Lane's End (4 page)

‘You know I can’t do that, darling. Tulip hates to be alone. Don’t you sweetie pie,’ she said, kissing the dog on the head.

Emerson’s eyes narrowed with annoyance.

Fitzjohn turned to Theodora. ‘Mrs Hunt. You said that you saw Richard Carmichael argue with Peter Van Goren. Can you tell us what time that would have been?’

‘Just after eight o’clock, I think.’

‘And how long did their argument last?’

‘Five minutes or so. They weren’t shouting, you understand. But it was obvious that it wasn’t a friendly conversation. In the end, Richard ushered Mr Van Goren out of the marquee. I didn’t see him after that.’

‘What did Richard Carmichael do after Peter Van Goren left?’

‘For some reason, he became angry about the food presentation and said he was going to speak to the caterer, Amanda Marsh.

‘And how long was he gone?’

‘Fifteen minutes or so. It was when he came back that he became ill and Laura took him home.’

Emerson glared at Theodora.

‘Why do I get the feeling that things aren’t quite what they seem between those two,’ asked Betts as they made their way back down the driveway to the car.

‘Because they’re not,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘I’d say there’s a great deal of intolerance between them. Not helped along by Mrs Hunt’s openness about Richard Carmichael’s argument with the victim and, it seems, his disapproval of the caterer’s food preparation.’

‘What if Richard Carmichael’s disapproval was just an excuse to follow Van Goren outside, sir? Perhaps to continue their argument. Things got out of hand and... Van Goren ended up dead.’

‘Sounds plausible,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘Except for one thing. Theodora Hunt told us that Carmichael left the cocktail party just after nine o’clock. He’d have been well away if Charles Conroy was right about the time of death of nine-thirty. Let’s make our way to the morgue and find out if he’s changed his mind since doing the post mortem.’ Fitzjohn climbed into the car and pulled his seat belt on. ‘After that, I want you to find out as much as you can about Mrs Hunt because I’d like to speak to her again, without her husband present. I might be wrong, but I think the lady likes to gossip and it could work in our favour.’

CHAPTER 4

A distinct antiseptic odor filled the air as Fitzjohn and Betts walked into the Parramatta morgue later that morning. After acknowledging the attendant at the front desk, they made their way along the hallway to find Charles Conroy and his assistant in a long rectangular room, its row of stainless steel tables empty except for one where Peter Van Goren’s body lay. Fitzjohn’s eye became fastened on the still form while Betts entered the room with a measure of apprehension.

‘Ah, there you are Alistair,’ said Charles when the two officers appeared. ‘I’m glad you’re here because I was right about the blows to the side of the victim’s head. They did cause a subdural haematoma and were the cause of death. But, I have to say that if it hadn’t happened, he’d have been dead in a month or so anyway.’

‘Why do you say that?’ asked Fitzjohn, walking the full length of the room to Conroy’s side.

‘Because our victim suffered from pancreatic cancer. Quite advanced. So much so that he’d have had little strength to defend himself against his assailant.’

‘In that case, could a woman have been his attacker?’ asked Fitzjohn, looking down at Peter Van Goren’s emaciated body.

‘Undoubtedly. He would have had little strength to resist a man or a woman.’

‘And the time of death?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘I’m going to stick with what I said at the crime scene, Alistair. Nine-thirty, except that I’m going to add that the victim didn’t die immediately. After the attack, I’d say the poor beggar clung to life for anything up to an hour.’

A myriad of thoughts ran through Fitzjohn’s head.

Fitzjohn and Betts walked from the morgue. ‘Well, that changes things, Betts. Van Goren didn’t die immediately, after all, which means it’s entirely possible that Richard Carmichael could have been his assailant.’

‘But what motive would he have, sir?’

‘Good question. In fact, what motive would any of the people we’ve spoken to, so far, have? Including the women.’ Fitzjohn glanced at Betts. ‘I think in light of what Charles just said about the victim’s ill health, we can’t discount them from our list of persons of interest, and that includes Laura Carmichael.’ Fitzjohn pulled his seat belt on. ‘It’s quite a list. The question is, where do we begin?’

Betts started the car. ‘What if I try to find out as much as I can about Peter Van Goren, sir? It might lead to something.’

‘Good idea, Betts. And also speak to the Silver Service taxi cab company. According to Ida Clegg, he left his home in Vaucluse at two on Friday. We need to know what he was doing in the five and a half hours until he arrived at the Observatory.’

Later that morning, Fitzjohn and Betts took the elevator in the building on Phillip Street that housed Raymond West’s office. The doors reopened onto the 2nd level where West’s name appeared in gold lettering on a glass door. Fitzjohn peered into the unlit interior of the office. ‘Are you sure Mr West said he’d be here on a Saturday, Betts?’

‘Yes, sir. Until four this afternoon.’

Betts tapped on the glass door. A moment later the interior lights flickered and a stout man with unruly dark curly hair and tortoise-shell rimmed glasses came into view. Straightening his tie and buttoning his rumpled suit coat around a portly girth, he crossed the reception area and unlocked the door.

‘Detective Sergeant Betts?’ he asked.

‘Yes, Mr West, and this is Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn.’

Raymond West looked toward Fitzjohn. ‘Pleased to meet you, Chief Inspector. Won’t you both come in.’ West stood back to let Fitzjohn and Betts inside before promptly locking the door again. ‘I’ve only just arrived myself,’ he said. ‘I should have turned the lights on when I first walked in. Come this way, gentlemen.’

The two officers followed Raymond West across the reception area and into a small office, its dark wood-panelled walls diffusing any light that emanated from the window overlooking the street. He gestured to two green leather-bound chairs in front of a large walnut desk, itself inlaid with green leather.

‘Please, make yourselves comfortable,’ he said as Fitzjohn and Betts looked around the room. ‘It’s like walking into the past, I know, but I can’t bring myself to alter a thing. We’re a family firm, you see, and this office hasn’t changed since my grandfather’s time.’

He sat down. ‘I understand you’re here to ask me about my client, Peter Van Goren,’ he continued, adjusting his glasses before clasping his hands together. ‘I heard about his death on the news this morning and was saddened. Especially since he wasn’t a well man.’

‘I take it he spoke to you about his ill health, Mr West,’ said Fitzjohn.

‘Yes. In fact, he did so yesterday. Apparently, he’d spent the afternoon at St Vincent’s Hospital. He suffered from some form of cancer, you see, and unfortunately, while he was at the hospital, they told him that it had spread. That’s why he came to see me. He wanted to go over his will.’

‘Did he make any changes to it?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘Only to bring it up-to-date with his added investment properties. Other than that, it remains as it was executed some years ago. As a matter of fact, it was one of the first instructions I took from Mr Van Goren.’ West opened a manila folder that sat on the desk in front of him and took out a long thin envelope. ‘I have the revised will here, Chief Inspector. I got it out of safe custody in case you wanted to look it over.’

‘Can you tell us who the beneficiaries are?’ asked Fitzjohn, watching West remove the will from its envelope.

‘Other than bequests to his staff, there’s only one beneficiary.’ West smoothed the pages flat with his hands before he peered through his bifocals. ‘His name is Benjamin Carmichael.’

Fitzjohn’s brow furrowed. ‘Carmichael?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Can you tell us what relation Ben Carmichael was to Peter Van Goren?’

‘He wasn’t a blood relation. I know that because Mr Van Goren told me as much. He said he had no next-of-kin. As to what connection he had to Mr Carmichael, that I don’t know. Mr Van Goren didn’t offer that information, I’m afraid.’

‘What does the estate entail?’ continued Fitzjohn, feeling a surge of interest at the mention of the Carmichael name.

‘It’s quite substantial,’ replied West, looking at Fitzjohn over his glasses. ‘Besides monies, stocks and bonds, Mr Van Goren owned a number of commercial properties, and a chain of coffee shops. There’s also his home in Vaucluse. That, however, has been left to a member of Mr Van Goren’s staff. His housekeeper, Ida Clegg.’

A slight smile came to Betts’s face.

‘Even so, all in all, I’d say we’re looking at an estate of at least fifty million. Perhaps more.’

‘Can I ask when you executed Peter Van Goren’s first will, Mr West?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘Yes, of course. Now, let me see.’ Raymond West rummaged through the manila folder and brought out a sheet of paper which he held up. ‘This is a list of instructions I have taken from Mr Van Goren over the years.’ West perused the list. ‘Mmm. I thought so. The first will was executed on the tenth of October, nineteen eighty-six.’ West looked up and gave a quick smile.

‘So is that when you first met Mr Van Goren?’

‘Yes. At the time, he’d just bought his first commercial property.’

A soft rain fell as Fitzjohn and Betts left the building and walked toward their car. ‘Finally, Betts, we have a connection between the Carmichaels and Peter Van Goren. Van Goren had to have known the family. One doesn’t leave their entire estate to a stranger.’

With the long day behind him and darkness falling, Fitzjohn walked into his office and closed the blind before he sat down at his desk. As he did so, the office door flew open and Chief Superintendent Grieg walked into the room.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ he roared. ‘Why are you involved in the homicide at the Observatory? And why wasn’t I told?’

Knowing nothing irritated Grieg more than his temperate demeanor on such occasions, Fitzjohn dug deep to contain his abhorrence of Grieg. ‘I daresay that’s because you weren’t here at the time, sir. But now that you are, I can tell you all about it.’ Fitzjohn gave a wry smile.

‘Don’t patronise me,’ spat Grieg.

‘I wouldn’t think of it,’ continued Fitzjohn. ‘Would you care to sit down?’

‘No, I wouldn’t.’

‘Very well. In your absence, the Chief Constable merely asked me to take charge of the investigation. He didn’t explain why, but I’m sure if you ask him...’

‘I know what you’re up to, Fitzjohn, and it won’t work.’ Grieg’s fist came down on top of the metal filing cabinet. The vibration sent the frame containing Edith’s photograph crashing to the floor.

Fitzjohn’s right hand clenched. His eyes locked onto Grieg. ‘I have no idea what you mean,’ he replied before leaving his desk to pick the photograph up from amidst shards of glass.

‘Of course you do,’ hissed Grieg. ‘And don’t think undermining me is going to get you a promotion. It’s more likely to get you fired.’

Fitzjohn watched the door to his office slam behind Grieg. Minutes later the door re-opened and Betts’s head appeared. ‘Everything all right in here?’ he asked.

‘Couldn’t be better,’ replied Fitzjohn, brushing Edith’s photograph off and placing it carefully against the pot of pens on his desk.

‘Chief Superintendent Grieg’s in a foul mood since he got back from leave,’ continued Betts, glass crunching under the soles of his shoes as he walked across the room. ‘Word has it his wife’s left him.’

‘Oh? That’s not good news.’

Fitzjohn sat down heavily behind his desk, his thoughts going back to the previous year and his chance meeting with Grieg and a woman other than Grieg’s wife. Not that he was the least bit interested in Grieg’s personal life, but the encounter was enough to ensure that Grieg stepped carefully in his dealings with Fitzjohn. If Grieg’s wife was out of the picture, what could he now expect from Grieg? More of what he had just experienced, no doubt. Unable to voice his thoughts to his sergeant, Fitzjohn sat back and said, ‘How did you get on with your queries about Van Goren?’

‘Silver Service cabs were very helpful, sir. Their records show that they picked the victim up three times last Friday. Once at 2pm from his home in Vaucluse, dropping him at St Vincent’s Hospital in Darlinghurst, and then again just before 6pm, taking him to Raymond West’s address on Phillip Street. From there, he took a third taxi to the Observatory, arriving around seven-thirty. I checked with the hospital. Van Goren had just finished a course of radiation treatment and received his prognosis. It wasn’t good, sir. They’d given him a few months to live at the most.’

‘Which gels with what Raymond West told us,’ said Fitzjohn.

Fitzjohn arrived home that evening by taxi. At the gate, he stopped to extract letters from the box before starting along the garden path. As he did so, he could see a soft light emanating through the stained glass panel in the front door of his cottage. Finding the door ajar, he tentatively pushed it open. ‘Sophie? Is that you?’ As he spoke, his sister Meg appeared at the end of the hallway. Fitzjohn felt a sinking feeling. Ever since his late wife, Edith’s, death eighteen months earlier, Meg had made it her quest in life to inflict her ministrations on him. Of course, it came as no surprise. He was well aware of Meg’s propensity for over-involvement in other people’s lives. This was demonstrated by her daughter Sophie’s move to Sydney to escape her mother’s unwanted attention.

‘I didn’t expect you, Meg,’ he said, placing his briefcase and the mail on the hall table.

‘That’s because I decided to drop everything and fly up from Melbourne late this afternoon, Alistair.’

‘Why would you do that? Is there something wrong?’

‘Of course there’s something wrong. Something is very wrong.’

With growing concern, Fitzjohn walked to where Meg stood in the kitchen doorway. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s Sophie.’

A warning bell went off in Fitzjohn’s head. ‘As far as I know, Sophie’s fine,’ he replied.

‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong, Alistair. She hasn’t returned my calls or replied to any of my emails in days. Therefore, there is something the matter.’

‘Meg, I think you’re over-reacting. I spoke to Sophie last Thursday and she’s fine. She’s just busy moving house, that’s all.’

‘
Moving house?
’ Fitzjohn took a step back as Meg’s voice went up an octave. ‘What do you mean, moving house?’

‘Just what I said. She and a couple of her university friends have decided to share an apartment together.’

Meg wobbled on her high-heeled shoes and caught hold of the door-jamb. ‘She can’t do that,’ she screamed. ‘The only reason I agreed to her studying here in Sydney was that she’d live in university accommodation. Who are these, so-called, friends?’

‘All I know is they’re a couple of fellows in one of her tutorial groups.’