by Amos, Gina
‘Still playing golf?’ Rimis asked.
‘Yeah, I’ve been working on my handicap. Takes time, lots of practice, like anything else.’ Carver looked down at his glass. ‘I was having a look at last quarter’s crime stats before I left the office. North Shore Local Area Command figures are looking good…there’s been a drop in break and enters.’
‘We do our best. Community policing seems to be working. Detective Choi, our local liaison officer, does a good job interfacing with the Chinese community.’
‘Yes. Detective Jenny Choi. I read her report on Adam Lee, the Asian boy who was attacked at the Interchange. I still think the assault on Lee has something to do with these Asian gangs operating all over Sydney. That attack last week on the restaurant in Dixon Street, we’re pretty certain was part of Red Cave’s bid to extend its control from Hurstville and Parramatta to Chinatown.
They could be pushing for control in Chatswood as well. Keep me informed, will you? We’ve got to put a stop to these gangs before we lose control. Up until now they only targeted the Asian community for its membership, but now they’re recruiting along social rather than ethnic lines.’ Carver took a sip of his water. ‘And what about this optometrist who was murdered, David Cheung?’
‘I’ve got Detectives Brennan and Rawlings working on the case.’ Rimis pulled at his tie. ‘We established Mrs Cheung and their son, Benjamin, boarded a flight to Hong Kong the night Cheung was murdered. If we can track them down, they might be able to shed some light.’ Rimis eyed Carver, sensed he wanted to talk to him about something other than crime statistics and Asian gangs. The conversation to date was a phone call, not a lunch meeting.
‘What do you feel like to eat? I normally have the fish and chips, they’re always good,’ Rimis said.
‘Okay then, I’ll have the same. Order some extra lemon with it, will you?’
Rimis ordered the two meals and returned with a set of cutlery and napkins.
Scott fiddled with his knife. ‘Terrible business, this suicide at Callan Park.’
Ah, so that was it.
‘How’s morale?’ Carver asked.
‘Not good.’
Carver nodded.
Rimis glanced up at the screen. Argentina had just scored a goal. ‘We checked Calloway’s computer. He’d visited a couple of mental health sites and when I spoke to his boss, DI Perris, he told me Calloway had used up all his annual leave and sick leave. Also said he’d seen a change in his attitude recently.’ Rimis took a sip from his glass. ‘There’s talk he had a gambling problem.’
Carver raised his eyebrows.
‘Horses,’ Rimis said. ‘Perris was planning to have a disciplinary talk with him, but never got the chance.’
‘What about drugs and alcohol? Usually if you’re addicted to one, you’re addicted to the other.’
‘We’re still waiting on the autopsy,’ Rimis said.
Scott Carver moved the salt and pepper, shakers to the middle of the table. ‘What’s your opinion of Jill Brennan?’ Carver asked.
‘Jill?’ Rimis smiled. ‘She can be a loose cannon at times but she’s one of the best officers I’ve ever worked with. She’s hard-working, intelligent, dedicated, and possesses an inherent tendency to follow her instincts.’
Carver leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms. ‘Her father was the same. Mickey was always going out on a limb to get a result, and look what happened to him.’
Rimis didn’t need to be reminded of what happened to Mickey Brennan. The man behind the Kevin Taggart art fraud case was Dorin Chisca, a Romanian drug lord who gunned down Jill’s father in a drug raid in Lakemba.
Rimis rubbed his chin and remembered how he’d taken Brennan to task about the way the Taggart case had ended, but he’d also praised her for her cool head when the crazy mongrel turned up at her apartment with murder on his mind.
‘Scotty, there’s something I think you need to know.’
‘Go on,’ Carver said.
‘Calloway’s gun’s missing. We’ve searched his house, but there’s no sign of it.’ Carver was silent for a bit, then: ‘I might as well be frank with you, Nick. I did have my doubts at first, but the more I hear about what was going on in Calloway’s life, the more I’m convinced it was suicide. And now his gun? Maybe he had plans to use it on himself, chickened out at the last moment and jumped from the tower, instead.’
‘Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. But that doesn’t explain where the gun is. Either way, we need to find it.’
Scott Carver nodded. ‘I agree.’
They talked about golf and Rimis’s gym class he’d signed up for until their meals arrived.
‘Fish and chips?’
Both Carver and Rimis looked up at the attractive waitress. She smiled and put the plates down in front of them.
Rimis squeezed tomato sauce over his chips. Carver squeezed lemon on his fish. They ate in silence for a few minutes, before Carver spoke between mouthfuls.
‘Look, Nick, as you know Calloway’s death has wider repercussions. And everyone knows politically, Callan Park is a no-go zone.’ Carver put down his knife and fork and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. ‘The less attention drawn to it, the better. And the Commissioner is none too happy with the effect Calloway’s suicide is having on morale.’ Carver took a few more bites. ‘The media and the police association are up in arms over it as well; they’re calling for more support for police officers living with PTSD. Did you watch that documentary last night on SBS?’
‘Yeah, couldn’t believe the timing.’ Rimis knew frontline policing was one of the most difficult and selfless jobs in society. Just by doing their job, police officers faced as much emotional trauma as military personnel serving inside a war zone. But nobody within the force wanted to talk about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It was considered a contagious disease; show empathy to colleagues, you become weak and end up in a downward spiral yourself.
They finished their meals in silence.
When he was done, Carver pushed his empty plate to one side. ‘There’ve been mumblings from above, Nick. When mental health and Callan Park are mentioned in the same sentence, there’s always a political backlash. Nobody wants to have a cop suicide rubbed in their faces, nor do they want a reminder of Callan Park’s dark past as a lunatic asylum.’
Rimis sighed. It was a no-go zone, all right. Now he just had to convince Jill.
SEVENTEEN
The traffic was light and if it stayed that way Jill would be home in time to have a quick shower before she met up with Bea and Harry for dinner. Bea had made the booking at Mojo’s over two weeks ago and even though she didn’t feel like going out tonight, dinner with Bea and Harry was exactly what she needed to help take her mind off Robbie.
She was hoping it wouldn’t be a late night, because Rimis had told her before she’d left the station that Scott Carver wanted to see her at Parramatta at 8 am tomorrow morning. He hadn’t said what it was about.
Jill managed to score a park right outside her apartment block. The apartment didn’t come with a car space and given the popularity of New South Head Road, she rarely got a park in front of the building.
She stopped by the bank of letterboxes to collect her mail before she took the stairs to the second floor and let herself into her apartment. After she closed the door, she turned the dead bolt, pressed the button lock, and fastened the security chain. Before Kevin Taggart, her personal safety wasn’t something she’d thought much about. Now, she was compelled to surround herself with it, a natural response to being violated in her own home.
Once she’d put her mail on the sideboard next to the framed photo of her parents on their wedding day, she headed for the bathroom. She locked the door, undressed, stepped into the shower and turned the taps on full. The hot water assaulted her body but it didn’t help ease the numbness she felt.
Forty minutes later, Jill entered Mojo’s Tapas Bar on Campbell Parade. She spotted Bea and Harry at a corner table. At the table next to
them, a group of four couples was making a commotion over the seating arrangements.
Jill loved everything Spanish — the food, the language, the culture, and the music. Her mother was Spanish and Jill had often thought it strange she’d given her an Irish name rather than a Spanish one. Something like Juanita or Josefina appealed to Jill far more than Jillian. Then again, despite her Spanish heritage, with her blonde hair and peaches-and-cream complexion, she was pure Irish.
The Spanish lessons she’d taken after she left university were part of her plan to travel to Spain. She hoped to track down her mother’s family. Make some connection. She knew her mother had a sister but her father had never spoken about her. Jill had a feeling there’d been a family falling out when her mother left for Australia.
Jill waved to Harry and Bea. At the table, Bea stood and hugged her and then Harry pulled out a chair and kissed her on both cheeks.
‘Rough day?’ he asked.
‘Yeah.’ She didn’t have to say anything more, her face told the story.
‘Harry and I were so upset when we heard about Robbie.’ Bea grabbed Jill’s hands in hers. ‘And every time I call you, your phone goes to voicemail.’
‘I’m sorry, Bea. It’s been crazy lately, and it’s hard to find the time to answer personal calls.’
Bea squeezed Jill’s hands. ‘I’m just glad you remembered dinner tonight.
So we could talk.’
Harry filled Jill’s glass with Sangria.
‘We saw that documentary on Post Traumatic Stress Disorder on SBS last night.’ Bea leaned in closer to Jill. ‘You’d tell us if you were having problems coping with the job, wouldn’t you?’
‘Of course. And I’m fine. Seriously.’
‘When did you last see Robbie?’ Harry asked.
Strange you should ask, Harry. I saw him this morning at the morgue. Jill swallowed hard. ‘We caught up on New Year’s Day. He seemed okay, great even. He’d been promoted. He seemed happy enough with his life.’ Jill sipped her sangria. ‘He was drunk of course. Showing off, you know what he was like. But he didn’t give me any reason to think anything was wrong.’ Jill shook her head. ‘I guess a lot can happen in six months.’ She drained her glass.
‘Was he in some sort of trouble?’ Harry asked. ‘People don’t usually take their own life unless something’s worrying them. Was he gambling again?’
‘I think so.’
‘Maybe he got in over his head,’ Harry said. ‘And he couldn’t see a way out of it.’
‘And sometimes people kill themselves for no apparent reason,’ Bea added. ‘A daughter of one of my clients took an overdose — she’d just got a place at university. The poor girl had her whole life ahead of her.’
Jill watched Harry’s steady hand refill her glass. If she drank too much tonight, she knew he’d drive her home and she could pick her car up in the morning. She was rostered on for an eight-hour shift and she didn’t have to start until nine. Although first up was that meeting with Scott Carver, and she certainly couldn’t turn up to that with a hangover. Normally, she worked twelve-hour shifts, 6 am to 6 pm, plus two day shifts and two nights a week but because of the increase in their caseload she’d volunteered to work extra shifts.
‘Last week Robbie left a message on my voicemail. I forgot to call him back. Forgot,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t stop thinking I could have done something. I wish I knew what he’d wanted to talk to me about.’
‘It’s not your fault, Jill. You can’t blame yourself. It was Robbie’s decision to take his life,’ Harry said.
Jill paused. ‘That’s the thing, Harry. I don’t think it was suicide.’ Harry and Bea looked at her. ‘What do you mean?’ Bea asked.
‘I can’t see Robbie taking his own life. Can you? He’d moved from Collaroy to Callan Park two weeks ago. Why would he do that? And why Rozelle of all places, and across the road from Callan Park?’
The next table was in full swing. Bea moved her chair closer to Jill and put her arm around her shoulders. Jill propped her elbows on the table, rubbed her hands over her face. ‘I know, what you’re thinking Bea. It’s written all over your face. You think I’m in denial, don’t you?’
‘I think you haven’t allowed yourself to grieve.’ Bea took Jill’s hand. ‘You know you can always talk to me, anytime, day or night.’
‘I know, Bea. Thanks.’ Jill could always count on Bea, their friendship was something they both took seriously. She picked up her glass and sipped the sangria again. ‘I’m just a bit raw at the moment.’
She had to find out what had been going on in Robbie’s life since she saw him last. She was sure he would have told her if there was something bothering him. Was that why he’d called? Even Fin had realised something was up with Robbie.
Jill pulled back on her ponytail and picked up her menu.
‘I played golf with Scott Carver last weekend,’ Harry said. He looked over the top of his menu. ‘He was asking after you.’
‘Was he now.’ Scott Carver. As if she didn’t have enough on her mind. She took a deep breath to compose herself. ‘Now, let’s order.’ For the first time in days Jill had an appetite. ‘I don’t know what you’re having, but I think the calamari with citrus sauce looks good.’
EIGHTEEN
Jill woke in a pool of sweat. The bed sheets were wet, her mouth dry. Her heart pounded and her chest heaved as she took in deep, jagged breaths to calm herself. She turned on the bedside lamp and stared up at the ceiling. It was always the same theme — death — but with different scenarios. Sometimes she was struggling to keep Kevin Taggart at bay, her strength spent, his foul breath on her face, and the crush of his weight on her. Other times her father featured, his death raw, like it had happened days ago not years. Dorin Chisca, the man responsible for his death, waving a gun in her face, mocking her.
It wasn’t quite daybreak but Jill knew from experience, the chance of further sleep was impossible. She slipped out of bed, pulled the quilt around her shoulders and walked out of the bedroom into the kitchen. She turned on the light above the range hood and poured herself a glass of water. Too tired to think, too wound up to sleep, she stood in front of the window, stretched over and checked the lock. Everything was secure. She yawned, knew if she didn’t get at least seven uninterrupted hours of decent sleep sometime soon, she was going to start making mistakes, and mistakes were something she couldn’t afford in her line of work.
Outside, a branch scraped against the glass. She jumped back with a start. With all the memories in the apartment, why hadn’t she left, moved somewhere else? She frowned, bit down on a nail. Kevin Taggart. Stop thinking about him, you know he can’t hurt you anymore.
Jill swallowed her water in a gulp, put the glass down and turned her thoughts to Robbie. It wouldn’t be long before the case would be formally closed. Then all that remained would be to go to Robbie’s funeral.
Jill showered, towelled herself off and brushed her hair back into the usual ponytail. She’d decided to wear make-up today. She dabbed on some lipstick and applied tinted moisturiser. She searched everywhere for the black A-line skirt that had been missing for the past month. Eventually she found it at the bottom of her wardrobe. The skirt was the only one she owned. She usually felt more comfortable in jeans or slacks, but today she needed a look that said power and authority. She teamed the outfit with a black jacket and a dusty-pink, silk blouse.
Too bad the whole effect required heels; by the end of the day her feet would be hot and swollen. Jill finally found her black stilettos under the bed. The shoes had been bought on sale, and on impulse, but she knew the heels would give her the height she needed to look Carver in the eye.
She walked into the kitchen and popped two slices of wholegrain bread into the toaster. She would have preferred a later meeting time to avoid the peak-hour traffic. What was this meeting with Scott Carver about, anyway? She bit into a slice of toast and wondered if he wanted to talk to her about Adam Lee and the Interchange. She knew nothing
about Asian gangs. That was Jenny Choi’s area.
NINETEEN
The traffic on New South Head Road was slow but at least it was moving. Jill checked the time on the dashboard. It was almost two and half kilometres to the Cross City Tunnel. Why was she driving all the way out to Parramatta? Whatever Scott Carver had to say to her, surely it could have been said in an email or over the phone.
Jill had first met Chief Inspector Carver at Bea and Harry’s son’s first birthday party around the time of the undercover assignment into art fraud. They’d been the only single people there — the other guests were all married with kids. She loved Bea like a sister but she was always trying to set Jill up with every eligible man she came across. If she liked them, she assumed Jill would too.
At the party, he’d introduced himself as Scott, Harry’s golfing partner. Bea had finally got it right. She’d saved the best for last. Scott was good-looking, well-educated and the fact he was far too good to be true should have rung warning bells. She shuddered when she remembered the embarrassment she’d felt shortly afterwards when she had gone with Rimis to a meeting at Police Headquarters. She had no idea the Scott she’d met at Bea’s party was Scott Carver, the Area Commander of North West Area Command.
Jill jumped at the sound of a horn from the car behind. The traffic light had turned green. Jill raised her hand in apology and put her foot on the accelerator.
After she’d broken up with Robbie she’d decided never to date cops… never, ever. The decision had left her chances of finding a partner slim. As for long-term relationships, she could count those on one hand. She remembered what Jenny Choi had said to her on her first day at Chatswood. Rule number one; don’t screw the crew. Rule number two; never let a man become indispensable. The last man that had come close to meaning anything to her was William Phillips, who was almost old enough to be her father. To complicate matters she’d met him on one of the worst days of his life — Jill had been the officer assigned to tell Phillips his mother was dead. There had been a time during their short relationship she’d thought it might work, but in the end he couldn’t handle the demands of her job.
