Who Killed Jimbo Jameson? (10 page)

“Fuck off, Chris,” I laughed.

“So that's a no from Detective Griffiths. What about you, Jack? I could give you a quick rub if you like.”

“You're absolutely outrageous, Chris, and I love you for it but not the way you'd like.” There is nothing sexier than a heterosexual hunk who is completely comfortable around the gays. “We just finished interviewing an interesting woman. Perhaps you know her? She must be the world's first walking heart donor.”

Doctor Chris hooted. “Oh, you've met the beautiful Anna Jameson. She's famous. What a bitch! Evidently she walked in when Jimbo was fucking some guy and all she did was say something like ‘You are truly disgusting. Goodbye.' Then she hired the best silk in Sydney and took him to the cleaners.”

“So tell me, Chris. Do you think she could have shot Jimbo?” I asked.

“Not if you found the bullets, my love. She's so tight she'd dig them out of the body and sell them for fishing sinkers.”

chapter sixteen.

The lovely Anna's equally lovely solicitors asked that all and any future contact be made through them. Murder is good for business, especially when you charge $500 per hour.

And speaking of business, we had been contacted by the CEO of TenTen, the charming Sam Bradley. The gist of the conversation was “get off your fucking arses and find the fucking murderer and release the fucking body so that we can have a fucking funeral.” Right on, Mr Bradley, sir. Anything you say, sir. But the medical examiner still hadn't released the body and now the grieving widow couldn't be found.

To top it off, there was a report from the ME telling us that there was a problem with the body. I knew it. I was right. There wasn't enough blood. I knew that it didn't add up.

Time of death, based on the level of potassium in the vitreous humour, degree of rigor mortis, body and ambient temperatures and the content of retinal venous red cells, had been established to be around 1pm. Yes, he was shot, but he was already dead when the bullets hit him. Well, he was actually just dead, or he was just about to die because his blood pressure was just about non-existent, or he was in the process of dying, because his heart wasn't beating when the bullets hit, which is why there wasn't very much of his blood. Two of the bullets had actually passed through the redhead first. The shot to his head was the coup de grâce.

Jimbo could have died from something else. His tongue and throat were swollen and so was his penis – well, duh – so it could have been allergic shock that killed him, not the bullets. Elevated histamine levels supported this theory and the ME was still fussing around with the forensic pathologists who had already reported high levels of alcohol, aspirin, cocaine and anti-depressants. He had been taking pills for asthma and hypertension, anti-inflammatories for osteoarthritis, nitrates for angina, had recently taken Viagra and there were traces of Rohypnol in his system. He had chronic liver disease and a patched aorta. It was a miracle that he could walk.

So the ME was still unsure of the cause of death and wouldn't sign the death certificate, and all we could do was wait and continue our interviews. Someone shot him. And someone shot the redhead, who had been forgotten in the Jimbo hysteria. Her body tested positive for a small amount of cocaine, some anti-depressants, paracetamol and alcohol.

There would need to be a coronial inquest to determine what happened. The body would then be released for burial, but you really can't have a funeral without the widow, no matter how much the television channels wanted to finalise their programming. We'd lost Jacqueline Jameson. According to Immigration Jacqueline hadn't left the country, but she was missing and the office of Saint Peter, her press agent, wasn't talking.

So Jimbo would be staying on ice for a while longer.

Constable Jack, I thought, tomorrow I want you bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, because tomorrow we get to talk to the Pole-Dancer.

I checked my emails when I got back home and cursed the spammers who seemed to think that all I need out of life is Viagra and Cialis. That's a laugh. At the rate my sex life was deteriorating, I'd be in the market for rust remover very, very soon.

I cheered myself up by responding to the messages notifying me I had won the Nigerian lottery, making sure that I signed my emails “Detective Madison Griffiths”. Somewhere out there are some very excited little men who think they have a sucker on the line until they read the “Detective” bit.

And there was an email from Marco, which I almost didn't open because I couldn't bear the thought of hearing what a wonderful time he and Gemma were having in Italy.

To: Maddie Griffiths

From: Marco Maiolo

Subject: Jameson

Hey Mad,

Just a quickie between quickies and lunch. I'm getting too old for all this romantic bullshit. That woman is determined to exhaust me, so I sent her out to buy some more shoes. I'm getting too old for all this togetherness.

There's a connection between the murder in Melbourne and Jimbo's. [Oh yeah, I thought.
That murder where my key witness was killed. That murder that led to a cancellation of my holiday in Broome.] A connection somewhere. I can't put my finger on it, but it's there. Jameson had a daughter with Fleur Le Fraise. French. Her name's Dominique, and she's best friends with Giuseppe Napoli's daughter, Maria. They were at school in Switzerland together, and they're as thick as thieves. Literally. It seems that they cleaned up in San Tropez last year, but no-one was game enough to complain because of the Napoli family. Papa Napoli is old-style Mafioso, and most indulgent and protective of his little girl. He is supposedly retired, but there are three sons, Paolo, Leo and Aldo, and they are definitely in the family business. Paolo is the heir apparent. He's the eldest.

I hear that the two girls are in Australia, so perhaps they'll turn up at the funeral.

Ciao for now.

Marco

Interesting.

chapter seventeen.

Point Frederick is on the Brisbane Waters just outside of Gosford. It's a curious area: the original fibro houses are rapidly being replaced by waterfront mansions complete with private wharves, and medium-density townhouses and McMansions are taking over the back streets. I suppose it's where you want to live if you grew up in East Gosford, which is just round the corner.

We were early for our interview with Vanessa Blake, so we took the opportunity to walk around the foreshores near the footy stadium. According to Boo, Jimbo had met the Pole-Dancer at The Thirsty Crow, a waterfront restaurant opposite the footy stadium that morphs into a nightclub after 9pm.

But the sky was clear and the sun just warm enough and the clean salty air was a change from the city, and it was hard to tear ourselves away from the pelicans.

Vanessa lived in a waterfront apartment block right on the point. Ground floor, private garden. The block was white with lots of glass, and there was a waterfall next to the security intercom. Pole-dancing must pay well, or perhaps the tips are very good if you're very bad.

We were welcomed into a sunny, airy living room that was actually lived in. There were books scattered around a laptop on a coffee table, books on the floor, books stacked on side tables. A child's scooter was propped against the kitchen wall, next to a single sneaker, and a My Littlest Pet Shop was set up on the kitchen table. The fridge was covered in stickers, magnets, tuck-shop lists and paintings.

“Please, come on through. I'm Vanessa, but call me Vinnie. Inn't it a beautiful day? I've just made some tea – would ya like some? Or would ya prefer coffee? Let's sit outside.” She kicked the sneaker out of the way, and walked out onto a paved terrace that led to a small lawn edged by a glass fence. Three pelicans looked up expectantly and waddled along the wharf towards us. If this is heaven, I'm ready to die, I thought.

Vanessa Blake was bleached blonde with dark roots. Very thin. Huge boobs. Trout pout. Yesterday's make-up running down her cheeks. Not a good look, but the tits were amazing. “Please, sit down while I get ya somefink to drink.” Jack might have been enjoying the view, but her voice was nasally strident.

We sat around a weathered teak table until Vanessa brought out a tray holding three mugs,
a plate of Double-Dipped Tim Tams, a box of Kleenex and a bowl of grey slush. “Ya must excuse me. I look terrible, but I jest can't stop cryin' and I haven't 'ad much sleep.” She reached into her blouse, fished around, and produced a tiny something with huge eyes and a pink nose and a tail. “This is me new baby. He's hungry. Correction. He's always hungry when 'e's not sleepin' or poopin'. But isn't he precious?” I fell in love instantly. “What is he?” I asked.

“This is Poss. He's a baby ring-tailed possum and 'e's lost 'is mum. I'm with WIRES, and I'll be lookin' after him until he's a bit older. He's lonely, and it's just easier to carry 'im around in me bra. So do youse mind if I feed him while we talk?”

I could almost see Constable Jack's heart thumping, but he was out of luck. Little Poss was an eye-dropper baby.

“So how can I help youse? What happened to Jim? No-one will tell me. The people at the office won't return me calls and I'm losin' me mind. Please, what happened?” She reached for the Kleenex and gave it a most unladylike trumpeting blow. She didn't weigh much, but there was nothing delicate about Miss Vanessa Blake.

“When was the last time you saw him? Can you think of anyone who would want to kill him?” I asked.

Unfortunately, blowing her nose hadn't helped her voice. “He left here last Friday morning ta go to a meetin' in the city and 'e said 'e might stay there because there was a footy thing on Sat'dy arvo and he had to see some people. I didn't go because me little girl 'ad a birthday party on Saturday and Poss came to me on Thursday an' I 'ad to look after him.” She stroked the little possum with purple acrylic talons. “I got a call on Fridy arvo from that bastard Sam Bradley and 'e told me that Jim was dead but as usual he was 'orrible and jest kept yellin' at me not to talk to no-one and not to touch any of Jim's stuff because he was comin' back from Jakarta and would see me in the mornin'. He's so fucking rude. He jest kept shoutin' at me.”

She wiped her eyes, took a deep breath, and continued. “Then the newspapers an' everyone started to call and I didn't know what to do an' they camped outside all night an' the police wouldn't do nuffink to make 'em piss off. At least when Bradley turned up they went away, but he wouldn't tell me what was happening. He just took all of Jim's stuff, well, all his papers and his laptop, and said ‘Don't say anything to anybody' an' disappeared. He looked really terrible, but.”

“What was in the papers? Do you know? Why did he remove them?” I asked.

“I dunno. I'm not interested in all that stuff, and Jim really didn't bring anyfink home. That's just Bradley being Bradley. He makes a big deal out of everyfink.

“I do know that Jim had some big deal coming up because Bradley would phone at all times of the night an' Jim said that 'e had a surprise for me for me birthday. That's next week, but I dunno what 'e was planning and I just miss 'im so much an' I want to know what's happening and no-one will tell me. I mean, am I going to be paid this month?” Another sniffle. Another honk.

She's just a simple soul, I thought. But then, she was probably a welcome relief after the other women in Jimbo's life. But how had he coped with listening to that voice for more than ten minutes? Was he deaf?

“We're working on exactly what happened,” I said. “How long were you with him? How did you meet?”

“Oh gosh, I'd known him for ages. I used ta work at The Crow and he used ta come in on Fridays with his son, Jace, who played tennis sometimes with me brother, who was Jimbo's driver at that time. Anyway, one day I 'ad a flat battery and 'im and Jace gave me a jump start, and that's really how I met 'im. He was just so nice and 'e was so tired, and then 'e started to come in to The Crow for drinks jest about every day an' we just talked an' talked. That's all. Then he asked me to help out wiv trainin' the cheerleaders, and then one night I invited him back to my place for somefink to eat. And that was it. Me daughter loved 'im and 'e bought us this place so that we could be together. I didn't care who 'e was. I wasn't interested in the chopper and the jet and 'is money. I just loved 'im. And now he's gone an' no-one will tell me wot's happening and wot's gunna happen to me.” She burst into tears again.

“Yeah, I know that 'e was married, and I know that a lot of people think I'm a moneyhungry slut an' I know that it sounds stupid when I say that 'e was gunna leave his wife for me, but 'e was. He hadn't lived with Jacqueline for over two years and he'd been tryin' to get her to sign a property settlement so 'e could get a divorce. But she wouldn't accept this and would just rip up the papers and throw 'em at him. You check with his lawyers – they'll tell you what was going on. She said that she was going to take 'im for every cent 'e 'ad and I know that she was behind all the 'orrible things that have been written about me. Well, it was either her or
that stuck up West Australian bitch. Or it might of been Lynnette.