The next person we had to talk to was Anna Jameson, wife number six. Boo had painted a picture of a cold, calculating control freak. And she was right.
Anna Jameson was tightly coiled, perfectly groomed and very, very beautiful in a “don’t even think of touching” sort of way. She led Constable Jack and me into a small room off the large entrance hall and left us there for ten minutes. No explanation. Not even a glass of water.
Normally, I would have used the time to check out my surroundings: I learn a lot from observing how other people live and from their display of personal items. But this room told me nothing. Clinically clean. The wallpaper was white gloss on matte white. The furniture was white. Even the carpet was white – well, cream – but there were no stains or traffic areas. No magazines, newspapers, books or photographs, although there were tasteful groups of anonymous objects displayed on the matched side-tables. Compared to this room, the morgue was a toy shop.
Did three children actually live within 100 metres of this room? Were they kept in a parallel universe? Jack looked uncomfortable as he sat on the white, self-striped lounge, checked the soles of his shoes twice and wiped his hands on his trousers. Some neatnik must have really freaked him out at one stage of his life.
I kicked myself that I had walked around that pile of dog shit on the footpath.
The ex-Mrs Jameson entered the room and sat in the chair opposite me. She was dressed for tennis, bronzed to perfection and sparkling with diamonds. Diamond ear-rings, diamond rings and a diamond bracelet. Were these what you call “tennis diamonds”? Crossing her long, shiny legs, she leaned back and looked at me coolly. “And what can I do for you, detective?”
You can get me a blanket before I get frost-bite, I thought, but was too chicken to say it. I decided that I would out-freeze her with a display of professionalism. “Thank you for your time, Mrs Jameson. As you are no doubt aware, we’re investigating the death of your ex-husband, James Jameson, and would appreciate any assistance you can give. You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to, but perhaps you know of someone who would have wanted him dead?” She stared at me with ice-cold, pale grey eyes, and I felt the temperature drop even further. “Really, detective. How fascinating. And what on earth do you think I can possibly tell you?”
I swallowed hard, and leaned forward. “We hope you can tell us if you know of anyone who would want to kill him. Who would want to shoot him. Although we’re still waiting on the medical report, we can say that your ex-husband was shot three times, which you probably already know.” No reaction.
“Could you please tell me when was the last time you saw Mr Jameson?”
“The last time I saw my ex-husband was two hours after our divorce was granted. I accidentally passed him in the hallway of the Family Court.”
“And that was...?”
“Twenty-ninth of August 2008. At approximately 4.20pm. I told myself that I would never speak to him again, and I’ve kept that promise.”
“Now, what we would like to know is…” She interrupted me. “Thank you for coming, detective, constable, but I can’t help you. I don’t know people who own guns and I have no idea who killed him. Perhaps you could talk to some of his more unhappy business associates. Perhaps you could talk to some of his mistresses or his girlfriends. I would definitely check his drug dealers. You could also try asking his boyfriends. Just ask at the nearest bath house. Some are certainly unhappy and some of them are definitely from the wrong side of the Pacific Highway and would no doubt be on intimate terms with people who shoot other people.” She stood up.
“And now, I have to get back to my children. If you have any questions please don’t hesitate to talk with my solicitors. I’ll ask them to contact you. Thank you for coming.”
And with that, we were shown the door.