The lovely Anna’s equally lovely solicitors asked that all and any future contact be made through them. Murder is good for business, especially when you charge $500 per hour.
And speaking of business, we had been contacted by the CEO of TenTen, the charming Sam Bradley. The gist of the conversation was “get off your fucking arses and find the fucking murderer and release the fucking body so that we can have a fucking funeral.” Right on, Mr Bradley, sir. Anything you say, sir. But the medical examiner still hadn’t released the body and now the grieving widow couldn’t be found.
To top it off, there was a report from the ME telling us that there was a problem with the body. I knew it. I was right. There wasn’t enough blood. I knew that it didn’t add up.
Time of death, based on the level of potassium in the vitreous humour, degree of rigor mortis, body and ambient temperatures and the content of retinal venous red cells, had been established to be around 1pm. Yes, he was shot, but he was already dead when the bullets hit him. Well, he was actually just dead, or he was just about to die because his blood pressure was just about non-existent, or he was in the process of dying, because his heart wasn’t beating when the bullets hit, which is why there wasn’t very much of his blood. Two of the bullets had actually passed through the redhead first. The shot to his head was the coup de grâce.
Jimbo could have died from something else. His tongue and throat were swollen and so was his penis – well, duh – so it could have been allergic shock that killed him, not the bullets. Elevated histamine levels supported this theory and the ME was still fussing around with the forensic pathologists who had already reported high levels of alcohol, aspirin, cocaine and anti-depressants. He had been taking pills for asthma and hypertension, anti-inflammatories for osteoarthritis, nitrates for angina, had recently taken Viagra and there were traces of Rohypnol in his system. He had chronic liver disease and a patched aorta. It was a miracle that he could walk.
So the ME was still unsure of the cause of death and wouldn’t sign the death certificate, and all we could do was wait and continue our interviews. Someone shot him. And someone shot the redhead, who had been forgotten in the Jimbo hysteria. Her body tested positive for a small amount of cocaine, some anti-depressants, paracetamol and alcohol.
There would need to be a coronial inquest to determine what happened. The body would then be released for burial, but you really can’t have a funeral without the widow, no matter how much the television channels wanted to finalise their programming. We’d lost Jacqueline Jameson. According to Immigration Jacqueline hadn’t left the country, but she was missing and the office of Saint Peter, her press agent, wasn’t talking.
So Jimbo would be staying on ice for a while longer.
Constable Jack, I thought, tomorrow I want you bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, because tomorrow we get to talk to the Pole-Dancer.
I checked my emails when I got back home and cursed the spammers who seemed to think that all I need out of life is Viagra and Cialis. That’s a laugh. At the rate my sex life was deteriorating, I’d be in the market for rust remover very, very soon.
I cheered myself up by responding to the messages notifying me I had won the Nigerian lottery, making sure that I signed my emails “Detective Madison Griffiths”. Somewhere out there are some very excited little men who think they have a sucker on the line until they read the “Detective” bit.
And there was an email from Marco, which I almost didn’t open because I couldn’t bear the thought of hearing what a wonderful time he and Gemma were having in Italy.
To: Maddie Griffiths
From: Marco Maiolo
Subject: Jameson
Hey Mad,
Just a quickie between quickies and lunch. I’m getting too old for all this romantic bullshit. That woman is determined to exhaust me, so I sent her out to buy some more shoes. I’m getting too old for all this togetherness.
There’s a connection between the murder in Melbourne and Jimbo’s. [Oh yeah, I thought. That murder where my key witness was killed. That murder that led to a cancellation of my holiday in Broome.] A connection somewhere. I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s there. Jameson had a daughter with Fleur Le Fraise. French. Her name’s Dominique, and she’s best friends with Giuseppe Napoli’s daughter, Maria. They were at school in Switzerland together, and they’re as thick as thieves. Literally. It seems that they cleaned up in San Tropez last year, but no-one was game enough to complain because of the Napoli family. Papa Napoli is old-style Mafioso, and most indulgent and protective of his little girl. He is supposedly retired, but there are three sons, Paolo, Leo and Aldo, and they are definitely in the family business. Paolo is the heir apparent. He’s the eldest.
I hear that the two girls are in Australia, so perhaps they’ll turn up at the funeral.
Ciao for now.
Marco
Interesting.