The Popeye Murder

by Sandra Winter-Dewhirst

  They arrived at Jolley’s Boathouse at a little before eleven.

  They walked across the lawn from the boathouse to the boat landing, where one of the blue-and-white Popeye fleet of small ferries was moored. There was a great deal of action around and on the boat, with waiting staff ferrying lidded trays of food from the Jolley’s Boathouse kitchen to the tables set up on the boat, where most of the bench seating had been removed. The boat, already painted blue and white, was decorated in bunting, giving it a festive air.

  As Rebecca watched the staff dressed in matching blue-and-white aprons making their way from the restaurant, she saw someone rushing toward them. It was Nick Pecorino, and he didn’t look happy. As he approached, he breathlessly exclaimed, ‘No one’s seen Leong. He hasn’t turned up. Luckily, Will Oliver arrived for work this morning, thinking that Leong might have only sacked him in the heat of the moment and that he may still have a job. He’s taken over and done everything.’ Then Nick added, ‘But that’s it. If Leong’s reputation wasn’t already in the toilet, it is now! He’s finished. When this gets out, Chewie’s is history. His name will be mud. And I won’t be helping him to pick up the pieces.’

  The Channel Seven car was making its way down to the banks of the Torrens when Dorothy interrupted with, ‘Well, you better keep your mouth shut—the media have started to arrive, and you don’t have to offer any information. Let them work it out. Chances are they won’t even notice. I’m sure Francois can step in and do interviews as one of the leading chefs of the festival.’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Nick. ‘Let’s not make a fuss—and, Francois, you don’t mind, do you?’

  It was at this point that Rebecca felt a tinge of anxiety. Should she be part of the cover-up to the media when she was part of the media herself? Where did the fact that the Advertiser was a major sponsor of the festival intersect with her ethics as a journalist to cover the story, warts and all? She was often getting herself into conflict-of-interest messes and never seemed to resolve the questions satisfactorily. She was compromised with her professional and personal relationship with Nick Pecorino.

  Francois looked positively gleeful. Rebecca almost couldn’t blame him—he’d waited a long time to take on the mantle of the leading chef in the Australian Food Festival. It would be his face, rather than Leong’s, that would appear on the TV bulletins, the food magazines, and the lifestyle programs. He was going to enjoy this attention.

  All the camera crews and journalists had arrived—or at least those who were coming. The ABC TV news crew hadn’t turned up, but that wasn’t unexpected; the public broadcaster didn’t often cover what it saw as ‘soft’ stories or those that seemed too commercial. But all the commercials were there and a couple of celebrities from SA Life.

  As Popeye took off upstream toward the weir, Nick Pecorino took charge and grabbed the microphone. ‘Welcome to the program launch of the 2014 Australian Food Festival. It has been a long journey to get this festival on the map, and all of you here today have contributed in some way to its success. Today I will outline just a few of the highlights that the lucky people of Adelaide and the many thousands of interstate and overseas visitors will have in store for them come festival time in November.’

  The cameras rolled, smartphones recorded Nick’s speech, and journalists took notes. Rebecca admired how he played right into the hands of what he rightly judged to be a parochial audience.

  Nick finished up his lengthy speech with, ‘Adelaide is the food and wine capital of Australia. It makes more than 50 percent of the nation’s wine, and bloody brilliant wine at that.’

  The crowd cheered.

  ‘Not only are we the home to Penfolds Grange, but Henschke’s Hill of Grace. From the Barossa to the Coonawarra and the Limestone Coast, from McLaren Vale to Clare and the Adelaide Hills, South Australian wines are world class. And to go with our great wines is our outstanding food, made from some of the best and cleanest produce in the world. Influenced by our rich migrant heritage, particularly the Italian, we have an outstanding food culture in this state. One only has to look at all the new bars and restaurants that are opening. The Australian Food Festival is helping to promote this state as a destination for food and wine lovers from all round the world. Today I also want to announce that the South Australian government has agreed to sponsor the Australian Food Festival for another four years. Please welcome Tourism Minister Paula Hull to say a few words about the reason the government is so strongly behind this event.’

  Rebecca inwardly groaned as the minister stepped up to the microphone. She anticipated a long speech.

  Rebecca was finally jolted from her reflections when Minister Hull congratulated Nick Pecorino and the Australian Food Festival team. Nick grabbed the handle to one of the pewter cloches and lifted it with a theatrical swish.

  The cameras were still rolling, and indeed the flashes of cameras reached a crescendo. Nick Pecorino, the blood draining from his face, had the presence of mind to replace the cloche, albeit shakily.

  What were they to do now? Nick looked as if he was about to faint. He haltingly found his way to a bench and collapsed onto it. Jonathan, weaving through the audience, made his way up to the table. To Rebecca, everything seemed to happen in slow motion. She watched Jonathan stop in front of the table, put his hand on the handle of the cloche, and lift it off. Up until now, Jonathan hadn’t uttered a word, but now he wailed and collapsed onto the floor with the cloche still in his hand, saying the obvious, ‘It’s Leong. It’s his head!’ He screamed, ‘Who could have done this?’

  Dorothy made her way up to him, knelt beside him, removed the cloche from his hand, and replaced it over Leong’s head. She held Jonathan close to her, with her hand on the back of his head, gently rocking him.

  At this point, one of the young male journalists pushed his way to the side of the boat and vomited. The smell of the journalist’s vomit, combined with the disturbing mix of odours and the shock of seeing a cooked head, prompted a female cameraperson and one of the waiters to rush to the sides of the boat to spew in unison.

  While none of the guests said anything in those first few moments after the unveiling, gradually and sombrely the journalists and others on board started to discuss among themselves what they had just witnessed. After a few more minutes, a few of the journalists put their mobile phones to their ears to ring their editors and chiefs of staff.

  Rebecca wondered if she should call her editor. But her next thought was to wonder if anyone had called the police. She slowly started to come to life after feeling suspended in time. Everything seemed so vivid. Her senses were on full alert. Panic welled in her stomach, and she had an overwhelming urge to do something. To take action. She took her mobile phone out of her bag and rang 000. ‘I need the police,’ she said shakily.

  The policewoman calmly asked Rebecca a succession of questions and finished with, ‘Don’t let anyone get off the boat until we get there.’

  Rebecca thought she had been taken seriously. But she wondered if she would have believed that story if she had been on the other end of the phone. She rang off.

  The pilot of the boat had the presence of mind to turn around and head back to the landing at Jolley’s Boathouse. Rebecca estimated it would be about five minutes before they moored. She made her way up to the front of the boat, placed a hand on Nick’s shoulder, as she brushed past, and went straight to the pilot.

  ‘Can I use your microphone, please? I need to address everyone on board.’

  The pilot looked at her but didn’t reply. With a shaky hand, he gave her the microphone and flicked a switch on his console.

  ‘Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Rebecca in a thin voice. She found it hard to get her breath. Her head felt light, and she noticed that the microphone was shaking violently in her hand. ‘We’ve obviously had a big shock here today.’ There wasn’t much else she could say in relation to what they had just witnessed. What could one say? ‘I have called the police. They will be here shortly. T
he police have asked me to tell you that you all need to remain on board the boat until they get here.’

  That was all she really needed to say, but she stood with the microphone to her lips for a few seconds more just in case something else came into her head. The collective eyes of those on board remained fixed on her and the shaking microphone, in expectation of some other piece of information or even explanation, and they didn’t wander until Rebecca carefully and deliberately placed the microphone back onto the console.

  Rebecca imagined some of the journalists on board would want to file their stories, and the camera crews would be keen to get back to their stations. She noticed a couple of radio journalists had recorded her address to them. As if a switch had been flicked and they were all again in real time, the journalists—all of whom she knew, having gone to university, worked, or partied with them—started coming up to the front and addressing questions to both her and Nick.

  ‘Was that really Leong Chew’s head?’ asked one journalist. ‘What was it in? Aspic, honey?’

  ‘When was he last seen alive?’

  ‘Who do you think did it?’

  Rebecca didn’t feel inclined to answer any questions, not that she knew the answers, except to the first question: that was the head of Leong Chew. She knew she would have to write the headlines to the story herself for online release within the next ten minutes, with the fuller story to follow within the next hour, with unfolding news added as it came to hand.

  Jo Sharpiro, the Advertiser photographer on board, had taken photos already. Rebecca never had to instruct Jo. Indeed, the veil of inaction had already been ripped aside. Jo purposely strode over to the table, lifted the cloche off Leong’s head, and started to take photos from all angles. Even the TV cameras started to roll again, their red lights flashing. Thoughts of what the journalists could legally use or what was in good taste were abandoned, knowing those decisions were for their editors to make in the coming hours.

  After a few seconds of photo frenzy, Jonathan looked up and saw what was happening. Indeed, Jonathan was in a few of the shots himself. He jumped to his feet and forcefully put the cloche back onto Leong’s head, screaming, ‘You are all vultures. Get away! Get away, you vile creatures. Can’t you see he is dead? My lover is dead!’ At that point, Jonathan became the subject of the lenses, and he cowered under the flashes, putting his arm in front of his face as if fending off blows. He then crumpled to the floor, sobbing into Dorothy’s arms.

  Rebecca raised her hand and said, ‘I think that’s enough, guys. You’ve crossed the line. We are in the middle of a murder scene here. No one should touch the lid or intervene in any way with the evidence. Let’s just sit down and quietly wait for the police.’

  Just then one of the radio journalists dialled his station and started a radio interview. Finally, Rebecca’s journalistic mind kicked into gear. She rang her editor, Reg, and told him the gist of the story, carefully omitting the fact that she should have called him with the story about five minutes ago. She just hoped he wasn’t monitoring the other news outlets, particularly the radio station interviewing a journalist on board right now.

  ‘Jesus, Rebecca. This is a bloody amazing story. Can you dictate a few lines now?’

  Rebecca quickly gathered her thoughts and then dictated a few paragraphs. ‘See what you can do with that. Jo Sharpiro’s photos should be available on the cloud by now. I’ll be in to write up more as soon as the cops let me go.’

  As Rebecca rung off from Reg, she could hear him muttering headlines to himself. She suspected he wouldn’t make it past the first one—HEAD CHEF GETS THE CHOP.

  Jolley’s Boathouse

  As the pilot of Popeye turned the vessel to make his landing approach, Rebecca could see three patrol cars and what she assumed was an unmarked police vehicle pulling up. Detective Chief Inspector Gary Jarvie got out of the unmarked vehicle, and Rebecca’s heart raced. Don’t tell me he’s going to be working on the case!

  Gary strode up to the now-moored Popeye and jumped on board, addressing everyone in a calm and authoritative tone from the boat’s platform on the port side. Rebecca noticed that his presence and manner immediately gave everyone a sense of relief that someone was in charge and was going to begin to make sense of this shocking event.

  ‘I want you all to file off the boat and congregate on the landing. No one is to leave until I say so.’

  The uniformed police then moved up as if to deter anyone from running off. It seemed completely unnecessary to Rebecca, who was certain no one was going to be stupid enough to defy the police instruction and do a runner. They all filed off and stood waiting while two of Gary’s officers boarded.

  Rebecca’s eyes followed Gary’s every move. He marched to the rear of the boat, looked out onto the assembled crowd, and said, ‘Rebecca Keith, can you please come back on board?’

  Rebecca almost jumped, and her mind raced. Why me? Surely he isn’t going to flirt with me here, at a murder investigation? She hopped back on board and stood just inside the boat’s entrance.

  ‘Rebecca, you called the police,’ said Gary. ‘I want you to point out where you believe the body to be.’

  Oh, thought Rebecca. If this is a hoax, I’m the one who will be asked to explain. She walked across to the table and pointed at the pewter lid under which Leong’s head lay and said, ‘It’s a head, not a body.’

  Gary slipped on a pair of white gloves and lifted the cloche off the platter. He stood looking at the head for about a minute, touching it through his surgical gloves. Turning to address one of his assistants, he said, ‘Detective White, we’ll need an autopsy of this head. Also, get forensics down here. I want this place swept from top to bottom for DNA and prints, and of course I want all those who were on board or who delivered the food on board to have their prints and DNA taken.’

  Gary turned to lift the cloche of another platter while addressing Rebecca. ‘And I take it there was nothing untoward under any of these other platters?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think anyone checked.’

  ‘Okay, we better check now. Detective Lee, help me with these.’ The inspector and the detective took off the lid of every platter but found nothing but the sort of food one would except to find at a launch party. Rebecca was relieved.

  Gary addressed another of his officers. ‘I want you to go up to Jolley’s Boathouse and organise an interview room and a waiting room for these people. Tell everyone waiting that we will need to interview them and take buccal swabs of their DNA.’

  Rebecca interrupted Gary, saying, ‘I don’t think a lot of them will be happy—many of them will want to file their stories.’

  Gary turned to look at her and said quietly but firmly, ‘That is bad luck, Rebecca. We are dealing with a very serious matter here. A murder may have been committed. A little inconvenience isn’t important. And that goes for you too.’

  Rebecca thought it best not to tell him that the story had already been broadcast on ABC radio and would now be leading the bulletins, or that every other station would be lifting the story for online versions. But she felt she just had to comment on his use of the word may when he referred to the murder.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector, why did you say it may be a murder? Surely it is obvious. If it really is Leong’s head and not a hoax, what else could it be but murder?’

  Gary turned to her. ‘Look, Rebecca, it is not appropriate to explain everything to you, but what I will say is that we don’t know it is murder as yet. Leong could have died of natural causes or even killed himself, and his head on the platter could have been someone’s idea of a sick joke. Until we have a forensic pathologist do an autopsy on at least the head, we won’t know. And indeed we might not know too much more unless we find the body. But one thing I am certain of—this is no hoax. That head is human, and I am certain it is Leong Chew. Of course, we will get the head officially identified.’

  With that, Gary alighted from the boat and strode up the lawns to Jolley’s Boat
house to begin interviewing witnesses.

  The police assembled everyone from the boat and the waiting staff in the downstairs section of the restaurant. Management had been informed of what had happened and had arranged for coffee and sandwiches to be served. Rebecca marvelled at how Jolley’s staff was still conscious of hospitality at a time like this. Workers were being professional in the most stressful of circumstances. But it was beyong her how anyone could think of eating at a time like this—and then she remembered that they were dealing with journos, renowned for their ability to scoff free food at any time and under any circumstances, even those as macabre as today’s.

  With the exception of those milling around the coffee table, most had seated themselves. The room was large enough for people to spread out, and they had taken advantage of it, mainly sitting in isolation, probably contemplating the morning’s events.

  Rebecca noticed Francois sitting on the far side of the room on his own. She realised that, both on the boat and here in the banquet room, Francois had remained detached and seemed unaffected by the incident.

  Sleuthing

  Gary

  Detective Chief Inspector Gary Jarvie was preparing himself in the interview room, along with his assistants, Detectives Alice White and Kym Lee. The interview room was usually used by the restaurant as a private dining room and had a large cherrywood table in its centre, with twelve white metal chairs. Gary and his assistants sat at one side of the table, leaving the interviewees to sit across from them.

  While Gary’s mind was very much on the line of questioning he would take with each person, he couldn’t help but think about Rebecca and how he had to scrap plans to ask her for dinner tomorrow night. He couldn’t get himself involved with a suspect in what looked very much like a murder case. As it was, he knew he would have to speak to his superintendent about his attraction for Rebecca and whether he should be relieved from this case. In the force it was referred to as upward referral. It would be up to the superintendent to decide.