Lane's End (13 page)

A sheen of sweat appeared across Sebastian’s forehead. ‘All right. I knew it was him.’

‘Then why did you tell us you didn’t know Peter Van Goren?’

‘Because... I thought if it was discovered who Van Goren really was, it would restart the investigation into Rachael’s death, and I knew that Richard wouldn’t survive going through all that again.’ Newberry sighed. ‘As it turned out, he didn’t.’

‘The Hunts and Amanda Marsh also denied knowing Peter Van Goren. Was that your doing?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘It might have been my idea, but I didn’t have to twist their arms. None of them wanted to revisit the circumstances surrounding Rachael’s death.’

‘What about the argument you and your brother had after he’d spoken to Van Goren? It wasn’t about a business matter, was it? Mr Van Goren told Richard that it was you who had pushed Rachael off that cliff? Is that what enraged Richard, Mr Newberry?’

‘
For heaven’s sake
!’ Sebastian Newberry’s chair fell backwards as he stood up, his face red with rage. ‘You’ve got your nerve accusing
me
of murder! How
dare
you?’

Unperturbed by the outburst, Fitzjohn sat back, his eyes locked onto Newberry’s. ‘Where were you on Saturday, March 26th?’ he asked.

‘What?’

‘Were you at Lane’s End, Mr Newberry?’

‘Lane’s End? Why would I be there?’ Newberry picked up his chair and sat down again. ‘If you must know, I was out doing quotes for jobs. I do so every Saturday.’

‘Then perhaps you can give DS Betts the names and addresses of the people you saw, as well as the times that you saw them.’

‘Do you believe Newberry’s reason for not wanting to recognise Peter Van Goren, sir?’ asked Betts as he and Fitzjohn left the interview room.

‘It sounds plausible enough and I tend to believe him because his admission does give him a motive to kill Van Goren. He’s a fairly astute man, so I’m sure he’s aware of that fact. And there’s something else, Betts. We can now assume that Peter Van Goren’s death is connected to Rachael’s, and I can’t see that Newberry had a motive to kill her.’

‘What about Amanda Marsh? What he told us about her being in love with Richard Carmichael does give her a motive.’

‘You’re right. It does. Let’s see what else we can glean from that fact when we interview her again. But first, I want you to check out Newberry’s alibi concerning Saturday, March 26th. The day that Emma Phillips was attacked at Lane’s End. While you’re doing that, I’ll speak to Laura Carmichael. In light of what Newberry has just told us and since she’s Richard’s second wife, I’d like to know what she thinks about Amanda Marsh.’

Later that morning and accompanied by Williams, Fitzjohn arrived at the Carmichael home in Mosman. He winced as he peered out of the passenger window at the steps leading up through the front garden to the house. Williams followed his gaze. ‘We can look on this as our exercise for the day, sir.’

‘I don’t need that much exercise, Williams,’ replied Fitzjohn as he started the climb. When they neared the top, they found a woman in her early fifties pruning a row of standard white roses, her short, auburn hair hiding underneath a golf cap.

‘Mrs Carmichael?’ asked Fitzjohn, by now out of breath.

Laura turned, her hazel eyes looking guardedly at the two officers. ‘Yes. Can I help you?’

Fitzjohn held up his warrant card and introduced himself.

Laura’s face brightened. ‘Ah. We meet at last, Chief Inspector,’ she replied, placing her secateurs in the basket at her feet before removing her gardening gloves. ‘My step-daughter, Joanna, told me she’d spoken to you about that dreadful night at the Observatory. I’m not sure I can add much to what she told you, but do come inside.’ Laura removed her cap, placed it on the hall table and led the way through to the sunroom where Fitzjohn and Betts had spoken earlier to Joanna. ‘Have you found out who the man who died was?’ she asked.

‘Yes, we have,’ replied Fitzjohn as they sat down. ‘He was a business man, but Peter Van Goren wasn’t his name. His real name was Henry Beaumont.’

‘Beaumont? That’s odd.’ Laura frowned.

‘Have you heard the name before, Mrs Carmichael? In connection with your family, that is?’

‘Yes, I have, as a matter of fact. I came across it the other day when I was going through papers in my husband’s study. Apparently, a Mr Beaumont used to work for Richard years ago as a gardener at Lane’s End. Lane’s End is a property he owned at Whale Beach. Henry Beaumont must have been injured while at work because Richard paid his medical expenses. That was what the papers were about. All to do with the medical bills.’ Laura looked at Fitzjohn. ‘This must mean that my husband knew the man who died at the cocktail party, doesn’t it?’

‘It seems so,’ replied Fitzjohn.

‘I can’t understand it. Richard gave no indication he knew the man.’

‘We understand Emerson Hunt contacted your husband late on Friday night.’

‘Yes, he did ring to tell Richard about what had happened there after we’d left.’ Laura paused. ‘It was after that phone call that my husband suffered his heart attack.’ A long silence followed before Laura Carmichael continued. ‘Do you know why Mr Van Goren came to the cocktail party, Chief Inspector?’

‘No,’ said Fitzjohn.

‘It’s strange that he’d changed his name from Beaumont. I wonder why?’

‘That much we do know, but, at this stage, we’re not at liberty to say. Tell me, Mrs Carmichael, did your husband ever speak to you about his first wife, Rachael?’

Laura gave Fitzjohn a quizzical look. ‘Yes, he did speak of her, but only when he and I first met. After that, it was a closed subject. I think the way in which she died haunted Richard.’ Laura Carmichael caught Fitzjohn’s gaze. ‘Why do you ask? Are you aware of the circumstances of her death?’ Fitzjohn nodded. ‘Mmm. I thought you might be. You probably know more than me. The little I gleaned from our talks, I passed on to Ben and Joanna when they started to ask questions about their mother. But I’m sure there’s much I don’t know.’

‘Did your husband say what he thought happened to Rachael?’

‘Not in so many words. Because the reason for her death could never be proved, I believe he liked to think it was an accident. That she’d slipped on the path. You see, for him, her death was like an open door that could never be closed.’ Laura Carmichael paused. ‘I’ve lived with her ghost for almost thirty years, Chief Inspector.’

‘Can we ask you about the woman who found Mr Van Goren’s body?’

‘It was the caterer, wasn’t it, Amanda Marsh?’

‘Yes. We understand that Ms Marsh worked for your husband as a housekeeper at one time.’

‘Yes, she did. I think that’s why Richard always used her catering business for the company’s functions. He said she’d been a good employee. To be honest, I think he felt guilty about having to let her go after Rachael died. Apparently, his mother moved in here to look after the children and Richard so Amanda’s services were no longer needed. That was before we met, of course.’

‘I see. Tell me, Mrs Carmichael, how do you get on with Amanda Marsh?’

‘Fine. She appears to be very efficient at what she does. Of course, I have very little to do with her. Catering for functions held by Carmichael Hunt Real Estate is managed through Richard’s office. I just attend the functions. Or at least I did.’

‘But you did see Amanda at times.’

‘Yes, but only if she was understaffed and came along to help. As she did the night Mr Van Goren died.’ When Fitzjohn did not reply, Laura continued. ‘Oh, I see. You want to know what I think about Amanda Marsh on a personal level.’ Laura ran her hand along the arm of her chair, following its pattern with her index finger. ‘Well, to be quite honest, I don’t like the woman. I never have.’

‘Can you tell us why?’

‘I prefer not to if you don’t mind,’ replied Laura. ‘I don’t necessarily like to voice my opinion about someone I don’t particularly like.’

‘I can understand that, Mrs Carmichael, but in an investigation such as we’re conducting, we need answers to awkward questions.’

Laura met Fitzjohn’s intense gaze. ‘Very well, if you must know, it’s because she was always far too familiar with my husband. Not that Richard encouraged her, you understand. I think he was oblivious to her attentions. Nevertheless, it irritated me no end.’

In the early evening, with the city buildings still generating the day’s heat, Fitzjohn and Williams returned to Day Street Station where Fitzjohn found Betts writing up his notes in the Incident Room. ‘How did you get on with Newberry’s alibi?’ he asked, taking his suit coat off and hanging it on the back of one of the chairs.

‘I found discrepancies in the times that he gave us as to when he saw his prospective clients for quotes, sir.’ Betts closed his notebook and sat back in his chair. ‘He only saw one of the clients listed, and that person said Newberry arrived an hour earlier than scheduled. The other two clients said he didn’t turn up at all and didn’t telephone to cancel.’

‘So where was he, and why lie to us when it’s so easy for us to find out? We’ll speak to him again, Betts.’

‘What did Laura Carmichael have to say, sir?’ asked Betts as they left the room.

‘She doesn’t like Amanda Marsh.’ Fitzjohn’s eyebrows lifted before he recounted his interview with Laura Carmichael. ‘So, not only do we have Sebastian Newberry establishing a motive for Amanda Marsh to kill Rachael Carmichael, we also have Mrs Carmichael stating that Marsh was far too familiar when speaking to her husband. Arrange for her to be brought in next for questioning, Betts. I’d like to know why she, too, denied knowing Peter Van Goren.’

With the rumble of thunder and lightning flashing intermittently in the night sky, Fitzjohn stopped at the front gate to collect the mail before opening the door into his sandstone cottage. The aroma of food met his senses when he stepped inside, and although pleased at the prospect of a fine hot meal, he wondered what price he might have to pay.

‘Meg? How was your stay at Sophie’s?’ he called out, with a hint of hesitancy.

When no reply came, he placed his briefcase down and walked through to the kitchen where he found the table set for dinner, but the room empty. Seeing the back door wide open, he stepped outside onto the porch and peered into the darkened garden. Just visible at the fence bordering Rhonda Butler’s property stood Meg, in her hands a tape measure. Curious, he made his way between the flower beds. ‘Meg, what are you doing?’ As he spoke the metal tape measure screeched and fell to the ground as it retracted.

‘
Alistair!
You scared me to death. I didn’t expect you home yet.’

‘What are you doing?’ repeated Fitzjohn.

‘I’m making sure my measurements are correct.’ Meg picked up the tape measure and put it into her apron pocket.

‘Measurements for what?’

‘For the trees,’ she replied as she stood back and surveyed the fence line. ‘It seems I was correct in the first place.’ She turned, gave a quick smile, and started toward the house.

‘Will you tell me what’s going on?’ asked Fitzjohn. Meg continued on with Fitzjohn at her heels. ‘Meg?’

‘It’s all because of the letter you received from the Council today, Alistair. Hand delivered I might add.’ Meg pointed to an A4 sheet of paper, magnetized to the fridge door. ‘I don’t know where you keep such correspondence, so I thought that that was as good a place as any.’

Fitzjohn whipped the letter from the fridge and began to read.

‘I do apologise for opening your mail,’ Meg went on. ‘But when I returned from Sophie’s this morning and was confronted by that man from the Council, I knew I had to open it. And I’m so glad I did because I’ve been able to fix the problem before it turns into some kind of disaster.’

Ignoring his sister’s diatribe, Fitzjohn ran his eyes over the letter. ‘The Council have investigated Rhonda Butler’s claim and agree that the glass structure, meaning my greenhouse, is a hindrance to Mrs Butler’s ability to live comfortably within her home. It instructs me to dismantle the said structure within the week.’ Fitzjohn’s face reddened. ‘I haven’t time to deal with this now, but when I do, the Council’s going to get an earful from me. Dismantling my greenhouse be damned,’ he said, crumpling the letter into a ball, and throwing it onto the kitchen table before reaching for the bottle of Glenfiddich. ‘Want one?’ he asked as he poured himself a glass. Meg shook her head.

‘You don’t have to worry, Alistair. It won’t come to that. I have everything in hand.’

‘Oh?’ Fitzjohn sipped his whisky and eyed his sister. ‘What do you have in hand?’

‘I have six fully grown murraya trees being delivered first thing tomorrow morning. They’re fully mature at eight feet tall and planted close together, will form a perfect screen along the fence line between you and the dragon lady.’

Fitzjohn choked on his whisky. ‘Is that what you were doing out there in the dark with that tape measure? Measuring for six trees?’

‘Yes. I told you, Alistair. I wanted to make sure my measurements are correct before the trees arrive.’ Meg patted Fitzjohn’s back. ‘Don’t worry, dear, you can continue with your police business in the knowledge that I’m in full control. There’s no way Mrs Butler will be able to complain again about the reflection of the greenhouse glass shining through her kitchen window.’