Glebe Morgue isn’t my favourite place and never will be and I can’t understand why anyone would deliberately choose to make a career out of cutting up bodies. Why would someone go to the trouble of studying to become a doctor to save lives, and then end up working on dead people? They say the dead have stories to tell and I need to hear those stories, but I wish they could just email them to me.
It was probably the smell that no amount of filtration can remove that got to Jacqueline Jameson in the end, but she shut up for a few minutes while her husband’s body was rolled out for identification. I don’t think I will ever get over feeling somehow responsible for failing to protect the victim because that’s my job, and I braced myself for the usual tears and hysterics. I’ve had people scream, some just stand there, some faint, while, of course, most cry, but I have never had anyone giggle. Until that night.
The attendant drew the sheet back and respectfully averted his eyes as Jacqueline took tentative steps towards the trolley. For perhaps ten seconds she just stared at Jimbo’s face, took a deep breath, and then…giggled. “Yep. That’s him. He’s really dead, isn’t he?” She turned to Constable Jack and wrapped her arms around him. “He’s dead! Yes, he’s dead! He’s really dead. Oh my god, I WIN!”
Letting go of Jack, she turned to me. “Um, where’s the loo? I’ve gotta pee.”
I pointed her in the right direction, being careful not to let myself look at Constable Jack, who seemed to be having difficulty keeping a straight face.
On returning she signed the 250 sheets of paperwork without even looking at them. No tears. No emotion.
“Can we go now?” She took a brush out of her handbag and smoothed her hair. “What happens next?”
“Next is the post-mortem, and then we’ll wait and see. We’ll keep you informed.”
“No, what I mean is, how long before we have to have a funeral?” She pulled a small mirror out of her bag and checked her eye make-up.
“I’m afraid that I don’t know. It could be a week. Perhaps two weeks. Perhaps more.” I watched her touch up her mascara.
“I have to know if I have time for a laser peel and a brow lift. If I can get an appointment on Monday I’ll need at least ten days.”
Clinging to Constable Jack, she looked around for the cameras as we left the building, but she was out of luck. Once in the car, another cork popped and two glasses were waved at the front seat. “Let’s drink to my darling dead husband and to the wonderful, fabulous person who put him out of his misery. He’s dead. Bang! He’s gone. Bang! All gone. Kaput! Gone. Dead, dead, dead. And now, I’m as rich as Crocus!”
Oh great. No brains, too.
“Well, at last I know where the bastard is.” She hiccupped. “You know, this is the happiest day of my life. I think I’ll go to Tahiti. It’s my plane now. I can go wherever I want and do whatever I want and I don’t have to put up with that arsehole ever again. Have I told you how much I hate him? I hate his face. I hate his saggy bum, I hate his saggy balls and I hate his fucking ponytail. Did I tell you he had implants? That’s why he’s got that bald patch at the top of his saggy neck. But most of all, I hate his little dick. Such a little dick. I used to call it Little Dicky. I hate his little dick and I hate his teeth and I hate his saggy neck and I hate the way he snores. Sorry, snored. And now, he’s gone and I’m here and I’ll get all his lovely money. I like his money. I hate him, but I love his money. You know, I really, really hate him. Or should I say hated him? Doesn’t that sound great? Did I tell you how much money I’ve got now? I’m going to get rid of all those dick-suckers and cheap little gold-diggers and I’m really going to get rid of the pole-dancer that he thinks I don’t know about. But I know. I know. I even know about the Wednesday girls that she doesn’t know about. I know everything, because I’m smart. And I’m beautiful. And I’m rich. I win!”
Bugger it. If I had to listen to this crap all the way back to Camp Cove I’d need a bloody drink. Oh fuck that. Make it two.
“I have to find out what he’s been doing. Detective-what’s-your-name, you can do it. You can talk to Bradley, he’s the business boss. I have to find out what’s in the will and I have to get hold of that fucking secretary of his. Damn it, I want to know who’s on the payroll and I want to know what that saggy arsehole’s been up to. She’s going to tell me. She’s going to have to tell me. And then, she’s fired. Bang.
“And none of the ex-wives can come to the funeral. No. They can’t come. Especially Lynnette. I really hate her, so she can’t come.
“She’ll probably be telling the world that she was the only one he really loved and she’ll be mooing on the phone to anyone who’ll listen about how she will always love him. She’s old and she’s ugly and I hate her. Who’s going to pay for her credit cards now? I know he paid for her boobs. The originals and the replacements and I’m pretty sure she’s had a tushy-tuck. One blow job and he’d agree to anything.” I heard a glass being topped up, quickly followed by a burp.
“Please God. Don’t let her throw up.” Constable Jack tightened his grip on the steering wheel and looked anxiously in the rear vision mirror.
Jacqueline was off and running, even though we had no idea who she was talking about. “That skinny pole-dancing slut is out on her cock-sucking ear, and if she thinks she can keep my emerald ring she has another think coming. That’s mine. I picked it out. Mine. And I want her car. I want her credit cards cancelled and I want her fired. I want her back in the gutter where he found her and I want her so far away from here that even her skinny cock-sucking shadow can’t find her.
“I want that stupid dog-fucking bitch thrown out of the house at Bowral. No, no. She can keep the house because it’s probably flea-infested, but she has to promise that she will never, ever, ever call herself Mrs Jameson and she has to promise that she will never come near me again and she can’t come to the funeral. I hate her and I hate her rosary beads and I hate her stupid face with that stupid smile and I hate her stupid dogs.
“And then, we have to get rid of that stupid Miss Vicky. Why did she marry him? She’s going to disappear back to Boganville. Poof! She’s gone. Bye-bye, Vicky-babe. It was fun, but you have to go now. Did you know that she can’t have babies anymore? So sad. She had the chance, and she blew it. Sad Miss Vicky.”
I worked it out. She was talking about Jimbo’s ex-wives. The bitch was Bethany. She was wife number one. Miss Vicky must be Victoria Roberts. I’d forgotten that they had been married. I wasn’t sure who the pole-dancer was, but I was taking notes now. Jacqueline just kept on drinking, and kept on talking.
“And what will we do about our old friend, Livvy? Where is she now? Come out, come out, wherever you are, Olivia. Didn’t she fall off a mountain, but even that insipid do-goody butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth Mama Tessa couldn’t put that Humpty back together again. I wonder if she bounced when she fell on her arse? Can someone please tell me where she is so that I can push her off a mountain and do it properly? Didn’t she have a son stashed away somewhere? God, she must be old now. Fat, old ex-wives in wheelchairs can’t come to the funeral, so she can’t come. I don’t like her and she can’t come.
“Who have I forgotten? The actweth with the lithp? Where is she now? What about the ghost bat? Wasn’t she fun? What was her name? And I forgot that old slapper from Perth. She tried and she tried and never could reel him in, could she? And wasn’t there a French slut with a brat? What happened to her? I can’t remember her name but I think it had something to do with strawberries or flowers or…” We had a most educational twenty-minute trip back to Camp Cove. Jacqueline had finished off the bottle by the time we were driving through Vaucluse and I had five pages of notes that I would have to work through. I suppose it must be hard to be the umpteenth wife, but I couldn’t help but remember the old saying that when a man marries his mistress he creates a job opportunity.
I didn’t think that Jacqueline had anything to do with Jimbo’s death. She was genuinely surprised and happy that he was dead, but if any of her predecessors turned up dead she’d go straight to the top of the list of suspects.
“It’s going to take both of us to get her inside,” I murmured to Jack.
“She’s all yours. I’m not letting her get her hands on me again.” He hissed. “She’s pissed and she’s horny. She grabbed my arse back at the morgue and those nails are sharp.”
Lucky bitch, I thought. That was yet another reason to dislike her. And I bet that arse was rock hard.
“OK, I’ll get her. You clear out the back seat. This car is going to smell like a pub tomorrow.”
I opened the rear car door and she fell out. I suppose I should have checked that she wasn’t leaning on it before I opened it. Oops. Unfortunately, the only witness was a teenage boy walking his dog. A teenage boy with a mobile phone. A mobile phone with a camera. And a flash. Hopefully, he’ll be able to sell that happy snap.
I picked her up and walked her to the gate and buzzed for it to open. Peter Gates came out, put his arm around her skinny shoulders and took control.
“Thanks for getting her home, detective. It’s been a long day, and she needs some peace and quiet. I’ll see to it that she gets it.” Constable Jack followed us inside, holding onto her bag, empty bottles and glasses.
“For fuck’s sake, Peter, pour me a drink.” The grieving widow threw her wedding ring across the room and picked up the telephone. “I’ve got to get out of here.”
The sounds of Kool and the Gang’s “Celebration” were pumping across Camp Cove as we turned back towards the city and reality.
“Well, that was an interesting day. What now?”
I’d like to rip your clothes off and tie you to the bed and pour chocolate sauce and sprinkles all over your body.
I checked my phone messages. “Eat something. Get some sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a long one. The Chief wants us there at nine.”
“Shit. Where can I drop you off, then?”
“Five Ways will be fine.”
“That’s a great area. I like the pub there.”
“The Royal?”
“I’ve been there a few times with my mates. Good food upstairs, too.”
“Thanks for reminding me. I’m famished. Why don’t we grab something to eat at the pub?” (“Will you walk into my parlour?” said the Spider to the Fly.) He turned to me and smiled. “Best suggestion I’ve heard all day. I need something long and cold.”
Gotcha.
“And that’s the best suggestion I’ve heard all day,” I echoed.
‘Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy;
The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,
And I’ve a many curious things to shew when you are there.
“Upstairs dining room? Or the front bar?”
“Downstairs. Some of my mates drink there on Friday night.” Ah, so he was already almost a regular.
“Drive on, partner. You know the way.” The Royal at Paddington is an institution. It’s been there forever and I used to drink there in my twenties. Noisy, usually packed and big television screens everywhere. To be truthful, I’m think I’m over loud pubs, but the beer was cold, the sliders and hot chippies delicious, and the company was stimulating. The closer I got to Constable Jack, the more stimulated I became. He, on the other hand, was in his very relaxed blokey element. He introduced me to two of his friends and soon the conversation turned from Jimbo and his death towards surfing. And surfing is not my strong point. Yes, I like the water, but I’ve never had the time or inclination to spend hours bobbing up and down on a plank of wood, waiting for the elements to send me a surge of water that will transport me back to the beach so that I can paddle back out and do it all again. It’s just never happened for me. I prefer to run.
Three beers later, I bailed out. “See you tomorrow, Jack. Nine o’clock. Can you pick me up at the corner on your way through?”
I will spin my web while I wait for a chance to pounce.