Killing Sunday

by Amos, Gina

  Later that afternoon, Rimis parked his car and walked down to the Sailing Club. He had gone home to change and was dressed in a pair of faded jeans, a checked navy and red shirt, and a baseball cap. He looked out at the river. It reminded him of the days he sailed sabots as a young boy on the Central Coast. He walked into the large open boat shed and looked at the empty racking and the walls, covered with marine charts, ropes and life buoys. It was a good day to be out sailing.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Rimis said. He pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head and flashed his warrant card. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Nick Rimis from Chatswood Detectives. I wanted to ask you about the tides.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’ the old man asked.

  ‘I suppose you know about the girl washed up at the Baths?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s usually pretty quite around here. When something like that happens, hard not for people to be talking about it. This is a family suburb, there’s a strong sense of community here.’

  Rimis knew he could have looked up the tide flows himself on the Bureau of Meteorology site, but he wanted to get a local’s point of view. Anyway, he had nothing better to do with his Sunday afternoon.

  ‘Your lot were here the other day, asking all sorts of questions. They were looking at the boats and wanted to know about the club members. They didn’t ask about the tides.’

  ‘I’m here now, and I’m asking,’ Rimis said.

  ‘Come with me, then.’ They walked up a narrow set of swirling, orange-carpeted stairs to a small, dusty room. The old man sat down at a desk covered in marine charts, pushed them aside and logged onto the computer. Rimis leant into him and looked over the man’s shoulder.

  ‘Let’s see now, she was in the water for what, a week you say.’ He tapped the keyboard and checked the charts.

  ‘That’s right,’ Rimis said.

  He did a few calculations, sat back, and scratched his head. ‘Chances are she would have come from over at Burns Bay. There’s a boat ramp over there. The fishing’s good in that part of the river. Do you fish, Inspector?’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Jill walked through the doors of the New South Wales Art Gallery behind a group of cameramen. Whenever she came here, it was like she was seeing the gallery for the very first time. She crossed the patterned stone tiles in the foyer and looked up at the high ceilings. Usually conversations were hushed, but today she sensed the excitement and anticipation among the art fraternity who had come to witness the announcement of the Archibald Prize.

  She made her way down two levels to the exhibition rooms, showed her invitation and was offered a glass of champagne and a catalogue.

  The media was milling about the rooms, bumping into the crowd with their cameras and interviewing the artists. Jill was standing in front of the portrait of Father Bob Maguire when Kevin Taggart walked up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder. She turned around.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere. I almost didn't recognise you in those clothes.’

  Jill had taken extra care dressing this morning. She was wearing a blue, cowl-neck, silk tunic over a pair of white crop pants. A silver pendant hung around her neck. She had even applied some lipstick. She looked at Kevin’s badly cut jacket and wondered why he didn’t make more of an effort. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t afford to. ‘You’ll never guess who I’ve been talking to,’ Jill said.

  Kevin ignored her. ‘Come with me,’ he said and bounded off like an excited child.

  They walked around the rim of the crowded room. Jill set down her empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray and grabbed another champagne. ‘I was talking to Ben Quilty, one of the finalists. Aren’t you even a bit interested in what he had to say?’ Jill had to run to keep up with Kevin. She pulled on his arm and spilled a few drops of champagne. ‘For God’s sake, Kevin, slow down.’

  He ignored her and shouldered his way through a legion of journalists. ‘There she is.’

  ‘There’s who?’

  ‘Freddie Winfred, of course.’ He scratched the back of his neck.

  The crowd parted and Freddie Winfred’s face broke into a smile. She walked up to Kevin and extended her hand. ‘Zella Winfred, but call me Freddie, everybody does.’ Folds of flame-pink silk billowed about her and hung on her ample body like washing pegged out to dry. ‘I’m surprised our paths haven’t crossed before today.’ A smile travelled to her eyes, emphasising eyebrows plucked to within an inch of their life. ‘North Coast Summers deserved the Wynne last year. The way you captured the light. It was quite extraordinary.’ Kevin opened his mouth to reply but Freddie was looking past him. She waved to someone in the crowd. She laughed. It was a sharp, raucous laugh. Kevin cringed. He looked down at the floor and studied his shoes.

  Freddie turned back to him. ‘Sorry I missed your exhibition. I’ve been out of town. I’ll pop into The Dunworth later this week.’ She finished what was left of her champagne in one mouthful.

  ‘Everything’s packed away in the stock room, except for North Coast Summers. The gallery’s getting ready for the Byron Willis exhibition,’ Kevin said.

  Freddie turned her head and looked over her shoulder. ‘Ah, there you are Dorin.’ A well dressed man who appeared to be in his forties pushed his way through the crush, holding two glasses above his head.

  Freddie took one of the glasses from him and grabbed him by the arm. ‘Kevin, this is my dear friend and business associate, Dorin Chisca. He’s from Romania.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Dorin.’ Kevin shook his hand. ‘So where’s Romania?’

  ‘It is on the Black Sea and borders Hungary,’ Dorin Chisca said in a thick accent.

  Jill cleared her throat.

  ‘Sorry,’ Kevin looked at Jill. ‘I’d like you to meet Jill Brennan. She’s a good friend of mine. She’s also the assistant director at The Dunworth. For someone who’s an ex-copper, she knows a hell of a lot about art.’

  ‘You were a police officer? What an extraordinary career change, dear.’ Freddie took both of Jill’s hands in hers and held them tight. ‘How on earth did you end up working at The Dunworth?’

  ‘Belinda Travers. We grew up together. When I left the service, she offered me a position.’ Jill looked down at the baubles on Freddie’s fingers. They sparkled too much to be real.

  ‘I know Bea,’ Freddie said. Jill sensed she relaxed a little with the mention of her friend’s name.

  Kevin looked around him. ‘Good crowd here today, Dorin. Seen anything you like?’

  ‘These paintings are not to my taste.’

  ‘What sort of art do you like then?’

  ‘The Australian Heidelberg School, but you might know them as the Australian Impressionists.’

  ‘Don’t know much about them. I’m self-taught. Never had any formal training.’

  ‘They painted in the plein-air in the impressionist tradition in the last part of the nineteenth century. They were inspired by the light and the Australian bush.’

  An awkward pause.

  ‘I have seen photos of your painting, North Coast Summers.’

  ‘I painted it from memory. I spent a lot of time with my gran before she died. She lived on the Sapphire Coast, not far from Coffs Harbour.’

  ‘It reminds me very much of my own family holidays. I spent time as a child in Constanta, a beautiful Romanian beach resort.’ Chisca turned his attention to Jill. ‘Excuse me, I hope you will not think me rude, but did you say you are a police officer?’

  ‘Not any more. I'm working at The Dunworth Gallery now.’

  ‘Ah, I see. And your last name? I did not catch it.’

  ‘Brennan, Jill Brennan.’ Jill took note of his neat hair cut, tailored dark suit.

  ‘It is a pleasure to meet you, Jill Brennan.’

  ‘So who do you think will win the Archibald this year, Mr Chisca?’ Jill asked.

  ‘I cannot say. This is my first time. Freddie tells me it is also called the Archies. I have noticed Australians
like to shorten words. Perhaps it is because of your relaxed way of life.’

  Jill laughed. ‘You could well be right.’

  ‘I am very surprised by all the excitement,’ he said.

  ‘Australians are very proud of the Archies.’ Jill sipped her champagne and looked over the rim of her glass at him. ‘You have to be a resident Australian artist to enter and the portraits have to be of a man or woman distinguished in arts, letters, science or politics.’

  ‘And the Wynne and Sulman?’

  ‘I can answer that,’ Kevin said. ‘The Wynne’s awarded for the best landscape painting of Australian scenery, in either oils or watercolours, or for the best figure sculpture. The Sulman, for the best subject painting, genre painting or mural project. Only two artists have ever won the Wynne and the Archibald in the same year.’

  ‘And who were they?’ Chisca asked.

  ‘William Dobell and Brett Whiteley. In 1978 Whiteley won all three awards. Can you believe it? The guy was a genius.’

  Jill turned to Chisca. ‘Do you know Brett Whiteley’s work?’

  Chisca didn’t reply. The President of the Board of Trustees stepped up to the dais and flicked the microphone with his fingers. He cleared his throat and the room fell silent. The photographers and reporters stood ready to pounce.

  It was just after six, when Jill parked her silver Golf around the corner from Bea and Harry Travers’ neat, semi-detached house. The street was short and narrow, jammed packed with parked cars. Jill walked up the steps to the timber verandah and rang the doorbell. Harry opened the door and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘Everyone’s out the back,’ he said. ‘We were starting to think you weren’t coming.’

  ‘Sorry I’m late, the traffic was heavier than usual.’ Jill handed Harry a bottle of wine and followed him down the hall to the back of the house.

  ‘Hey, Bea, guess who I found on the doorstep?’

  Bea threw her arms around Jill and stepped back to look at her. ‘You look nice. How was the Archibald? I heard on the radio Tim Storrier won. I wish I’d gone with you, but with Callum sick, I didn’t want to leave him.’

  ‘Maybe we can go together one weekend. It runs for three months. Harry can mind Callum and we can make a day of it.’

  ‘It’s a deal,’ Bea said.

  Jill looked out to the backyard. A group of men were gathered around the barbecue. Women sat on chairs talking to each other, while toddlers crawled over them.

  There were four couples. She hadn’t met this group of Bea and Harry’s friends before. Young professionals with young babies. ‘I feel a bit overdressed. Maybe I should have gone home to change.’ Jill had driven straight from the Art Gallery and stopped only to pick up a bottle of wine from the local bottle shop.

  ‘Relax. Have a glass of this.’ Bea handed Jill a flute of French champagne then put the final touches to a tossed salad.

  Bea and Jill had been friends since primary school and Jill wondered if her life could be anymore different from Bea’s. ‘So where’s my gorgeous godson?’

  ‘He’s asleep, thank God.’

  Get-togethers like these always made Jill feel uncomfortable. She didn’t make friends easily. Alcohol helped, but she would have to watch what she drank tonight; she had to drive home.

  Bea grabbed her by the arm and walked her outside. The temperature had dropped and with the cooler evening it was starting to feel more like autumn. Introductions were made. Bea’s friends were a bit older than she was. They looked to be in their early to mid-thirties. Jill smiled, concentrated on names and made a fuss over their babies.

  It was times like these Jill wished she had a partner. That way she might be able to disappear into the background and let someone else do the talking for her.

  The doorbell rang. Bea jumped up but the conversation continued. Another guest had arrived. Bea set another place next to Jill.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘Got caught up at work.’

  ‘Everyone, this is Scott.’

  The women stopped talking and looked at the latest arrival. Their body language suddenly changed. They were smiling, adjusting their hair, and shifting in their seats. Scott walked over to join Harry at the barbecue.

  Bea returned to the kitchen and a few minutes later the food was on the table. Everyone was now seated. Bea sat down across from Jill and passed her a bowl of salad. Jill looked Bea in the eye and gave her one of her ice queen stares.

  ‘What?’ Bea mouthed silently at her across the table.

  This wasn’t the first time Bea and Harry had tried to set her up with a blind date. She stole a look at Scott when he sat down beside her. He was certainly good-looking with a strong jaw, a tanned complexion and sparkling blue eyes. He had a boyish charm about him. Late thirties, early-forties she guessed, dressed well, spoke well, a professional. Probably worked with Harry. Harry was a gynaecologist. Jill was always joking with him that he got paid to do what most men would go to prison for.

  Scott caught her looking at him and he smiled at her. Jill felt herself blush. At one stage his knee accidentally knocked against hers. He apologised and continued talking, taking centre stage.

  The conversation shifted. The women were talking about babies, the men about cricket. Jill found herself in a conversation with Scott. He offered to fill her glass but she shook her head.

  ‘So, how do you know Harry and Bea?’ Jill asked.

  ‘Harry and I play golf together when I can find the time. We met on the practice green. His handicap is better than mine, but I’m working on it.’

  Jill told him she worked for Bea at her gallery and found they shared an interest in art. She described the Archibald portraits she’d seen today, the ones she had liked and disliked.

  Dessert came. The children were becoming restless; Callum had woken up and Harry was pacing around the backyard with him. The evening was winding down and it was only eight o’clock. Everyone apart from Jill and Scott prepared to leave. With children in tow, the couples walked back into the house. There was no delay in saying good-bye. They spilled out onto the footpath and drifted towards their cars.

  Scott and Jill now found themselves alone. They both got up from the table. Jill cuddled Callum while Bea brought in the last of the plates and Scott helped Harry clean the barbecue.

  Jill and Scott left together. ‘Can I give you a lift somewhere?’ she asked.

  ‘I came by train. The station’s only a few hundred meters.’ They both looked down the street.

  Jill turned back to him. ‘Okay. Well, it was nice meeting you.’

  ‘Likewise.’ He brushed his lips against hers.

  It was an awkward moment. After about twenty paces, Jill looked back over her shoulder and mumbled under her breath, ‘Bea Travers, I’m going to kill you.’ She knew Bea couldn’t understand why she was still single. It wasn’t that Jill didn’t think it would be nice to have a man in her life, but she never felt as though she was missing out. Overall, she liked her life the way it was.

  Her mother had died when she was only two years old and her father had never had a serious relationship in all the time she was growing up; at least, none she was aware of. It was only when she saw Bea and Harry together, that she realised she could be missing out on something special.

  She drove back across the Harbour Bridge and realised she hadn’t even asked Scott what he did for a living.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Rimis had finished his caffeine hit for the morning and was hunched over his desk with a pen in his hand and a pile of reports in front of him. The girl washed up at Woolwich Baths still hadn’t been identified. The enquiry had lost its initial momentum. New demands on time and manpower were being made.

  They had been trying to put together an identikit picture of her but the face was barely recognisable. And he had hoped the tattoo would help, but Doctor Ross had told him it was recent. One of the team was checking tattoo studios across Sydney. He thought they might be able to locate the tattooist who carried out the work, bu
t Jenny Choi had already told him most tattoo artists have their own distinctive style when it came to design or custom pieces. The artist would be recognisable by people in the know, but if the tattoo were picked off the wall in a tattoo shop, there wouldn’t be a way to trace it back to the artist.

  Off to one side of his desk, the Sydney Morning Herald was open at the cryptic crossword puzzle. He looked at the coffee rings and scribble smeared across the newsprint. He reached for his phone from under a pile of half-completed crime reports and dialled Brennan’s number.

  ‘This is Jill Brennan. I’m not available to take your call right now, so please leave a brief message.’ Rimis hung up and tossed his phone in frustration across the desk. He thought about ringing the gallery’s number, but less than a minute later his phone rang. He looked at the caller ID and expected it to be Brennan. He was surprised when it wasn’t. It was Col Morrissey.

  ‘Col, how did you go at Burns Bay?

  ‘We scoured the place, but it was Clean up Australia Day last Sunday. The Girl Guides did a good job. There were just a few McDonald’s wrappers in the bushes they missed. We sent them off to Forensics, but I wouldn’t hold your breath. You ever been there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nice spot. There’s a footy field, picnic tables, barbecues, and I was told it’s good fishing in that part of the river.’

  ‘Yeah, so I’ve heard.’ Rimis said. ‘You called me. So what have you got?’

  ‘Thought you’d want to know. A DCI I worked with at the Federal Police phoned me. He retired a few years back after his wife died. You’ve probably heard of him, Ted Mackie?’