Killing Sunday

by Amos, Gina

  ‘Anything better than that?’ Rimis sat back in his chair.

  ‘Choi and I spoke to the parents. The father wasn’t on speaking terms with her and didn’t know the mother was seeing her. Mrs Browne had a phone call the day before Paloma went missing. Paloma was excited about something and wanted to meet her for coffee to tell her all about it.’

  ‘Did you ask her if she knew why she was so excited?’

  ‘She didn’t know what it was about, all she said was that she sounded happier than she had for a long time.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Paloma never showed. When the mother tried to contact her and couldn’t track her down, she reported her missing. When I asked her about drugs, she told me she was definitely clean. She was working hard at the gallery and at college and was saving to go to some fancy art school in Paris.’

  ‘What about the studio?’ Rimis frowned.

  ‘She was dossing there. A mattress on the floor and a makeshift kitchen. She had photocopies of Brett Whiteley prints pinned on all the walls and cardboard boxes of art books.’

  ‘That would be right. I heard he was her pin-up boy,’ Rimis said.

  ‘We’ve got someone from IT going through the files and emails on her laptop. It’s speculation, but let’s assume she found out the innuendos she was painting were a front for the drugs? Remember the note I found in Freddie’s office? I know what you’re both up to and it’s going to cost. She’d already resigned from the gallery and was excited about something, excited enough to want to tell her mum about it. She could have already had the money for her air fare.’

  ‘Well if she did, what did she do with it? There’s no evidence she bought a ticket, no transactions on her debit or credit cards, or withdrawals from her bank accounts. Unless she paid for it in cash.’ Rimis said. He stood up from his desk. ‘Might be an idea to check the airlines.’

  There was a knock on the door. Rawlings walked in. ‘We’ve just had a result from Crime Stoppers, boss. A bus driver saw Paloma, or someone fitting her description, around eight-thirty the night she died. She got off his bus in Oxford Street, outside a travel agency. Choi and I are going to pay the agency a visit. She would have passed by there on her way to the gallery. Someone might have been working late. There was another sighting around nine o’clock. She was walking along Queen Street, looking in shop windows.’

  ‘I left the Dunworth around nine that night,’ Brennan said. ‘Kevin left at least five minutes before me.’

  ‘So we can place Taggart at the scene. The timing is certainly right. What happened after you left the Gallery? Did you see him again?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I walked straight back to my car. There was a car parked in front of my mine. It pulled away from the kerb when I walked into James Street, but I didn’t have any reason to take notice of who was driving, or if they had a passenger. I wish I had.’

  Rimis opened the top drawer of his desk and swept in a pile of papers. ‘Let me know if you find out anything from the travel agent, Rawlings.’ Rimis looked at his watch. ‘Grab your bag, Brennan, we’re going to Freddie’s apartment. I’ve managed to get Forensics. They should be there by now. Then we’ll go and pay Scott Carver a visit and find out how we’re going to handle Dorin Chisca.’

  All the rooms in Freddie’s apartment were sealed. The UV lights were set up and the surfaces were being dusted. Rimis nodded to the officer at the door and he and Brennan signed the attendance sheet. Brennan pulled out her notebook and a pen and leafed through the pages. Rimis asked her how she had accessed the apartment. When she told him the door wasn’t locked, he raised his eyebrows and left it at that.

  Brennan walked behind Rimis into the apartment, but turned around when she heard a woman’s voice calling out.

  ‘Excuse me, Kylie.’ It was the woman from across the hall. She was standing in her doorway.

  ‘What should I do with it?’ The woman asked.

  Brennan gave her a blank look, tucked her hair behind her ear and walked back out into the hall.

  ‘Your aunt’s kaftan. What should I do with it now she won’t be wearing it again?’

  ‘I’m sure she would want you to have it,’ Brennan said.

  ‘I don’t want it. It’s bad luck to wear a dead person’s clothes.’ She stepped back inside her apartment. A moment later, she was in the hall again and pressed the kaftan into Brennan’s arms. ‘Here, take it. You’re family; it’s right you should have it.’

  Brennan was about to say something, but before she had a chance, the woman closed the door in her face.

  Rimis looked amused. She walked past him and into Freddie’s bedroom and tossed the kaftan on the bed.

  ‘So, it’s Auntie Freddie now, is it Kylie?’ Rimis grinned. Brennan rolled her eyes. They walked into the lounge room and looked out at the view across the balcony.

  ‘Nothing much to go on, is there?’

  ‘You’re a mind-reader Brennan.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Area Commander Scott Carver’s office was spacious and well-appointed, as one would expect of a high-ranking officer. Behind his desk was a bookcase of technical and procedural manuals. On his desk were a lap top computer and a few open files. Rimis and Jill had been in his office for less than fifteen minutes when they stood to leave.

  ‘Could I have a word, Sir?’ Jill asked. She looked at Rimis. ‘In private?’

  ‘I’ll be waiting in the car,’ Rimis said, before he closed the door behind him.

  ‘You can dispense with the Sir business now. Rimis has gone.’

  Jill sat down again. ‘I had no idea you were an area commander when I met you at Bea and Harry’s. And I didn’t recognise your voice either when I spoke to you on the phone. Some detective I’m going to make.’

  Scott Carver laughed and sat back in his chair. ‘If it’s any consolation, I didn’t recognise your voice either.’

  ‘This is embarrassing.’ Jill tucked a stray hair behind her ear. ‘Bea should have told me who you were. And if you don’t mind me asking, what were you doing at Bea and Harry’s anyway? It didn’t seem like your scene, you know, babies and everything.’

  ‘I didn’t want to miss the chance to meet you. Bea and Harry told me we had a lot in common. I didn’t realise how much, until today.’

  ‘I was at an unfair advantage then,’ she smiled and crossed her legs. ‘You’re probably wondering what I want to talk to you about.’

  This was awkward. What was she doing here? The way he was looking at her now, she sensed he felt sorry for her. She was grateful when he put her out of her misery.

  ‘If I was a betting man, I’d say it had something to do with Dorin Chisca and your father.’ Scott Carver moved around from behind his desk and sat down next to her. ‘What do you want to know? I’ve already told you I wasn’t with your father when he was shot.’

  Jill leant forward. ‘Chisca claims he wasn’t there that night at Lakemba, and I know there’s no evidence to suggest he was. But I’ve got a feeling he knows who shot my father and why.’

  ‘I can’t tell you much more than you already know. You must have read the reports.’

  ‘Yeah, I read them. It’s just I want to find some answers but I don’t know what questions I should be asking.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, I can’t tell you what you want to hear. There was no evidence that Chisca had anything to do with Mickey’s death.’

  Jill nodded.

  ‘Did you know him well? My father, I mean.’

  ‘Mickey was a good officer. Just keep that in mind if you speak to Chisca, or anyone else. Don’t be too quick to believe what people might want to tell you.’ Carver stood up, smiled. ‘Jill, I was wondering. Tyrone Maitland is having an exhibition at the Harvey Street Gallery this weekend. We could have lunch afterwards if...’

  ‘Sorry, Scott, but I’ve got this rule that I don’t date cops. And, I’ve got my Bull Ring coming up. I need to stay focused. There’s a lot happening in my life right now.’ J
ill held out her hand to him to shake it, and he took it gently and rubbed her wrist with his thumb. She realised she had got nowhere apart from being asked out on a date. Another dead end.

  Jill walked out of Parramatta Police HQ and headed towards the car park. The worst of the day’s heat was trapped beneath the footpath. It was always a few degrees warmer out west and her shirt was sticking to her back like an army of sucking leeches. She grabbed a small pot of lip-gloss from her bag, smoothed the greasy mix over her lips and tasted strawberries. What she would do for a cool drink and a swim right now.

  By the time she got back to the car, perspiration was running down her neck. Rimis was sitting in the passenger seat, listening to the radio. The engine was running and the air con was on.

  ‘So what was all that about?’ Rimis asked.

  ‘Just wanted to talk to him about Dad.’

  On the drive back to the city she felt cool enough to be able to think clearly about what had just happened. Scott Carver, Harry’s friend, not a gynaecologist, a Police Commander. Shit. She was definitely going to kill Bea now.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Kevin examined the welts on his face in the bathroom mirror then ran the cold water tap. He shuddered, sensed his mother’s presence. Even in death, she still had power over him. Whenever he thought about her, his skin began to itch and realised there was no escaping her.

  He never told anybody about the punishments; thought nobody would have believed him. If his misdemeanours had been judged major, she would punish him by sending him to stand in the toilet bowl. She would then walk into the bathroom and empty her bladder. He dismissed the image and looked at his hair. It needed combing and he could do with a shave.

  He patted his face with a towel, threw the towel on the floor and walked into the bedroom. A sports bag lay open on the bare, saggy mattress. It was packed with his only possessions: a threadbare bible, his mother’s battered leather diary, a few changes of underwear, clean shirts, a pair of denim jeans that he had recently bought, and a waterproof bag for his toiletries. He was upset about leaving the apartment and the comfortable life he had made for himself, but he had no choice. He knew if Inspector Rimis hadn’t already fitted the pieces of the puzzle together, it wouldn’t be long before he did. He hadn’t left the apartment for days; now was the time to make his move. He had his sights set on another victim. This time it would be the last and he felt better knowing that. ‘Set thine house in order,’ he mumbled to himself.

  He opened the top drawer of his bedside table and took out a small metal paint box, an ordinary kitchen teaspoon, a plastic straw, and an expired gym membership card. He recognised the irony of using the card.

  He removed the lid from the paint box and scooped out a generous amount of the white powder he had taken from the frame of North Coast Summers. His hand trembled. He chopped the cocaine into neat thick lines, the way he had seen it done on You Tube. He closed his right nostril with his index finger. He snorted one of the lines. The sudden rush surprised him. The sensation spread across his soft palate. For good measure, he gulped down a handful of the little white pills Nicolae Vladu had given him. With the surge of adrenalin running through his veins, he felt he could take on anybody.

  He left the apartment with North Coast Summers under his arm and threw the set of keys into the bushes near the bank of letterboxes by the entrance. He crossed Cleveland Street against the traffic lights and looked over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being followed before he turned left and walked a few blocks towards the city. A police car drove slowly past and he pulled his baseball cap down low over his eyes. Head down, he continued walking through the quiet leafy streets to where he had parked his car. He opened the boot and put the painting and his bag inside. His heart was racing. He scratched his chest through his shirt then wrapped his hand around the object in his trouser pocket. When a taxi picked him up a few streets later, he slunk down low in the back seat and thought about how easy it would be this time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The reception area at Chatswood Police Station was quiet. The duty sergeant was standing behind the desk, shuffling a pile of papers. Ted Mackie was by Calida’s side on a timber bench reading a brochure on keeping kids safe. He had dispensed with his usual Hawaiian shirt and was wearing a white linen collared shirt and a pair of fashionable denim jeans. When Rimis appeared, Ted put aside the brochure and got to his feet. Calida stood and walked over to him. ‘I’ve just come back from the morgue, Inspector.’

  Rimis had been present enough times when relatives were making a formal identification to know what Calida had just been through. It was something nobody should ever have to experience.

  ‘Come upstairs to my office, we can talk better there.’

  ‘I know this is a difficult time for you Cal, especially with the story in the papers.’ Rimis massaged the back of his neck and avoided looking at her.

  ‘Why haven’t you found Freddie’s killer?’ The skin around her eyes crinkled into deep lines.

  ‘We're doing everything we can.’ Rimis was surprised by her abruptness and was angry because he had nothing to tell her. He flipped opened the file on his desk and picked out three photos. Kevin Taggart, Nicolae Vladu, Dorin Chisca.

  ‘Do you recognise any of these men?’ Rimis lined the photos up in front of her. ‘Take your time, have a good look.’

  Calida slipped her hands into her bag and pulled out her reading glasses. She studied the photos, swallowed hard and handed them back to him.

  ‘I’ve never seen any of these men before.’

  Rimis reached for another file. ‘What about this one?’ Rimis produced a photo of Paloma Browne at her year twelve formal.

  ‘Paloma Browne. She certainly was an attractive girl. Freddie hired her after I left the gallery. Her photo and details of her death were on the front page of all the papers. Do you think whoever killed Freddie, killed Paloma?’

  ‘We’re not sure at this stage,’ he said. ‘Tell me about Paloma and Freddie. What sort of relationship did they have? Did they get on?’

  ‘I think they did. At least as far as I know. Freddie was a hard taskmaster but she was always fair. Paloma was a wild girl; Freddie took pity on her and gave her a job. Freddie told me she was saving up to study at the Sorbonne.’

  ‘Did you know she painted Whiteleys for Freddie?’

  ‘Freddie never said, but I had my suspicions. She knew I didn’t like Whiteley’s work. I think it’s vulgar, so when she insisted I try my hand at them, I assumed Paloma had saved enough money for her airfare to Paris and Freddie wanted me to take over from her to fill the gap.’

  ‘We know from an email Paloma sent Freddie that she’d resigned from the gallery, so you could be right,’ Rimis said. ‘I want you to take a look at these. We have the originals downstairs in the lockup, but I thought you might be able to tell from the photos.’

  Calida stared at the coloured photos and studied each one carefully. Some she held up to the light, others she picked up then placed to one side. She removed her glasses. ‘I painted all of them, except for the Whiteleys. Paloma would have painted them. She followed Brett’s style closely, much better than I could have.’ Calida looked at Rimis and frowned. ‘So, what’s all this got to do with Freddie’s murder?’

  ‘We found forged provenance certificates in the safe at the gallery. We believe Freddie was involved in a money laundering scheme, as well as art fraud.’

  ‘You’re crazy. Freddie? Art fraud perhaps, but money laundering?’

  ‘Art lends itself to it.’ Rimis knew money-laundering was simple. ‘When someone has illegal money they want to get rid of, it has to look like it came from legitimate sources. I know it must be hard for you to accept, but we’ve found receipts for art purchases that don’t match their true value. We believe Freddie may have been selling your innuendos and genuine works for cash as a way to launder money earned through illegal drug trafficking. She’d resell the paintings and —’

  Calida go
t to her feet, visibly upset. ‘Freddie was my sister, Inspector. I won’t sit here and listen to her good name being bandied around like this.’

  Ted drove back through the cross-city tunnel to the eastern suburbs and dropped Calida outside the gallery. ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right? I could stay with you, or come back in an hour and drive you to Freddie’s apartment.’

  ‘I’m okay, Ted, really. After I’ve finished here, I’ll get a taxi to Freddie’s. It’s not far.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure.’

  Calida watched Ted drive away. She unlocked the gallery’s front door and walked down the hall to Freddie’s office. She was surprised. Apart from the messy desk, the office had changed little since she was here last. She hadn’t stepped inside the gallery since before the fire. What would she would do with the gallery now Freddie was dead?

  She sat down in the plush red chair behind the antique desk and looked at the blank computer screen. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for or what she expected to find. Inspector Rimis had told her the police had removed Freddie’s paper records and downloaded her computer files. She wondered if Freddie had changed the computer password and was about to enter sisters in the log in command box when she heard the click of the front door and the shifting of feet on the timber floorboards outside the office.

  ‘Ted, is that you?’ There was no answer. ‘Ted?’ She tried to remember if she had locked the front door when she came in.

  ‘It’s you,’ she said. She got to her feet.

  ‘Yes, it is me, Calida. It has been a long time.’

  Vladu followed in behind Chisca and stood in one corner of the room.

  ‘I see you brought your shadow with you.’ She nodded towards Vladu. He showed no sign of emotion or acknowledgement. ‘How dare you come in here like this and frighten me half to death?’

  Chisca sat down in a chair across the desk from her and removed a single cigarette from a silver case. He lit up.