Who Killed Jimbo Jameson? (3 page)

Jacqueline landed a smooch on his cheek, and turned to me. “Just make yourself at home, darls. I just have to put on something clean, and we can get out of here.” She swept upstairs,
still holding her champagne flute.

A more-than-middle-aged brittle blonde walked in from the beach. I suppose you could describe her outfit as “colourful”: a purple and pink caftan with huge diamond hoop earrings and gold sandals. “Hello, I'm Sophie Duncan. Old family friend.” She patted Floyd on the bum and held out her glass to The Saint. “Refill, darling?”

“So you'll be investigating Jimbo's death, detective?” She took a rather large mouthful, and continued without waiting for me to answer.

“He deserved whatever he got and it's a wonder that he lasted as long as he did and when you catch him, I'd like to buy his murderer a drink.” She looked straight at me. “I've known him since he was just starting out all those years ago, and I've had to watch him ruin so many lives and I'm so fucking glad he's dead at last. Do I shock you?” She didn't wait for my reply.

“My husband Barry was his mate even before he married Bethany, and we're godparents to two of his children, but when he left Jac I just gave up on him. It's just too hard to get involved with each new wife and then to have to ignore her just because he decided the sheets were greener in the next bed. And he gets, sorry, got, really mean if he found out that I'd kept in touch with any of his victims. When my daughter got married I thought we'd have to have two ceremonies and two receptions, one for Jimbo to attend and one for the exes, which in itself was a problem that put the Middle East conflict into perspective. But in the end he didn't turn up so that potential warzone was averted, although I nearly lost my mind trying to work out the seating arrangements.” She laughed. “Then when Barry – he was my husband – died I made up my mind to keep my own friends and to hell with Jimbo Jameson.” She lifted her glass to the sky in a silent salute. “They're probably getting pissed together, wherever they are. I just hope the beer's cold.

“He left Jacs a couple of weeks before the baby was born. And he did the same to Lynnette. He was absent without leave for most of his marriage to Anna and I have no idea how she managed to conceive three times. What a prince!

“There was a time when I could have strangled him and I know I used to dream about poisoning him. My favourite fantasy was making him chicken satays on oleander stalk skewers. You know, I would have put the ‘rat' in ratatouille just for him.” She sighed, and smacked her head. “Damn it. Missed my chance.” She laughed, and took another swallow from her glass.

“But can you please put me down as a suspect because I'd be so proud to be on the list. It's going to be a long list, isn't it? You know, I'm really pissed off that someone beat me to it. How many bullets did you say?”

I hoped that everyone would be as forthcoming as Sophie, but I didn't think that she did anything other than dream.

“Thanks for your offer, Sophie. We'll call you if we need you to come in to make a statement.”

I looked around for Constable Jack who had mooched off towards the beach, picking up a barbequed sausage sandwich on the way. Mr Apprentice Detective had a short attention span, or perhaps he was just hungry. He wasn't the only one.

The sand was clean and the tide was coming in. Two Flying Ants scudded past, the young sailors whooping with Friday afternoon enthusiasm. A few family groups were packing up their towels and heading home, ignoring the knot of photographers who were now staking out the beach.

A low wall marked the end of the lawn and the beginning of the sand, and I could see the seagulls fighting over an unlucky crab on the rocks.

I used to play on those rocks as a kid, back when I still believed in the tooth fairy and Santa Claus. My dad taught me to swim in the Watto Bay pool. Well, he just threw me in and yelled encouragement, but he did jump in when I didn't come up for air and then he enrolled me in Prosser's swimming school and before long I was in the swimming squad and then I was competing at State level. I was good, but not good enough when the competition hotted up and my boobs got in the way.

Everything was possible back then, so how did I end up to be thirty-five years old living by myself with a bird that doesn't like me and a job that leaves me with no time for a life, let alone a love life?

Feeling thoroughly sorry for myself, I dragged my thoughts back to Jacqueline Jameson and found myself becoming irritated by her apparent lack of emotion. If my husband had just died I'm pretty sure that I'd be either sad or angry, but this widow was acting as if we were giving her a ride to the pharmacy to pick up a bandage for a sprained ankle. Fuck it. Her husband was dead and she was more interested in lunch and what to wear for the photographers.

I turned to Constable Jack and gave him a nudge. “Go get her, tiger. The morgue is waiting
and I'm not getting any younger.”

“Leave it to me, Maddie.” Jack drew himself up to his impressive full height and walked over to the bald man. “Do you think you can hurry her up, please, Mr Gates? We have a lot to get done.” Jack's a man of few words, but his official voice was impressive, and Gates waddled up the stairs obediently.

“Jacs darling. This nice policeman is in a bit of a hurry.”

Jacqueline appeared on the landing, fiddling with her earrings. “Just a couple more minutes. Do these go?”

“Chop chop, Jacs darling. Leave them off. You look gorgeous already. I'll handle the press and when you get back we'll have lots to talk about.” He walked her down the stairs and disappeared into the kitchen.

“I've got the office working on this, so you just go with this gorgeous man…oh, and you'll need a roadie.” He handed her a big straw designer nappy bag. “It's a long way to Glebe, and we don't want you getting thirsty.”

I walked ahead to the car to open the back door for the bitch, who was definitely loitering with intent around Constable Jack. The camera lights were blinding even in the late afternoon sun and a bunch of microphones was thrust at her but she was unfazed. Her words came easily, in a series of ten-second sound bites for the radio and television audience. Jacqueline Jameson was a media pro.

“I would like to thank everyone for their kind thoughts at this terrible time. James and I shared a great love and this is so senseless and the only thing that keeps me going is our beautiful daughter. I hope you will all respect her need, our need, for privacy. Everyone loved him and I can't imagine why anyone would want to do this…” A solitary tear sparkled in the flashlights… “And I…oh please, thank you for coming today but I really can't go on. Please excuse me, but I have to go with these kind detectives to see my poor husband's body.”

It was a masterful performance. Her hair was ever so casually tousled and her skin was carefully highlighted to accentuate high cheekbones. Floyd had juggled grief and glamour very well. Her left wrist sported a discreet Cartier Tank and two poster-painted macaroni bracelets. French-manicured fingers “nervously” twisted a diamond and platinum wedding band, and a navy shift and flat beige sandals worn with a simple diamond Tiffany heart on
a chain completed the highly photogenic widow's weeds. She turned and executed a small, perfectly choreographed stumble, reaching out to the helping hand of “Saint” Peter, who put his arm around her to help her into the squad car.

She dabbed gently at her eyes all the way to the street corner. Once out of sight of the telephoto lenses, she dived into a chill bag inside the nappy bag and produced a bottle and glass. I heard a pop of yet another bottle of champagne as it bit the dust. She started to talk and talk and she wouldn't shut up.

We heard all about her jewellery, her jewellers, her jet, her helicopter, her cars, her clothes, her shopping safaris, her famous friends. Then there were tales of her adventures, her travels, her shoes, her handbags, and then she started again from the beginning as she topped up her glass. By the time we turned onto Broadway I was ready to let her have it with pepper spray. Christ, that woman could drink!

For once, I was glad to see the doors of the morgue, and left it up to Constable Jack to help her out of the car as the flashlights popped. I suppose it made a pretty photograph for the morning paper, but I knew the tragic but still photogenic widow needed help to walk because she was pissed, not broken-hearted.

I also knew that she was hanging on to Jack just because she had an excuse to get her hands on him.

chapter four.

Glebe Morgue isn't my favourite place and never will be and I can't understand why anyone would deliberately choose to make a career out of cutting up bodies. Why would someone go to the trouble of studying to become a doctor to save lives, and then end up working on dead people? They say the dead have stories to tell and I need to hear those stories, but I wish they could just email them to me.

It was probably the smell that no amount of filtration can remove that got to Jacqueline Jameson in the end, but she shut up for a few minutes while her husband's body was rolled out for identification. I don't think I will ever get over feeling somehow responsible for failing to protect the victim because that's my job, and I braced myself for the usual tears and hysterics. I've had people scream, some just stand there, some faint, while, of course, most cry, but I have never had anyone giggle. Until that night.

The attendant drew the sheet back and respectfully averted his eyes as Jacqueline took tentative steps towards the trolley. For perhaps ten seconds she just stared at Jimbo's face, took a deep breath, and then…giggled. “Yep. That's him. He's really dead, isn't he?” She turned to Constable Jack and wrapped her arms around him. “He's dead! Yes, he's dead! He's really dead. Oh my god, I WIN!”

Letting go of Jack, she turned to me. “Um, where's the loo? I've gotta pee.”

I pointed her in the right direction, being careful not to let myself look at Constable Jack, who seemed to be having difficulty keeping a straight face.

On returning she signed the 250 sheets of paperwork without even looking at them. No tears. No emotion.

“Can we go now?” She took a brush out of her handbag and smoothed her hair. “What happens next?”

“Next is the post-mortem, and then we'll wait and see. We'll keep you informed.”

“No, what I mean is, how long before we have to have a funeral?” She pulled a small mirror out of her bag and checked her eye make-up.

“I'm afraid that I don't know. It could be a week. Perhaps two weeks. Perhaps more.” I watched her touch up her mascara.

“I have to know if I have time for a laser peel and a brow lift. If I can get an appointment on Monday I'll need at least ten days.”

Clinging to Constable Jack, she looked around for the cameras as we left the building, but she was out of luck. Once in the car, another cork popped and two glasses were waved at the front seat. “Let's drink to my darling dead husband and to the wonderful, fabulous person who put him out of his misery. He's dead. Bang! He's gone. Bang! All gone. Kaput! Gone. Dead, dead, dead. And now, I'm as rich as Crocus!”

Oh great. No brains, too.

“Well, at last I know where the bastard is.” She hiccupped. “You know, this is the happiest day of my life. I think I'll go to Tahiti. It's my plane now. I can go wherever I want and do whatever I want and I don't have to put up with that arsehole ever again. Have I told you how much I hate him? I hate his face. I hate his saggy bum, I hate his saggy balls and I hate his fucking ponytail. Did I tell you he had implants? That's why he's got that bald patch at the top of his saggy neck. But most of all, I hate his little dick. Such a little dick. I used to call it Little Dicky. I hate his little dick and I hate his teeth and I hate his saggy neck and I hate the way he snores. Sorry, snored. And now, he's gone and I'm here and I'll get all his lovely money. I like his money. I hate him, but I love his money. You know, I really, really hate him. Or should I say hated him? Doesn't that sound great? Did I tell you how much money I've got now? I'm going to get rid of all those dick-suckers and cheap little gold-diggers and I'm really going to get rid of the pole-dancer that he thinks I don't know about. But I know. I know. I even know about the Wednesday girls that she doesn't know about. I know everything, because I'm smart. And I'm beautiful. And I'm rich. I win!”

Bugger it. If I had to listen to this crap all the way back to Camp Cove I'd need a bloody drink. Oh fuck that. Make it two.

“I have to find out what he's been doing. Detective-what's-your-name, you can do it. You can talk to Bradley, he's the business boss. I have to find out what's in the will and I have to get hold of that fucking secretary of his. Damn it, I want to know who's on the payroll and I want to know what that saggy arsehole's been up to. She's going to tell me. She's going to have to tell me. And then, she's fired. Bang.

“And none of the ex-wives can come to the funeral. No. They can't come. Especially
Lynnette. I really hate her, so she can't come.

“She'll probably be telling the world that she was the only one he really loved and she'll be mooing on the phone to anyone who'll listen about how she will always love him. She's old and she's ugly and I hate her. Who's going to pay for her credit cards now? I know he paid for her boobs. The originals and the replacements and I'm pretty sure she's had a tushy-tuck. One blow job and he'd agree to anything.” I heard a glass being topped up, quickly followed by a burp.

“Please God. Don't let her throw up.” Constable Jack tightened his grip on the steering wheel and looked anxiously in the rear vision mirror.

Jacqueline was off and running, even though we had no idea who she was talking about. “That skinny pole-dancing slut is out on her cock-sucking ear, and if she thinks she can keep my emerald ring she has another think coming. That's mine. I picked it out. Mine. And I want her car. I want her credit cards cancelled and I want her fired. I want her back in the gutter where he found her and I want her so far away from here that even her skinny cock-sucking shadow can't find her.