Who Killed Jimbo Jameson? (17 page)

Lynnette was the first to react, leaping out of her wheelchair, knocking over Sam Bradley who was struggling to remain upright, and throwing herself over the body. She screamed into the storm as she tried to pull the sodden body out of the gutter.

The television cameras moved in for the kill. Money shots like this don't come around often and they scuffled with each other for the best close-up. Bradley tried to stand, but sank to his knees, clutching his chest, and then fell face first to the pavement. Everyone ignored him in the rush to scoop Jimbo back into his coffin, which was proving more difficult than I would have expected. But then, I really don't have any experience in picking up a dead body in the rain and neither did anyone else; a body that was rapidly losing its clothes which had been split up the back for the wearer's final journey. I'd often wondered how to dress a corpse, and now I knew.

Vanessa pushed her way to the centre of the scrum around Jimbo, and delivered a strong right hook that knocked Lynnette to the ground, demonstrating to the world that she was still a Brazilian commando at heart. The television cameras switched focus momentarily, while the press photographers gave Lynnette more exposure than she could possibly had dreamed of.

From out of the crowd appeared a blue cattle dog, which ran in circles around the chaos, nipping at ankles and barking joyously as his leash whipped about. The widow Jacqueline screamed and kicked at the dog, but only succeeded in getting tangled in the leash and she went crashing to the ground. By now the dog was thoroughly enjoying himself.

The dog sniffed Jimbo's body, didn't like what he smelt, and cocked his leg. Next to me, Constable Jack burst into laughter. He wasn't the only one.

Three uniformed policemen and most of Jimbo's rugby league team ran forward to impose some measure of crowd control as the funeral director and the archbishop took charge of the recovery of the body. Forming a tight wall of very large bodies, the footy players pushed back at the photographers, providing a small measure of privacy which allowed the funeral director and driver to replace Jimbo in his coffin and pile his clothes on top.

At last, a semblance of order was imposed by the sheer might of the footy players and the
full force of the archbishop's glare. Lynnette returned to her wheelchair and replaced her hat and veil with what was left of her dignity. She even managed to flash a brilliant smile to the photographers, which was more than Jacqueline could do. No-one paid any attention to Sam Bradley, who was now lying on his side. No-one except the dog, which was licking Bradley's face and barking excitedly. Finally the archbishop looked down at Bradley, then dropped to his knees and yelled for a doctor. The dog sat back and began to howl.

With Bradley down for the count, the remaining five pallbearers recruited a footballer replacement, and the coffin was hoisted again as the ambulance arrived. Adjusting his mitre, the archbishop led the now wet and bedraggled procession into the cathedral as Bradley was moved onto a stretcher and wheeled away to the ambulance. The dog ran off, looking for another adventure or his owner.

Wiping away either rain drops or tears of laughter, Constable Jack walked over to me and leaned close. “I nearly choked when that dog pissed on Jimbo. And what about that Lynnette! Those photographs are going to be classics and I'm going to need lots of copies for my collection. Now let's get a look at the rest of the family.”

We positioned ourselves just inside the church and watched as the mourners filed in, shaking their umbrellas and trying to compose themselves. Perhaps the shooter was among the mourners. Perhaps not. But we were there to observe.

The ex-wives were jockeying for prime positions but Saint Peter had choreographed the seating arrangements and no-one argued. Each ex-wife and accompanying children had the centre aisle seats of a reserved pew, the balance of which was then shared with guests according to history and willingness to align with that particular wife. The faithful Suzie was sitting with Bethany and Jace. Politicians were seated on the left or right, depending on their political positioning. The great and the good and the not-so-good were there to farewell James Jameson or to make sure that he was really dead which, after the debacle in the gutter, could not ever be questioned.

I recognised some of the children from photographs: the French daughter, Dominique, was with a dark-eyed gypsy-spangly friend with a round face and over-plucked eyebrows. Was this the Napoli daughter? Anna's children were nervous and wide-eyed, dressed in matching navy blue coats, white stockings and black shiny shoes. I felt before I saw Jace's intensely brown
eyes staring at me and I went to mush. My god, he was one handsome hunk. Black suit, black tie, white shirt. Just like everyone else, but he made it look goooood. He moved easily down the centre aisle, greeting the mourners with easy hugs and affectionate kisses before sitting with his mother, Bethany.

“Wow. And here comes trouble.” I felt Constable Jack stand straighter and followed his line of sight to a tall, slim, tanned blonde walked gracefully down the aisle. She was the beautiful Gabbie, the son/daughter of Olivia and Jimbo. “For that, I might make an exception,” he breathed in my ear. I could see Jace's eyes open wide with appreciation, then puzzlement. Gabbie sidled into a pew next to a notoriously priapismic actor whose face and no doubt other parts of his anatomy lit up at the proximity of such a luscious creature. Saint Peter just looked at his seating plan and frowned.

The coffin was placed in position, flowers fluffed up and some semblance of dignity was restored. The archbishop raised his hands and the ceremony commenced. The full Requiem Mass. The full disaster. This was going to take a while, so I sat back and took the opportunity to study the mourners: interactions and attitudes can tell a lot. Relief, sadness, fear, boredom, disinterest, impatience reigned, and only a few actually seemed to be sad to be there. Most were just trying to dry out.

The archbishop droned on and the proper rites were observed by those who took private comfort or chose to display public displays of piety. Bethany was calm and focussed. Jacqueline and Lynnette were trying to outdo each other at playing the grieving widow. Lynnette was delicately dabbing at her eyes with a scrap of black lace. Crocodile tears: she was repairing her makeup for the cameras. Anna was glaring at Lynnette. Jacqueline was glaring at Anna and Lynnette. Victoria was staring at the ceiling, possibly because she was seated in front of Lynnette and couldn't turn around to glare at her. There was a very thin, pale woman dressed in severe black who was glaring at everyone. Was she the Ghost Bat? Tessa sat very still, holding hands with her children, mouthing her own private prayers. Dominique and her dark-eyed friend were thoroughly enjoying themselves, whispering to each other and texting on their iPhones. Jace was staring at Gabbie, who was yawning and shifting in her seat. Suzie Clarke had her eyes closed and was probably praying for the wrath of God to make a series of selective strikes. The suits in the TenTen block of pews were playing with their phones, as were the journalists
who had squeezed into the back of the cathedral.

I suppose that as far as celebrity funerals go, this was pretty standard.

At last the archbishop finished and the congregation filed out into the forecourt where fortunately the rain and wind had stopped. Jack and I positioned ourselves to watch the wives circle each other, claws sheathed but ready to pounce at the slightest provocation. Suzie Clarke smiled at Jack, and went into personal assistant mode.

“Here, can I introduce you to anyone? You've met Jace, haven't you, Detective Griffiths? He's Bethany's son.” I could feel myself blushing, and it was hard not to stammer. God, that man was a magnificent animal. His hand held mind for just three seconds more than necessary and his skin felt so good to touch. “Yes, we met down at Mum's farm, but I'm very pleased to see you again, detective. And thank you for being here today. If there is anything I can do for you, please feel free to call me at any time. Any time.” His thumb rubbed my palm before he released my hand. His eyes were deep, deep chocolate flecked with gold, and his voice was a low rumble. Long legs, broad shoulders, designer stubble on olive skin, and he moved like a panther. Delicious. He placed his arm around Suzie and gave her a squeeze and I wanted to strangle her on the spot, but she was immune to Jace Jameson's charm. “So how was Mardis Gras, Jace? Tell me, tell me, tell me.” He laughed, showing perfect white teeth and I temporarily forgot all about Constable Who.

“I found love in Rio and then I lost her, Suzie. She was the woman of my dreams. I'm heartbroken. Devastated. I need consoling. I need to be taken in hand by a strong, independent woman who will teach me the meaning of true love and happiness and bake me chocolate chip cookies. So what are you doing tonight?”

My heart was racing. He was looking at Suzie, but I knew he was talking to me. Please, let him be talking to me. I'll teach him everything I know. Just give me the chance to show him everything I know how to do. OK, so I can learn to make cook choc-chip cookies. I've got an oven. It's where I keep my summer shoes, but I can clean it out if I have to.

My heart doing flip-flops, I bargained with the gods as Suzie fluttered her eyelashes at Constable Jack. Suzie, I know how you feel, but he's mine and you really are too old for him. However, I wouldn't say no to a bit of Jameson on the side. Or perhaps I could make a Maddie sandwich with Jack and Jameson.

What is wrong with me? Am I becoming insatiable? How much sex is enough? Constable Jack is fucking me purple and I'm still not satisfied?

Jace nuzzled Suzie's neck, laughing and thoroughly enjoying being with his old friend. With the emphasis on the “old”. I suppose that she's been one of the constants in his life, so I decided to let her live.

“Come on, Jace,” she said. “Let me get you through the scrum. Oh look, there's Gabbie. I don't think you two have seen each other since you were kids, have you? Come with me, big brother.” Taking Jace by the hand, she led him towards the gorgeous Gabbie who was creating quite a scene with the photographers who had tired of Lynnette and were looking for fresher faces.

I watched as his smile faded and was replaced in rapid succession by puzzlement, then realisation and then horror. I watched as his tan faded and he turned to Suzie, and it didn't need much in the way of lip-reading skills to understand “She's my what?”

I watched as Jace turned and walked unsteadily from the cathedral, leaving Suzie and Gabbie looking at each other in amazement. I wasn't sure just what had set him off, but it must have been something and I hoped I'd have the opportunity to find out what.

Constable Jack observed drily: “Well, he's a bit skittish, isn't he? Let's see if we can have a word with the French daughter. She certainly seems to be enjoying today.”

Dominique and her dark-eyed girlfriend were greeting an unidentified male. Kissy kissies, then they all climbed into a hire car which drove off. She'd keep until tomorrow, I thought. We were also scheduled to talk to the gorgeous Gabbie tomorrow morning and then it was just possible that the investigation would be moved off the front burners. It was losing momentum and the powers that be were anxious to hand this over to the Coroner.

“I'm drenched, Maddie. What I need is a good soak in a hot bath. Wanna scrub my back?”

Only if you'll scrub mine, lover-boy, because I'm feeling very, very dirty today and I need warming up. “Good idea. Your place or mine?”

“Mine. I've got to do a few things in the morning.”

We picked up some vodka, cranberry juice, charcoal chicken and salad which we ate in bed and then got all dirty all over again.

chapter twenty eight.

I woke early so that I could get home, get showered, get dressed and get what were hopefully our last interviews today. My hair was a fright, so I took care to blow it straight and I actually used some extra eye makeup. Was this because we would be talking to Gabbie today? Am I so insecure that I actually worried about being compared to a transsexual?

Guilty as charged.

Yet again, the pile of dirty washing had taken over and I was dangerously low on undies, so I pulled out my best peach silk and lace La Perla bra and matching knickers and slipped on a cream silk shirt and navy woollen skirt which felt a bit loose – the sexercise must have been cancelling out the chocolate. Feeling positively decadent, I stepped into my only pair of stilettos that I could walk in: if I had to stand next to a goddess at least I wouldn't completely disappear into the woodwork. My feet might be killing me at the end of the day, but I felt that I had to make an effort.

Gabbie was staying at the Observatory Hotel and we caught up with her in the coffee shop. Constable Jack, bless his heart, had the good manners to be respectfully awed and didn't say much. He didn't need to. His eyes said it all. Confusion, lust, wonder, admiration, more confusion. Lots of confusion. And Gabbie was perfect. Her hair, her face, her body, her legs, her clothes. Everything was perfect. Sure, her voice was low, but she kept it light and her laugh was infectious. I was prepared to dislike her on the spot, but she was such a charming, feminine woman that I found myself reversing my initial reaction. I'm almost as tall as she is, and I wondered where she bought her shoes, because I have such trouble finding size 10½ Bs. We big-footed women have to help each other.

Gabbie had her shit together. She was warm, friendly, feminine. The kind of sister I'd always wished I had.

“Can you tell me about your father?” An original question. “When was the last time you saw him?”

“Gosh. I haven't seen him for years. We were never close. He left my mother when I was three, so I didn't really see much of him. Suzie kept in touch with my mum, and she was my main contact with my father. He said that he wanted me to live here but I didn't believe him.
There was no way I was going to leave my mother and she wasn't going to come back to Australia.” She sipped from the cup and wiped her lips delicately. I noticed that her lipstick didn't budge and wondered how on earth she managed that. Really, Gabbie could teach me so much.