by Amos, Gina
‘Yeah, I remember Mackers, old school, good cop. I worked with him at Campbelltown for a while. How is he?’
‘He’s okay, but I thought you’d want to know.’
‘Don’t tell me he’s organising a reunion or something?’ Rimis flicked over a page of a report.
‘No, nothing like that. It’s Freddie Winfred.’
Rimis sat back in his chair. ‘Freddie Winfred? What about her?’ Rimis gave Morrissey his full attention.
‘Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it looks like she’s missing.’
‘What do you mean, missing? Missing on purpose, or missing, as in a missing person?
‘Hard to say. All I know is, her sister, Calida, seems to think something’s happened to her. She reckons she wouldn't take off without telling her.’
‘Well, I suppose she could be right. Middle-aged women don’t usually disappear unless they’ve got a bloody good reason to. Tell me about Mackers. What’s his connection in all of this?’
‘He knows Freddie’s sister. They both live at that fancy retirement village in the Hunter Valley. It’s advertised on late night telly and in the Sunday papers. Acreage Hills. You heard of it?’
‘No.’ Rimis tapped his pen on the desk. ‘So tell me, why does Freddie’s sister think something’s happened to her?’
‘She hasn’t returned any of her phone calls. Ted rang me to see what I could do after he’d checked all the hospitals and her neighbours. I didn’t go through the usual channels because I know this art fraud case is sensitive.’
‘You did the right thing. Leave it with me.’ Rimis ended the call. Could Freddie Winfred have known they were onto her? Perhaps she developed a conscience or had become a threat to someone and needed to disappear for a while. Rimis tried Brennan’s phone again and this time she answered after two rings. ‘You at the gallery?’
‘Hello boss, yeah I’m here. I was about to call you.’
‘I thought I told you not to call me boss while you’re undercover?’
‘I keep forgetting. So, what do I call you then? Nick? Mr Rimis?’
‘Don’t be a smart arse. Call me, Nick.’ Silence. ‘Hope you’ve been studying for the Bull Ring.’
‘Trying to.’
Rimis knew it could take years for her to get into the detective’s education programme, if and when she passed the Bull Ring. He had no idea why the interview was called such a stupid name but remembered what it felt like as a twenty-five year-old constable to sit in front of three detective inspectors and answer four questions from fifteen broad topics. He had studied every piece of legislation and standard operating procedure available to him. It was still the most stressful experience of his career.
‘So,’ Rimis said, ‘what are you doing besides dusting the pictures?’
‘Paintings.’
‘Yeah, okay then, paintings.’
‘I’ve phoned Freddie’s gallery a couple of times, but all I get is her answering machine. Thought I’d ring first before fronting up.’
‘You might be waiting a while,’ Rimis said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘She’s missing. Her sister reckons something has happened to her.’
‘You’re kidding me.’
‘No, I don’t kid. First up, I want you to go to her gallery, see what you can find out. Then I want you to check her apartment, talk to the neighbours, see if they know anything, and Brennan —’
‘Yeah, Nick?’
‘Tell me you’ve got her address.’
‘Of course I have, give me some credit. Why are you giving me such a hard time?’
‘You don’t have any training in undercover; you’re not even a detective. What are you doing there at that gallery anyway?’
‘It all takes time. I’m trying to establish myself. I’ve contacted all the gallery owners in the area. It’s not as if I volunteered for this assignment.’
‘Okay, I’m sorry.’
‘No, you’re not.’
Rimis leaned on his elbow and rubbed his forehead. ‘Look Brennan, I’m not going to have a slinging match with you. If I say I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Okay? I’m under a lot of pressure from the Super. For both our sakes, we need to solve this case.’ Rimis rubbed the back of neck and sat back in his chair.
Silence.
‘You still there?’
‘Yeah, I’m still here,’ she said.
‘Look, there’s something else I want you to do for me.’
‘What is it?’
‘I want you to keep an eye on Taggart. I want you to keep him close, let me know what he’s up to.’
‘Kevin?’
‘He’s an artist isn’t he? He could be mixed up in this art fraud business and I wouldn’t be surprised if he has something do with Freddie Winfred’s disappearance. I know I don’t have to remind you he was a suspect in Rose Phillips’ murder.’
‘Kevin had nothing to do with that.’
‘I was thinking more about his other neighbours, Edi and Rhoda Blake.’
‘I might be out of line here, but I thought we were investigating art fraud.’
‘We are, but I want another crack at Taggart. The Blake deaths were more than an accident.’
Jill knew about Rimis’s obsession with Kevin Taggart and the Blake sisters. He had taken the case personally and she wondered why. ‘But the Coroner said —’
‘I don’t give a monkey’s what the Coroner said.’
The next phone call Rimis made was to the Acreage Hills Retirement Village. He left a message for Ted Mackie to phone him.
CHAPTER FIVE
A line of sweat trickled down Jill’s spine. The sun was high and hot and the forecast was for another thirty-degree day, the third in a row. A hot westerly wind had just hit, bringing with it clouds of fine dust. She stepped off the footpath and crossed the road to the Winfred Gallery. She walked up to the front door and pressed the brass bell and peered through the shop front. She pressed it again. There was no movement or sign of life.
She remembered there was a car park off the rear entrance and walked around the corner. The car park was empty, apart from a red van. From the case notes, Jill knew Freddie drove a red Berlingo. She cupped her hands against the rear window and looked inside. A large calico drop sheet was rolled up into a ball.
There was no answer when she knocked on the back door of the gallery. She pulled out a pair of disposable gloves from the pocket of her jeans and tried the door handle. She was surprised to find it unlocked. There was no sign of forced entry.
‘Hello? Anybody here?’ Halfway down the hall she found an office. The door was wide open and in the middle of the room sat a Regency desk; behind it, a red leather padded chair. The desk was littered with art catalogues, a half-empty coffee cup and a pile of invitations for an exhibition at the gallery in less than two weeks time.
She pressed the play button on the answering machine and counted ten messages from someone she assumed to be Freddie’s sister. The first message hinted at irritation, the last echoed concern. She heard her own messages and a number of general enquires. Most of them related to the gallery’s opening hours and the upcoming exhibition.
Freddie’s mobile phone was on the desk next to a phone charger. The phone was out of battery. Strange. Why would Freddie leave her phone behind? Jill removed the SIM card and tucked it into the hip pocket of her jeans. The service provider would be able to give her a list of recent calls. She hoped Freddie had the sense to save her contacts to the card.
Jill sat down behind the desk and looked around Freddie’s office. If she found any evidence, it would be inadmissible in a Court of Law but she reminded herself she had entered through an open door.
She tipped the contents of the waste paper bin onto the floor and picked up a crumpled scrap of yellow paper. ‘I know what you’re both up to and it’s going to cost.’
Jill realised if Freddie knew someone was onto her, it made sense for her to disappear. Jill scanned the crumpled note with h
er phone and returned it with the rest of the debris to the bin. She looked around for anything she might have missed before walking into the exhibition room.
The paintings on the white plaster walls were impressive; watercolours, landscapes and portraits. One painting in particular caught her eye. It was a Dickerson. She had seen it before, but she couldn’t remember if it was in one of her art books or at a gallery. There was something about it that didn’t look right to her. She walked up to it and ran her gloved fingers over it. She was certain it was a fake.
Jill walked back out into the heat and the dust and pulled the gallery door closed behind her. She couldn't shake off the feeling something had happened here. She phoned Rimis to tell him about the note and the mobile phone left behind, but his number was busy. She left a message for him to call her.
She walked around the side of the building. A small midden of soggy cigarette butts was on the ground next to her feet. She didn’t know if Freddie was a smoker, there had been no sign of cigarettes or an ashtray in her office. She pulled out a plastic zip-lock bag and scooped them up.
‘Are you looking for Freddie?’ A woman’s voice called out from across the fence.
Jill stuffed the plastic bag into her shoulder bag and spun around. ‘I am. I’m meant to be meeting her here to pick up a painting.’ Jill walked over to her.
‘Kat,’ said the woman. ‘I won’t shake your hand. I’ve had them in the compost bin. Can’t talk long either, I only came out here to get rid of some stems.’ Kat looked to be in her early forties. She had bleached-blonde hair and a nose piercing.
‘I was looking for Freddie. I don’t suppose you’ve seen her?’ Jill asked.
‘Not for over a week. But that’s not unusual. She’s always gadding about the place, going off to some exhibition or other, or else going up to the Hunter Valley to visit her sister.’ She looked over at the Berlingo. ‘That’s strange. Her van’s still here.’
Jill turned around. ‘Has it been here all week?’
‘I’m not sure. I always use the front entrance to the shop but it’s not like her to leave it here and go off somewhere. She hates public transport.’
‘When did you say you last saw her?’
‘Sunday. It was morning, early. I remember because I was out the front talking to a customer about the hydrangeas. I’d popped a few bunches in the buckets and he wanted to know how to change the colour from blue to pink. A car pulled up. I waved, but Freddie didn’t see me.’
‘What sort of car was it?’
‘It was black. I think it was a Bentley, but I can’t be sure. Just about everyone around here drives expensive cars. It’s hard to tell one from the other.’
‘Did you see the driver?’
‘Yeah, he got out of the car, but he didn’t open the door for her. Just goes to show, doesn’t it? Just because you’ve got money, doesn’t mean you’ve got manners. There was someone in the back seat. She climbed in there with them.’ Kat wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and looked at Jill. ‘I didn’t like the look of him.’
‘The driver or the passenger?’
‘The driver. I didn’t see the passenger. He was short, angry looking. He had a black leather jacket on. Too hot for leather, I thought. Why are you asking all these questions? You don’t think something’s happened to Freddie, do you?’ Jill noticed Kat looking at Freddie’s van again.
‘I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. She’s probably gone on a holiday, forgotten about our arrangement.’ Jill had to remind herself she was the assistant director of The Dunworth Gallery. She wasn’t a police officer now. She had to stop acting like one.
‘Here’s my card. Can you call me if you see her?’
‘Sure.’ Kat ran her hands down her shirt before she took the card. Jill noticed the woman’s rough hands and the dirt under the stunted nails. Kat looked at the card.
‘You’re the Assistant Director at The Dunworth? With all the art galleries around here, I’d be out of business if there were as many florists. Freddie reckons yours is one of the better ones though.’
‘That’s good to know.’
Jill tried ringing Rimis again, but there was still no answer on either his direct line or his mobile phone. It was already eleven-thirty. She had arranged to meet a client at the gallery at midday and Bea was coming in at three to go through the accounts and to talk about some ideas she had for the Willis exhibition. Jill decided to pay a visit to Freddie’s apartment in Darlinghurst during her lunch break.
Rimis drove north along the Pacific Highway, through the leafy suburbs of Killara and Turramurra. The traffic was moving at a steady pace. The air con was set at a comfortable twenty-two degrees. He turned right onto the motorway and put his foot down. He pressed the button on the CD player and sang along to his favourite Lisa Ono CD. The Girl from Ipanema was playing. He wasn’t a good singer; he was off-key for most of the time, but his Portuguese was perfect (the lyrics were the only Portuguese he knew).
He stopped singing when he came up behind a car travelling below the speed limit. He flashed his lights. The car drifted to the inside lane where it should have been. Rimis grabbed the wheel tight and overtook him. ‘Bloody idiot, hand in your licence and do everyone a favour.’ Times like this, he wished he were still working the highway patrol between Calga and Morrisset.
He took a deep breath and knew there was no need to rush. Calida Winfred wasn’t going anywhere. He started singing again and looked out at the road ahead.
Forty-five minutes later, he left the motorway. He passed a tractor. It was harvest time and the roads in and around the Pokolbin vineyards were clogged with farm machinery and bins. He looked out across the rolling countryside to the acres of woody vines and thought about the bottles of fine Hunter Shiraz they would produce.
After a few wrong turns, he saw the sign to Acreage Hills, took a hard right, drove down a narrow gravel road and followed a sandstone block wall for almost fifty metres until he came to the entrance. Acreage Hills Vineyard, A Seniors Country Living Experience was etched on a polished brass plaque.
He had read up on Acreage Hills before setting out. The place was a boutique retirement village, set amongst the grape vines, an hour and a half’s drive from the outskirts of Sydney. It was designed as a luxury country retreat by a leading firm of Sydney architects. There were twenty cottages located on an artificial lake and assisted-care for forty residents in the main building.
The main building had two wings. An arts and crafts room, a library, and card room were in the east wing. The west wing was the accommodation wing. It was also where the dining room and the communal lounge rooms were located. The village boasted a well-equipped gym, a croquet lawn and a twenty-five metre pool. Medical staff was on duty twenty-four hours a day.
Rimis entered through the iron gates. He passed a small plot of vines and noticed the roses at the end of each row. With the well-maintained lawns and large, stone urns filled with white flowers, he felt like he was entering a prestigious country club and wondered what it would be like to live in a place like this.
He drove into the gravel car park and took his pick of the empty spaces. He got out of his car, walked past the Jacaranda trees, and followed a red arrow pointing towards reception.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Rimis from Chatswood Detectives,’ he said to the woman behind the desk. He mopped the sweat from his forehead with a crumpled brown handkerchief. ‘I’m here to see Ted Mackie. Any idea where he might be?’
‘I’m Jasmine.’ The woman pointed to the nametag on her chest. Her eyes brightened. From her reaction, Rimis imagined it had been a while since she had dealt with anyone under fifty-five. She didn’t seem to mind that he could do with a closer shave or a new suit.
‘He’s sitting with Calida Winfred, over there under the tree next to the croquet lawn.’
Rimis’s eyes shifted away from her exposed cleavage to where she was pointing.
‘I can take you to him if you like,’ she
said.
‘I can manage,’ Rimis smiled and walked out the way he had come. He stepped off the timber verandah and into the blazing sunshine. There was no hint of a breeze, only the hum of cicadas. He recognised Ted Mackie from his shock of grey hair and the set of his broad shoulders. He walked up to him and felt the strength in Ted’s hand.
‘Nick, it’s been a few years.’ Ted Mackie was dressed in a pair of faded cargo shorts and an orange Hawaiian shirt dotted with pineapples. Aloha was printed above his shirt pocket in thick white letters. The country life seemed to agree with him and Rimis hoped that, when he was in his sixties, he would look as good as Ted Mackie did.
‘Love the shirt,’ Rimis said.
‘Brought back a suitcase full of them. Cheap as chips.’
Rimis couldn’t think of anything more to say; different times, different ranks, different jokes now. He tried to call on the names of colleagues they may have known, but his memory failed him. He looked across at Calida Winfred.
‘You still married to that Detective Constable?’ asked Ted. ‘What was her name?
‘Fiona,’ Rimis said.
‘That’s right, Fiona. She was a good officer. Smart and a good looker, to boot. Great combination in anyone’s books.’
‘She left me a couple of years ago.’ Rimis realised it still hurt to talk about his ex-wife, but she had obviously left her mark on Ted Mackie. It was hardly surprising. Fiona was one of those women who attracted men’s attention without knowing it.
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
Rimis noticed the embarrassed look on Ted’s face and shifted his attention to the woman standing beside him.
‘I’m forgetting my manners,’ Ted said. ‘This is Calida Winfred. Cal, this is Detective Inspector Rimis.’
Rimis held out his hand. He was surprised by how steady and strong her handshake was. He sat down next to her and looked across at the wheelchair parked a few metres away. A brightly coloured crocheted rug was thrown across the seat and he wondered why she needed it.
‘Miss Winfred, Ted tells me you think something’s happened to your sister.’
