Who Killed Jimbo Jameson? (20 page)

“I don't need his money because I have my own. I read too much. I love my mother and every one of her bloody dogs. I'm a lapsed vegetarian. I'm HIV negative and I really hope you are too because I hate frangers. I'm a reformed smoker but every now and then I crack and light up a cigar. I learned to tango in Buenos Aires years ago and I take classes with the Sydney Dance Theatre whenever I can because I enjoy it and it feels good to move to music. Which makes up for the not singing thing. I jog when I can and one day I'll run a marathon. I love ‘South Park', ‘Blackadder' and anything on the History Channel. I have two godsons and I take my responsibilities very seriously, even though I'm an atheist.” He grimaced. “Oh, and please don't tell my mother because that would break her heart.

“I'm into serial monogamy but that hasn't been working lately because I've made some bloody stupid choices, which includes the realisation that I groped my brother who is now my
sister in Rio, and that's going to take some pretty intensive therapy to get over. You've seen Gabbie, so I hope you can understand my confusion because I'm pretty freaked out. But that's my problem and I'll deal with it. I'm not interested in wishy-washy women. I was intrigued when I met you at Bowral, and then on Thursday I saw you outside the church and your hair was flying in the wind and you were magnificent and strong and completely in control. And you looked so damned fuckable.” He kissed me on my forehead. “I had a very dirty dream on Thursday night that involved someone who looked remarkably like you, so when I saw you in the bar downstairs I seized the day, as they say in the classics.

“Now,” he reached out to the belt of my dressing-gown and pulled me to him, “Where were we? I was about to remove this completely unnecessary item of clothing.” He undid the ties, very, very slowly and I felt my body responding. “We have exactly two hours until my new Chief Operating Officer is coming here, and then I have to get to the airport.”

chapter thirty three.

One hour and forty-five minutes and two condoms later, I did the walk of shame to the taxi rank, and fifteen minutes later I was back to reality and my bedroom. I stripped off my clothes and climbed into a cleanish pair of jeans and a t-shirt that I bought in Bali years ago and headed off for coffee and something on toast. No shower. I didn't want to wash off Jace.

There was the slightest chill in the air and the leaves on the plane trees were starting to look tired. My head was in the Jace Jameson clouds as I walked past the hospital entrance so I didn't notice Dr Chris until he patted me on the bum.

“Oh dear girl. Someone's had a good night. I can tell. You're vibrating on an entirely different wavelength. Look at you! Was it Surfer Boy? Talk to me, darling. You positively reek of hot, dirty sex and I have to know everything you did.”

“Fuck off, Chris. I didn't know you were a gynaecologist.”

“Eww. Never. But I can tell when someone has been very naughty. So, where is Surfer Boy?” Right on cue, my phone rang.

“Hi Jack. How's the board? Are you still at Avalon?”

Chris was staring at me and I could feel my ears going red. My face was burning as I put my phone back in my pocket, and Chris grinned as he gave me a big, big hug that lifted me off the ground. I squealed and tried to regain a measure of composure. And failed. All I could do was laugh as we walked hand in hand down Darlinghurst Road.

Chris was thoroughly enjoying himself. “So Surfer Boy is out of town and my Maddie has been a very bad girl. Oh, I'm so proud of you. Sit down and tell me all about it. You can sit down, can't you? Your tushy has been through a lot lately, hasn't it? And I can write you a prescription for that beard rash if you like.” His finger traced around my lips and chin. “Regular size for what I can see, or do you need the king-size tube for some other bits that aren't for public display?”

I punched him in the arm. “Fuck off, Chris. This is complicated, so keep it to yourself and no-one will get hurt.”

“Pinky promise. This will be our secret, gorgeous girl. Now, you just sit there very carefully and I'll wait on you, and then you have to tell me everything. Who was he? What's he like?
What does he like? Would he be interested in a threesie? What did you do? Oh my god, I need details.”

“First, can you tell me how Ray Bradley is? I think he's your newest patient.”

“Bradley? He'll be OK. He needs to change his life if he wants to keep it. That man's lucky to be alive, even if I do pat myself on the back. He's in ICU. How do you know about him?”

“I've had the dubious pleasure of interviewing him and he was at Jimbo's funeral. One of the pallbearers.”

“Oh that was him? I saw something about the body in the gutter on telly, but the sound was turned off and I was on my way to theatre. Did a dog really piss on the body?”

“It was a disaster. What I can't understand is why Bradbury would be acting as a pallbearer. Every time I've seen him his face has been purple, and he must have known that he had a problem.”

“Oh, he knew he had heart problems. And more. His ticker was a time-bomb, as we say in the business.”

“I heard that he found out on Thursday morning that his daughter and Jimbo had been about to move in together. She was already in the house, and he was just waiting to clear his romantic decks, so to speak. So why on earth did he insist on being a pallbearer for a dirty old man who was screwing his daughter? I just don't understand men.”

“It was business. Just business. I see it so many times. I'll bet you that Bradley put up with Jimbo and his carrying-on because he was paid to. And even though he must have been furious about his daughter, he would have gone ahead with the PR exercise of being pallbearer to maintain a façade of “business as usual”. And “business as usual” has nearly killed him.”

“Poor bastard.”

“Poor rich bastard. And it's about time that he retired and started to spend all that money before it's too late.” Chris wasn't joking. “When he wakes up I'm going to suggest he takes a long ocean cruise and leave his mobile phone and computer behind.”

“He's another Jimbo victim.”

“Change of subject. So who told you that I was treating Bradley?”

“Jameson's son, Jace.” I blushed, dammit.

“Look at me and say that again, Miss Madison.” Blue sparkling eyes peered into mine.

I couldn't look at him.

“Ohhhh. You are terrible, Muriel. What happened to Surfer Boy?”

“Jack is breaking in a new board up at Avalon, and I was thirsty and had a drink at the InterCon It just happened, Chris. You know how it is. He was there and I was there and then we were in bed and then it was morning.”

“Oh my god, you didn't? You did? Oh you lucky thing. I've seen him around. He takes dance classes at…oh shit…do you mean to tell me he's not gay?”

Two macchiatos later, a disappointed Chris had to get back to the hospital and I had a whole afternoon to myself. Boo wasn't answering her phone, but that wasn't anything out of the ordinary. I walked and shopped my way up Oxford Street to the Paddington Markets. Undies. Makeup. Shoes. And all on sale, so the more I spent the more I saved.

I wandered aimlessly through the markets, loving the colour, the crazy stuff and the beautiful stuff, the jewellery, the bags, the clothes and the characters who dream up the fantasies that they sell every Saturday.

The markets are held in the grounds of my old school and the adjoining church and so much has changed, and yet it's still the same. Mr Mather's Tree is still there. I used to eat my Vegemite sandwiches on the bench under that old tree, so I ate my fresh corn on a stick and a sausage and onions on a roll with barbeque sauce and watched the kids swing on the disturbingly sanitised and safe play gym with the “soft landing” rubber base. No chance of breaking a nail, let alone an arm. Feeling old, I wandered back into the crowd and stocked up on homemade jams and mixed nuts. And two bags of those delicious chocolate-dipped freeze-dried strawberries that are a sure-fire cure for everything from ingrown toenails to depression to the one a.m. blahs. The fortune-tellers had set up, and even though my rational brain knows that they are a waste of time and money, sometimes my fuck-fried brain needs help to sort out what I'm doing and what's going to happen to me. Nothing predicted had actually happened, but I live in hope.

Madam Charlotte took one look at my hand and frowned, then smirked. “Oh my dear, your love line is very confused. I see that you have some decisions to make, haven't you?” This was the same woman who sat at the same table three months ago and told me that I was essentially convent material, but she didn't seem to remember that.

“I see two men; one fair, with water all around him, and one with brown eyes. He's
surrounded by air. They're very different, aren't they?” She patted my hand and smiled. “So tell me, dear. Which one were you with last night?”

“How can you tell that?” I asked.

“I can smell him on your hands and in your hair, dear. And I can see it in your face. You're worried about what you're going to do, aren't you?”

Bloody hell. Everyone can see that I've been fucked stupid. I'm screaming “I'm a slut” to an entire postcode.

I bought a big floppy hat and the biggest pair of sunglasses I could find and walked back home, taking care not to look at my reflection in the shop windows. Bert's empty cage was waiting for me in my empty house, reminding me of my poor parenting and housekeeping skills.

I threw the swag of shopping bags on my bed, not seeing the dead rat until it was too late. No head this time, and my sheets were a mess. I shuddered as I picked it up. Is this a message from the universe that I'm going to have to pay for being such a fuck-slut?

I piled the bed linen into the washing machine and hit the hot wash button with the extra-long option, then burst into tears. Sniffling, I put the body in the garbage bin and then shuffled over to the bottle shop for two six-packs of beer and some of those delicious toffee-covered macadamia nuts dipped in chocolate to go with the chocolate dipped freeze-dried strawberries. The washing machine was still working its way through the extra-long wash cycle, so I turned on the telly to drown out the noise. Wrapping myself in my robe, I curled up in the foetal position in my bed and sucked on icy cold Coronas until I fell asleep.

My bedroom was dark when I woke up, with a headache and stiff. Why is it that different men use my muscles differently? The fuck-buddy is all enthusiasm and energy and is pretty straight-forward if you forget the banana, but Jace was different. He knew things. He knew how to use his body and his imagination and there was a darkness to him. He liked to talk but he wasn't up himself. He was deep.

I padded around the apartment, piled the sheets into the dryer, inspected the empty refrigerator, gave up and resigned myself to a trip to the supermarket. Bugger.

I paid through the nose for a survival load of absolute necessities and lugged them back home via the bottle shop. Saturday night thrill-seekers from the suburbs were drifting into the
pubs and restaurants for a taste of life on the wild side. Where had the day gone? And where was Jack? Wasn't he supposed to be back by now? I checked my phone again: two missed calls from Boo, but none from Jack. Where was he? I had to put him on the back-burner for a couple of days or until I worked out what I wanted to do.

Holding a chicken leg in my teeth, I punched in Jack's number.

“Helloooo.”

It was Boo's voice.

chapter thirty four.

Boo! Why was she answering Jack's phone? He said that he had spent the night at Avalon so that he could catch an early morning surf, so why was she there? That was why she didn't answer her phone when I called her. She was too busy screwing him on his new surfboard. Did she “accidentally” bump into him when she took an impromptu forty-minute minute drive to Avalon Beach today? Or did she “accidentally” drive to Avalon last night, “accidentally” bump into him at the beach, and then “accidentally” bump uglies all night? My rat-fink bubblebrained slag troll knob-jockey sister. My sluttish treacherous man-eating little sister. She stole my silk shirt and my green eyeshadow and now she'd stolen my Constable Jack. And she was too bloody short for him.

“Hello?” Is that all she could say? Yeah, after a night with him that was probably all she could manage. She was incapable of speech. Probably had a dislocated jaw. And if she didn't, she was going to have one ten seconds after I tracked her down.

I grabbed the packet of Montes and a bottle of beer and switched on the television. It was just another Saturday night for me. Pissed, pissed off and alone. At least chocolate never disappoints.

My dreams were confused and the noises from the street combined to cheat me of sleep. Dreams of Jack and Jace and roulette wheels and laughing demons tormented me. Finally, the sun came up and I gave up on the idea of getting back to sleep. I stretched, noticed that my muscles weren't hurting so much, and stepped out of bed onto something squishy. With a very girly squeal, I lifted my foot and peeked down. Another fucking rat. No tail this time. Very dead. Slightly squashed now. How does that bloody cat get in?

chapter thirty five.

My thoughts were everywhere and my body was floating way, way up in the clouds. I closed my eyes, hoping to bring order to chaos.

I was an idiot. My thinking had been out of focus. I'd been caught up in the Jimbo Jameson circus and the race to get through the list of suspects and was definitely missing something important but I couldn't put my finger on it. And I'd been too busy fucking my brains out instead of using them.

So I went back to square one.

What did I know for sure? Three people were dead. Were they connected? And if so, how?

So what had we missed? What had I missed?

Basil had told me that the Melbourne paid hit was a two-fer but I hadn't taken him seriously because he was Basil and I was pissed. I should have listened.