Killing Sunday

by Amos, Gina

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Rimis made a bad job of parking his car in the loading zone in front of the newsagent. He grabbed a copy of the Sydney Morning Herald and looked at the front page. The media had reacted quickly, just as he had expected, and were milking this for all it was worth.

  ART FRAUD TURNS TO MURDER.

  The body of a 58-year-old woman was found in a warehouse in Chatswood yesterday morning. The deceased was Zella Winfred, an eastern suburbs art gallery owner and socialite. She was also at the centre of an undercover police investigation into an art fraud racket operating in Sydney. Her business associate, Mr Dorin Chisca, found her body. Anyone with information is asked to contact Chatswood Detectives…

  Under the headline was a photo of the warehouse, in the background, Chisca’s Bentley. Rimis knew if he could be bothered to turn the radio on, he would hear the full story on the seven a.m. news. He walked into Chatswood Station thirty minutes later feeling that it was going to be another frustrating day. He threw the newspaper onto his desk and turned to the back pages, tore out the day’s cryptic crossword and clipped it to the others in the top drawer of his desk. That damn clue was still on his mind. Fifteen down. He couldn’t even begin to think of starting on another crossword until he’d solved the one he was working on.

  At eight-thirty, his phone rang. He had thought about switching it to voicemail when he’d arrived this morning, but he’d been distracted and forgotten all about it.

  ‘Rimis,’ he barked down the line. He leant forward and listened carefully to what the caller was saying. A few minutes later, he stood up from his desk and grabbed his jacket.

  Brennan tapped on the door.

  ‘Boss, I was —’ She had a black ring file in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. She was about to sit down but she must have noticed the look on his face.

  ‘Not now, Brennan. I’ll be back in a few hours. Come and see me then.’

  She followed him out of his office.

  ‘Brennan. There you are,’ Rawlings called down the corridor. Luke Rawlings was a snappy dresser. Today he was wearing a dark navy Oxford jacket, a white cotton shirt, and a pale blue silk tie. ‘We’ve flipped for it. It’s your turn to get the coffee.’ He looked at the cardboard cup in her hand.

  ‘Oh, come on Luke. I did the coffee run yesterday. And anyway, what’s wrong with the coffee from the canteen? I’m drinking it, aren’t I?’

  ‘Don’t know how you can drink that dishwater. Come on, be a good sport.’ She looked up at him. He smiled at her. He was tall and shambling. His wavy blonde hair was expertly gelled; he smelt of expensive after-shave and he had the deepest blue eyes she had ever seen. No wonder he had a reputation with the female officers.

  ‘Don’t forget, I like my cappuccino extra hot and with lots of chocolate on top,’ he said, before heading back into the main incident room.

  Five minutes later, Jill was on Archer Street. It was a warm morning, the traffic was heavy and the footpath was crowded with the usual mix of shoppers and office workers. She walked into Cafe New York. The cafe smelt of fresh coffee, toast, melted cheese and bacon. She placed the order, with Luke's requests. As an afterthought, she ordered two almond biscuits for herself. She leant against the counter while she waited.

  ‘Jill.’ The coffees were on the bench next to the cash register. The young woman behind the counter smiled at her. She was tall, with long honey-blonde hair; Jill had her pegged as a university student. Jill remembered her own university days and the financial struggle, the study and the shift work as a Coles checkout chic in Maroubra.

  ‘Coffee.’ Jill announced five minutes later, placing the cardboard carrier on her desk in the incident room.

  ‘Thanks.’ Morrissey winked at her and grabbed his extra-large macchiato. He creaked the plastic lid off his coffee.

  ‘We should get a decent coffee machine, Sarge. It would save on unnecessary down time.’

  ‘You’re probably right, Brennan. I’ll speak to the boss about it; see if we’ve got anything left over on this month’s budget. Money’s tight right now with the overtime we’ve all been putting in.’

  ‘Speaking of the boss, any idea where he went this morning in such a hurry?’ Jill asked.

  Morrissey looked at her. ‘Haven’t got a bloody clue.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Jill unlocked the door to her apartment, walked into her bedroom and kicked off her shoes. The desk in the corner was scattered with unpaid bills, a writing pad, and an open police procedural manual. Her shift had finished at midnight. She should go straight to bed, but she knew she wouldn’t sleep. Adrenalin was still pumping through her veins. She changed into a pair of pink boxer shorts and an over-sized T-shirt and sat down at her desk.

  She flicked through the police manual and began revising the standard operating procedures for detaining someone after an arrest. The next time she looked across at her clock radio on the bedside table it was two a.m. She yawned, ran her fingers through her hair and walked out into the kitchen. The kitchen was so small that only a few steps were needed to make it to the sink. She filled the electric jug, waited for the water to boil and poured herself a cup of green tea. She carried the mug back to her bedroom and sat down on her chair, tucking her legs under her. The computer screen came to life and she remembered what Rimis had told her about John Wayne Glover. She Googled the Granny Killer.

  Rimis told her Glover had been a volunteer at the local senior citizens centre, was married with two daughters, and had led a pathetically ordinary life. She clicked on Wikepedia. It gave details of his killing spree and his background. Glover had built-up aggression and hostility towards his mother, and when she’d died, he’d needed to take it out on someone. What she read was both horrifying and sad. Jill hit the shut-down command and closed her laptop.

  It was still dark when she opened her eyes a few hours later. She rolled over, kicked off the bed sheet. Even with the window open, the room was hot and airless. She tried willing herself back to sleep but it was no use. She padded barefoot into the kitchen and opened the fridge door, staring into the cool emptiness. There was nothing there except for two bottles of wine and a furry pack of bacon. She really must do some shopping. She closed the fridge door and went back to bed.

  Jill was one of the first to arrive at the Station the following morning. She nodded at Rimis when she passed his office.

  ‘Good to see you in so early, Brennan,’ he said.

  ‘Couldn’t sleep.’ She walked down the corridor to the Major Incident Room. It was mushroom brown, someone’s attempt to make it look up-to-date and modern. There was a joke about mushrooms, something about being fed bullshit and kept in the dark. It wasn’t far from the truth. She wasn’t getting anywhere with all the paperwork stacked up on her desk. She sat down and looked around the room. It was littered with printouts, dusty boxes, ring binders, over-flowing in-trays and files. She wished she could open a window; the room was stale, laced with the remains of yesterday’s take-away lunches, spicy peanuts, old coffee, sweat and frustration. She flipped through the files in front of her and read them selectively, using a pink high-lighter to mark information she thought was important or relevant.

  Detectives Jenny Choi and Matt Chapman arrived twenty minutes after her. Jenny Choi was efficient and had an eye for detail. She was also the liaison officer for the local Chinese community. Jill hadn’t had a chance to get to know her, but remembered how Jenny had gone out of her way to make her feel welcome when she’d first arrived. Matt Chapman, on the other hand, had a reputation around the station as a general dogsbody and a bore. He hadn’t offended anyone or screwed up as far as Jill had heard, but he lacked initiative.

  They both had their heads down at their desks on the other side of the room, taking and making calls, drinking coffee and scouring the boxes of paper files from Freddie’s office and from Paloma Browne’s studio. They were doing the legwork, trying to establish profiles for both women, deciding who should be questioned. I
t wouldn’t be long before forensic reports and witness statements would start arriving. The public also needed to know what phone numbers to ring if they had any information.

  There was a morning meeting scheduled for ten-thirty, but Rimis had postponed it to later in the day. Jill had already noticed his short absences and wondered what was going on in his life. A woman? Family issues? It couldn’t be family; Rimis didn’t have one as far as she knew. As for women, Nick Rimis had only one love in his life, and that was his job.

  A line of perspiration tracked across her forehead and dripped down the side of her face. The air conditioning had broken down again, but thankfully, pedestal fans had been requisitioned and were due to arrive sometime today. Jill tucked a stray strand of hair behind one ear and looked at the red roses William had sent her. She had been embarrassed when the duty sergeant had called her down to collect them from the front desk this morning. They had already begun to wilt because of the heat. Why didn’t she just throw them in the bin? It was over between them, over before it had even started. She sighed, refreshed the computer screen and picked up a file.

  ‘Brennan?’

  Jill jumped. ‘You shouldn’t sneak up on someone like that, Sarge. You scared me half to death.’

  Col Morrissey looked over her shoulder. She saw him looking at the roses. He sat down on the corner of the desk and looked around the room.

  She smelt traces of tobacco and stale beer on his breath.

  He suddenly stood up and walked over to the water cooler and filled a cup with filtered water. She saw him looking at the forensic photos of Paloma.

  ‘Scott Carver. He’s your cousin, isn’t he?’ Jill asked.

  He turned around and looked at her. ‘Yeah and like me, he’s charming and good-looking, but he works too hard. Doesn’t get out much. I can organise a date with him if you want.’

  ‘Yeah, right. That’s all I need, a charming, over-worked copper looking for a love life.’

  ‘Something bugging you, Brennan? You seem a little edgy this morning.’

  ‘I’ve got a lot on my mind,’ she bit down hard on the end of her pen.

  He walked up to her and whispered in her ear, ‘I bet you have, darlin’.’

  Jill shifted in her seat. Morrissey walked past Chapman’s desk on his way out. Chapman was looking at the computer screen, his face twisted in concentration.

  ‘You need more fibre in your diet, son,’ Morrissey said.

  Chapman removed his glasses and looked up at him.

  ‘The look on your face reminds me of the look my old gran used to get when she was constipated.’

  Jill heard Chapman mumble something under his breath.

  ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’ Jill said to Morrissey.

  ‘What is?’ Morrissey stopped on the threshold, turned around.

  ‘Paloma's and Freddie's deaths. They’re related, aren’t they?’

  ‘Of course they bloody well are.’

  There was an interactive smart board on the far wall. Jill stared across the room at the photos of Paloma and Freddie before her eyes ran along the time lines of what they knew of the last twenty-four hours of their lives. She noticed Chisca’s name had been written in a heavy scrawl. ‘The common denominator in both cases is Dorin Chisca.’

  ‘You’re starting to sound like one of us,’ Morrissey laughed and looked across at the board again. ‘Don’t forget Taggart,’ he said. ‘The boss reckons he’s the second coming of Doctor Jeckyll and Mr Hyde.’ Morrissey looked at his watch. ‘Well, I’d like to stay and chat, but I’m outta here. Got bad guys to catch.’

  Jill turned back to her computer screen.

  ‘Dickhead,’ said Chapman.

  Brennan knew Morrissey wasn’t the most popular detective in the station but he got results.

  Choi swivelled around in her seat. ‘Don’t let him get to you, Matt. Everyone know he’s up himself.’

  Jill grabbed the bottled water on her desk and unscrewed the lid. She stared into the empty space in front of her and thought about Calida Winfred. What was her part in all this besides painting the innuendos?

  ‘Smile, it can’t be all that bad.’ Luke walked into the room, cleared a space on his desk and pulled out two sushi rolls and a can of Diet Coke from a plastic bag.

  ‘Luke? What do we know about the fire at Calida Winfred’s house? Was it suspicious?’

  Jenny turned around on her chair. ‘I’ve been looking at the case notes and she reckons she didn’t know what happened that night – had no idea how the fire started. She couldn’t even remember how she got out of the house.’

  ‘What did the Arson Squad have to say about it?’ Luke popped open the can.

  ‘The damage was so extensive they couldn’t pinpoint the exact cause. The house collapsed on itself and because of the number of hot spots, any evidence on how it started was destroyed.’

  ‘Maybe we should take a closer look at Calida Winfred. The fire could have been deliberately lit to scare her off,’ Rawlings said. He picked up a marker pen and wrote in bold letters on the whiteboard, Calida Winfred – fire? Jill saw him looking at the forensic photos of Freddie and Paloma, just as she had moments before. She wondered if like her, he had noticed the blanks against witnesses, suspects, and forensics.

  ‘What’s got me baffled is, if it’s the same person responsible for both deaths, why the different MO?’ Jill asked.

  ‘You can place too much significance on an MO.’ Luke unwrapped his California roll. ‘The perp can panic, lose his cool, or the victim’s response can change.’ He took a bite. A grain of rice fell onto his shirt and he brushed it away. ‘Put up too much of a fight and he’s forced to use different methods.’

  Jill knew he was showing off. The way he was talking, it sounded like he was reciting from a police manual. He had received his detective’s designation six months earlier, and whether he meant to or not, he was rubbing her face in the fact. Everyone knew it was only because of the undercover assignment that she was even here at all.

  ‘I forgot to tell you, the boss phoned to say Ted Mackie is driving Calida Winfred down from the Hunter Valley to identify Freddie.’ Luke drained the can of Coke and aimed it at the waste paper bin. It landed dead centre. ‘Also said for you to find your mate, Taggart, quick smart and bring him in for a chat.’

  It was the end of Morrissey’s shift and instead of driving straight home he went to Otto’s Bar.

  He finished what was left of his second beer and decided against another. The last thing he needed was to be pulled over by the local constabulary for D.U.I.

  Morrissey was a month away from turning forty-five. He was on his third wife, but this time he knew he’d got it right. Sophie was the perfect fit for him in every way. She didn’t complain when he came home late from the pub or was called out to a case in the middle of the night. She was an understanding woman, especially when it came to his job.

  Over the years, Morrissey had learnt to compartmentalise the worst of the memories that went with being a police sergeant. He turned them on and off like well-oiled machinery, but after almost four years of trying to forget about Dorin Chisca, the bastard had turned up again like space matter spewed out from a black hole. He knew Chisca’s involvement in the Browne and Winfred cases was a problem. He knew what it would mean for him. It was obvious the two deaths were connected, obvious enough; even Jill Brennan had worked it out.

  Morrissey knew that in Rimis’s mind, Kevin Taggart was a serial killer and Freddie Winfred was his latest victim. He knew Rimis well enough to know he wouldn’t give up until he nailed Taggart and had him behind bars. What bothered Col Morrissey was not Rimis’s obsession with Taggart, but where the investigation would lead him.

  Morrissey’s mobile buzzed and he grabbed it from the bar. It was Scott Carver.

  ‘Scotty, how are you cuz? Long time no see.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine. Listen Col, I’ve only got a few minutes, I’m about to go into a meeting. I’ve been speaking with Mickey Br
ennan’s daughter. She was asking me all sorts of questions. I told her about Dorin Chisca. Told her he was small time but not to be fooled by the fact he didn’t have a criminal record.’

  ‘You didn’t tell her anything about me, did you?’

  ‘Don’t worry, there’s no way I’d open my mouth. And Bill Peruzzi isn’t going to either.’

  ‘Yeah, I heard about Blinky,’ Morrisey said.

  Morrissey walked out of Otto’s Bar and lit up a cigarette. He threw the empty pack into a garbage bin and walked back to his car. He sat behind the steering wheel and looked out through the windscreen and wondered what he was going to do to get out of the mess he was in. He should have known any offspring of Mickey’s would be just like him. Once Mickey Brennan had got a whiff of something rotten, he would never leave it alone.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ‘Look who’s here, Helen.’ The nurse plumped up the pillows and turned down the television.

  It had begun slowly at first, a few episodes of forgetfulness, confusion over Christmas and Easter, then the annoying habit of repeating the same stories more than a dozen times. At first Rimis and his brother Peter had thought it was a case of old age catching up with her. Then there were the tests and the diagnosis. Nick knew his mother would have despised the person she’d become.

  Helen Rimis was dressed in a pale blue nightdress scattered with sprays of yellow daisies. Nick took her hand and held it in his. ‘It’s Nicko, Mum.’ Nick noticed the bony hand, the finger joints twisted by disease.

  ‘I don’t know any Nicko.’ Helen Rimis took back her hand. ‘Get away from me. I know what you want; it’s what you all want. Well, don’t think you’ll be getting any from me.’