Fine weather usually brought the crowds, but Centennial Park was quiet for a Sunday morning. Rimis looked at his watch and turned to the crosswords on the back page of the newspaper. He would give her another five minutes and, if she didn’t show by then, he’d head off to Otto’s Bar for an early lunch.
‘You’re late.’ He didn’t look up.
‘Sorry, boss.’ Senior Constable Jill Brennan sat down next to him on the timber bench and left a polite gap between them.
He looked at her. ‘What’s that on your head?’
‘It’s a bucket hat.’
‘It looks bloody ridiculous. You look like Inspector Gadget.’
‘It does the job though, keeps the sun off my face. You know what the Cancer Council says, slip, slop, slap.’ She smiled at him and crossed her legs.
He noticed a thin gold chain around her right ankle.
Silence.
Rimis knew from her personnel file, Senior Constable Jill Brennan was twenty-eight years old with a double degree in art history and law from Sydney University. She was short, solidly built. She was also naturally beautiful. She wasn’t wearing make up, not even lipstick. Her oval face was smooth, tanned. She was wearing white knee-length shorts, a pink singlet top and a pair of flat, strappy sandals. Rimis was jealous of her practical clothing and tried not to look at her bare legs. He’d been distracted by her more times than he wanted to admit.
He cleared his throat. ‘So, what’s been happening at the Gallery, then?
‘Not much. I sent Freddie Winfred an invitation to Kevin’s exhibition, but she didn’t show. She could be out of town, or maybe she’s got something better to do with her time.’
Jill Brennan had had a private school education. She should have had a private school voice, but she didn’t. No airs or graces. Rimis put his newspaper aside. He saw her looking at the blank spaces of the cryptic crossword puzzle.
‘Freddie Winfred is our only lead in this case and I want it off my desk. I’ve got more important things to worry about than art fraud.’ Rimis tugged his collar, reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a pack of mints. ‘Want one?’
She shook her head.
‘I heard about the girl at Woolwich Baths,’ she said.
Rimis popped a mint into his mouth.
‘Any leads?’ she asked.
He turned and looked at her. ‘You know what? You’ve got a long way to go before you become a detective. Just concentrate on the Winfred woman and leave the big cases to the big boys.’
Detective Inspector Rimis first met Brennan when they were investigating the Rose Phillips murder. He knew, even then, she was one of the most methodical and intelligent officers he had come across during his twenty-year career. Policing ran in her family. Her father, Detective Sergeant Mickey Brennan, had been killed in a drug raid in Lakemba four years ago. Six months later, she had thrown in her job at a high-end legal firm and joined the service.
Rimis knew she was determined to follow in her father’s footsteps, but the road to becoming a detective wasn’t always an easy one. It was still a male bastion, even in these days of equal opportunities. He was surprised when the Superintendent had asked him to keep an eye out for her. Whether it was out of respect for Mickey Brennan or her own abilities, he wasn’t certain.
Rimis got to his feet and looked at the raft of Musk ducks on Busby’s Pond. The mother duck dived below the surface to cool off. Her ducklings followed her lead. After they disappeared, he wriggled his toes inside his tight, laced Oxfords. He was tempted to remove them and soak his feet in the pond. ‘I know it’s not easy.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Going undercover.’
‘It’s a one-off, and a low-risk assignment,’ she said. ‘We both know I wouldn’t be sitting here if it wasn’t for my degree in art history.’
Rimis knew she was right. The Special Forces Undercover Unit hadn’t been able to supply an operative with any art knowledge or background. When a computer search of the personnel files came up with her name, she was the obvious choice.
‘Christ, this has gotta be one of the hottest March days on record.’ Rimis squinted at the sun and wiped the back of his neck with his hand. ‘Should have told you to meet me out of the heat, somewhere with air con and cold beer on tap.’ He put on his sunglasses, got to his feet and tugged at his trousers, damp with perspiration. ‘Want you to know, if you play your cards right, you’ll be working with me permanently after we wrap up this case. And then who knows? One day you just might make a half-decent detective.’ Rimis picked up his newspaper, walked off towards his car and gave her a backhanded wave.
Later that afternoon, Rimis parked his car and walked down to the Sailing Club. He had gone home to change and was dressed in a pair of faded jeans, a checked navy and red shirt, and a baseball cap. He looked out at the river. It reminded him of the days he sailed sabots as a young boy on the Central Coast. He walked into the large open boat shed and looked at the empty racking and the walls, covered with marine charts, ropes and life buoys. It was a good day to be out sailing.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Yeah,’ Rimis said. He pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head and flashed his warrant card. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Nick Rimis from Chatswood Detectives. I wanted to ask you about the tides.’
‘What do you want to know?’ the old man asked.
‘I suppose you know about the girl washed up at the Baths?’
‘Yeah, it’s usually pretty quite around here. When something like that happens, hard not for people to be talking about it. This is a family suburb, there’s a strong sense of community here.’
Rimis knew he could have looked up the tide flows himself on the Bureau of Meteorology site, but he wanted to get a local’s point of view. Anyway, he had nothing better to do with his Sunday afternoon.
‘Your lot were here the other day, asking all sorts of questions. They were looking at the boats and wanted to know about the club members. They didn’t ask about the tides.’
‘I’m here now, and I’m asking,’ Rimis said.
‘Come with me, then.’ They walked up a narrow set of swirling, orange-carpeted stairs to a small, dusty room. The old man sat down at a desk covered in marine charts, pushed them aside and logged onto the computer. Rimis leant into him and looked over the man’s shoulder.
‘Let’s see now, she was in the water for what, a week you say.’ He tapped the keyboard and checked the charts.
‘That’s right,’ Rimis said.
He did a few calculations, sat back, and scratched his head. ‘Chances are she would have come from over at Burns Bay. There’s a boat ramp over there. The fishing’s good in that part of the river. Do you fish, Inspector?’