ONCE UPON A LIE (A Fitzjohn Mystery) (12 page)

‘Well, it worked
,’ said Betts.  ‘They packed up and left.  Said they be in touch.’

Fitzjohn
nodded.  ‘Well, you did your best under the circumstances.  Rhonda is an indomitable character.  How did you get on with the insurance company?’

‘
I had better luck there, sir.  As the solicitor said on Sunday, the beneficiary of Claudia Rossi’s life insurance policy was her partner, Richard Edwards.  The insurance company paid out the policy of one million dollars, but not until April of 2011.  Almost a year after her death.’

‘
Has the Coroner’s report on Claudia Rossi come through yet?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘Yes
, sir.  It just arrived.’  Betts took the report out of his briefcase and laid it on the desk in front of him.  ‘She died from hepatic failure.  In layman’s terms, acute liver failure.  The postmortem examination revealed she’d ingested some form of fungi.  And from her initial presentation at the hospital, it was thought to have been amanita phalloides.  Otherwise known as death cap mushrooms.’  Betts grimaced.  ‘It’s a grisly death, sir.’

‘It sounds it.  Where are these mushrooms found?’

Betts turned to the next page.  ‘It says here they’re originally from the northern hemisphere, but can be found in south-eastern Australia, predominantly in the suburbs of Adelaide, Canberra and Melbourne as well as some Victorian towns.’

‘But not here in New South Wales
?’

‘No, sir.’

‘So where did Claudia Rossi come by them, I wonder?’

‘The Coroner’s findings are inconclusive on that,
’ replied Betts, ‘although it was thought she probably picked the mushrooms herself while she was on a visit to the National
Art Gallery in Canberra.  Apparently, Claudia travelled by car to Canberra in July, 2010 to do some work at the national gallery.  I’m waiting for the gallery to confirm the exact dates she was there.’  Betts handed the report to Fitzjohn.

For the next few minutes, F
itzjohn read through it.  ‘You’re right, Betts,’ he said at last.  ‘Dying by ingesting death cap mushrooms is a most grisly death.  The poor woman.’  He closed the report and sat back in his chair.  ‘That explains why the insurance company took their time paying out the policy.  One million dollars is a tidy sum.’

‘Both Claudia Rossi and Richard Edwards were life insured for the same amount, sir.  Apparently a precaution so their mortgage could be paid out if something were to happen to either one of them.’

‘Seems reasonable.  But in light of the fact that Michael Rossi wanted to speak to his solicitor about the policy, I think we should spend some time finding out everything we can about Claudia Rossi, including the circumstances surrounding her death.  And I think her partner, Richard Edwards, would be a good place to start.’  As Fitzjohn spoke the Incident Room door opened and Detective Senior Constable Williams walked in.

‘I have that information
you wanted on Robert Nesbit, sir,’ he said.

‘
Ah, good.  Take a seat, Williams,’ said Fitzjohn, wondering again whether Williams or Ron Carling could be Grieg’s mole.  ‘What do you have for us?’

Williams sauntered across the room
to sit on the edge of a desk in front of Fitzjohn.  ‘Robert Nesbit is a naval architect, and was joint owner of a yacht design business until its collapse in December 2009.  His partners were a Richard Edwards and the victim, Michael Rossi.’

‘Richard Edwards?’ 
Fitzjohn shot a look at Betts.  ‘Go on, Williams.’

‘
The collapse of the company happened not long after Michael Rossi pulled out of the business, taking his capital with him.  Since then Mr Nesbit’s life has changed dramatically.  His marriage ended around the same time as the business.  A number of his properties were sold off during the divorce settlement and he now lives in a modest apartment in Double Bay.  He’s still a member of the Cruising Yacht Club.  A life member, actually.  And well known in yachting circles.  Apparently he can be found there most days.’

‘
And, it would seem, had motive to kill Michael Rossi,’ added Fitzjohn.  ‘I think we’ll have a word with Mr Nesbit.’

After arriving at the Cruising Yacht Club, Fitzjohn and Betts gained entrance and made their way through to a sun drenched deck overlooking the clubs marina, and Rushcutters Bay.

‘Good afternoon, gentlemen.’  Fitzjohn t
urned to see the barman looking expectantly at them.  ‘Can I get you something?’ he asked as he wiped the counter.

‘We’re looking for
Mr Robert Nesbit,’ replied Fitzjohn  ‘The attendant at the front desk said we’d find him out here.’

The barman nodded.  ‘
He’s the gentleman over there, sitting alone, wearing the blue shirt.’

‘Thank
you.’  Followed by Betts, Fitzjohn made his way between the tables that buzzed with the lunchtime crowd.  Robert Nesbit looked round as they approached.  A commanding looking man in his late fifties with piercing blue eyes and a ruddy complexion, he gave them a questioning look.

‘Mr Nesbit?’
asked Fitzjohn.

‘Yes.’ 
Nesbit got to his feet.  ‘Can I help you?’

‘We’re from the New South Wales Police, Mr Nesbit.
  I’m Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn.  This is Detective Sergeant Betts.  We’d like to speak to you in connection with the death of Michael Rossi.  Is there somewhere we can talk?’

‘
We can talk here, Chief Inspector.’ Nesbit gestured to the other chairs at his table.  ‘As a matter of fact, I was just sitting here thinking about Mike.  It’s been an awful shock.’

‘We understand you spoke to Nigel Prentice on Friday wishing to speak to Michael
Rossi,’ said Fitzjohn, settling himself in to a chair opposite Nesbit.

‘
I did, but I was told that Mike was out of town and unavailable. I got him later on his mobile though.’

‘
I see.  Was there any particular reason you wanted to speak to him?’

‘
Yes, it was about a mutual colleague, Richard Edwards.  Richard’s in St Vincent’s Hospital, I’m afraid.  He’s very ill.  He’s not expected to live.  I wanted to tell Mike how grave his condition has become, and also to pass on a message from Richard.’

‘
What was that message?’

‘That
Richard needed to speak to Mike about his sister, Claudia.  I don’t know what about.  Richard didn’t say.’  Nesbit paused.  ‘Perhaps I should explain who Richard is, Chief Inspector.  He was Claudia’s partner. She died in 2010.  The three of us, Mike, Richard and I had been in business together at one time.’  Nesbit looked at his watch.  ‘I’m afraid that you’re going to have to excuse me, gentlemen.  I’ve got to get back to hospital.  Is there anything else?’

‘
Just one thing,’ said Fitzjohn.  ‘We understand you spoke to Michael Rossi, here at the club, on Friday night.’

‘
You’re well informed, Chief Inspector.  Yes, we did speak on Friday night, after Mike had been to the hospital.’

‘Did he say why Richard Edwards
had wanted to speak to him?’

‘N
o.  He just told me that Richard wasn’t expected to make it through the night.’

‘Do you know what time
Michael Rossi left the club?’

‘I
t was just before 8pm.  I remember because I left a few minutes later.’

‘And where were you going, Mr Nesbit?’

‘Back to the hospital.’

‘
I see.  How long were you there?’

‘U
ntil quite late.  Eleven or so.’

‘
And Mr Edwards never made any indication as to what he spoke to Michael Rossi about?

‘
No.  He wasn’t conscious for most of the time I was there.’

‘When you left the
CYC on Friday evening, did you see anyone about?’

‘
There were a few people out walking.  It was a warm night.’  Robert Nesbit flinched as his mobile rang.  ‘Excuse me.’  Nesbit answered the call and his face darkened before he said, ‘Richard died a few minutes ago.’

Fitzjohn and Betts emerged from the CYC and made their way back to their car.  ‘Well, it seems it was Richard Edwards and something concerning Claudia that prompted Michael Rossi to return to Sydney early last Friday, Betts.  Now we just have to find out what it was all about.’  Fitzjohn sat back in the passenger seat of the car as Betts turned the ignition.  ‘It’s unfortunate we weren’t able to speak to Richard Edwards, but it wasn’t to be.  Whatever he spoke to our victim about died with him.’  Fitzjohn paused.  ‘Let’s turn our attention to Robert Nesbit.  Make some enquiries, Betts.  I want confirmation that he was at St Vincent’s Hospital for the entire evening on Friday.’

‘Yes, sir.’

CHAPTER 13

Next morning, Fitzjohn arrived at Kings Cross
Police Station at first light, a routine he had followed since Edith’s death.  After tending his beloved orchids, he rarely lingered at home where his thoughts might dwell on the past.  Instead, he found the early hour an ideal time to ponder his investigations before the day got underway.  But this morning when he opened the Incident Room door, he was not alone.

Ron Carling, ben
t over Fitzjohn’s desk, straightened when the door opened.  ‘Ah, Alistair.  Just looking for some papers.  I thought I might have left them here after our meeting last night.  Seems I didn’t.’

Carling
gave a quick smile as Fitzjohn’s thoughts went back to the previous day when he had chanced to see Ron talking to Chief Superintendent Grieg.  The possibility that Ron could be Grieg’s mole filled Fitzjohn with not only disappointment, but a certain sense of loss.  After all, he and Ron were part of that dwindling, older establishment of detectives. They went back a long way, and even though they had rarely worked together, a certain amount of trust had built up as their paths crossed over the years.  Or so Fitzjohn thought.  Had he been wrong?

Placing his briefcase on the desk
Fitzjohn removed his suit coat and hung it on the back of the chair as he tried to think of a way to find out whether his suspicions about Ron were correct.  ‘I’ll let you know if they turn up,’ he said, sitting down as Ron turned to leave.  ‘By the way,’ he continued, ‘I want to thank you for all your help getting Betts and me settled in.  And for the investigative team you’ve provided.  They’re excellent.  Thank you.’

‘
We aim to please,’ said Ron, smiling.  ‘How’s the investigation going anyway?’

‘It’s coming along.
  And as you said on my arrival.  My secondment has its advantages in that it’s a respite from Grieg, although having said that, he still manages to make his presence felt.’

‘
Oh?  In what way?’ Ron sat down on the corner of one of the desks.

‘
Grieg’s got a mole,’ said Fitzjohn.

‘A mole?  Here?
’  Carling chuckled.  ‘You’re becoming paranoid, Alistair.’

‘I wish I was
.’

‘W
hat on earth makes you think that?’ asked Ron Carling.

‘Because
yesterday when I spoke to Grieg, he knew things about my investigation that he couldn’t possibly know.  Not without an informant.’

‘Do you have any thoughts on who it might be?’

At that moment, the Incident Room door opened and Betts walked in.  Ron Carling jumped off the desk.

‘Well, I’d better get a move on. 
We can continue this conversation later.’  Ron acknowledged Betts as he left the room.

‘A
ny word on Whitehead, Betts?’ asked Fitzjohn opening his briefcase and taking his papers out.

‘
Yes, sir.  It seems the real Pierce Whitehead died three years ago in a light plane crash in South Africa.’

The papers Fitzjohn held
fell on to the desk.  ‘Isn’t that around the same time our winemaker friend was employed by Claudia Rossi to manage Five Oaks Winery?’

‘
Yes, sir.  Charlotte Rossi said her mother hired Whitehead in 2010 on a five year contract.’  Betts sat down at his desk.  ‘I’ve got a couple of the guys looking into who our Pierce Whitehead really is.’

‘
Good,’ said Fitzjohn.  ‘Hopefully it doesn’t take too long.  However, in the meantime, I think it best we keep referring to him as Pierce Whitehead.  Just to prevent any confusion.  And I want him watched in case he gets the idea that we’re on to him.’

‘Now, I’d like to go through every
thing once again, Betts, but before we start, there’s something I want to ask you.’

‘What’s that, sir?’

Fitzjohn hesitated before deciding not to tell Betts about the suspected mole.  ‘On second thought, it can wait.’  Fitzjohn reorganised the papers on his desk.  ‘What do we have?’

Betts looked
back down at his notes, tapping his pen on the desk before he said, ‘The way I see it, we’ve got two people who benefit financially from Michael Rossi’s death.  His niece, Charlotte Rossi, and his estranged wife, Stella Rossi.  The imposter, Whitehead, and Nesbit only had their pride and anger to satisfy.’