The Celtic Dagger (8 page)

CHAPTER 13

James walked home from the station the next evening, his mind taken up with his inability to find anyone called Patrick Spender or how Alex had spent the two days marked off in his diary.  As he pushed the front gate open, he fumbled for his keys and did not see the tall, gaunt figure in the shadows until the man stepped out in front of him.

‘Dr Wearing?’

‘Yes.’

The man shoved an envelope into James’s hand.

‘What’s this?’

‘It’s from someone who was paid to run down your wife.’

‘What?’  Any warmth still left in James’s body since his walk home drained away.  ‘Who are you?’

‘You don’t need to know.’  The polished, refined voice belied the man’s appearance.  His shaved head and scarred face were reflected in the street lamp.  He turned and walked away, his measured footsteps the only sound on the wet pavement.

Unnerved, James turned the key in the lock.  Once inside, he tore the envelope open and watched its contents spill out onto the hallway floor.  Beads of sweat broke out across his brow as he knelt down to see photographs, all of Louise.  His hands trembling, he gathered them up and made his way into the living room, where he laid each one out on his desk.  All showed Louise in various locations around Sydney, except two of her with Edwina Parker in what looked like an art gallery.  James glanced at his watch before picking up the telephone and dialling Edwina’s number.

‘Good evening.  The Gallery.’

‘Edwina, it's James, I’m glad I caught you.  I know it’s late, but would you mind if I dropped by for a few minutes?  I’d like to show you something.’

‘No, that’s fine, James.  I’ll be here for a while cleaning up.  I held a reception this evening for a young artist friend of mine.  The last of the guests are just leaving.’

When James arrived at the gallery, he found Edwina gathering up wine glasses.  She looked around when she heard the door and frowned.  ‘James, you look wretched.  Let me get you a drink.’

He followed her as she bustled into the next room where there was a long trestle table set up.  ‘As you can see, there’s a lot of food left over.  Help yourself.’  Edwina went to the far end of the table and poured two glasses of wine.

‘I’ll just have a drink, Edwina.’

She handed him a glass of wine and gestured for him to sit down.

‘What is it, James?  Has something happened?’

‘When I got home this evening, there was a man waiting for me.  He gave me these.’  James took the photographs from the envelope and handed them to Edwina.  ‘They’re all of Louise, except for these two where you both appear.  Do you remember where they were taken?’

Edwina put her glasses on.  ‘Yes.  It was at an art exhibition Louise and I attended in Brisbane.  It was held the week before Louise died.’  Edwina looked through the rest of the photographs and frowned.  ‘What’s this all about?’

‘Well, it looks like Louise was being stalked, doesn’t it?’

‘I hate to say it, but yes, it does.  Who was this man?’

‘I have no idea.  He just handed me this envelope and said it was from someone who was paid to run Louise down.’

Edwina gasped.  ‘He’s implying Louise was murdered?’

‘It looks that way.’

‘Well, I think you should go to the police.’

‘And tell them what?  An unidentified man gave me these photographs and told me my wife was murdered?’

Edwina nodded.  ‘I know what you mean, but I still think you should report it.’

After a sleepless night, James arrived early at the university the next morning, his mind still reeling from the realisation that Louise’s death may not have been an accident.  He passed by Vera’s office quickly, anxious not to be drawn into conversation, but as he did so, she appeared in the doorway.

‘Oh, James, there you are.’  James stopped.  ‘There’s someone waiting for you outside your office.  He’s...  That is...’

‘Is something wrong, Vera?’

‘Well, it’s just that he looks a bit dubious to me.’  She looked passed James.  ‘In fact he’s coming this way.  Shall I contact security?’

James turned.  ‘No, Vera, that won’t be necessary.  I know the man.’

Vera gawped at James.  ‘You do?’

‘Dr Wearing.’

James watched as the man with the shaved head and scarred face came toward him.  ‘How did you know where to find me?’

‘It wasn’t hard.’

‘Perhaps you’d better come to my office.  I have a few questions, Mr...’

‘Ah, yes.  I didn’t get round to introducing myself last night, did I?  It’s Gould, Julian Gould.’  With an air of confidence, the man followed James.  ‘I’m interested to know what you thought about the photographs.’

James put his briefcase down on his desk.  ‘I found them disturbing.  I believed my wife died in an accident, Mr Gould.  The thought her death was planned is, to say the least… What do you hope to gain by showing them to me?  There must be something you want.’

‘You’re right, there is.’  James perched himself on the corner of the desk and gestured for Gould to sit down.  ‘I’ve spent the last two years in jail, Dr Wearing, for an offence I didn’t commit.  The person who put me there also organised your wife’s death.  I want to get the bastard.’

James’s brow furrowed.  ‘Are the reasons related?’

‘No.’

‘Who is this person?’

Julian Gould put his hand in his pocket.  ‘I have another photo here.’  He handed it to James.  ‘Do you recognise the man next to your wife?’  James did not reply, his eyes fixed on the photograph.  ‘His name’s...’

James looked up into Gould’s intense gaze.  ‘I know who he is.  I’ve known Simon Rhodes for years.  Are you suggesting that he arranged my wife’s death?’

‘Yes.’

‘You can’t be serious.’

‘But I am.  You see, I once worked for Rhodes as his accountant.   During that time I found out quite a lot about his activities, but it wasn’t until I told him I was withdrawing my services that my problems started.’

‘What did he do?’

‘He accused me of misappropriation of funds he’d left in my care.’

‘And my wife?’

‘Mr Rhodes deals in stolen art.  He wanted to get your wife involved.  When she twigged to what was going on, she planned to go to the police.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Because she came to see me.  It was just before my arrest.  She knew I’d worked for Rhodes.  She asked me whether I was aware of what he was doing.  I told her I knew only too well and advised her not to go to the police.  She said she couldn’t see any other way because Rhodes wouldn’t leave her alone.  That was the first and the last time I spoke to her.’  James’s thoughts went back to his conversation with Simon Rhodes at their lunch, and Simon's mention of keeping abreast of what went on in the art world.

‘Do you have proof of all this?’

‘No.’

‘But what about this man who gave you the photographs?’

‘He’s dead.  He died last week in jail... lung cancer.’

‘So what exactly do you want from me, Mr Gould?’

‘I want you to go to the police.  Show them the photographs.  Tell them what I’ve told you.’

James shook his head.  ‘I don’t see it would do any good.  As far as the police are concerned, Louise died in a hit-and-run accident.  There’s no evidence to think otherwise.’

Gould got to his feet and walked toward the door.  ‘I’ll be in touch.’

‘Where can I contact you?’

‘You can’t.’

As the door closed, James stared at the photograph of Simon Rhodes and Louise as his fist slammed down onto the desk.  Minutes passed, a multitude of unconnected thoughts tumbling through his head, before he picked up the telephone and dialled Edwina’s number.

‘Edwina, it’s James?  I’m sorry to bother you again.  Do you mind if I call around?  I have something else to show you.’

‘I was about to go to the bank, James, but I’ll wait.’  Edwina paused.  ‘Has this got something to do with what we spoke of last night?’

‘Yes.  I’ll explain when I get there.’

When James arrived at the gallery, he found Edwina at her desk in the main foyer.  She looked up as he came in.

‘Thanks for waiting, Edwina.’

‘What's happened?  Did that man contact you again?’

‘Yes, he was waiting for me when I arrived at my office this morning.’

‘Did you find out who he is?’

‘He says his name’s Julian Gould.’  James handed the photograph to Edwina and relayed his conversation with Gould.  ‘Do you recognise the man standing next to Louise?’

Edwina took the photo.

‘Why yes.  It’s Simon Rhodes, and it was taken at the exhibition I mentioned to you earlier.  I can’t say I remember seeing him there at the time, but then, Louise and I went our separate ways for much of that day.  He came to the reception I held last night.  He’s on my invitation list.  Rebecca takes care of that side of things, but wait a minute and I’ll bring it up on the screen.’  Edwina turned to her computer and scrolled down the list.  ‘Yes, here it is.  Simon Rhodes, Rhodes and Associates, Financial Consultants, 60 Miller Street, North Sydney.’  Edwina looked back at the photograph.  ‘When this was taken, however, he was based in Brisbane.’  She turned to James.  ‘Louise knew him.  He purchased a few paintings from her.’

‘Do you remember him having an address in Melbourne?’

‘No.  As far as I know, up until now, it’s always been Brisbane, but I can ask Rebecca tomorrow to make sure.’

‘Did Louise ever talk about him?’

‘Not that I remember.  I assumed at the time that he was an art dealer but, obviously, I was wrong.  What did this Julian Gould say about him?’

‘He said Simon Rhodes arranged Louise’s death.’

The colour drained from Edwina Parker’s face.

James left the gallery and returned to his office, Simon Rhodes, and his close association with both Alex and Louise at the time of their deaths, on his mind.  As the day wore on, the questions mounted, and in the late afternoon, he made his way to the police station.

He arrived at Fitzjohn’s office to find the Chief Inspector and his Sergeant in quiet conversation.  They looked up as he appeared, Fitzjohn’s face austere.

‘Dr Wearing, can I help you?’

‘I’d like a word with you if that’s possible, Chief Inspector.’

‘By all means.’  Fitzjohn muttered something to Betts, who promptly left the room.

‘Come in, Doctor.’  Fitzjohn sat back in his chair, his elbows on its arms, his fingertips touching and waited for James to be seated.  ‘How can I help you?’

‘I believe I mentioned to you earlier that my wife, Louise, died in a car accident two years ago.  The fact is a car knocked her down when she crossed a street in North Sydney.  The driver didn’t stop and neither he nor the car, were ever found.’

Fitzjohn’s brow furrowed.  ‘Yes, I remember the incident.  I’m sorry, Dr Wearing.  I didn’t make the connection.’

James nodded.  ‘It’s about that accident I’ve come to see you.  Last night, I received these from a man calling himself Julian Gould.’  James handed Fitzjohn the photographs and recounted his meetings with Gould.  ‘They’re photographs of my late wife, Louise.'

Fitzjohn flicked through the photographs.  ‘Isn’t this Simon Rhodes standing next to your wife?  I believe we interviewed him in connection with your brother’s death.’  Fitzjohn held up the photograph.

‘Yes, and that’s what prompted me to come and see you.  According to, Julian Gould, Simon Rhodes not only framed him, but arranged Louise’s death.  He claims Simon deals in stolen art and tried to get Louise involved.’

‘These are serious allegations, Doctor.’

‘I agree.’

‘How well do you know Simon Rhodes?'

‘He’s an acquaintance.  He and my brother were undergraduates together.’

‘Friends?’

‘That wasn’t my impression at the time.  I didn’t see Simon again until I returned from Melbourne the other day.’  James paused.  ‘I got a surprise.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, according to some, he and Alex were friends.’

‘You don’t believe that to be true?’

‘I’ll admit I was willing to be swayed until Julian Gould turned up with his story.’

Fitzjohn put the photographs down in front of him.  ‘I’d like to speak to Mr Gould.  Where can he be reached?’

‘I have no idea.  He said he couldn’t be contacted.’

‘Well, that doesn’t surprise me,’ said Fitzjohn.  ‘Look, if he does contact you again, try and persuade him to come in to see me, will you?  In the meantime, I’ll see if we can track him down.’