptable method of becoming rich. Aldwych’s wealth, thanks to Jack Junior’s management, was now squeaky clean, but the smell of its origins still clung to it in certain quarters. ‘I could never afford an apartment like this.’

      Jack Junior and Juliet had paid three million for the apartment, a price that had shocked Jack Senior almost as much as the day, long ago, a judge had given him five years for attempted murder when everyone knew it was no more than an attempt to teach a welsher a lesson. It had been Juliet who had spent the money, but Jack Senior had said nothing; if she, and what she did, made Jack Junior happy, then there was nothing to be said. At least for the time being.

      ‘Oh, I don’t mean you would have to buy something like this!’ Bruna fluttered his hands. He was a handsome man, as good-looking as any of his daughters; small and compact in build, always beautifully dressed, if a trifle flamboyantly for Aldwych’s tastes, he had sharp eyes and a smile that winked on and off as if on a rheostat. He was not homosexual, but he had exaggerated gestures and expressions that had at first confused Aldwych, a man of prejudice whose hands had the stillness of holstered guns. Bruna had once been a sculptor and still occasionally exhibited a piece or two, but his main source of income, apart from his daughters, was a gallery he owned in Woollahra. He had tried to sell Aldwych a small Giacometti, but the older man liked his statues, as he called them, rounded and in marble. The two fathers-in-law were not compatible, but so far not at war. ‘But this would be nice. I hope you’ll leave it to your dear old dad, darling, if you go first. You and Jack,’ he added with a smile towards Jack Junior.

      ‘Don’t let’s talk of dying,’ said Juliet. ‘Not this week.’

      Aldwych looked at her across the table. They were lunching on the apartment’s small terrace, sheltered from the unseasonal sun by a large umbrella; the Harbour was a silver glare, a black-clad windsurfer stuck in the middle of it like a table ornament. Aldwych was the only one not wearing dark glasses. Juliet’s gold-framed glasses were flattering, but not revealing. ‘Have the police talked to you yet about Rob Sweden’s murder?’