I ran hard around Darling Point in the morning, then a long shower cooled me down and I found some clean undies. I dragged on my faithful black microfibre pants and the cream cashmere jumper that Marco gave me for Christmas, twisted my hair up and squeezed out the last of the tinted moisturiser. Mascara and lip-gloss helped a bit, but that’s as much as I can manage on a working Sunday.
I texted Constable Jack to meet me for my usual morning coffee, and he was waiting for me at the Tropicana, chatting easily with Dr Chris and a pretty young thing whose face I couldn’t quite place. Chris pulled up a chair for me. “You remember Brett, don’t you? You talked to him at the hotel on Friday. He’s the duty manager.”
Brett removed his sunglasses and blinked in the sunlight, fluttering his long dark eyelashes and impossibly blue eyes. Contacts? “I’ve been telling your friend Jack that things have been really insane at work. Like everyone wants to see the room but it’s still locked up until the forensic guys and special cleaners are finished and management is running around like telling everyone not to talk to anyone about it. And oh my god, Security has gone ballistic because they don’t have any CCTV coverage because the cameras on the fifth floor and the lift were sprayed over on Thursday night and there’s no way to see who was there on Friday.”
He sipped his café latte and patted his lips delicately with a paper napkin. “So what do you think? I reckon this was most definitely a very professional hit. Someone knew exactly what he was doing.”
“Oh, you’ve been watching too much ‘Law and Order’ again, haven’t you, Brett?” Dr Chris patted Brett’s thigh for two seconds too long. “I’m sure that Maddie has already worked that out.”
Oh great. Now we have either karma or the universe sending a professional hit man to do the dirty work. And why hadn’t I been told that the cameras had been painted out? I ordered another coffee to go and headed to the car with Jack, who looked disgustingly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. And why was his hair always still wet in the mornings? Did he come straight from the beach? If I licked him, would he be salty?
Concentrate, Madison.
Calls had been made to Macquarie Street, the incumbent Police Minister’s Sunday lunch was ruined and the Coroner had been persuaded to fast-track the autopsy. Grave assurances were made that the police were pursuing information received and the murderer would be apprehended shortly. Rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb. The internet was on fire with Jimbo jokes, videos, photoshopped photographs and rumours. Lots of rumours.
Ex-wives and girlfriends had been ambushed by news teams for teary interviews, although Lynnette couldn’t be found and her agent was uncharacteristically quiet. Three women had come forward in time for the Sunday newspaper copy deadlines, each claiming to have been married to Jimbo, and one had a Tahitian wedding certificate to prove it. The other two had sold their Bali beach wedding photos to the highest bidder, announcing that their vows of undying love had been made to the universe and did not require a piece of paper.
I spent the two hours en route to Bowral catching up with the Sunday newspapers and trying to get back into last night’s Constable Jack dream. The object of my fantasy was blissfully unaware of the carnal delights being played out behind my sunglasses.