Who Killed Jimbo Jameson? (14 page)

So I laced up my running shoes and took the problem to Centennial Park.

I like the park in the early morning. I like the quiet and the rabbits and the birds and I like watching the sun lighting up the city skyline through the trees. Of course, you have to stay out of the way of the juggernauts of lycra-clad cyclists who are convinced that they own the road, the park and the world, but I figure live and let live. That's because I'm not allowed to shoot them.

Once the endorphins kicked in life became clearer, simpler. I had to ambush him. I had to stalk him and engineer an accidental meeting that would get our relationship out of uniform and into a more informal setting. But so far, all I knew was that he lived at Bondi Beach and surfed every morning. He drank at the Icebergs or the Royal and watched the footy at Easts. I lived in Paddington, ran every morning, and usually drank in bed. He liked to talk about footy and surfing. I didn't. And what I had in mind had nothing to do with conversation.

I needed a Plan. Theoretically, we could bump into each other on the beach. I would be finishing off my early morning run with a quick dip. He would be carrying his board out of the surf. We would see each other – and I would finally get to see that bod of his – and somehow we would end up in his apartment eating croissants and sipping on fair trade coffee that he roasted and ground all for me. And then, he'd realise that all he wanted from life is what I can give him.

This meeting would have to take place on an RDO, or the night before, because my fantasy included a very thorough multiple-orgasmic session of hot steamy sex. My imagination sort of hit a brick wall there, because I couldn't or didn't want to work out how I would manage a relationship with him. Would he be OK to take direction from me in the bedroom as well as
the squad room, or would he feel emasculated? Would I have to modify my natural instincts to cater to his probable desire to dominate a female? On the other hand, he might like to be ordered around. Or he might hate it and call me a ballbreaker. Would he…Shit. I had fantasised all the way to the end of a relationship before I'd even managed to get him out of his boardshorts.

But The Plan could work. As soon as Phil fixed my car I would be able to drive to Bondi Beach and spring my Jack-trap. Meanwhile, I mentally ticked off what I needed for bait.

First, a new jogging wardrobe. My old Hanes t-shirts just weren't going to cut it, no matter how comfortable they were. This project was going to involve lycra and an industrial-strength bra that could double as a bikini top and magically fall off me on cue. New running shoes, of course.

Next, another session with the laser and a wax job to tidy up afterwards. Then my nails. What colour polish would be best? Gel. It doesn't chip. Gotta get those callouses scraped and work some heavy duty moisturiser into my huge feet. I'd have to get some white cotton socks to wear to bed so that the foot goop didn't ruin my sheets.

Which would have to be replaced. And pillows. I needed new pillows. Lots of them. Feather ones. The bedroom would have to be repainted. It would probably be best if I hired a decorator who could do one of those two-day blitzes. Perhaps I should move?

My head was in the decorating clouds when I jogged past a clump of trees and Old Faithful, the park's infamous flasher, jumped out in front of me, rudely snapping me back to reality.

Poor Old Faithful. He didn't know what hit him, but he'll never forget his trip to the police station.

I'm a detective, and I can be a very effective detective. Between filling in forms explaining Old Faithful's early-morning arrest, it didn't take me long to get my prey's address – that fabulous block of apartments on Notts Avenue – which told me that he probably surfed the southern end of Bondi Beach. So if I parked my car on Notts Avenue, did the return Bondi to Bronte run and had a swim after the run, I would maximise my chances of accidentally bumping into
Constable Jack, especially if I varied my arrival by ten minutes every day. This could work.

I booked a wax job, an emergency consultation with More Than a Handful, where they prescribed me a miraculously sexy sports bra, and found a couple of amazingly comfortable jogging shorts at Rebel Sports. My plan was to run in the bra and lycra shorts over a bikini bottom. All I had to do was kick off my shoes and socks, wriggle out of the shorts, and then run into the surf and, hopefully, into Jack. A fake tan on Thursday, feet and nails on Friday, and I'd be ready to go on Saturday. Yes, this was going to work.

The Jimbo Jameson case was taking up most of my time, dammit. The more I learned about him, the worse he got. He had been a truly horrible person. My Jack fantasy was the only thing that kept me going. If I closed my eyes all I would think about was Jimbo if I wasn't thinking about Jack. But why was Jace wriggling into my dreams? Where did that come from?

Phil the mechanic finally called to tell me that my car could be collected for a bargain price that brought tears to my eyes. But now my Jack-trap plan could be put into operation. I was waxed, tanned, smoothed, plucked, primped and primed for some serious drought-breaking action.

Saturday morning was perfect. Light cloud cover and a bit of an onshore wind, but that's good running weather. I pulled my hair into a really high, flippy ponytail, and applied tinted moisturiser and water-proof mascara to my freshly dyed eyelashes. Tinted lip gloss and two condoms in my security wrist-strap with emergency car key. Industrial-strength jogging camisole and black lycra shorts over a basic high-cut black bikini bottom that screamed “this woman is hot and fit and doesn't need to impress anyone”.

The gods were with me. There was a parking spot right at the top of the stairs to the beach, which gave me time to check out Jack's apartment. No sign of him, which theoretically meant that he was in the water. I surveyed the surfers with my trusty pair of binoculars, and was reasonably sure that I recognised his shoulders. I mean, all surfers look alike in their wetsuits,
but his silhouette was distinctive, especially as I'd been thinking about it all week.

So phase one of The Plan was falling into place. I skipped down the stairs to the walking track and gave myself up to the fresh salty air and soon the endorphins kicked in. I danced up the big stairs, cruised past Tamarama and was at Bronte in no time and the return run was over before I knew it. The Plan was flawless. Jack was riding a wave as I bopped down to the beach.

Yes. This was going to work. I kicked off my running shoes and socks and wriggled out of my shorts, making sure that I transferred my weight from leg to leg to maximise hip movements. Carefully not making direct eye contact with Jack, who was dropping off his board and hopefully looking at me, I turned my body sideways as I tightened my ponytail, giving him a good look at my tanned, toned belly and runner's arse.

Then, as if in slow motion – minus the Vangelis soundtrack – I ran into the water. Freezing, but we all have to suffer sometimes. Fearlessly, I ducked under a small breaker, and came up for air just in front of Jack. My brilliant Plan was working. I executed a perfect double-take, pretending surprise at seeing him, and again pulled at my ponytail to give him a front view of the previous side view and cold-water perky nipples.

And then, my surprised-to-see-you squeal turned into a scream, as my body was circled by a burning sword. Pain. White hot pain was wrapping around my thighs and my perfect butt was on fire.

Jack was beside me, dragging me to the shallows and splashing water at my thighs.

“Bluebottle. I've gotta get the stingers off your skin. Stand still, will you?” His face was level with my crotch, and my body was on fire, but this wasn't how it was supposed to be. The pain was excruciating. Worse than a taser. Worse than a whip.

“Oh fuck! Get it off me, get it off me!” My world was condensing into a grid of pain. Was this what hell was going to be like?

Jack was splashing water everywhere, but it wasn't putting out the flames that were now eating through to my bones. “Shh. You'll scare the fish.”

“I don't care if the fucking fish have nervous fucking breakdowns. I just need you to kill whatever it is that's killing me!”

“You've got a bluebottle wrapped around you, and you have to stand still so that I can pick off the stingers. So shut the fuck up and let me help you.” He was so sympathetic.

“Hey, Jacko's finally got his hands on a screamer.” I heard a raucous laugh coming from another surfer who was wrestling with Jack's abandoned board as well as his own.

“Fuck off, Matt. She's picked up a stinger.”

“Then piss on it, mate. Piss on it.”

My eyes widened. “Don't you dare.”

“I have no desire to die, and besides, that's an old wives' tale.” He looked into my painmaddened eyes. “Maddie, you're going to have to come up to my place and I'll get you under a hot shower. Do you think you can walk? Or do I have to carry you?”

Bits of The Plan were still tracking perfectly, even if other bits had gone horribly, terribly wrong. “I don't know. I don't care. I just want the pain to go away. Make the pain go awayyyy.” I was sobbing now.

“OK. Are those your shoes and clothes over there?”

I nodded.

“Great. Matt will bring them up, and I'll help you.” I felt a strong arm around my waist, and I was almost carried out of the water and onto the sand. The pain was increasing now, or perhaps I was going into shock.

I wish I could remember when Jack picked me up and carried me across the road and into his apartment, but I do remember yelling when he stood with me in the shower and turned on the hot water. He took the shower hose from the holder and sprayed my thighs, then turned me to focus on my butt. “Sorry about this, Maddie, but these have to go.” He pulled off my bikini bottom. “There are stingers on the fabric.” I was beyond embarrassment, but he was concentrating on rubbing my butt. And it hurt. My bum was on fire.

“Make some sugary tea, Matt,” he yelled. “You know how to make tea, don't you?” Then he handed me the shower hose. “Here, hang on to this. I have to get out of this wetsuit. Just keep the hot water on the sting, and if you feel woozy, sit down before you fall down.” He patted my arm. “I'll be back in a sec.”

I looked down at my legs, which were marked with raised red slashes, and I could only guess at what my arse looked like because I couldn't start to describe what it felt like. The hot water could have been helping, but I wasn't sure. What's the difference between stabbing red hot agony and searing molten lava pain? I just closed my eyes and tried to calm myself.

“I want you to keep that hot water on the stings for another five minutes. And drink this.” He handed me two Panadols and a cup of hot, sugary tea, which I drank obediently. “I hope the hot water lasts.”

He had a towel around his waist, and that was probably it because I hadn't heard him opening any drawers in his room. I closed my eyes and the thought of Constable Jack in just a towel took my mind off the pain. For the moment, at least. And then a wave of nausea washed over me, and I slid down the wall and into oblivion.