by Amos, Gina
‘Yes, I’m sure of it. I’m worried about Freddie, Inspector, really worried. And please, call me, Cal.’ She fanned herself with a folding paper fan.
‘All right then.’ Rimis took his notebook out from the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘So, when did you last speak to Freddie?’
‘I remember exactly when it was. Last Monday. She was running late because she had been to the Archibald. She goes every year. She was hot and flustered when she arrived and stayed only long enough for a cup of tea, a biscuit, and to take a look at my innuendos.’
‘Innuendos?’
‘An inference to another artist’s work.’
‘You mean a fake.’
‘Well, I suppose you could call them that, but I don’t like the word. It sounds a little coarse.’
Rimis wondered if Calida Winfred was as naive as she appeared. Did she really expect him to believe she had no idea what her sister was up to? And Ted Mackie, couldn’t he see what was going on here, or was he too besotted with the woman not to realise? Rimis looked at Ted, then back again to Calida.
‘So, what does Freddie do with these innuendos of yours?’ Rimis removed his jacket and loosened his tie.
‘She sells most of them to investors. There’s quite a market with the high cost of insurance these days. The originals are usually locked away in a bank vault while the innuendos are hung in homes or offices.’
‘I see,’ Rimis said. ‘And how much does Freddie pay you for your pictures?’
‘Paintings, Inspector, they’re paintings.’
‘Of course. So, how much does Freddie pay you for your paintings?’
‘She covers the cost of materials and a little extra, but it’s not about the money. I’m just happy to be painting again and to know my work’s appreciated.’ She stopped fanning herself and looked at Rimis. ‘There’s nothing illegal about them, you know Inspector, if that’s what you’re thinking. They weren’t being passed off as originals. There’s a difference, you know.’
‘I know the legality of what you’ve been doing, Cal.’ Rimis said. He looked at her and remembered why he was here. ‘Ted tells me Freddie hasn’t returned your phone calls. Maybe she’s busy with other things and hasn't had the time to call you.’
‘Freddie either rings me or I ring her every other day. It’s a habit we’ve got into over the years, especially as we’ve grown older.’ Calida pulled out a lace-edged handkerchief from her skirt pocket and wiped her nose. ‘We’ve only got each other.’
‘How did she seem when you last saw her? How was her state of mind?’
‘She was preoccupied, now that I think about it.’
‘Did she say why she was so keen to see you?’
‘She wanted to take a look at my latest paintings. She was pleased with the last lot and took most of them away with her. She wanted me to try my hand at some Whiteleys. She knows I don’t like his work, but she wouldn’t take no for an answer. Before she left, she told me she would be back for them last Saturday.’
‘And did you paint the Whiteleys?’
‘Yes, and they’re very good, even if I do say so myself. It would be hard to pick between them and the originals, unless you were an expert. I left a message on her machine to tell her I’d painted them, but when she didn’t return my calls or show up here on Saturday, I began to worry. That’s when I spoke to Ted. I knew he would know what to do.'
Rimis looked at Ted Mackie. ‘I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. She’s bound to turn up. Don’t you think, Ted?’
Calida looked at the two men. ‘How can you be so sure?’ The tears came. ‘I know something’s happened to her. I can just feel it.’
‘I’ve checked all the hospitals,’ Ted said, ‘and the emergency departments, in case she had an accident. I even phoned her neighbour, but she hadn’t seen or heard from her.’
‘It does sound a bit odd, but in a case like this there’s usually a reasonable explanation.’ Rimis looked towards the cottages by the artificial lake. ‘Mind if I take a look at your paintings?’
‘I’m not in the cottages; I have a room in the main building. A year ago there was a terrible accident – a house fire and my legs were badly burned. I moved up here to get away from Sydney. That was when Freddie took over the running of the gallery.’ Calida held the fan close to her chest. ‘I lost everything in that fire.’
‘Listen Cal, how about we walk back inside? We’ll leave the chair behind,’ Ted said.
‘Perhaps I should.’ Calida looked across at her wheelchair. ‘We both know I don’t need it. Freddie used to say I was only hanging onto it because I was looking for sympathy.’
Rimis looked at Ted and Calida and wondered about their relationship. Was it friendship or something more?
It was mid-afternoon when Rimis turned off the M1 and headed back along the Pacific Highway towards Chatswood. Progress through the traffic was slow, enforced by the forty kilometres per hour school zones and speed cameras.
Rimis’s mind went back to Calida Winfred’s room; to the colourful flowers in a vase, the trinkets on the window sill, a faded photo of two girls. The room resembled an art auction house and was filled with canvases stacked against the walls, three deep in some places. The Whiteley nudes in the walk-in robe. A punter like him wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between a copy and the real thing. He wondered what Brennan would make of them and if they were as good as Calida Winfred seemed to think.
CHAPTER SIX
Jill walked into Otto’s Bar.
‘Brennan, over here.’ Detective Sergeant Morrissey didn’t stand, but watched her as she made her way towards him. She sat down at the rocky table and placed her foot on the base to steady it.
‘Name your poison,’ he said.
‘Soda with lemon.’
He gave her a look.
Jill rolled her eyes. ‘Yeah, I know. I’m on this detox thing, giving the liver a rest for a while,’ she lied. Jill knew alcohol was out of the question tonight because she needed a clear head to process whatever Morrissey was going to tell her.
Morrissey walked over to the bar and ordered. He returned to the table with a fresh beer and placed her drink in front of her. ‘Here you go, one soda with lemon.’ Morrissey swallowed a gulp of beer. ‘So, how’s the art fraud case going?’
‘Not too good now the prime suspect is missing.’ Jill took a sip of soda and changed the subject; she wasn’t here to talk about Freddie Winfred. ‘Thanks for agreeing to talk to me.’ She couldn’t summon the words, about my father’s murder. After four years, she had finally read the case notes. She had never wanted to know the details before – it had always been too painful, too raw. She now realised she needed to know the facts if she was ever going to move on with her life.
Morrissey was with her father the night he was gunned down. When she was transferred to Chatswood LAC, she was surprised when she found out Morrissey was also stationed there. She had been waiting for the right moment to speak to him privately. She wanted to know first-hand what he could remember about that night.
‘Look, Brennan, I don’t know what you want me to tell you. It’s been a long time.’
Too Long.
‘I pulled the file from Archives. I’ve read the reports, looked at the photos and the forensics. I read your statement, but I don’t understand why Dad forced his way into the house. There’s no one else I can ask. Bill Peruzzi resigned six months ago. Did you know he died a few weeks ago? Liver cancer.’
‘Yeah, I heard about Blinky,’ Morrissey said.
‘Blinky?’
‘Yeah, as in Blinky Bill. Rotten business the big C. Blinky was a good bloke.’ Morrissey took a slug of beer.
‘You said in your statement you thought Chisca was in the house that night.’
‘Did I?’
‘Yeah, you did.’
‘Well, if that’s what my statement says, then I suppose you’re right. Look Brennan, it was four years ago. A lot’s happened since then. The world’s moved on
and maybe you should too. Just leave it alone. You’re supposed to be undercover. You shouldn’t even be talking to me. My advice is concentrate on finding Freddie Winfred instead of worrying about what happened to Mickey.’
‘Why are you fobbing me off?’
‘I’m not fobbing you off. Mickey took an unnecessary risk that night. It was supposed to be a simple surveillance operation. I don’t know what got into him. He just went fucking crazy.’ Morrissey looked at his watch.
‘You got somewhere to go?’
‘Yeah, it’s my mum’s birthday. We’ve booked a table at a restaurant in Parramatta.’
‘You’re lucky you’ve got a mum,’ Jill said. ‘Mine died when I was a baby, never knew her. Dad brought me up. He was my family.’
Morrissey raised an eyebrow. ‘Tough call. Car accident wasn’t it?’
‘Yeah.’ Jill looked down at her drink.
Morrissey nodded and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Listen, I liked Mickey, I really did. But I didn’t know him that well. I met him at Redfern after I transferred from the AFP.’ Morrissey leaned into the table, finished his beer. ‘Look, I don’t want you to get caught up in something that could affect your career.’
‘What do you mean?’ She was looking at him now.
Morrissey lowered his voice. ‘Mickey was in over his head in debt. He had all sorts of loans and they weren’t with financial institutions, if you catch my drift.’
‘Dad corrupt?’ She crossed her arms and sat back in her chair and looked at him. ‘I don’t believe you.’
Morrissey pushed his glass across the table. ‘How much money did he leave you?’
‘None of your business,’ she said.
‘My advice is to forget we ever had this conversation.’ Morrissey picked up his car keys and pushed his chair back from the table. ‘A word of advice.’
Jill looked at him.
‘Let it go,’ he said.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jill put aside her coffee and was about to give Bea a call when she heard the Gallery’s front door open. She got up from her desk.
‘This is a surprise. What are you doing here?’ She smiled at William Phillips and realised she was glad to see him.
‘Thought I’d come and take another look at Kevin’s exhibition, but it looks like I’m too late.’ He looked at the empty walls.
‘The exhibition finished last Friday. We’re waiting on a shipment of Byron Willis’s paintings. If you’re interested, I can send you an invitation.’
‘I’d like that. Got time for a coffee?’
Jill looked at her watch. ‘A quick one.’
They walked across the road to the coffee shop and sat down at a table by the front door. From where they sat, Jill could see if anyone entered the gallery. They ordered coffee, a cappuccino for her and a double espresso for him.
‘I have a confession to make.’ William looked into her eyes and gently stroked the back of her hand. ‘I didn’t come to the gallery to see Kevin’s exhibition. I came to see you.’
Jill looked down at his hand on hers. After his mother’s murder investigation had ended, Jill hadn’t heard from him again. At the time, she thought it was because she wasn’t an easy person to get to know. She was also a police officer. She had the feeling her choice of career didn’t sit easily with him.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ Jill said. William was old enough to be her father and was carrying enough baggage to fill an Airbus A-330. She had problems of her own: there were questions about her father’s death she needed answers to, especially now that Morrissey was alleging he was corrupt; the prime suspect in her undercover operation was missing; and she still had to sit the Bull Ring.
‘You don’t have to say anything, just come to dinner with me.’
Jill took back her hand and tucked her hair behind her ear. She knew William liked opera, ballet, and expensive dinners. She liked the beach, Thai food, and cheap wine. She skimmed a scoop of milk froth with a spoon.
‘Apart from wanting to see you, I also wanted to ask your advice,’ William said.
Jill raised her eyebrows. She crossed her legs and looked at him. ‘What sort of advice?’
‘I wanted to ask you about some paintings Stockland and Lewis bought.’
‘What do you want to know?’ She swallowed a spoonful of froth.
‘You remember the Miró in my office?’
‘Of course I do. How could I forget it? Don’t get me talking about Joan Miró, William, or we’ll be here all day.’
‘I think it could be a fake,’ he said.
Jill put down her spoon and looked up from her coffee.
‘Our accounts people have been going through the assets register. We’re missing provenance certificates. Can you tell by looking at a painting, if it’s the real thing? If the Miró turns out to be a fake, there’s a very good chance the rest of the art works on our office walls are fakes as well.’
She remembered the day she walked into his office and broke the news to him that his mother had been found dead in the kitchen of her house. That was when she had noticed the Miró on the wall behind his desk. There had been no doubt in her mind, even then, that it was anything but an original.
‘I'm no expert when it comes to authenticating original art. It’s a specialist field. Maybe if you contact the gallery where you bought it, they might be able to help.’
‘I'd like you to have a look at it before I call them. Have you got time to come by my office and tell me what you think?’
‘I can probably get away on Wednesday, during my lunch break.’
‘Perfect.’ William sat back in his chair. ‘It makes you wonder why anyone would buy a major work of art with all this talk of art fraud in the papers. It must be affecting business at The Dunworth.’
‘The Gallery has a good reputation and we always issue a certificate of authenticity. But, to be honest, even they aren’t worth the paper they’re written on.’ Jill finished her coffee. ‘What was the name of the gallery where Stockland and Lewis bought the paintings?’
‘It was The Winfred. They’re supposed to be reputable dealers.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
The hotel where Kevin Taggart had arranged to meet Dorin Chisca dated back to the fifties and smelt of stale yeast and fried food. It was an ugly, red brick building, located on a corner. A chalkboard out the front advertised two steaks for the price of one on Tuesday nights.
Kevin sat on a barstool. He had one foot on the timber rung, the other on the floor. He gulped down a mouthful of beer and raised his eyes to the wide, flat screen television above the bar. Australia was playing Sri Lanka at the Adelaide Oval. The Australians were batting and there was an occasional roar from the crowd when a batsman scored a run.
The early lunchtime crowd looked like they had been here since breakfast – pokie-playing pensioners, most of them.
‘You reckon Sri Lanka’s gonna win this match?’ one of the drinkers called out.
Kevin turned around to face him. ‘Not a bloody chance, mate.’
Dorin Chisca was fifteen minutes late according to the clock on the far wall. Kevin was hungry. He’d overslept this morning and had missed his breakfast. He studied the blackboard menu and tried to decide between the nachos or the steak sandwich with fat chips.
‘What’ll it be today then, lovey?’
‘Hello, Sheryl.’
The barmaid’s fleshy mouth twitched. ‘The Thai fish cakes are nice if you can’t make up your mind.’
Kevin leaned forward on the stool and drummed the bar with his knuckles. ‘Make it the usual. I can’t go past your steak sandwich.’ Sheryl mumbled something under her breath on her way back to the kitchen.
‘Mr Taggart?’
Kevin spun around. The man placed his hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t get up, no need. My name is Nicolae Vladu. I am associate of Mr Chisca. He has asked me to meet you because he has other business.’
The bartender walked up to them. ‘What can I get y
ou, mate?’ He wiped the bar without making eye contact.
Vladu ordered an orange juice.
Kevin pointed to the blackboard. ‘They do a great steak sandwich and chips if you’re hungry.’
‘It is too early to eat.’ Vladu looked around the bar. ‘This place is good. I can see everyone is minding their business.’
‘How long you been in Australia then, Nicolae?’ Kevin swallowed the last of his beer and put his glass on the counter cloth.
‘We are not here to socialise. We have business to discuss.’
Kevin cleared his throat. ‘Well, down to business it is. So, then, Mr Chisca wants to buy North Coast Summers, does he?’
‘Yes and here is what you will do. Tell the Dunworth Gallery you wish to withdraw the painting from sale. Mr Chisca will pay you good price, cash, without middleman. Everyone will be winners.’
‘Winners. I like the sound of that.’ Kevin rubbed his hands together and thought of the hefty commission he would save by not selling his painting through the Dunworth.
Kevin’s meal arrived. He walked to the end of the bar and picked up a large plastic tomato sauce bottle from a long table. He returned to his bar stool and oozed the thick sauce over the chips. ‘I’ll speak to them at the gallery. I’ll make up some excuse.’ He licked up a drip of sauce from the side of his hand.
‘Good, it is agreed then. Mr Chisca has a warehouse in Chatswood. I will meet you there when you have the painting.’ Nicolae looked over at the remainder of Kevin’s meal and winced.
‘And the other matter?’ Kevin wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Vladu reached into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a small package. ‘With Mr Chisca’s compliments, a sign of good faith, you understand.’
Kevin took the package and tucked it into his trouser pocket. He was trying to think up a suitable biblical quotation, but there wasn’t much reference to drugs in the bible.
‘Sure you wouldn’t like a chip, Nicolae?’
Vladu looked at the spot of tomato sauce on Kevin’s chin and left.
