Who Killed Jimbo Jameson? (5 page)

He sipped his café latte and patted his lips delicately with a paper napkin. “So what do you think? I reckon this was most definitely a very professional hit. Someone knew exactly what he was doing.”

“Oh, you've been watching too much ‘Law and Order' again, haven't you, Brett?” Dr Chris patted Brett's thigh for two seconds too long. “I'm sure that Maddie has already worked that out.”

Oh great. Now we have either karma or the universe sending a professional hit man to do the dirty work. And why hadn't I been told that the cameras had been painted out? I ordered another coffee to go and headed to the car with Jack, who looked disgustingly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. And why was his hair always still wet in the mornings? Did he come straight from the beach? If I licked him, would he be salty?

Concentrate, Madison.

Calls had been made to Macquarie Street, the incumbent Police Minister's Sunday lunch was ruined and the Coroner had been persuaded to fast-track the autopsy. Grave assurances were made that the police were pursuing information received and the murderer would be apprehended shortly. Rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb. The internet was on fire with Jimbo jokes, videos, photoshopped photographs and rumours. Lots of rumours.

Ex-wives and girlfriends had been ambushed by news teams for teary interviews, although Lynnette couldn't be found and her agent was uncharacteristically quiet. Three women had come forward in time for the Sunday newspaper copy deadlines, each claiming to have been married to Jimbo, and one had a Tahitian wedding certificate to prove it. The other two had sold their Bali beach wedding photos to the highest bidder, announcing that their vows of undying love had been made to the universe and did not require a piece of paper.

I spent the two hours en route to Bowral catching up with the Sunday newspapers and trying to get back into last night's Constable Jack dream. The object of my fantasy was blissfully unaware of the carnal delights being played out behind my sunglasses.

chapter eight.

I kill cactus, so the sight of Bethany Jameson's garden was intimidating and Bethany Jameson was sicky-icky nice.

She stooped to pick up the morning paper from a bed of hydrangeas. A wet nose snuffled against her ear, and she hooted, “You've been eating Snappy Tom again, haven't you, Trigger? Your breath is terrible. Get away!”

Standing up, she stretched her back and looked down, but not far down, into the adoring brown eyes. “Come on, let's get lunch for everyone.” The dog followed, his great tongue lolling, tail wagging, just happy to be with her, and we tagged along. Another smaller, finer lady dog waddled towards her, her belly stretched tight. “Are we having our babies today, Petal?” The bitch shoved her head against the woman's stomach, transferring wet spider web and chook food to Beth's worn pair of jeans. “Where have you been, mummy girl? Oh, will you please stay away from that rooster.”

We followed Bethany into the kitchen, where she removed two lamb shanks from the refrigerator. The dogs took them in their huge jaws and excitedly took their breakfast outside. “One day they will go straight through that wire door,” she murmured as she poured boiling water into a blue and white striped teapot and set out cups and saucers.

I looked around the open-plan country kitchen which led to a large living area. The walls were decorated with photographs, landscapes, show ribbons and crosses. Lots of crosses in all sizes and finishes. Rosary beads spilling out of pretty saucers. The photographs were mainly of a boy with a cheeky grin growing into a man: holding a football, covered in puppies, finishing what looked like a City to Surf race, in a graduation gown complete with diploma and mortarboard, flanked by his mother and a younger Jimbo. No wedding photos. Was this her son? Whoever he was, he looked pretty good to me. I especially liked the one of him next to a swimming pool with a medal around his neck. Athletic body. Dark hair. Dark eyes. White teeth. Wicked smile. I picked up a frame and looked to Bethany.

She smiled proudly. “That's Jace, my son. He's been in South America.”

Almost on cue, her mobile phone called for her attention, “Ooh, it's him.” She walked outside to talk to him, but I could still hear clearly. “Good morning, my favourite son. Or it
was a good morning right up until the police arrived to talk to me.” She smiled at me. “No, no, they're very nice. But they seem to think that I would have an idea as to who has killed your father. Honestly, this is the end. But how are you, my darling boy? The Lord has brought you safely back to me. How was Machu Picchu? How was Rio?”

I eavesdropped as we sipped tea and watched the dog drag a blanket onto the veranda lounge.

“Jace, I have to go. I think Petal is going to have her puppies soon and I have to get her into her box before she destroys the furniture. Can you pick up some chicken for sandwiches? And we can go to Mass tomorrow morning. Father Jim will be so happy to see you and I won't have to face everyone alone. I love you.” She hit the red button, placed the phone in her jeans pocket and whispered, “And I hate you, Jimbo Jameson. I really, really hate you.” I could see her trembling as she brushed her hair back from her face. She took a deep breath, turned to me and smiled with an obvious effort.

“So how can I help you, detective? What can I tell you?” She walked over to the table and lit a cigarette. “But first, exactly how did he die? Please tell me. Was it quick? Did he suffer?”

For a Christian woman, Mrs Bethany Jameson wasn't big on forgiveness or mercy. And she wanted all the details. She positively enjoyed the details, and then she detailed her ex-husband's failings. Even the high-pitched squeal of a new-born puppy didn't slow down her litany of Jimbo's atrocities, although she did move outside to watch the bitch. Seven puppies later, I had a notebook full of Biblical quotes of vengeance and retribution. She certainly had the motive, but unless the devil made her do it, I didn't think Bethany Jameson could break the seventh commandment.

Bethany fussed around the puppy box and smiled happily. “I'm sorry that I haven't been much help to you, detective. And thank you for being so understanding.” She stood, and walked into the kitchen. “Can you stay for lunch? Jace should be here any minute with some chicken and bread.”

I looked for Constable Jack, who was making a fuss of the big male dog. We had a threehour drive ahead of us, and the thought of a chicken sandwich was infinitely more appealing than a hamburger from Greasy Joe's.

“Thank you, we'd appreciate that, if it's not too much trouble.”

“Nonsense, it's no trouble. And you can talk to Jace. Not that he'd know anything about murder or anything like that.”

I walked over to Jack, whose face was now being licked by the huge dog. Would he mind if I did that to him? I'd be very thorough, very systematic and methodical. And my breath would be better, too. Another Constable Jack fantasy to add to my collection.

“The son should arrive soon, so we're staying for lunch, which will give me a chance to talk to him. He might have some ideas.”

“Great. I'll just stay here with the pups. Four boys, three girls. I wish I could keep one of them, but I don't think a Great Dane would fit in my apartment.”

I walked back to talk with Beth, who was putting together a cheese and fruit platter. “Jace just loves his fruit and cheese. Some children like lollies, but Jace couldn't get enough of peaches and mandarins and strawberries. He's always looked after his body.”

Mmmm. I could see that in the photographs. “Does he still swim?” I made polite conversation.

“Not competitively. I think he only swims for fun now. He dances to keep fit and he's really good at it. That's why he was in Rio. He met a lovely girl who was a dancer, and she got him interested in…” She was interrupted by the barking of the dogs, followed by the growl of a motorcycle.

He was wearing motorcycle boots and leathers. Old leathers that were scratched and dusty and clearly had been a part of him for years. My first glimpse of John Charles Jameson aka Jace was from behind: he had unbuckled his helmet and was lifting it from his head. Broad back. Tight butt. Dark sweaty hair that had been flattened by the helmet. On him it looked good.

He bent over to unbuckle a pannier and brought out a couple of shopping bags, one containing a broken French loaf. So he wasn't perfect. I wasn't going to complain. And then he turned around as he unzipped his leather jacket with one hand. Hallelujah.

John Charles Jameson was a god. He smiled at his mother, flashing magnificent white, even teeth and exuding health and enthusiasm and there was fire in his eyes. He ambled over to Bethany and lifted her up, ignoring her squealing protestations. Enthusiasm is a wonderful thing in a man And stamina. And a sense of humour.

Lunch was a blur for me. I didn't know where to look: Jace to my left, or Constable Jack to my right. The conversation flowed easily with no real input from me – Jack took the lead and
got Jace talking about his father. He was sad but philosophical.

“I think it's a miracle that he lasted as long as he did. I know that lots of people said they wanted to kill him, and Lynnette tried to but missed. God knows I wanted to a couple of times.”

Beth patted him on the arm and made soothing noises.

“It was hard to be the son of Jimbo Jameson, especially as he wasn't around much. Mum tried to protect me, but there was a time when I'd just get drunk and angry, or drunk and depressed, or just drunk. He was proud when I was winning medals for swimming or running, but he called me a poof when I got interested in dancing, which I love. I just wanted him to love me, but I don't think he's capable of real, lasting love. Not the kind that a young kid needs. He just doesn't have the attention span.”

For a minute I could see a hurt, lonely little boy who just wanted his father to love him. Yes, he'd grown up and was now dressed in leather and riding a Harley, but the pain was still there. And I could see that Beth was looking intently at her son. Her face was a mask. What had she gone through to protect him?

Jack shifted in his seat. “Lynnette. You said that she had already tried to kill him, but missed. What does that mean?”

“Lynnette was married to Dad and they were living in Hong Kong. He came home late one night and she thought he was a burglar and she shot him. It was a mistake. She didn't mean it.”

“Do you know if she still has a gun?” I had to ask.

“That's not the sort of conversation we have on the rare instances when we meet, detective. It's hard enough as it is, and I'm not sure how to ask ‘and do you still have the gun that you shot my father with?'” He crossed his eyes and grimaced.

“I see your point, Jace. But do you think she would have another try?”

Bethany held up her hand. “No, you can't ask him that. He has no way of knowing what that revolting woman is doing or not doing. She's caused us enough pain. Why don't you ask her yourself? She should be easy to find. Just check out every bar within a 200 metre radius of her house. She does her best work on her knees, and that's about as far as she can crawl.” Wow. Game, set and match to Saint Bethany.

This had gone on for long enough. “Well, thank you for your help, Mrs Jameson. Jace, it was
a pleasure. We'll be in touch if we have any questions.” I stood up.

So did Jace. He wasn't quite as tall as Constable Jack, but it was close. “Well, detective, if you need to contact me, here's my card. I'm living at the Intercontinental for a while. If you need me.” He shook my hand, holding it for just a second too long, but I couldn't prove it. There's no regulation length for a professional handshake. Dammit.

My hand tingled all the way to Mittagong. Constable Jack was busy on the radio, teeing up our talk with the senior management of TenTen Holdings.

chapter nine.

By 4.30pm on Sunday the CEO of TenTen, Sam Bradley, clearly had a full-blown migraine as he addressed the room filled with accountants, lawyers, spin doctors and corporate suits.

“Gentlemen, thank you for coming here tonight. I've spoken with many of you since Friday and appreciate your loyalty. First of all, we have two members of the state's finest here with us, so if you have any idea of who could have killed Jimbo, please talk to them after this meeting.

“Tomorrow will be hard for all of us, because we don't know which way the market will go after Friday afternoon's dive. I want to assure you that we have a solid succession plan and it will be business as usual tomorrow. I need not tell you that we have to present a united front, and I know that Jimbo…” He droned on, oblivious to the shuffling feet and soft coughs. “We have prepared a release for the Stock Exchange and the press, and there will be a Q & A sheet for you all so that we are all singing the same song. Now, are there any questions? Bob?” He pointed to a figure at the back of the room.

“So what happened, Sam?” Not exactly the most original question of the day, but everyone was quiet waiting for the answer.

“The post-mortem will be held as soon as possible. All I know so far is that he was shot three times by a person or persons unknown. Don't know why. We think that someone was with him at the time, but so far the police have come up with fucking nothing. Zilch. We just have to wait for them to do their fucking jobs. And meanwhile, we have to do our jobs, which is to keep TenTen on fucking track.”

“Yeah, but what happens with the company? Who gets to control the voting? What if Jace takes the reins? What if one of the girls starts to think that she knows how to run a company? What if Jacs rocks the boat?” There was more interest now, as the spectre of loss of control of the voting stock surfaced. I could see them thinking: was now the time to jump? Or wait until the bonuses were announced? That is, if there were any profits left to divvy up.

My time with the Fraud Squad taught me that corporate loyalty can be tightly linked to corporate bonuses, and private school fees can't be paid by a corporate loyalty cheque. On the other hand, some might see Friday's share price dip as an opportunity to buy. But then, I've never really understood the stock market.