Rimis walked into Otto’s Bar. It was lunch time. The place was deserted. ‘Thought I’d find you here.’ Rimis sat down on his usual bar stool beside Morrissey and ran his hands along the polished surface.
‘You got a problem with me having a quiet beer?’
‘Thought you were supposed to be getting yourself sorted,’ Rimis said.
‘Yeah, well.’ Morrissey shifted on his stool.
‘I’ve been talking to Brennan,’ Rimis said.
‘And what does Miss Super Cop, have to say?’ Morrissey gave Rimis a mock salute.
‘Let me order a drink first. Jimmy, give me a soda water.’ He looked at Morrissey. ‘I’d ask if you wanted another one, but by the look of you, I think you’ve already had one too many.’
‘Maybe I have. What’s it to you?’ Morrissey made a snorting noise.
‘Just make sure you sober up before you get into your car and drive back to work.’
‘What do you want? Someone else complain about me?’ Morrissey asked. He tipped his glass up and emptied it. Morrissey’s mouth turned downwards. He pushed a bowl of peanuts around the bar. He looked at Rimis. ‘Just say what you have to say and leave me alone.’
‘I wanted to ask you about Brennan and her father. She told me about this business between him and Chisca.’
Morrissey looked at Rimis. ‘I misjudged her. I thought she’d keep her mouth shut.’ Morrissey grabbed a fist-full of peanuts and jammed them in his mouth. ‘So, you going to report me?’
‘I should.’ Rimis said.
‘I know you should, but are you going to?’
Rimis’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He had turned it to silent so he wouldn’t be interrupted. He pulled it out and checked the caller ID. ‘I want you to tell me you’ve got an alibi for the night Paloma Browne was murdered.’
‘What the fuck is this?’ Morrissey covered his face with his hands.
Rimis looked at Morrissey. ‘Just answer the question. Where were you that night between eight-thirty and midnight?’
Morrissey let his hands drop. ‘At home.’
‘With Sophie?’
‘Her sister was sick. She was staying at her place to help look after the kids. I didn’t know I needed an alibi. And don’t look at me like that. You don’t seriously think I killed her do you?’
‘Well somebody did. I want to find out who.’
‘Go fuck yourself.’
Rimis didn’t bother with his soda water when it arrived. He stood up. He’d had enough of Morrissey. He threw a five dollar note on the bar. He would speak to him again when he was sober. He walked outside, passed Morrissey’s parked car and remembered Brennan saying something about seeing a car the night Paloma was murdered. He dialled her mobile.
‘Brennan?’
‘Yes, boss?’
‘You said a car was parked in Jones Street, in front of yours, the night Paloma was murdered.’
‘That’s right.’
‘You never said what the make or colour was.’
‘It was dark but I’m pretty sure it was a Ford Fiesta. Red, I think.’
Rimis ended the call and looked down at Morrissey’s 2010 red Ford Fiesta and slapped his hand on the roof of the car. Rimis’s phone vibrated again and this time he answered it. ‘Peter?’
‘Hi Nick, how are things?’ Rimis heard no emotion in his brother’s voice. He knew he didn’t really care what was happening in his life. Besides, Peter Rimis knew the answer to the question before he’d even asked it: work, work and more work.
‘Busy right now,’ Rimis replied.
‘Listen Nick, it’s Mum. I thought you should know, she’s not well. Maybe you could pop in and see her. It would mean a lot to her.’
‘I’ll see what I can do, but things are pretty hectic. We’re in the middle of investigating a double homicide.’
‘Yeah, well sometimes the living are owed more attention than the dead, Nicko. Might pay to remember that.’
Rawlings walked up to Rimis in the corridor. He looked flustered and was carrying a file in his arms. ‘Boss, I don’t suppose you’ve seen the Sarge anywhere have you? I’ve called his mobile, but it just goes to voicemail. We’re supposed to be following up a lead on Taggart. A barmaid at the Cauliflower Hotel reckons she remembers seeing him talking to a guy who fits Vladu’s description.’
‘What?’ Rimis looked at him.
‘The Sarge, have you seen him?’
‘Yeah, I’ve seen him. Better take Choi with you to talk to the barmaid.’
Rimis walked into his office and dialled Morrissey’s number. ‘Come on Col, pick up the bloody phone.’ He frowned and called Otto’s Bar next and spoke to Jimmy. Jimmy told him Morrissey had left the bar five minutes after he had. He was drunk and Jimmy had called him a taxi. He said he was going home to sleep it off. Rimis threw his phone on his desk, put his hands on his hips and paced the room.
Brennan rushed into his office.
‘What is it now? He frowned.
‘You know those cigarette butts I found outside Freddie’s gallery? I ran them through the AFP Data Base. We’ve got a match.’
‘Well? Who do they belong to?’
‘Morrissey.’
A police truck pulled up behind Rimis and Brennan outside Morrissey’s house in Dundas. Rimis and Brennan got out of their car. Brennan cleared her throat. ‘You got a plan?’
‘Nope,’ Rimis replied. The heat had plastered his hair to his head. He looked towards the house and pulled his phone from his pocket. He dialled Morrissey’s home number. It answered on the fourth ring.
Silence.
‘Col, it’s me, Nick. I’m here, outside your house.’ Rimis saw Morrissey’s silhouette through a gap in the lacy curtains. He had his phone to his ear.
‘How did you know I’d be here?’
‘Jimmy told me. Is Sophie in there with you?’ Rimis ran his tongue over his lips.
‘She’s still at work.’
‘You want to come out and talk about this?’
‘There’s nothing to talk about. We both know what happens next.’
‘Col, we need to talk about your situation.’
‘Don’t practice your negotiator skills on me, Nick. I’ve had more practice than you.’ The call ended.
Rimis threw his hands in the air and paced the footpath. When he had calmed down, he considered his options. He could go up to the front door and deal with the situation calmly, but from the way Morrissey sounded on the phone, that was out of the question. Rimis looked at Brennan. ‘He’ll have his service revolver with him. Ring for backup. Tell them to turn off their sirens.’ Rimis looked up the street. The blue flashing lights had already drawn the crowds.
Less than ten minutes later, Sophie Morrissey tried to drive into the street but was stopped by a burly police officer. She wound down her window and demanded to know what was happening.
‘I’m his wife,’ she told him. ‘You have to let me through.’
‘Can I see your driver’s license please, madam?’ He handed her licence back to her. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Morrissey. You can park your car here and Constable Reilly will take you to Inspector Rimis.’
Rimis saw Sophie approaching.
‘Nick, what the hell’s happening here? I got a call from one of the neighbours about Col, that he’s —’
‘It’s alright, Sophie, we’ll sort it.’
‘I want to talk to him.’
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea,’ Rimis said.
‘What do you mean? I’m his wife, for Christ sake. If he’s going to listen to anybody, it’ll be me.’ A look of obstinacy flashed across her face.
Rimis sighed. He knew there was no use arguing with Sophie Morrissey. ‘Okay then, but keep him calm. See if you can get him to talk to me.’
Sophie dragged her mobile phone from her handbag and turned her back on Rimis. With her head low, she spoke into the phone. The conversation only lasted a few minutes. Sophie ended the call and returned to where Rimis was standing.
‘He’ll speak to you. Nobody else.’
Rimis walked up the front steps of the house and knocked firmly. He knew the house; he’d been to dinner here a few times. The door opened. Morrissey looked out and stepped aside. The television was on in the lounge room. The volume was turned down.
‘Come into the kitchen,’ Morrissey said.
The two men sat down opposite each other at the kitchen table. Morrissey’s service revolver lay next to a tattered newspaper, open at the sports pages, while a half-empty bottle of Bourbon nudged a white saucer filled with stubbed cigarette butts.
‘Want a drink?’ Morrissey’s voice slurred.
‘No,’ Rimis said. ‘Too early in the day for me.’
Morrissey removed the last of the cigarettes from the open pack and put it between his teeth. He lit up and blew smoke towards the ceiling.
‘Come on, Col. Tell me what this is all about. It’s all going to come out now anyway.’
Morrissey didn’t move. He just stared at the empty glass in front of him.
Rimis spoke to him in a quiet voice.
‘For Christ’s sake, Col. I know most of it anyway, just fill in the gaps. Make it easy on yourself; at least have a thought for Sophie. She’s out there in front of all the neighbours, worried half to death.’
Morrissey dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘If she hadn’t turned up, none of it would have happened.’
‘What do you mean? If who hadn’t turned up?’
‘Paloma.’ Morrissey ran his hand through his greasy, unwashed hair. ‘Chisca and I were in his warehouse office and we didn’t see her arrive. She’d come by to drop off some of her Whiteleys. When she walked into the storeroom she found traces of cocaine on the floor. She had a real nose for it, knew the quality stuff. I had trouble explaining what I was doing there. She was a smart girl and it didn’t take her long to put two and two together.’ Morrissey poured himself another drink.
‘So what happened then?’
‘Like I said, she was smart. It must have been then that the idea of blackmail came to her. Chisca told me she thought Freddie was in on it as well, but Freddie had no idea what was going on.’
‘What happened the night she was murdered?’
‘I didn’t kill her. You’ve got to believe me. She was supposed to be meeting Chisca in the car park at Freddie’s gallery for the payoff, but Chisca sent me instead. When I told her I didn’t have the money, she went ballistic. I tried to reason with her, warn her off, but she wouldn’t listen. Then Vladu turned up. That’s when I walked away, turned my back on her and left her with him. I don’t know what happened then. Maybe she put up a fight and it all got out of hand. Who knows? Vladu could have been under instructions to make her disappear, to make the problem go away.’ Morrissey buried his face in his hands. ‘You have to believe me. I thought Vladu would probably rough her up a bit. I didn’t think he would kill her.’
Rimis sat back. ‘Christ Col, this is serious stuff.’
Morrissey slumped forward onto the table and buried his head in his arms. ‘I’m fucked.’
‘Yeah, mate, you certainly are.’
Twenty minutes later, the streetlights came on. The flashing lights of the police vehicles and the ambulances were all the more spectacular because of the fading light. Brennan was holding Sophie Morrissey’s arm when Col Morrissey walked down the front steps with Rimis by his side. His cuffed wrists were out in front of him and when he walked past Sophie, all he could say to her was, ‘Sorry, Soph.’