Who Killed Jimbo Jameson? (6 page)

Then, the killer question was asked.

“What does the will say? Who gets his shares?” “What does the will say?” Bradbury groaned and closed his eyes. “Off the record, this is going to be the biggest fucking shitfight in the history of succession law.”

chapter ten.

After a morning of sanctimonious wholesomeness à la Bethany Jameson followed by the finer points of the English language courtesy of Sam Bradley I was ready to scream. I didn't know what was going to happen with the mafia money-laundering case now that the chief witness had been shot in Melbourne, and this case was dead too unless I could get someone to talk to me. Just for once, I'd have liked something to go right.

I'd phoned Basil, my number one snitch, and made arrangements to meet him at his favourite Woolloomooloo pub. He'd been uncharacteristically quiet lately but he loosened up a bit after a couple of beers.

“Buggered if I know who did the deed in Melbourne. Wasn't he supposed to be hiding? The word is that it was an imported specialist who's long gone. No-one knows nothing about who he is. He just fronts up, does the job, and pisses off. Me mate in Melbourne says that he's a blow-in from Europe who just does the big stuff and Jimbo was a two-for-one. They say that he was in the neighbourhood and popped Jimbo as a favour. The bloke who did it didn't even know Jimbo. I mean it, Maddie, this guy is seriously bad and he's seriously connected, but no-one is going to talk. The Melbourne shooting was a mafia clean-up, and somehow Jimbo was connected.”

“Do you mean that Jameson was connected to the mafia?”

“Nah.”

“But you say that the shooter who killed my witness did Jimbo too? Two murders in two days in two cities?”

Basil puffed out his chest. “Yeah. That's what I've heard.”

“But what did Jimbo have to do with money-laundering and a bisexual book-keeper from Chatswood who was hiding out in Collingwood? I know that case inside-out, and there is no connection. Jimbo's been accused of lots of things, but mafia money-laundering isn't one of them.”

“Yeah, but that's what I heard. It was a two-fer.”

He knocked back the last of his beer and looked meaningfully at me. “You know what happened to Burke and Wills?” That's Basil-ese for “I'm thirsty”.

Another schooner kept him from dehydrating and restored his memory. “That bloody Jimbo's a fucking legend. I remember one day at the races at Rosehill. He was there and so was Nick Wells. That television guy. Do you remember him? He was there with Lynnette, and Jimbo went nuts. He said something like ‘Nick always does well at dispersal sales. He takes my dud horses and my dud wives off my hands.' And then they started throwing chairs at each other. Fuck, that was a good day.”

“What does this have to do with the shooting, Basil?”

“Geez, I dunno. I mean, they reckon that Jimbo had Nick beaten up. They really hated each other for a while there.” He buried his nose in the glass. “But nah. I don't think Nick would want to kill him. Him and Lynnette didn't last long and he's living in Fiji now.”

Basil's a bit of a hard case, and I wish I could say that he has a heart of gold but I can't. He stares at my boobs when he talks, but at least he talks to me so I have to put up with it to maintain the connection. He fancies himself as a big-time operator and I have a horrible feeling that he lets everyone think that he and I have some sort of physical thing going. I admit that I'm desperate, but even I have some pride. Still, it's hard for a female to score a good male informant so I have to just suck it up and put up with Basil.

We knocked back a couple more beers, graduated to tequila shots and then moved across the road to Harry's for a Tiger pie.

But Basil was still thirsty, so we walked back to the pub. The night wore on and Basil's stories became more bizarre as he became more convinced that he was the greatest, best connected, most successful crook in Australia. He saw himself as a consultant to ASIO, MI5 and the CIA. When his fantasies graduated to comparing himself to James Bond, I faked receiving a text that required me to report to Headquarters immediately.

“You know how it is, Basil. Duty calls,” I slurred and he gave me the thumbs up. Standing up wasn't a good idea, and I knocked over a chair when I tried to navigate my way to the door. Limping slightly, I hailed a passing taxi and headed for home and some food to counteract the tequila. Food. I needed food.

Scrambled eggs on toast with cheese and chilli sauce and a cold beer was an excellent idea. Cooking wasn't. I burnt the eggs and the toast, which set off the smoke detector and its earpiercing alarm and I couldn't find the broom to hit the button to shut it up. Then I spilled the
beer when I fell through the toilet seat that I was standing on while opening the bathroom window to clear the smoke. It all seemed so logical at the time.

I vaguely remember falling into bed around 2am, feeling no pain.

My nightmares were impressive.

chapter eleven.

Next morning I had a foggy headache and Bert the budgie's body was on the floor. Rather, what was left of him was on the floor, surrounded by feathers. His cage was on the ground. Door open. Oh shit. Another murder, which might explain my wild dreams last night.

The bathroom was a mess. The kitchen was a mess. I was a mess. A shower sort of helped, but not much. Had I killed Bert in my drunken stupor? I could understand setting fire to the kitchen – that had happened in the past – and I have been known to knock over his cage at times, but I couldn't work out how I had killed him. I just hoped I hadn't trodden on him. He didn't look squashed. Just limp, with his little head flopping to one side and no tail feathers. Had I killed him and then plucked him? I wrapped Bert in paper towels and tiptoed outside to bury the body in the little park across the road.

I picked up some emergency hangover cures from the convenience store and hobbled back home. A glass of chocolate milk, two Panadols, a slice of buttery vegemite toast and a can of diet Coke later, I felt well enough to die. I had just taken myself back to bed when my doorbell intercom rang.

“Go away,” I croaked. “I don't want any.”

“Maddie. Are you OK?” It was Constable Jack.

“Yes, I'm OK. Just having a bit of a lazy morning.” Brilliant repartee, but it was the best I could do.

“I've been leaving messages for you on your phone, but you haven't called me back. Can I come in?”

Oh shit. He couldn't see me like this. There were bird seed and feathers everywhere, and I must have looked really scary, because I felt really scary and the place smelled of burnt eggs. “Um, no. What's up?”

“They want us for an update at eleven o'clock. Can you get yourself there?”

“Shit. Can't we have one day off?” I whimpered.

“Detective Griffiths, I do believe you have someone in there with you. Sprung. Tell you what, I'll go get some coffee and pick you up at 10.45 and we won't tell anyone.” He sounded positively pleased with himself.

Oh great. Now he thought I had a lover stashed away in my bed. Well, at least when he saw me he'd think my condition was from too much sex, not a Force 10 hangover.

I found my mobile phone and cursed flat batteries. Then I scalded myself in the shower. Then I over-corrected the tap and blasted myself with freezing water. So far, my day was just about perfect.

Of course, I then proceeded to cut my finger with a razor blade while trying to extract the last smear of moisturiser from the tube. Couldn't find a Band-Aid, so I used sticky-tape instead. I was now officially out of everything.

Constable Jack rang from the car at 10.45 precisely. At least one of us was on the ball.

He wasn't happy that his RDOs had been cancelled, but we'd both get over it. This bloody case, however, was getting completely out of hand. We talked about how the pollies were driving us mad because the big-end-of-town big boys were driving them mad because they wanted to distance themselves from their former best mate and they wanted the case closed with a minimum of fuss. And investigation.

But every punter who ever read a tabloid newspaper thought he knew who dunnit and the conspiracy theories and lists of suspects and motives were increasing exponentially by the hour. For a man who was supposedly loved by everyone who knew him he certainly had a lot of people who either wanted to kill him, had tried to kill him, had at least one good reason to kill him or should have killed him.

I was now amazed that there were only three bullets.

We'd moved the war room from Surry Hills into the city so at least we had room to spread out but now I was just part of a team that was part of a Task Force. And there were a lot of bloody teams. Bastards. And every cop involved was jockeying to be the MAN who caught the great Jimbo's murderer. Double bastards.

The case was becoming the legal industry's growth market because no-one wanted to talk to us without a lawyer present. I sat in on a friendly chat that required two lawyers – the interviewee was a retired judge, so he wasn't taking any chances. Every day we started with an update from our mighty leader, and I was given the pleasant task of interviewing Lynnette Jameson or whatever her name was now. But there was no-one at her home and her agent wasn't answering my calls, so I went to the top, to the best celebrity stalker in the game. My
sister. She'll talk forever if you feed her. And my hangover needed Chinese food.

Boo started out as a manicurist but things have gone well for her and she now has a small chain of manicure bars in the big regional shopping centres around Sydney and Newcastle. She's actually made a pretty good living out of fingernails and says she's thinking about branching out into eyebrows. It never fails to amaze me that she has the ability to juggle about fifty employees and multiple leases in the toughest retail precincts, yet still exhibits no discernible signs of intelligence.

I wobbled into my favourite Chinatown yum cha palace, where Boo had already chosen far too many dishes. Thankfully, she had also opened a bottle of white wine.

“You're late, Mad, so I started without you,” she said, pouring me a glass. “Oh, and before we start, I just realised that I can't make it to Mum's birthday dinner, so you will have her all to yourself.”

Bugger. “But I'll go halves in anything you want to buy her for a present. Just tell me how much and I'll give you the dosh next time I see you.” She just oozed sincerity.

Yeah. Right. I'll have to schlep all over town and you'll “forget” to repay me. Nice one, Boo.

“Shit, Boo. I'm flat out and she wasn't expecting me anyway because I'm not supposed to be here. And it's your turn this year. It's your turn for the dinner and for the present. We agreed.”

“Mad, I'm really busy and you're so much better at making decisions and buying her stuff,” she pouted. “Anyway, how come you're not in Broome? What happened? What's taking up all your time?”

“I had to cancel, damn it. My key witness in the mafia money-laundering case was shot on Thursday and then on Friday there were two more murders and my leave was cancelled and I'm really pissed off. You've probably read about it and I actually wanted to…” and that was as far as I got.

“Oh my god, Maddie. Are you working on Jimbo's death? Come on, you can tell me, what happened? Was he really tied up? I heard that his dick was almost chewed off? Oh yum, can I have some of those?” A plate of something that looked suspiciously like chicken feet appeared on the table, and I took a closer look. They were chicken feet. My stomach did flip flops.

“Can you please keep those on your side of the table, Boo. I want to enjoy my lunch, not lose it.” She laughed, and made a great show of slurping the toes. I concentrated on my pork
bun and refused to react to her childish games.

“You're the gossip queen, so I want to pick your brain. I've got a battalion of ex-wives to talk to, and I thought some background stuff would be of help.”

Now I had her attention. She stopped chewing and took a deep breath.

“You want the juicy bits? That man has, sorry, had, a rare talent for picking beautiful, intelligent women and driving them around the twist. And he fucked up some of his kids, too. I was at Ivy last week and Phaedra was really off her face. She's Lynnette's eldest daughter and she's a really wild one. She comes into the city bar for gels and sometimes she's still pissed at 10am. I sort of feel sorry for her, because it can't be easy being Jimbo's daughter. Anna just shipped hers off to boarding school and they're the invisible children. But I think Tessa's protected her kids from the Jameson circus. Bethany did too, because Jace is relatively normal. He's the eldest, and he's absolutely gorgeous.” Boo picked at sticky rice with her chopsticks. I was trying to keep up with the names that she was rattling off.

“Yes, I've already talked with Bethany and Jace.” I didn't comment on Jace's gorgeousity. “So what is Lynette Jameson up to now? She's kinda hard to find.”

“Yeah, she's been off the scene for a couple of weeks, but I heard that she was in Thailand because my friend Rebecca works for Qantas and she was on Lynnette's flight and she said that she said she was going to Spa Samui to detox. That's the place where you stick a tube up your arse twice a day and you don't eat and you're just supposed to lie around all day and have massages and meditate. Becca's sister goes there every year and she says it's fabulous, but she cheats a bit and takes a few bottles of vodka because she reckons that's the only way she can drink the gunk they give you to clean you out.

“But then Jilly told me that she saw her in Bangkok last week and she was walking into the Bumrungrad Hospital.” She paused, took a breath, and reached for another chicken foot. “God, they're good. So anyway,” she didn't miss a beat, “if you can't find her here, I'll bet she's still ‘freshening up' in Bangkok and she'll be back in about two weeks, looking fabulous with a new haircut to hide the scars and a new wardrobe of copies that she'll tell everyone are from Rome and that she's been drinking lots of water and breathing deeply and walking every day and she's taken up yoga and Pilates and only eats clean organic and that's how she's lost weight and looks ten years younger because she has a fabulous new lover in Milan. Do you want that
dumpling?” She didn't wait for me to answer.