Killing Sunday

by Amos, Gina

  The Granny Killer case was unusual. Most serial killers were mentally ill when they committed these acts, but a psychiatrist claimed Glover was sane at the time of the murders. Rimis drummed his pen on the desk. Was Taggart sane? His chain of thought was broken by a knock on the door. It was Morrissey. He walked in and sat down across from Rimis.

  ‘Christ, it’s hot in here. What is it with the air con? Can’t believe it’s broken down again.’ Morrissey hooked his finger under his collar and dragged it away from his thick neck.

  Rimis crinkled his nose. ‘Geez, Col, I can smell you from here. How much did you have to drink last night?’

  He shrugged. ‘Just a couple.’

  ‘Yeah, right, and the rest. You smell like a brewery.’ Rimis tossed a pack of mints across his desk at him. ‘What’ve you found out about Paloma Browne? I’m briefing the Super in an hour. Hope you’ve got something I can give him?’ Rimis wasn’t in the mood for Morrissey today.

  ‘No witnesses, no clues.’ Morrissey sucked on a mint and flicked through his police issue note pad. It was all for show. Rimis knew he didn’t have a single lead to go on. Rimis had recruited extra staff and assigned tasks to all the team members. He knew from experience, most murders solved themselves and were rarely carried out by strangers. Whoever murdered Paloma Browne, it was likely to be someone she knew.

  His team had already knocked on all the doors in the neighbourhood to ask if anyone had seen or heard anything. They had also been over all the statements and re-interviewed everyone with whom they’d spoken when she first went missing, which included the parents. They had drawn a blank. It was disappointing Burns Bay hadn’t turned up anything. There were criss-crossing tyre marks, but it was a popular spot. Water samples had been taken and they were hoping for a match with the water found in the girl’s lungs. It was a long shot.

  ‘Paloma Browne worked for Freddie Winfred. She was her gallery assistant,’ Morrissey said. ‘I’ve asked around. They’re usually art students. It’s a good way to earn a bit of money on the side, cash in hand.’

  ‘What else you got?’

  Morrissey sat back in his chair and reached inside his trouser pocket for his cigarettes.

  ‘Put them away, Col, you know you can’t smoke in here.’ Rimis thought Morrissey looked pale. Maybe it was the heat. ‘What did her friends have to say about her?’

  Morrissey drummed his fingers on the cigarette pack. ‘A twenty-year-old, street-smart kid, no special boyfriend or girlfriend. Had a bit of a temper on her. Also a bit of a loner. But according to the few friends she did have, she was passionate about her art. Some hint of an involvement with drugs.’ He put the cigarettes back in his pocket.

  ‘Dealing or using?’

  ‘Both,’ Morrissey said. ‘I was told she’d been working long hours on some project she didn’t want to talk to anybody about. Told one of her friends her luck was about to change and that she was going to be set for life. I’ve got Choi and Rawlings and a couple of uniforms at her studio, but so far they haven’t found anything. Nothing to suggest what her movements were before she went missing.’

  Rimis had a feeling the search of her studio would prove fruitless. If there was anything to indicate what had happened to her, the team would have found something by now. ‘So where’s her studio?’

  ‘Above a chemist shop in Blues Point Road.’

  ‘McMahons Point?’ Rimis wondered how a struggling art student could afford a studio in an exclusive suburb like McMahons Point. It was as if Morrissey read his thoughts.

  ‘It was Brett Whiteley’s old stomping ground. She was nuts about him and his work.’

  ‘Was she any good?’ Rimis asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Did she have talent?’

  ‘If you want to believe what her lecturers at the Sydney College of the Arts said about her, yeah, she had talent. They told me she had a promising career ahead of her.’

  ‘What did you find out about the family?’ Rimis asked.

  ‘Only child. Private school girl but she didn’t fit the mould. Her father kicked her out of home when he found a stash of drugs in her bedroom. Parents haven’t had contact with her for six months, at least, not until recently, when she got in touch with her mother.’ Morrissey shifted in his seat and rubbed the back of his neck.

  ‘How did she afford the rent on the studio?’ Rimis asked.

  ‘The parents paid for her college tuition and the studio. Spoilt little rich kid, by all accounts.’

  ‘Anything else I should know?’ Rimis was trying to put a picture of the girl together in his mind. He knew the more you knew about the victim, the easier it was to solve the crime.

  ‘No. Nothing else.’

  ‘Might be an idea to contact the media and put her photo out there; see if anyone remembers seeing her around the time she disappeared.’

  ‘It’s already on my to-do list. I’ll get Chapman onto it.’ Morrissey stood to leave. ‘Do we know how she died?’

  ‘I spoke to Doctor Ross this morning. She’s still waiting for the tox reports to come back before she commits to anything. The Lab’s running a few weeks behind, so we might be waiting a while. She’s thorough, I’ll give her that.’

  ‘What about Freddie Winfred?’ Morrissey asked. ‘Think she’s got anything to do with the girl’s murder?’

  ‘Let’s ask her when we find her. I also want to know if Taggart knew her. If she was Freddie’s assistant, he might have met her, taken a liking or a disliking to her. Kevin has this thing for older women, but it could be worth having a look at just the same.’

  ‘You want me to go see him? Put the hard word on him?’

  ‘No, let him be for the moment. Brennan’s got her eye on him.’

  There was a knock at the door. Morrissey turned around.

  ‘Well, what is it Rawlings?’ Rimis asked.

  ‘Thought you’d want to know boss. It’s the Winfred woman. They’ve found her.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It’s the smell he notices first. The stench, like rotting garbage, is ripe and slightly sweet. He flicks on a grubby light switch on the wall by the loading dock. The industrial lights flicker and clunk and light up the warehouse like a convenience store. He looks at the floor-to-ceiling racking. Empty shelves, apart from a few boxes. He strolls about the warehouse with his hands in his pockets, whistling quietly to himself. He sniffs at the air, shifts a cardboard box and looks behind it. He wonders if an animal has become trapped in here, a ringtail possum, or a rat, perhaps. He unlocks the storeroom and walks inside. The narrow windows are sealed and the dusty grey venetian blinds are shut tight. He weaves his way through the Roberts, McCubbins, and Streetons. There isn’t a piece of wall or carpet that’s not covered in canvases. He wants to start shifting stock, but he knows he has to wait until the next shipment arrives. It should have been here two days ago and he is running out of time. He looks across at North Coast Summers; it is still wrapped in bubble wrap and is sitting in the corner of the room.

  He walks out into the warehouse. There’s that smell again. He decides it’s coming from the bathroom. He pushes the door open and lifts his forearm to cover his nose. The smell of excrement is overpowering. He flicks the light switch and remembers he didn’t replace the blown bulb the last time he was here.

  The smell is even stronger now and he curses at the thought of having to call the plumber. The last thing he needs is another set of prying eyes around the place.

  His eyes dart around the small room. He notices the up-turned red plastic bucket in the corner, the puddles of water on the blue floor tiles. He opens the door to the toilet stall and recoils in horror. He puts both hands over his mouth, holds his breath and looks at the silky kaftan pooled around her body, carefully arranged like a posy of brightly coloured flowers. He tries to avoid looking at her legs, the lumpy flesh, slack on the bone, mottled with bruises. The colours remind him of springtime in Bucharest; the pale mauves, pinks and yellows; they are the co
lours of his childhood.

  The ambulance doors slammed shut. Rimis and Brennan walked out from the warehouse and into the sunlight. Rimis knew Doctor Ross would be wondering what it was about the North Shore of Sydney. Since starting the job, there had been two homicides within weeks of each other and Doctor Ashleigh Taylor, the city’s Chief Forensic Pathologist, not around for either of them.

  Doctor Ross had arrived from Cape Town two months ago. When Rimis first met her, he had tried to imagine what had brought her halfway around the world. There was no ring on her wedding finger or a mark to suggest there ever had been. He guessed she was around his age, late thirties. With big, round eyes and smooth dusky skin, it was easier for him to imagine her in some smart North Sydney advertising agency than in a mortuary. What was the appeal, he wondered? What on earth did death and a woman like Greer Ross have in common?

  ‘Fractured skull, possible drowning,’ she said to Rimis when he asked her the cause of death. ‘She either fell or was pushed before her head was rammed down the toilet bowl. I’ll have to run tests to make sure the water in the lungs match the toilet water.’

  ‘Time of death?’ Rimis asked.

  ‘At least a week.’

  ‘Any signs of a struggle?’

  ‘There’s bruising on the arms and wrists. I’d expect the perp to have scratches, if that’s any help. I’ve bagged the hands and taken skin samples from beneath the fingernails.’ She handed a clipboard to Rimis. ‘If you could countersign here, Inspector, my report should be ready early next week, but don’t hold me to it. With Doctor Taylor interstate, we don’t have enough staff to handle the back-log, let alone the extra work load.’

  Doctor Ross returned to her car. Rimis watched the sway of her hips and wondered why she had given him such an icy reception.

  ‘What’s her problem?’ Rimis asked Brennan.

  ‘Sounds like she’s overworked.’

  ‘I know what that feels like,’ he raised his eyebrows. ‘With Freddie dead, it’s time to put your resignation in at the Dunworth. And here was I thinking this was going to be a straightforward case.’ He looked over at a couple of reporters and a photographer talking to some bystanders. ‘Those lot have been sniffing around for a story on this art fraud business for months. Looks like they’ve struck it lucky – two for the price of one.’

  ‘So, what do we do now?’ Jill asked.

  ‘Let’s find out what Chisca has to say for himself.’

  They walked towards the loading dock. Chisca was standing next to a female uniformed officer. He had a lit cigarette in one hand, a mobile phone in the other. He was dressed casually in a pair of beige chinos. Curly sprigs of black chest hair poked out from his white polo shirt.

  ‘Mr Chisca. I’m Detective Inspector Rimis, from Chatswood Detectives, and this is Senior Constable Brennan.’

  They flashed their ID at him. Chisca took a slow, long drag on his cigarette and stubbed the spent butt on the floor with the ball of his shoe.

  ‘I have to go,’ Chisca whispered down the phone in a heavy accent. He ended the call and returned the phone to his trouser pocket.

  ‘Quite a shock for you this morning,’ Rimis said. ‘Mind if we ask you a few questions?’

  ‘No, I do not mind.’ Chisca looked at Brennan and smiled. ‘We have met before. It was at the Archies.’

  ‘You have a good memory,’ she said.

  ‘And you are a police officer. A police officer who knows a lot about art.’

  ‘I know a lot about many things, Mr Chisca.’

  ‘So, this is your warehouse?’ Rimis looked around him.

  ‘I do not own it. I rent it.’

  ‘We’ll need the landlord’s details. Do you know if he’s got a key?

  Chisca shrugged his shoulders. ‘I do not think so.’

  Rimis walked into the warehouse and stood with his hands in his trouser pockets. He looked up and down the length of the warehouse and at the racking. He noticed the empty shelves. Chisca and Brennan followed.

  ‘It’s a bit empty, isn’t it? Waiting for more stock to arrive?’

  ‘I’m returning to Romania at the end of the week. I’m going home to look after my elderly parents.’

  ‘Oh, I see. That’s a fine thing, a son looking after his parents. Don’t you agree, Senior?’

  ‘It certainly is, Sir. Very commendable.’

  ‘Can I ask what line of business you’re in, Dorin? You don’t mind if I call you Dorin, do you?’ Rimis asked.

  Chisca shrugged his shoulders again, a habit which was beginning to annoy Rimis. He flipped opened a silver cigarette case and lit another cigarette, drew on it and exhaled slowly. He blew the smoke towards them. Rimis drew in the tobacco and remembered how hard it had been to give up.

  ‘Would you like one?’

  ‘No, everyone knows they stunt your growth.’

  Brennan stifled a laugh.

  ‘So what line of business you in, Dorin?’

  ‘I had two businesses. Plumbing supplies, my bread and butter, I think this is the term, and an art investment business. I supplied innuendoes to companies and private individuals.’ Chisca looked at Rimis. ‘Do you know what I mean by this word, innuendo?’

  ‘Yes, indeed I do.’

  ‘This is terrible, terrible business. Freddie Winfred was such a fine woman. Who would do such an undignified thing to her?’

  ‘What was she doing here, anyway? Got any ideas?’ Rimis cast his eye around the warehouse.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘How did she get in? Did she have a remote control to the roller shutters?’

  ‘Now that I think of it, yes she did. I meant to ask her to return it to me but it slipped my mind.’

  ‘What about the storeroom?’

  ‘Only I have a key, but there is a spare in my office. It’s in the top drawer, in a brown envelope.’

  ‘Brennan, check it out.’

  Brennan nodded and walked down the length of the aisle to the office. Rimis watched her go then turned his attention back to Chisca. ‘When you arrived, was the storeroom locked?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what about security? Is there an alarm system?’

  ‘Yes, we have an alarm. Freddie knew the code. It is a simple number, easy to remember. 1234.’

  Rimis was indeed surprised by its simplicity. ‘1234?’ He looked at Chisca and raised his eyebrows.

  ‘When something is obvious Inspector, we often do not see what is under our very noses.’

  ‘You’re probably right.’ Rimis remembered his crossword puzzle.

  ‘Couldn’t find the key, boss.’

  ‘Can I ask what your relationship with Freddie Winfred was?’ Brennan pulled out her note pad, pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head and squinted.

  ‘Freddie and I were business partners. I do not believe in mixing business and pleasure. It is a lesson learnt many years ago.’

  Brennan remembered the way Freddie had looked at him at the Archibald and wondered if he was telling the truth. ‘Was she involved in your business financially?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you have any involvement in the Winfred Gallery, financially or otherwise?’

  ‘No, I did not.’

  ‘Have you ever met Calida Winfred?’

  ‘No, I have not had that pleasure. She lives in the country I believe. In the Hunters Valley.’

  ‘Hunter Valley,’ Rimis corrected him.

  ‘You must have heard Freddie talk about her?’ Brennan asked.

  ‘Yes, of course. Freddie was proud of her sister. Calida Winfred has produced many fine works in her career, including a number of innuendos she painted for me on consignment.’

  ‘Seems a waste of talent painting these innuendos, don’t you think?’ Rimis asked.

  ‘I heard there was a fire and she is not the person she once was. Perhaps she lost confidence in her ability.’

  ‘Let’s get back to your relationship with Freddie and her role in the busine
ss,’ Rimis said.

  ‘Inspector, Freddie was the front man.’

  ‘You mean she was the first point of contact?’

  ‘Yes, she was the face behind the business. She was outgoing and people liked her.’ Chisca twisted his heel on the stub of the cigarette. ‘If you have finished with your questions I would like to go home. I am upset by what has happened here.’

  ‘We’ve finished for now, but we’ll need you to come down to the station to give a full statement. Does tomorrow suit?’

  Chisca nodded.

  ‘Our people have finished, but I should remind you, this is still a crime scene and we’d appreciate your co-operation.’ Rimis turned to Brennan. ‘I want an officer here for the next forty-eight hours.’ Brennan nodded and Rimis turned his attention to the exhibit officer in charge. He watched him remove his protective overalls and stow them in the boot of his car. Rimis knew an exhibits officer was not a popular job. It involved keeping track of every piece of evidence at the crime scene and maintaining a record of continuity.

  Rimis turned back to Chisca and handed him his card. A sleek, black Bentley drove into the car park and parked in one of the spaces marked Chisca Plumbing Supplies. A man got out.

  ‘If you think of anything that could help us in our enquiries, you can contact me on this number, 24/7.’

  Chisca tucked the card in his shirt pocket and walked towards the parked car.

  Rimis looked at both men as they stood together. Chisca appeared upset, had his hand on the man’s shoulder and was talking to him quietly. He was a crude, thick-set man, a few centimetres shorter than Chisca. He dug his hands into his armpits and looked over at Rimis and Brennan.

  Rimis and Brennan walked up to them. Rimis noticed Chisca’s minder had HATE tattooed between both sets of knuckles. He looked like a boxer – a thick neck and a nose that looked as if it had been broken more than once.