Who Killed Jimbo Jameson? Read Free Page B

couldn’t quite place. She was wearing low-cut, cream silk pants and a tan silk top over definitely no bra and she was holding a champagne flute in very manicured hands. She introduced herself as Jacqueline Jameson, Jimbo’s widow. I hated her at first sight.
    â€œCome in, come in, darlings. I’ve been waiting for you. We’re just finishing up here. Things have been a bit crazy today and I haven’t had time to scratch myself.” She took a sip and turned to walk away from me. “Just let me get changed. Won’t take a minute.” There was no stopping her. “Come through. It’s just us. No biggie.”
    We followed, drawn to the magnificent view of the harbour through the full-length glass doors. Pool. Beach. I have often wondered why some people find it necessary to have a pool when they live on a beach.
    The lounge area was marble and bleached wood and big white lounges, with a huge portrait of a nude Jacqueline dominating one wall. Outside, a middle-aged bald man was standing at a huge barbeque, waving at us with large tongs. I recognised him from newspaper articles: Peter Gates, aka The Saint. Press agent to the great and the good and the not-so-good for a minimum commission of only thirty per cent. A man with a make-up case and a hairbrush introduced himself as Floyd. Just Floyd. “Don’t look at me, detective. I’m sure I have an alibi, although I dreamed about cutting off that ratty pony tail.” He snipped imaginary scissors in the air and gave me a cheeky grin.
    Jacqueline landed a smooch on his cheek, and turned to me. “Just make yourself at home, darls. I just have to put on something clean, and we can get out of here.” She swept upstairs,still holding her champagne flute.
    A more-than-middle-aged brittle blonde walked in from the beach. I suppose you could describe her outfit as “colourful”: a purple and pink caftan with huge diamond hoop earrings and gold sandals. “Hello, I’m Sophie Duncan. Old family friend.” She patted Floyd on the bum and held out her glass to The Saint. “Refill, darling?”
    â€œSo you’ll be investigating Jimbo’s death, detective?” She took a rather large mouthful, and continued without waiting for me to answer.
    â€œHe deserved whatever he got and it’s a wonder that he lasted as long as he did and when you catch him, I’d like to buy his murderer a drink.” She looked straight at me. “I’ve known him since he was just starting out all those years ago, and I’ve had to watch him ruin so many lives and I’m so fucking glad he’s dead at last. Do I shock you?” She didn’t wait for my reply.
    â€œMy husband Barry was his mate even before he married Bethany, and we’re godparents to two of his children, but when he left Jac I just gave up on him. It’s just too hard to get involved with each new wife and then to have to ignore her just because he decided the sheets were greener in the next bed. And he gets, sorry, got, really mean if he found out that I’d kept in touch with any of his victims. When my daughter got married I thought we’d have to have two ceremonies and two receptions, one for Jimbo to attend and one for the exes, which in itself was a problem that put the Middle East conflict into perspective. But in the end he didn’t turn up so that potential warzone was averted, although I nearly lost my mind trying to work out the seating arrangements.” She laughed. “Then when Barry – he was my husband – died I made up my mind to keep my own friends and to hell with Jimbo Jameson.” She lifted her glass to the sky in a silent salute. “They’re probably getting pissed together, wherever they are. I just hope the beer’s cold.
    â€œHe left Jacs a couple of weeks before the baby was born. And he did the same to Lynnette. He was absent without leave for most of his marriage to