Killing Sunday

by Amos, Gina

  Jill hadn’t slept well; she had tossed and turned most of the night. Col Morrissey’s revelation about her father had shocked her. She thought back to when her father was still alive. There was nothing about his behaviour that had been odd or surprising but she realised it was unlikely she would have known if anything had been troubling him. Mickey Brennan never discussed his work with her, except if something amusing had happened at the station, or if there was a moral lesson to be learnt from one of the cases he was working on.

  She tapped her computer keyboard and checked her emails. She was expecting the shipment of Byron Willis paintings to arrive early this morning but the transport company had phoned to say they were running behind schedule. Their van wouldn’t arrive until around eleven-thirty. Bea had given her a list of names for the invitations and she still had to go through and check the addresses.

  Before starting on the list, Jill removed the SIM card from her phone and replaced it with the card she’d found in Freddie’s office. She entered the names from Freddie’s contact list onto a spreadsheet. After almost five minutes of typing, she came across a name she recognised. Kevin Taggart. She bit down on her lip. With Freddie missing, she wondered if Rimis was right about him, but she dismissed the idea. Kevin Taggart a murderer? Ridiculous.

  She ran her eye down the list. There was Calida, her sister, listed under C, Dorin Chisca, under D, and the usual personal services – her hairdresser, dentist, doctor. Peter Watkins was there under W. She remembered meeting him at the Archibald. He was the director of a gallery in Mosman and they had talked for some time about post-impressionism techniques. None of the other names meant anything to her.

  The removalist van finally arrived and she took delivery of the paintings without incident. She grabbed a bottle of spring water from the kitchen fridge and typed Freddie’s address into her phone. She was about to lock up when Kevin pulled up outside the gallery. She watched him park his small, yellow Nissan sedan neatly by the kerb. He walked in without saying a word.

  ‘I’ve been phoning you, Kevin. Didn’t you get my messages?’

  ‘I’ve been busy. What did you want? You haven’t sold North Coast Summers have you?’

  ‘No, it’s not about your painting.’

  He looked at her. ‘Well, what did you want to talk to me about?’

  ‘I wanted to know if you’ve seen Freddie Winfred?’

  ‘Freddie? I haven’t seen or heard from her since I met her at the Archibald. I’ve rung her a few times, but all I got was her answering machine. She told me she knew some people who were interested in buying my paintings. I even went around to her gallery, but she wasn’t there.’

  Jill stared past him and looked out at the traffic on the street.

  ‘Why are you asking?’

  ‘I wanted to speak to her about the exhibition she’s got coming up – nothing important.’

  Kevin cleared his throat. ‘There’s something I’ve got to tell you.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘North Coast Summers. I want to keep it for sentimental reasons. I don’t want to sell it.’

  ‘You sure? I had a cashed up buyer looking at it this morning and I think he’s going to buy it.’

  ‘It’s not for sale at any price. I’ve made up my mind.’

  ‘I’ll have to check with Bea.’ Jill walked to her office and closed the door behind her. A few minutes later, she walked back into the exhibition room.

  ‘Do you want me to bubble wrap it for you?’

  Jill stood and watched Kevin drive off and wondered why he had changed his mind about selling the painting. Sentimental reasons? Not likely.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Jill checked the address again before she took the steps into the alcove of the red brick apartment block. Zella (Freddie) Winfred was typed on a piece of white cardboard behind a small plastic rectangle. She pressed her knuckle against the buzzer marked apartment six. There was no answer. She pressed it again and waited a few moments before she returned to the footpath and found some shade. She was about to text Rimis to ask him what she should do, when a courier pulled up and parked his bicycle against the building. She watched him pull out a large tan envelope from his back pack, check the address and look up at the building, just as she had done only moments before. She followed him into the building’s alcove.

  ‘Another scorcher again today,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, what I’d do for a swim.’ Jill rummaged through her bag. ‘My keys are in here somewhere. Why can’t I ever find anything in this bag?’

  ‘My girlfriend has the same problem.’ He laughed and pressed the buzzer to apartment four.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Cycle courier. Got a delivery for you mate, but you need to sign. You wanna come down or you want me to come up?’ The security door clicked. The courier stepped aside to let Jill pass.

  ‘Thanks, found them,’ she dangled her house keys in front of him.

  Freddie’s apartment was at the rear of the block, on the third floor. The balustrade had been recently painted and the tiled stairs smelt of disinfectant.

  Jill walked up to the front door of Freddie’s apartment and knocked. There was no one about at this time of day. Most people would have been at work. She tried the door handle, but unlike the gallery’s back door, it was firmly locked. She turned and looked down the hall before she pulled the lock pick gun from her shoulder bag. Her father had given it to her as a joke for her twenty-first birthday, but it had come in handy over the years, especially a few months ago when she had accidentally locked herself out of her apartment. She looked at the lock. It was an old five-pin tumbler. Easy. The lock slipped back.

  ‘She’s not at home, dear.’

  Jill froze. She turned her head and looked over her shoulder. The door across the hall was opened and an elderly woman was standing on the threshold with her hands on her hips. She was dressed in a faded floral housecoat, even though it was lunchtime.

  ‘Do you know where she is?’

  ‘I don’t think I should be talking to you, my daughter says I shouldn’t speak to strangers. You could be a thief, or something worse.’

  ‘It’s all right. I’m Freddie’s niece, Kylie.’

  ‘What were you doing there with the lock?’ The old woman raised her chin in the air and looked at Freddie’s door.

  ‘I had a bit of trouble with the key. It was stuck, but I’ve got the door opened now. See?’ Jill stood to one side and pushed the door open with her foot.

  ‘I suppose you look a decent type.’ The woman tilted her head to one side. ‘Strange, I didn’t know Freddie had a niece. She never mentioned you. Thought she only had the one sister, and I’m sure she told me she’d never married.’

  ‘An adopted brother. Auntie Freddie doesn’t like to talk about Dad, he’s the dark shadow in the family.’ Jill shrugged her shoulders. ‘You know what families are like.’

  ‘Yes, indeed I do. My mother had a brother who was —’

  ‘So, have you seen Auntie Freddie?’

  ‘She left in a hurry about a week ago,’ the woman said.

  ‘What makes you think she left in a hurry?’

  ‘She asked me to drop off some dry cleaning for her, one of her crazy, silk kaftans.’ The woman laughed. ‘I know they’re back in fashion, but I wouldn’t be caught dead in one.’ She turned to close the door.

  ‘What happened to it?’

  ‘What’s that dear?’

  ‘The kaftan?’

  ‘I’ve still got it. It’s hanging up on the back of my bedroom door. Freddie said she’d drop the money into me, but she never did. The dry cleaner likes to be paid up front you see. It’s not that I don’t trust her, but I didn’t want to get caught short.’ Before the woman could suggest she take the kaftan herself, Jill went into Freddie’s apartment and closed the door.

  The apartment was almost identical in size and layout to hers but it had more furniture and was of better quality. A large flat screen TV hung on the far wall w
hile the remaining walls were covered with contemporary art. The kitchen was warm and stuffy, made worse by the smell of burnt coffee and grease. Dirty dishes were stacked in the sink and a cup of untouched black coffee sat on the marble bench top.

  Jill opened the kitchen cupboards. She found only the essentials: extra virgin olive oil, green tea, salt and pepper, sugar, a box of toasted muesli. Inside the refrigerator, it was much the same: a milk container past its use by date, a tub of margarine, smoked salmon wrapped up in cling wrap, and a bottle of French champagne, unopened.

  Freddie’s bedroom was elegant and spacious. It smelled of expensive perfume and the carpet was springy and soft underfoot. The king-size bed was carefully made and she wondered when Freddie had last slept in it. She checked the mattress, the pillows, and under the bed. She walked over to the mirrored robe and slid the doors open. Inside there was a collection of colourful kaftans, half a dozen wraps, even a full length fur coat, a few fancy cocktail dresses, shoes of all descriptions – sandals, low heels, high heels. Freddie’s silky kaftans brushed against Jill’s bare arms.

  Next, she turned to a bank of drawers. Inside the top drawer, she found a neat pile of underwear. She sifted through layers of stockings and slips and found two thick, plain, white envelopes. She opened them and flicked through wads of one hundred dollar notes. She had never seen so much money. The notes were new and crisp and she held them up to her nose to smell the ink. It was then she realised she had forgotten to put gloves on. Shit. The woman across the hall had distracted her. Jill pulled a pair from her shoulder bag. How could she have been so stupid? She wiped the notes on the leg of her jeans and returned the money to the drawer. She looked around the room and tried to remember what else she had touched.

  She walked into the bathroom. Inside the vanity cupboard she found nothing out of the ordinary: toothpaste, deodorant, a half empty pot of blue eye shadow, and some blusher. She frowned in frustration and tried to pull the pieces of what she knew of Freddie together. If she had ‘done a runner,’ would she have left her clothing and all her personal items behind? And who in their right mind leaves thousands of dollars in cash in their undies drawer? Jill thought back to the phone left behind at the gallery. And the van. She agreed with the woman across the hall; wherever Freddie was, she had left in a hurry.

  Jill stepped back into the bedroom. She noted the empty suitcases and travel bags on the top shelf of the walk-in robe. Next to the robe, stood a small writing desk. An answering machine similar to the one she had seen in Freddie’s office was sitting on top of it. She pressed the play button and listened to the recorded messages. She picked up a stack of bank statements, which had been carefully clipped together, and sifted through them. The bank account appeared to be a working account. Cash sums had been deposited at regular intervals. Jill heard his voice and dropped the statements on the desk.

  ‘Freddie, hi, um, it’s Kevin Taggart here. Thought we could meet up and have lunch or something. You know, get to know each other a bit better. You’ve got my number. Gimme a buzz when you get the chance.’

  Jill parked her car in a side street and walked the two hundred metres to the Dunworth. She stopped outside the French patisserie and admired the window display. The owner waved to her from behind the counter and she walked into the shop.

  ‘Bonjour, Jean Claude,’ she said. ‘I haven’t enrolled in those French classes yet. Maybe next term, when I’ve got more time.’

  ‘I can always give you private lessons, mon cherie.’

  She laughed before she had a chance to wonder if he was serious.

  She unlocked the gallery’s front door and walked down the hall to her office. She put her feet up onto the desk and pulled a pastry from a white bag. She was about to take a bite, when her phone rang.

  ‘I haven’t disturbed you, have I? Hope you’re not run off your feet with customers.’

  Jill removed her feet from the desk and sat upright in her chair. She hated it when Rimis took this tone with her. Sarcasm didn’t suit him, but she knew he hid behind it when he was either frustrated or seriously annoyed. She put her feet back on the desk, tucked the phone into her shoulder and picked at the chocolate filling with the tips of her fingers. ‘I’m here on my own. I’m expecting Bea any moment. She’s coming in to discuss the final arrangements for the Byron Willis exhibition.’

  ‘Look Brennan, I know you love your new job, but keep your focus on where it’s supposed to be, will you?’

  Jill pulled a face at the phone. Rimis was always so serious. She wondered what he did in his spare time apart from his crossword puzzles. He was a respected police officer with an impeccable record but he had no family as far as she was aware and few friends, apart from Col Morrissey, his long-time drinking buddy.

  ‘I’ve been trying to phone you. I think Freddie was being blackmailed. I scanned the note and emailed it to you. Did you get it?’ Jill asked.

  ‘Yeah, I got it.’

  ‘What about the reference to both? Do you think her sister could be involved?’

  ‘Possibly. Have you been to Freddie’s apartment yet?

  ‘I’ve just come back from there. I spoke to her neighbour. She hasn’t seen her for over a week. Hey, you’ll never guess what I found in her undies drawer.’

  ‘Go ahead, surprise me.’

  ‘Wads of cash. At least fifty-thousand dollars in crisp one hundred dollar notes. I wonder if Freddie was up to more than just art fraud?’

  Rimis whistled down the phone. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ Jill said. ‘What if Freddie hasn’t run off, and the person who wrote the note has killed her?’

  Rimis laughed. ‘That’s a big leap. What makes you think that?’

  ‘Because everywhere I look, I find evidence of her leaving in a hurry; coffee dregs, unlocked doors, a mobile phone left behind in her office. And then there’s the money I found.’

  ‘Maybe she just wants us to believe she left in a hurry. Meet me tonight at Otto’s Bar around nine, we’ll talk more. And Brennan —’

  ‘Yes, boss?’

  ‘Don’t call me, boss.’

  Otto’s Bar was furnished with small timber tables covered with soggy beer mats. The walls were painted smoky brown, and dusty plastic pot plants crowded every corner. It was nine o’clock sharp when Jill walked in and spotted Rimis and Morrissey sitting up at the bar. Rimis was hunched over his crossword, a glass of red wine in front of him; Morrissey was talking to the barman.

  The place gave her the creeps. She knew it was Rimis’s favourite watering hole, but she couldn’t see the attraction. Ottos was too far from the city centre to attract passing trade and too close to the city to be anyone’s local. It relied on occasional university students, cops, and mortuary staff for its trade. She looked around the room and couldn’t resist humming the song, Monster Mash. It was appropriate in this bar of horrors.

  Rimis called her over. Laughter and raised voices swept around the room and carried her towards him.

  ‘You look like you’re in a good mood,’ Rimis said.

  ‘I was thinking of a song I know.’

  ‘Care to sing a few bars?’ Morrissey asked before he gave her the once over.

  Jill pulled her shirt down to cover her hips. ‘No, it’ll keep. How are you anyway, Sarge?’

  ‘No complaints. I was just talking to Nick about the girl washed up at the Baths.’ Morrissey dug his fingers into the bowl of nuts on the bar, threw his head back and popped a handful in his mouth. ‘I s’pose it won’t be long before someone comes forward to claim her. Somebody out there must be missing her, but you never know, do you? Take Freddie Winfred, for example. She could be lying in a ditch somewhere, or off living another life, perfectly happy.’ Morrissey swirled the contents of his schooner.

  Rimis rolled his eyes.

  ‘What?’ Morrissey looked at Rimis. ‘Plenty of people go missing every day for all sorts of reasons, or else they die in their homes and nobody thinks about them until t
he neighbours notice the stench. You know that, Nick, as well as I do.’

  Rimis and Jill looked at each other. Jill knew what he was thinking. It had been four days before Rose Phillips’ body was found in her kitchen by a real estate agent.

  ‘Want a drink?’ Rimis asked Jill.

  Jimmy the barman walked up and wiped the bar in front of them with a red and white checked tea towel. ‘What’ll it be, love?’

  ‘Soda with ice, thanks. And a slice of lemon if you’ve got any.’

  Morrissey leant over and said to Rimis, ‘She’s on this detox thing.’

  Rimis had a surprised look on his face.

  ‘Hey Nick, you worked out that clue that’s been bugging you yet?’ Jimmy asked.

  Rimis picked up the folded newspaper and looked at the crossword. ‘No, not yet, but it’ll come. Any good at cryptic crosswords, Brennan?’

  ‘Never tried,’ she said.

  ‘Good for the brain; keeps you sharp.’

  Jimmy’s brother, Tony, was playing the alto sax. The sound was soft, lazy, and with the first low notes, the mood in the place dropped another level.

  The soda arrived. Jill took a sip and crunched down on a shard of ice.

  ‘I feel sorry for the old guy who found her,’ Morrissey said.

  Jill played with her beer mat and listened to the banter between the two men.

  ‘Yeah, it wasn’t his day. The shock of it got to him and he ended up at North Shore Hospital. It’s not all bad news, though. The dental search came up with a match.’

  ‘Yeah? So who was she?’ Morrissey asked.

  ‘We haven’t got confirmation yet, but she could be a twenty-year-old student. We need to check with the family, establish next of kin.’

  ‘So, you’ve got a name?’ Morrissey asked.

  ‘Yeah, we think she was Paloma Browne. Strange name.’

  Jill coughed and spilt her drink down her jeans. Rimis stared at her. Morrissey threw back his beer and fidgeted on his stool.