Stumped! A Bondi Detective story Page 2

CHAPTER TWO

  “We’re very sorry, Mrs –?”

  “Field. Marion Field.”

  Joe and Mrs Field were sitting across from each other while Jimmy went to get another glass of water.

  “I’m Detective Inspector Charnock and this is Detective Constable Cook, from Bondi Station. We're with the homicide division. We get a little panicked in these situations. You know how it is, madam.”

  “No, not really.”

  “Well. It is.”

  Marion Field was in her late fifties, tall, attractive and with her hair scraped back. She was wearing a smart, mauve dressing gown with braiding along the lapels. She had been crying a little and was clutching a tissue.

  “I just can’t believe it,” she said. “Terry, our next-door neighbour. You never think something like this will happen next door. Never.”

  “No, it’s always a shock. How long have you lived next door?”

  “We moved here, my mother and me, about 12 years ago, a few years before my late husband Walter passed away. Heart attack in the summer house. Just dropped dead. He was in building supplies. Bondi Hardware. Did you know it?”

  “Oh, yes. On Campbell Parade.”

  Jimmy returned with a drink.

  “Thank you so much, detective constable. I’ve never seen a native Australian in the police force.”

  “There are as few of us now, ma’am. But not many.”

  “It's good to see,” she said.

  “If only he wasn’t so useless,” said Joe.

  Joe smiled at Jimmy.

  The DC sat across from Mrs Field and took out his notebook.

  “You were saying, Mrs Field?”

  She moved slightly in the chair, and crossed her legs. She made sure she was well covered by her dressing gown.

  “Well, Walter, and now Terry…”

  She began sobbing. Joe gestured to Jimmy who reached for a box of issues and offered them to her. She blew her nose, rather loudly.

  “You must get plenty like me.”

  “We get all sorts, Mrs Field. Did you know Terry Forbes very well?”

  “We all knew Terry. Famous for his babies in this area. The Forbes’ Boy and his Barbie were inseparable. He was a sporting hero you know. You couldn’t not know Terry round here. He was absolutely wonderful.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “He was the sort of the neighbour who would do anything for you. Anything. When Walter died, and he was so handy. Terry was the only one. We relied on him. He even came next door to do some work on the summer house, Walter’s pride and joy that. He needn’t have done that -”

  “When was that?”

  “Just last month,” she replied, again reaching for the tissues. “He got on famously with my mother, too.”

  “Can I take her name?”

  “Iris, she’s 74.”

  “Really? What a fine age,” said Joe. He paused slightly. “Where were you yesterday morning, say first thing?”

  “Well, my life is like clockwork, Inspector. Every morning at 6.30am I have to move my mother who is virtually bedridden. MS, you know. She can walk if absolutely necessary, but she mostly chooses not to. I am with her mostly every minute of the day. It’s very sad. I think families should stick together. I do really believe that. Don’t you? This new generation don’t care for it, but I think it’s more and more important. Don’t you, Constable?”

  He looked up from his pad, and glanced at Joe for guidance. None was forthcoming.

  “I dunno,” replied. “We all live in a big house in Surry Hills. Is that what you mean?”

  She gave way to watery, slightly patronising smile. “Yes, I suppose so.”

  There was a pause. No one quite knew where the conversation was going.

  She continued. “Are you married, Inspector?”

  “Widowed, Mrs Field.”

  “Ah. How sad.”

  Jimmy broke the silence.

  “How did you discover the body, Mrs Field?”

  “Well, after I’ve done my first turn of mother for the morning, I go down to the summer house and do Tai Chi. Stretching, that kind of thing. I feel closer to Walter there. I was doing my sun salutation actually when I saw his back door was open. It never is at that hour, I thought. How odd. So I asked mother about it and she convinced me to take a look. Bit odd to barge in so early I thought. But she thought otherwise. Very wise. What if someone had broken in, mum asked. Quite.”

  “You must have key then.”

  “To the front, yes.”

  “Oh. Not the back?”

  “No, no.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I left mother, came through the front door and found him like that in the kitchen. Awful. It’s so, so…”

  She began sobbing again. Jimmy offered another tissue.

  The WPC entered the room.

  “You better come, sir. There’s a barny out the front with a bloke.”

  “Thank you, constable. Stay with her.”

  Joe and Jimmy headed for the fracas. Outside the house, a small crowd was gathering on the other side of the police tape. There was already at least a dozen people standing about. They were milling around in groups of two or three, chatting interestedly to each other like they were at a bowl's match. Some were in suits, one man was still in his dressing gown. It was like gawping at a car accident, but without the carnage. In reality they were staring at a house surrounded by police tape. There was also a satellite TV van. The press, thought Joe.

  “Bloody hell,” said Joe to Jimmy. “Haven’t these people got lives?”

  The man in the dressing gown approached them. “I’m George Fraser. I live on the other side.”

  “We will need a statement from you, Mr Fraser,” said Joe. “You should get changed in the meantime.”

  “What’s happened? It’s Terry, isn’t it?”

  “Come through. You can join Mrs Field in the front room. Talk about barbecues.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Get on, sir!”

  Another constable led the man into the house.

  “What about me!? Hello! Hello!”

  Further along, a man was standing next to a uniform bloke who had a firm hold of his arm. Joe and Jimmy made their way to him.

  “I understand sir,” said Joe, “that you have been making my investigation very difficult. I do hope that’s not true, because I would like nothing more than to press a charge of obstructing justice. It’s been a while.”

  The man tried to break his arm free. Unsuccessfully.

  He said: “Right. Do you know who I am?”

  “Very unlikely, sir.”

  “I am Asif Ramesh, Terry Forbes’s business partner. He’s dead isn’t he?”

  “Let him go,” said Joe.

  But Ramesh suddenly bolted through the cordon and sprinted towards the open front door.

  “Get him!” yelled Joe.

  Jimmy responded like a greyhound from the traps. In a moment, he had turned on his heels, darted towards Ramesh, bringing him down just before the door in the fine rugby tackle around the ankles. The small gathering broke out into instant applause. But only for a moment. After all, this was a murder scene so it was dignified respect rather than resounding joy at this unexpected physical spectacle. However, sporting prowess could be appreciated in any context. The TV boys had even garnered themselves into action, with a camera trained on the action.

  Jimmy and a uniform constable brought Ramesh back to Joe.

  He looked directly into the eyes of the Detective Inspector. “Tell me what happened to Terry or… I will kill you.”

  Joe was having nothing of this, and took matters into his own hands. He seized Ramesh by right arm and started marching him towards the nearby van.

  “I beg your pardon,” said Joe. “Come with me.”

  Joe walked Ramesh backward, then pushed him against the side of the police van. It was old school.

  “Sir –” said Jimmy.

  Joe paused. It was polici
ng from the 1970s, rough and tumble, a rather unpalatable sight for the younger police. Joe had been slightly taken over by the situation. His lack of breakfast perhaps.

  “Mr Ramesh, this is what happens when people do not co-operate with the police. When I have something to tell you, I will.”

  Jimmy approach the two, taking Ramesh by the other arm.

  “Thank you, Jimmy. I feel much better. Put him in the van.”

  Ramesh continued to thrash about. “This is police brutality! You will hear about this!”

  “Really?” queried Joe.

  “You don’t understand. Terry was my business partner. What are you doing?”

  “My job,” said Jimmy.

  A reporter immediately accosted Joe.

  “And who are you?” asked Joe. “His lover?!”

  “No, mate. Television. Sydney Tonight. Is he a suspect?

  “No. He did it. Just confessed.”

  “No! Dead set?”

  “No. You fool.”

  “Jimmy, get me out of here. If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Is it true that Terry Forbes was bashed to death with a cricket bat?”

  “Nice try, but no comment. Wait for the press conference.”

  Jimmy intervened.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, Jimmy! Sorry. It's too early.”

  “You've got to listen to this before we go anywhere.”

  The two re-entered the house. Forensics were still working away and preparing the remove the body.

  “Listen to this,” said Jimmy.

  He pressed a button on the answer machine on the sideboard. It was a woman’s voice, maybe in her twenties.

  She said: “Hello Daddy. Hope you’re okay. You don’t hate me do you? Really? Say you don’t. Daddy?”

  Her voice broke. There was a pause.

  She continued, now slightly more upset. “Sorry. Ring you tomorrow.”

  “Christ,” said Joe, pausing. “Give that to forensics. Now, breakfast awaits. Let’s go to the Bay.”

  Taking the tape and putting it in a small plastic bag, “Sir, but Ramesh?”

  Turning to the uniformed constable, Joe said: “Let him sweat, then take him to the cells. Bloody fool. Charge him with wasting police time.”