It’s the smell he notices first. The stench, like rotting garbage, is ripe and slightly sweet. He flicks on a grubby light switch on the wall by the loading dock. The industrial lights flicker and clunk and light up the warehouse like a convenience store. He looks at the floor-to-ceiling racking. Empty shelves, apart from a few boxes. He strolls about the warehouse with his hands in his pockets, whistling quietly to himself. He sniffs at the air, shifts a cardboard box and looks behind it. He wonders if an animal has become trapped in here, a ringtail possum, or a rat, perhaps. He unlocks the storeroom and walks inside. The narrow windows are sealed and the dusty grey venetian blinds are shut tight. He weaves his way through the Roberts, McCubbins, and Streetons. There isn’t a piece of wall or carpet that’s not covered in canvases. He wants to start shifting stock, but he knows he has to wait until the next shipment arrives. It should have been here two days ago and he is running out of time. He looks across at North Coast Summers; it is still wrapped in bubble wrap and is sitting in the corner of the room.
He walks out into the warehouse. There’s that smell again. He decides it’s coming from the bathroom. He pushes the door open and lifts his forearm to cover his nose. The smell of excrement is overpowering. He flicks the light switch and remembers he didn’t replace the blown bulb the last time he was here.
The smell is even stronger now and he curses at the thought of having to call the plumber. The last thing he needs is another set of prying eyes around the place.
His eyes dart around the small room. He notices the up-turned red plastic bucket in the corner, the puddles of water on the blue floor tiles. He opens the door to the toilet stall and recoils in horror. He puts both hands over his mouth, holds his breath and looks at the silky kaftan pooled around her body, carefully arranged like a posy of brightly coloured flowers. He tries to avoid looking at her legs, the lumpy flesh, slack on the bone, mottled with bruises. The colours remind him of springtime in Bucharest; the pale mauves, pinks and yellows; they are the colours of his childhood.
The ambulance doors slammed shut. Rimis and Brennan walked out from the warehouse and into the sunlight. Rimis knew Doctor Ross would be wondering what it was about the North Shore of Sydney. Since starting the job, there had been two homicides within weeks of each other and Doctor Ashleigh Taylor, the city’s Chief Forensic Pathologist, not around for either of them.
Doctor Ross had arrived from Cape Town two months ago. When Rimis first met her, he had tried to imagine what had brought her halfway around the world. There was no ring on her wedding finger or a mark to suggest there ever had been. He guessed she was around his age, late thirties. With big, round eyes and smooth dusky skin, it was easier for him to imagine her in some smart North Sydney advertising agency than in a mortuary. What was the appeal, he wondered? What on earth did death and a woman like Greer Ross have in common?
‘Fractured skull, possible drowning,’ she said to Rimis when he asked her the cause of death. ‘She either fell or was pushed before her head was rammed down the toilet bowl. I’ll have to run tests to make sure the water in the lungs match the toilet water.’
‘Time of death?’ Rimis asked.
‘At least a week.’
‘Any signs of a struggle?’
‘There’s bruising on the arms and wrists. I’d expect the perp to have scratches, if that’s any help. I’ve bagged the hands and taken skin samples from beneath the fingernails.’ She handed a clipboard to Rimis. ‘If you could countersign here, Inspector, my report should be ready early next week, but don’t hold me to it. With Doctor Taylor interstate, we don’t have enough staff to handle the back-log, let alone the extra work load.’
Doctor Ross returned to her car. Rimis watched the sway of her hips and wondered why she had given him such an icy reception.
‘What’s her problem?’ Rimis asked Brennan.
‘Sounds like she’s overworked.’
‘I know what that feels like,’ he raised his eyebrows. ‘With Freddie dead, it’s time to put your resignation in at the Dunworth. And here was I thinking this was going to be a straightforward case.’ He looked over at a couple of reporters and a photographer talking to some bystanders. ‘Those lot have been sniffing around for a story on this art fraud business for months. Looks like they’ve struck it lucky – two for the price of one.’
‘So, what do we do now?’ Jill asked.
‘Let’s find out what Chisca has to say for himself.’
They walked towards the loading dock. Chisca was standing next to a female uniformed officer. He had a lit cigarette in one hand, a mobile phone in the other. He was dressed casually in a pair of beige chinos. Curly sprigs of black chest hair poked out from his white polo shirt.
‘Mr Chisca. I’m Detective Inspector Rimis, from Chatswood Detectives, and this is Senior Constable Brennan.’
They flashed their ID at him. Chisca took a slow, long drag on his cigarette and stubbed the spent butt on the floor with the ball of his shoe.
‘I have to go,’ Chisca whispered down the phone in a heavy accent. He ended the call and returned the phone to his trouser pocket.
‘Quite a shock for you this morning,’ Rimis said. ‘Mind if we ask you a few questions?’
‘No, I do not mind.’ Chisca looked at Brennan and smiled. ‘We have met before. It was at the Archies.’
‘You have a good memory,’ she said.
‘And you are a police officer. A police officer who knows a lot about art.’
‘I know a lot about many things, Mr Chisca.’
‘So, this is your warehouse?’ Rimis looked around him.
‘I do not own it. I rent it.’
‘We’ll need the landlord’s details. Do you know if he’s got a key?
Chisca shrugged his shoulders. ‘I do not think so.’
Rimis walked into the warehouse and stood with his hands in his trouser pockets. He looked up and down the length of the warehouse and at the racking. He noticed the empty shelves. Chisca and Brennan followed.
‘It’s a bit empty, isn’t it? Waiting for more stock to arrive?’
‘I’m returning to Romania at the end of the week. I’m going home to look after my elderly parents.’
‘Oh, I see. That’s a fine thing, a son looking after his parents. Don’t you agree, Senior?’
‘It certainly is, Sir. Very commendable.’
‘Can I ask what line of business you’re in, Dorin? You don’t mind if I call you Dorin, do you?’ Rimis asked.
Chisca shrugged his shoulders again, a habit which was beginning to annoy Rimis. He flipped opened a silver cigarette case and lit another cigarette, drew on it and exhaled slowly. He blew the smoke towards them. Rimis drew in the tobacco and remembered how hard it had been to give up.
‘Would you like one?’
‘No, everyone knows they stunt your growth.’
Brennan stifled a laugh.
‘So what line of business you in, Dorin?’
‘I had two businesses. Plumbing supplies, my bread and butter, I think this is the term, and an art investment business. I supplied innuendoes to companies and private individuals.’ Chisca looked at Rimis. ‘Do you know what I mean by this word, innuendo?’
‘Yes, indeed I do.’
‘This is terrible, terrible business. Freddie Winfred was such a fine woman. Who would do such an undignified thing to her?’
‘What was she doing here, anyway? Got any ideas?’ Rimis cast his eye around the warehouse.
‘I don’t know.’
‘How did she get in? Did she have a remote control to the roller shutters?’
‘Now that I think of it, yes she did. I meant to ask her to return it to me but it slipped my mind.’
‘What about the storeroom?’
‘Only I have a key, but there is a spare in my office. It’s in the top drawer, in a brown envelope.’
‘Brennan, check it out.’
Brennan nodded and walked down the length of the aisle to the office. Rimis watched her go then turned his attention back to Chisca. ‘When you arrived, was the storeroom locked?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what about security? Is there an alarm system?’
‘Yes, we have an alarm. Freddie knew the code. It is a simple number, easy to remember. 1234.’
Rimis was indeed surprised by its simplicity. ‘1234?’ He looked at Chisca and raised his eyebrows.
‘When something is obvious Inspector, we often do not see what is under our very noses.’
‘You’re probably right.’ Rimis remembered his crossword puzzle.
‘Couldn’t find the key, boss.’
‘Can I ask what your relationship with Freddie Winfred was?’ Brennan pulled out her note pad, pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head and squinted.
‘Freddie and I were business partners. I do not believe in mixing business and pleasure. It is a lesson learnt many years ago.’
Brennan remembered the way Freddie had looked at him at the Archibald and wondered if he was telling the truth. ‘Was she involved in your business financially?’
‘No.’
‘Did you have any involvement in the Winfred Gallery, financially or otherwise?’
‘No, I did not.’
‘Have you ever met Calida Winfred?’
‘No, I have not had that pleasure. She lives in the country I believe. In the Hunters Valley.’
‘Hunter Valley,’ Rimis corrected him.
‘You must have heard Freddie talk about her?’ Brennan asked.
‘Yes, of course. Freddie was proud of her sister. Calida Winfred has produced many fine works in her career, including a number of innuendos she painted for me on consignment.’
‘Seems a waste of talent painting these innuendos, don’t you think?’ Rimis asked.
‘I heard there was a fire and she is not the person she once was. Perhaps she lost confidence in her ability.’
‘Let’s get back to your relationship with Freddie and her role in the business,’ Rimis said.
‘Inspector, Freddie was the front man.’
‘You mean she was the first point of contact?’
‘Yes, she was the face behind the business. She was outgoing and people liked her.’ Chisca twisted his heel on the stub of the cigarette. ‘If you have finished with your questions I would like to go home. I am upset by what has happened here.’
‘We’ve finished for now, but we’ll need you to come down to the station to give a full statement. Does tomorrow suit?’
Chisca nodded.
‘Our people have finished, but I should remind you, this is still a crime scene and we’d appreciate your co-operation.’ Rimis turned to Brennan. ‘I want an officer here for the next forty-eight hours.’ Brennan nodded and Rimis turned his attention to the exhibit officer in charge. He watched him remove his protective overalls and stow them in the boot of his car. Rimis knew an exhibits officer was not a popular job. It involved keeping track of every piece of evidence at the crime scene and maintaining a record of continuity.
Rimis turned back to Chisca and handed him his card. A sleek, black Bentley drove into the car park and parked in one of the spaces marked Chisca Plumbing Supplies. A man got out.
‘If you think of anything that could help us in our enquiries, you can contact me on this number, 24/7.’
Chisca tucked the card in his shirt pocket and walked towards the parked car.
Rimis looked at both men as they stood together. Chisca appeared upset, had his hand on the man’s shoulder and was talking to him quietly. He was a crude, thick-set man, a few centimetres shorter than Chisca. He dug his hands into his armpits and looked over at Rimis and Brennan.
Rimis and Brennan walked up to them. Rimis noticed Chisca’s minder had HATE tattooed between both sets of knuckles. He looked like a boxer – a thick neck and a nose that looked as if it had been broken more than once.
‘This is Nicolae Vladu, my personal assistant. Nicolae, this is Inspector Rimis and Senior Constable Brennan, they are investigating Freddie’s death.’
‘Nice to meet you, Mr Vladu.’
Vladu nodded and looked down at his tattooed hands.
Rimis removed his sunglasses and looked at the Bentley. ‘Nice set of wheels you’ve got here, Dorin. I’ve never had a black car; always thought they showed the dirt.’ Rimis ran the flat of his hand across the shiny bonnet. Vladu scowled, removed a clean handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped away Rimis’s hand marks. He opened the passenger door for Chisca, waited for him to be seated, then walked around to the driver’s door.
Rimis squatted down and spoke to Chisca through the open window. ‘We’ll see you tomorrow then, Dorin. Morning, before lunch, is better for me.’ Vladu started the engine. ‘One more thing,’ Rimis said. ‘Freddie's gallery assistant, Paloma Browne. You ever meet her?’
‘Freddie never mentioned her to me and, no, I have never met her.’
Rimis and Brennan watched Vladu reverse the Bentley out of the narrow car space.
‘He’s a showy type of fella, our Mr Chisca. Likes to display his wealth, doesn’t he?’ Rimis said.
Rimis dropped Brennan back at the Station and headed north on the Pacific Highway. He knew they would have to move quickly. The press were going to have a field day with the story when it broke. He could see the headlines now. Gallery Owner and Assistant, Murdered. The cases were now his number one priority; everything else on his desk would have to wait.
He took the ramp north onto the M1. He pulled down the sun visor. The traffic was light, apart from a few interstate semi-trailers. He overtook the truck ahead of him but braked hard when he spotted a speed camera.
Rimis knew he could have sent one of his underlings to tell Calida Winfred her sister was dead, but he liked the woman, and out of respect for her and Ted Mackie, he knew it was only right that they hear the bad news from him. He thought about the indignity of Freddie’s death. No one should have to die like that.
By the time he parked his car, it was early afternoon. He looked towards the croquet lawn and recognised Ted Mackie immediately. He was hard to miss, being the tallest of the group. It was Ted’s turn to play a shot. He swung his mallet and gently hit the red ball. It passed through the hoop and Ted pushed back the aviator shades onto his head and placed his hands on his hips. He was wearing one of his Hawaiian shirts again. The sleeves were short and they revealed a pair of strong arms. Sturdy tanned legs poked out from beneath a pair of red cargo pants and his thick calves were covered with wiry sprigs of greyish, blonde hair. Ted spotted Rimis and walked up to him. ‘Didn’t expect to see you back so soon. You’ve got some news. Bad, by the look of it.’
‘Yeah, it’s not good.’ Rimis gave a report of what had happened to Freddie. During their careers, both men had had their share of delivering bad news. The death message was a sobering experience and it never got any easier, no matter how many times you did it.
They walked across the lawn together in silence.
‘You ever miss the job, Ted?’
‘Not one bit. After Mary died, I realised I still had a lot of living to do and that’s exactly what I plan to do.’
Ted walked up to the reception desk and asked Jasmine if he had seen Calida.
‘Hello, Ted, and hello again, Inspector.’ She leaned forward on her elbows. ‘I saw her on her way to the arts and crafts room after lunch. I think she’s still there.’
The two men crossed the reception area and made their way in silence to the eastern wing of the building. The smell of overcooked vegetables and lamb followed them down the corridor.
‘You want to tell her, or do you want me to?’ Ted asked. Ted tapped lightly on the door and looked at Rimis.
‘I’ll do it,’ Rimis said.
‘Who is it?’
‘Cal, it’s me, Ted. I’ve got DI Rimis here with me.’
Calida opened the door. Rimis smelt linseed oil and turpentine.
‘How about we go to your room, Cal,’ Rimis said.
Calida dipped a paintbrush in a glass of muddy-coloured water, removed it and wiped the bristles clean with a rag. She took off her painting smock and threw it on a chair. Rimis and Ted followed behind her down the corridor towards her room.
‘Now then, what news of Freddie? I assume that’s why you have come.’
‘You might want to sit down, Cal,’ Ted said.
‘I’m alright, Ted. I’d prefer to stand to hear what Inspector Rimis has to say.’
Rimis looked at her and tried to frame a gentle way to tell her, but he knew from experience there was no way to relate bad news, other than to come right out and say it. ‘Cal, Freddie’s dead.’
Both men heard her catch her breath. Ted guided her to an armchair. The window was open about eight centimetres and Rimis heard a ride-on lawn mower, laughter from the croquet lawn, and a far-off crow, shrieking.
‘You’re certain then?’
‘No mistake,’ Rimis said.
‘I told you, didn’t I, Ted? I knew something had happened to her. I’d almost resigned myself to it.’ Calida sat down and picked up a framed photograph from the window sill. ‘This was taken in front of the ferris wheel at the Royal Easter Show.’ She ran her fingers over the photo. ‘Freddie was six years old, I was sixteen. It was the first year Dad let me drive the dodgem cars. I can still remember the sparks flashing off the high poles and Freddie telling me to drive faster. Typical Freddie,’ she smiled. Calida’s eyes filled with tears but she made no attempt to wipe them away. Rimis was still standing by the door. She looked over at him. ‘Was it her heart, Inspector? Is that what killed her? I don’t remember how many times I told her to do something about her weight, and the drinking. She was always drinking.’
Rimis walked over, knelt down in front of her and took her hands in his.
‘She didn’t have a heart attack, Cal.’
‘If it wasn’t her heart, then what was it?’
It was a difficult question for Rimis to answer. He didn’t have it in him to tell her she drowned in a toilet bowl. That piece of information would be best saved for another day.
‘Drowned,’ he said.
‘That’s not possible,’ she looked at him, her eyes wide. ‘Freddie was a good swimmer. She always won the age races at school.’
‘I have to tell you ―’
‘Tell me what, Inspector?’
‘We’re treating Freddie’s death as suspicious.’
Calida’s face crumpled. ‘Sweet Jesus. What are you saying? She was murdered?’ A hand went to her mouth. Ted moved to her side but she waved him away.
‘Take a few deep breaths, Cal.’ Ted said. ‘Do you want me to call for the nurse?’
‘No, I’m alright. It’s the shock.’ Tears were running down her flushed cheeks. She removed a handkerchief from her sleeve.
‘It doesn’t make sense. Who in the world would want to hurt Freddie?’ Calida stood up from the chair and wiped her eyes.
‘I don’t know. I can’t tell you that,’ Rimis said. ‘Was there anything bothering her? Can you think of anyone who would have wanted to harm her? I’m sorry to have to ask you these questions.’
Calida didn’t hesitate. ‘Definitely not. Everyone loved Freddie. Of course, there were people who thought she was a little loud, eccentric even, but ―’
‘Think back to the last time you saw her. Do you remember the conversation you had with her? Did she mention anyone you hadn’t heard her speaking about before?’ Rimis asked.
Calida had calmed down a little now. ‘I have no idea what kind of people she dealt with. She didn’t discuss her clients with me.’
‘Try to think,’ Ted touched her arm.
‘There was that fellow she met at the Archibald. He was the winner of the Wynne Prize last year. She liked his work. She did tell me his name, but I’ve always been terrible with names. I think it was Kevin, someone or other.’
‘Kevin Taggart,’ Rimis said.
‘Yes, that was it. She phoned me and told me she had met him. She didn’t like him. She told me there was something strange about him. You don’t think he murdered her do you?’
‘Anyone else?’ said Rimis, ignoring her question.
‘No, I can’t think of a single soul who would want to harm her.’ Calida wiped her eyes.
Rimis looked at her closely.
‘Did Freddie ever mention a Romanian art dealer by the name of Dorin Chisca?’
Calida was staring out of the window now with her back to Rimis and Ted.
‘Cal, did you hear what Inspector Rimis asked you?
‘Who did you say?’
Rimis repeated Chisca’s name.
Calida turned around. ‘Dorin Chisca? No. I’ve never heard of him.’
‘You seem quite sure,’ he said.
‘Of course I’m sure. Freddie was a very private type of person, Inspector; she kept everything close to her chest, strictly on a need-to-know basis. Why are you asking about this Dorin Chisca?’
‘We have reason to believe Freddie was involved in an art fraud scam operating out of Sydney. She was passing off your innuendos as originals.’
‘What?’ Calida looked at Rimis with wide eyes. ‘I don't believe you. Freddie would never get involved in anything illegal.’ Calida got to her feet and wrapped her arms around her chest. ‘Now, if there isn’t anything else, I think you should leave. I’ve had enough bad news for one day.’
‘I’m leaving now, but there’s another matter. I know this has been a shock for you Cal, but we need your consent to search Freddie’s gallery and apartment.’
Calida walked over to her bedside drawer and opened it. She pulled out a set of keys and handed them to Rimis. ‘Here, take these and I’ll give you anything else you need. Just find whoever killed Freddie.’
Rimis took the keys. ‘Because you’re the next of kin, I also have to ask if you can identify your sister’s body. We can ask someone else if —’
‘No, she’s my sister; it’s proper I do it.’ She tucked her handkerchief up her sleeve. Rimis looked at her before he turned to leave. The room was full of misery and he knew it wouldn’t be long before the anger set in.