Who Killed Jimbo Jameson? (16 page)

“So how is the case going?” She changed the subject.

“Slowly. We met Lynnette yesterday.”

“How does she look?”

“Pretty good, all things considered. Just a bit puffy, but I think she got her money's worth.”

“How's Jack?” Aha! That was the real purpose of this phone call.

“He's working out well.” And that is all I'm going to say. “Actually, I'm glad you called. What can you tell me about Dominique Le Fraise?”

“Isn't she the French daughter?”

“Yep.”

“Oh my god. Her mother is Fleur Le Fraise. She's amazing. Absolutely stunning in an Audrey Hepburn sort of way. A bit nuts though. She's had a crazy life.”

“Can you summarise in five minutes?” I really didn't have time for one of Boo's rambles.

“Well, Fleur always let everyone think that Dominique was Yves de Marat's daughter, but no-one really believed it. She was his muse, that's all. When I think of all those freebies she must have scored I want to throw up.”

“Didn't he die last year?” I asked.

“Yep. And left Fleur his art collection and another squillion that she really doesn't need. She's absolutely loaded. Her father was that Italian count who wrapped his car around a tree two days after her mother died. And then her husband died and she cracked up. She's a bit fragile, if you know what I mean. I think that was must have been around when she met Jimbo. No-one knew who he was, but the press went wild when she turned up in St Petersburg with him.

“And then she disappeared for about a year, and emerged with Yves and Dominique. No-one really believed that Yves was the father, but he was besotted with Dominique. She must have been the best-dressed kid in Paris.”

“Wasn't Yves on with Prince…” I was interrupted before I could finish.

“Yes, but they always denied it, but they lived together for years.”

“And didn't Fleur marry that Greek billionaire?” I asked.

“For about five minutes, then she ran screaming back to Paris.”

“Can we get back to Dominique?”

“Oh, sorry. Dominique. Spoilt brat. There was a huge kerfuffle when Yves died and then someone leaked that Jimbo was her real father. Paris Match did a real number on her. She and her friend got pissed in Le Cave in St Tropez and tore the place up.”

“So she wasn't happy with being Jimbo's daughter?”

“Well, if you'd grown up thinking that Yves de Marat was your father and then you found out that Jimbo was, how would you feel?”

I could see her point.

chapter twenty six.

“So how are the stings now? Have the welts settled down yet?” Nothing like a casual discussion about the condition of my thighs and bum while negotiating Oxford Street at peak hour.

“Chris said that I could have scars for a while, but he said they'd fade in time for summer. And he told me that you were terrific and wants to thank you for all you did.”

“Aw shucks. To tell the truth, I was shit-scared. Couldn't remember what to do. And then you went out like a light after I gave you the antihistamine. I was so lucky to get hold of Chris.” He glared at a woman who was talking on her phone whilst driving. “But you seem to be more comfortable now. At least you're not wincing when I go over a bump.”

I had to laugh. “Yes, I can sit down now. I won't be wearing a mini-skirt for a while, but then I never wear a mini-skirt.”

“Mmmm. Now that's something to think about, but I think I'd run into that bus. So, back to Lynnette. What do you think? How old is she?”

I wasn't in a charitable mood. “How old? Very. She's got to be fifty. At least.”

“Yeah. But she doesn't look it.”

Anymore.

“Yes, she doesn't look it.”

“I had the worst crush on her when I was a teenager.”

“So you said. But isn't she a bit old for you?” I was being mean, and I knew it.

“I've always gone for older women.” He looked straight at me, and I sank into the seat. “They're so much more interesting.”

OK. Here we go.

“Too much information, Jack. Change of subject. What is that stuff that I need for the bathroom window?”

“WD40. I've got some at home. We can call in to my place and get it.”

“Are you sure you don't mind?”

“Nah. I've got nothing on tonight What about you? Any plans?”

Countdown to implementation of Phase 2 of The Plan. “Well, I was hoping to be in bed by nine.”

“I don't think that'll be a problem. I have the same idea.”

My fingers were tingling And other bits of me, too. We didn't speak for the rest of the way back to the station. I was working on The Rules that would have to apply after implementation of The Plan.

The rest of the afternoon was a blur of paperwork, a frozen computer screen and finding time to buy some new knickers to match my bra and not irritate the striped bits. Implementation wasn't going to give me a chance to go home to change clothes. I could have a quick shower and the waxed bits were still smooth and there was always deodorant and a toothbrush in my briefcase just in case.

The Rules: I'm the boss. Fuck buddies only. No touching at work. Keep it cool. Condoms always. No emotional involvement. Keep it physical. I'm the boss.

Yes. This is going to work.

“Ready to go, Maddie?” It was 5.30, and I'd had enough of Jimbo Jameson and his women and his fights and his life and his death. Now, what I needed was a cold beer and a good fuck. I just had to make it happen. Tonight.

So we were back to Notts Avenue and I was nervous. The lights of Bondi Beach were turning on and so was I and I thought he'd never get that bloody door open. His apartment was rather fabulous – I hadn't had a chance to fully appreciate it on Saturday – marble floors, wooden shutters, rugs and black and white photographs on the walls. Two big comfy lounges upholstered in heavy navy linen were positioned to take advantage of the iconic view of the beach. And it was clean. Surprisingly clean. Did Jack have a cleaner? I followed him into the kitchen, which was also stylish and sparkling clean. Top of the line toaster and kettle and one of those café-style grills. And a Nespresso machine.

“Nice place. I love the view. How long have you had it?”

“It's my mother's, but she doesn't use it. My brother usually lives here, but he's in Iraq so I grabbed it. Do you want a beer?”

“Thanks. Thought you'd never ask. He handed me an icy cold can and walked back to the
lounge room, giving me a chance to shake the can just a bit so that when I opened it…

“Ohhh Sorry!” The beer shot out of the can and sprayed my jacket, shirt and face Accidentally.

He ran back to the kitchen and returned with a sponge. “Here, you should get out of that jacket.” I did.

“I'll just sponge your shirt.” He did.

“You know. I really should take this off.” His eyes lit up.

“Here, I'll help you with those buttons.” I did.

“Your turn, mister.”

“Why? My shirt isn't wet.”

I shook the can again.

“It is now.”

“Well, in that case…” He started on his buttons. I helped him.

We did our own zippers.

“Not here My room. You know where it is.” He followed me.

“You know, those welts are rather dramatic.”

“Are you looking at my butt?”

“Guilty, detective. Why don't you turn around now?”

“Is this better?”

“Oh yes. That's much better. They're fabulous. Am I allowed to touch?”

“Am I?”

“You know, you talk too much.”

“Leave the light on.”

“Oh shit. What time is it?”

“Three o'clock. And you snore.”

He took up most of the bed.

“Move over.”

“Tell you what I'll do, Maddie. I'll just lie on top of you again and you'll have plenty of
room to stretch out. He crawled onto me and settled his head between my boobs. “Is that better, boss?”

“I can't breathe, you idiot. Get off! And don't call me boss.”

He blew a raspberry on my left boob, then rolled off me. “You must be the most demanding woman I've ever fucked. And that includes a Ukrainian gymnastics coach who dislocated my shoulder. His hand slid between my thighs. “I can't remember if you set any performance targets last night, but I'd like to attempt a bonus run.”

I wasn't sleepy anymore, but I was hungry. “Do you have anything left to eat?”

“Me.”

“I'm starving. Is there any pizza left?”

“OK. I'll feed you again. And then I'm going to have to fuck you again.”

“Sounds good to me. And can I have a glass of water too?”

“Demanding. Very demanding.”

“Well, the sooner you feed me the sooner you can fuck me, so get into the kitchen.”

“Yes ma'am.” He really has the best back muscles. Great cock, too. All in all, The Plan had gone well. He understood The Rules, and had even come up with a few ideas of his own. There was no reason why a couple of sessions each week wouldn't work out for both of us. One night at my place. One night at his. Quickies to be negotiated as and when required or when there was no surf. There was no exclusivity and jealousy was not an option.

He came back to bed with a pizza box, a choc-chip cookie and a banana. I sat up to eat, but he pushed me back onto the pillows.

“And now, I'm going to eat my banana,” he said as he spread my legs.

I do like a man with a sense of humour and adventurous eating habits.

chapter twenty seven

Jimbo's funeral was always going to be a nightmare. It was raining. There was no parking because some moron decided to convert two blocks of parking spaces into a bike path that no-one used. The ex-wives had created their own traffic jam and there was nowhere for hire cars to drop off the big business boys and their egos. Television and radio crews were drowning as they tried to take shelter under the trees.

I was soaked. I was cold, my throat was killing me and I thought I was coming down with a slight case of cystitis. First, my hair turned into a frizzy bird's nest and then it completely collapsed into a curtain of drips, and my waterproof mascara wasn't living up to its advertising promises. I wanted my money and my dignity back. I'd have given anything to be home in bed, asleep, or not asleep with a pizza and Constable Jack, but most of the available metropolitan police force was there today just in case the shooter was overcome with remorse and decided to confess to his or her appalling lack of timing. But then, if we found the shooter, the only charges we could nail would be interfering with a corpse or attempted murder.

Constable Jack, on the other hand, was radiating health and good cheer and actually seemed to be enjoying standing in the rain with the raindrops beading on his eyelashes. God, his eyelashes were fabulous. So was the way he fluttered them across my nipples the night before. A pang low in my belly reminded me to pick up some cranberry juice on the way home.

I watched as a procession of mourners filed into the church.

The hearse pulled up outside the cathedral as the wind and rain increased in intensity and was now falling almost horizontally. As the pallbearers moved towards the coffin I recognised two politicians, an actor, Sam Bradley, Jace Jameson and one captain of industry battling the onslaught of wind and rain. Umbrellas were useless against the weather, but they persevered with their last favour to Jimbo. Gripping the coffin handles, they hoisted the coffin to their shoulders and shuffled towards the cathedral steps, lined by a guard of honour provided by players from Jimbo's beloved football team.

I watched as a strong gust of wind blew off some of the flowers covering the coffin and then gasped as Sam Bradley slipped on a lily and stumbled. The coffin tipped sideways as the pallbearers struggled to maintain balance in the driving wind. Time slowed, as the coffin
tipped further and the pallbearers fought to maintain balance. Two funeral attendants moved to help stabilise the situation but they slipped on the wet flowers, barrelling into the pallbearers, knocking them sideways. The coffin fell to the ground, tipped over, and the body of Jimbo Jameson rolled out into the gutter.