Who Killed Jimbo Jameson? (4 page)

“I want that stupid dog-fucking bitch thrown out of the house at Bowral. No, no. She can keep the house because it's probably flea-infested, but she has to promise that she will never, ever, ever call herself Mrs Jameson and she has to promise that she will never come near me again and she can't come to the funeral. I hate her and I hate her rosary beads and I hate her stupid face with that stupid smile and I hate her stupid dogs.

“And then, we have to get rid of that stupid Miss Vicky. Why did she marry him? She's going to disappear back to Boganville. Poof! She's gone. Bye-bye, Vicky-babe. It was fun, but you have to go now. Did you know that she can't have babies anymore? So sad. She had the chance, and she blew it. Sad Miss Vicky.”

I worked it out. She was talking about Jimbo's ex-wives. The bitch was Bethany. She was wife number one. Miss Vicky must be Victoria Roberts. I'd forgotten that they had been married. I wasn't sure who the pole-dancer was, but I was taking notes now. Jacqueline just kept on drinking, and kept on talking.

“And what will we do about our old friend, Livvy? Where is she now? Come out, come out, wherever you are, Olivia. Didn't she fall off a mountain, but even that insipid do-goody
butter-wouldn't-melt-in-her-mouth Mama Tessa couldn't put that Humpty back together again. I wonder if she bounced when she fell on her arse? Can someone please tell me where she is so that I can push her off a mountain and do it properly? Didn't she have a son stashed away somewhere? God, she must be old now. Fat, old ex-wives in wheelchairs can't come to the funeral, so she can't come. I don't like her and she can't come.

“Who have I forgotten? The actweth with the lithp? Where is she now? What about the ghost bat? Wasn't she fun? What was her name? And I forgot that old slapper from Perth. She tried and she tried and never could reel him in, could she? And wasn't there a French slut with a brat? What happened to her? I can't remember her name but I think it had something to do with strawberries or flowers or…” We had a most educational twenty-minute trip back to Camp Cove. Jacqueline had finished off the bottle by the time we were driving through Vaucluse and I had five pages of notes that I would have to work through. I suppose it must be hard to be the umpteenth wife, but I couldn't help but remember the old saying that when a man marries his mistress he creates a job opportunity.

I didn't think that Jacqueline had anything to do with Jimbo's death. She was genuinely surprised and happy that he was dead, but if any of her predecessors turned up dead she'd go straight to the top of the list of suspects.

“It's going to take both of us to get her inside,” I murmured to Jack.

“She's all yours. I'm not letting her get her hands on me again.” He hissed. “She's pissed and she's horny. She grabbed my arse back at the morgue and those nails are sharp.”

Lucky bitch, I thought. That was yet another reason to dislike her. And I bet that arse was rock hard.

“OK, I'll get her. You clear out the back seat. This car is going to smell like a pub tomorrow.”

I opened the rear car door and she fell out. I suppose I should have checked that she wasn't leaning on it before I opened it. Oops. Unfortunately, the only witness was a teenage boy walking his dog. A teenage boy with a mobile phone. A mobile phone with a camera. And a flash. Hopefully, he'll be able to sell that happy snap.

I picked her up and walked her to the gate and buzzed for it to open. Peter Gates came out, put his arm around her skinny shoulders and took control.

“Thanks for getting her home, detective. It's been a long day, and she needs some peace
and quiet. I'll see to it that she gets it.” Constable Jack followed us inside, holding onto her bag, empty bottles and glasses.

“For fuck's sake, Peter, pour me a drink.” The grieving widow threw her wedding ring across the room and picked up the telephone. “I've got to get out of here.”

The sounds of Kool and the Gang's “Celebration” were pumping across Camp Cove as we turned back towards the city and reality.

“Well, that was an interesting day. What now?”

I'd like to rip your clothes off and tie you to the bed and pour chocolate sauce and sprinkles all over your body.

I checked my phone messages. “Eat something. Get some sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a long one. The Chief wants us there at nine.”

“Shit. Where can I drop you off, then?”

“Five Ways will be fine.”

“That's a great area. I like the pub there.”

“The Royal?”

“I've been there a few times with my mates. Good food upstairs, too.”

“Thanks for reminding me. I'm famished. Why don't we grab something to eat at the pub?” (
“Will you walk into my parlour?” said the Spider to the Fly.
) He turned to me and smiled. “Best suggestion I've heard all day. I need something long and cold.”

Gotcha.

“And that's the best suggestion I've heard all day,” I echoed.

‘Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy;

The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,

And I've a many curious things to shew when you are there
.

“Upstairs dining room? Or the front bar?”

“Downstairs. Some of my mates drink there on Friday night.” Ah, so he was already almost a regular.

“Drive on, partner. You know the way.” The Royal at Paddington is an institution. It's been there forever and I used to drink there in my twenties. Noisy, usually packed and big television screens everywhere. To be truthful, I'm think I'm over loud pubs, but the beer was
cold, the sliders and hot chippies delicious, and the company was stimulating. The closer I got to Constable Jack, the more stimulated I became. He, on the other hand, was in his very relaxed blokey element. He introduced me to two of his friends and soon the conversation turned from Jimbo and his death towards surfing. And surfing is not my strong point. Yes, I like the water, but I've never had the time or inclination to spend hours bobbing up and down on a plank of wood, waiting for the elements to send me a surge of water that will transport me back to the beach so that I can paddle back out and do it all again. It's just never happened for me. I prefer to run.

Three beers later, I bailed out. “See you tomorrow, Jack. Nine o'clock. Can you pick me up at the corner on your way through?”

I will spin my web while I wait for a chance to pounce.

chapter five.

Constable Jack's hair was still wet when he picked me up in the morning, but mine was swinging clean and poufy. Eye make-up? Check. Matching bra and knickers and no holes in my socks? Check. That beauty routine was really going to take some getting used to, but I'm sure I saw a fleeting look of appreciation from Jack as I walked over to the car.

A Strike Force had been formed overnight and we had to sit through two hours of strategy and organisation and arguments over who was going to do what, with a caution from the heavens to tread carefully. Jimbo had strong political connections and I was astounded to learn that the Police Commissioner himself had made the “death knock” visit to Jacqueline.

The Jimbo Jameson death threat file had been dusted off and was being taken seriously. Again. There was a fatwah which was being viewed as a possible angle, but I don't think that anyone knew where to start investigating that one and I was relieved that someone else would be assigned that nightmare. Then there were three bookies, a really pissed off trainer and two jockeys representing the racing industry in the list of suspects. A veteran television journalist had a possible revenge motive. He'd been beaten to a pulp years ago and Jimbo had been a suspect with an unbreakable alibi. A mining heiress had already referred us to her usual legal firm and if she ran true to form I knew it would be years before she even answered a single question. And, of course, there were the women. There were a lot of women with a motive to kill him.

I'd been assigned the wives. Which meant that I had a long list of people to talk to. There was Bethany, who was Wife Number One. She lived in Bowral and I figured she must be the dog lady. Next on the list was Lynnette, who married him more than once or twice and we weren't sure where she was. Then there was Olivia, who'd been living in America for years, but we could Skype that one. She was a paraplegic.

Victoria Roberts was married to him for about five minutes, but she was on the list too. Then there was Tessa Martyn, a doctor; DFAT was checking her whereabouts because she was climbing a mountain somewhere in Bhutan.

Of course, Anna Jameson was a well-known socialite and she had three kids with him. I couldn't wait to talk to her.

Although she wasn't strictly a wife, Vanessa was Jimbo's last mistress so she was included in the list. We thought that she must have been the skinny pole-dancer who Jacqueline wanted fired. We were also aware of a French woman who had a brief relationship with him and there was a daughter in France. I tried volunteering to fly to Paris to interview them, but that didn't work. Hot damn. That would have been fun.

We were working on the identity of the Ghost Bat that Jacqueline had mentioned, and still had to find the actress with a lisp. The West Australian slapper who couldn't land her fish had turned out to be the daughter of a really big shot, so her interview was being handled by Perth. Yet again, I cursed Marco for not being here. He could charm the truth out of women, whereas I want to wring it out.

Despite Constable Jack being such a pretty boy, I wasn't sure how much help he was going to be. On the other hand, my working environment was certainly going to look better until Marco returned.

Marco is no oil painting, but he'd taught me all I know. He knows everyone. Knows everything. He's done it all, too. Twice. And now he was in Rome with his latest girlfriend, who didn't deserve him. I mean it. No-one could possibly deserve Marco. He smokes. He drinks. He follows the ponies. He plays hard and he likes his women young. Very young. This one had just taken the “P” plates off her car, which made her about twenty. He was two years older than her father, which explains why Marco took extra care crossing the road sometimes at night. Daddy was not happy.

chapter six.

Our first interview was with the TenTen CEO, Sam Bradley, a belligerent bully, famous for his temper, foul language and prodigious drinking ability.

His flight from Bangkok was late, and he was still taking it out on his driver as they rolled up to the deserted TenTen offices. He looked at me as if I had crawled out from under his shoe.

And things went downhill from there.

Bradley was sweaty, breathing heavily as he paced the room. “Why couldn't that arsehole behave himself for two more weeks? Two more weeks! Oh, no. He has to get himself fucking shot!

“Jimbo's dead. D.E.A.D. and I need answers from you. I can't tell you anything because I don't know what happened because no-one knows what happened because either you fucking cops can't make up your fucking minds or you're playing fucking games. All I've been told is that someone shot him and an investigation is under way which is going to take for fucking ever because the whole fucking world wants to shoot him. Fuck! I wish I'd shot him. I should have shot him years ago.

“Give me time to get everyone in here and you can talk to anyone you like. Come back tomorrow at 3.30pm. Now, piss off and let me get on with what I have to do.”

Happily, Bradley. Happily.

Ears ringing, we escaped from Bradley's office and reported to Goulburn Street for another update which was mercifully short. Were we the only detectives who work on Saturday, or were we just the stupid ones who couldn't come up with an excuse?

“So what are you doing tonight, Maddie? Anything interesting?”

I leant back and closed my eyes – fantasy is so much more interesting than reality. What I would like to do is spend the night with a chocolate cake and you and a bottle of champagne and you and a pair of handcuffs. And you. But what did I say? “Big Saturday night dinner date, Jack,” I lied. “What about you?”

“Well, I'm going to get in a wave and then meet up at The Royal for a couple of beers. A few of my mates are in town, so we'll just hang and see what happens.”

“Mmm. Sounds good to me,” I hinted.

And reeled him in. “Well, you should check it out after your dinner. We'll probably be in the front bar again.”

Gotcha. Now, I had something to live for. “Yeah, I might see you. If not, why don't you give me a lift tomorrow morning?” Mustn't sound too keen. Too desperate. I checked my phone. Ten messages, two from my snitch, Basil. Bugger.

And wasn't it better if I'm not free on a Saturday night? Let him think that I've got someone? I can play hard to get. I know I can. Even if it meant spending Saturday night by myself.

Chicken Pad Thai with extra satay sauce went well with the last cold beer from my depressingly empty refrigerator. I checked my phone messages and crawled into my empty bed after setting the alarm half an hour earlier than usual.

chapter seven.

I ran hard around Darling Point in the morning, then a long shower cooled me down and I found some clean undies. I dragged on my faithful black microfibre pants and the cream cashmere jumper that Marco gave me for Christmas, twisted my hair up and squeezed out the last of the tinted moisturiser. Mascara and lip-gloss helped a bit, but that's as much as I can manage on a working Sunday.

I texted Constable Jack to meet me for my usual morning coffee, and he was waiting for me at the Tropicana, chatting easily with Dr Chris and a pretty young thing whose face I couldn't quite place. Chris pulled up a chair for me. “You remember Brett, don't you? You talked to him at the hotel on Friday. He's the duty manager.”

Brett removed his sunglasses and blinked in the sunlight, fluttering his long dark eyelashes and impossibly blue eyes. Contacts? “I've been telling your friend Jack that things have been really insane at work. Like everyone wants to see the room but it's still locked up until the forensic guys and special cleaners are finished and management is running around like telling everyone not to talk to anyone about it. And oh my god, Security has gone ballistic because they don't have any CCTV coverage because the cameras on the fifth floor and the lift were sprayed over on Thursday night and there's no way to see who was there on Friday.”