ONCE UPON A LIE (A Fitzjohn Mystery) (4 page)

‘No,’ she said as Fitzjohn handed the phone back.

‘Very well, Ms Rossi.’  Fitzjohn got to his feet.  ‘We’ll leave it at that for now.  I’m sorry we’ve had to bring you this news.  Please accept our condolences.’

Fitzjohn and Betts emerged from the house and made their way back along the garden pathway to their car.  ‘I couldn’t live in that place,’ said Betts. ‘It’s so… uncluttered.’

‘I
t’s called minimalism, Betts.  If you remember, Michael Rossi’s office was the same.  I’d say he was an orderly, exacting man and, no doubt, expected the same of those around him.’

‘
Sounds to me like he was just plain difficult to get on with,’ replied Betts.

CHAPTER
5

Fitzjohn and Betts arrived at Kings Cross Police Station fifteen minutes later
, and made their way in to the building.  ‘Alistair, I heard you were being seconded.’  Fitzjohn looked around to see an old colleague, himself a Detective Chief Inspector.  ‘It’s been a while,’ said Ron Carling.

‘It has
.’  Fitzjohn smiled, acknowledging the tall, heavy-set man, and remembering their days together as rookie constables.

‘
I’ve not seen you out on the course lately.  Given up golf have you?’

‘
I’ve been captured by my late wife’s orchids.’  Fitzjohn caught Ron Carling’s questioning look before turning to Betts who lingered behind.  ‘This is my Sergeant, Martin Betts.’  Carling nodded toward Betts.

‘
It’s good to have you both on board.  You’ve probably been told we’re strapped at the moment.  Come through.’ Ron Carling opened the inner door to the station, and followed by Betts, he and Fitzjohn made their way along the corridor.

‘I’m surprised Grieg
agreed to your secondment, Alistair.  How does he know he’ll get you back?’ asked Ron.

‘If I know
Grieg, he’s hoping he doesn’t.’ Fitzjohn chuckled to himself.

‘
I take it your working relationship hasn’t improved.’

‘Not in t
he least.  And since Grieg’s been bumped up to Chief Superintendent, it can only get worse.’

‘Yes, I heard about his promotion.’  Carling grimaced. ‘Then all I can say is enjoy the respite.’

Carling stopped and opened a door to his right.  ‘I’ve managed to secure this Incident Room for you, and an investigative team.’  The door opened in to a large room full of desks and a white board at the far end.  ‘As it turns out, it’s also your office, I’m afraid.  Sorry about that, Alistair.  We’re short of space.’

Fitzjohn looked around, his thoughts going to his small, but familiar office at Day Street Police Station that provided a degree of solitude and comfort. 
‘This’ll be just fine, Ron, and thanks.’

As
Ron Carling left, Fitzjohn turned to Betts.  ‘Well, for the foreseeable future, it looks like this is home.  Let’s get settled.’  Fitzjohn made his way to the far end of the room, placing his briefcase on the desk beside the whiteboard.  He took off his suit coat, hung it on the back of the chair and rubbed his hands together.  ‘We’ll start by going through what we have so far, Betts.’

Later that same morning, the investigative team gathered for their meeting, the banter in the room dwindling as Fitzjohn got to his feet.  ‘Good morning all,’ he said, pushing his glasses up along the bridge of his nose.  ‘For those who don’t know me, I’m DCI Fitzjohn from Day Street Police Station. I’ve been seconded, along with DS Betts, here, to head this investigation.  I’m hoping that with your help and expertise it will be solved quickly.’  Fitzjohn turned to the whiteboard.

‘
By now, I’m sure you’ll all have familiarized yourselves with the details of the case.  The victim, Michael Rossi, aged forty-nine, was found early this morning by his business partner, Nigel Prentice, at the marina in front of their place of business at Rushcutters Bay.’  A slight rumbling went through the room from those gathered.  ‘The exact time of death and the cause, has yet to be determined.’

An hour later, Fitzjohn sat back in his chair as those in attendance, save Betts and Reynolds, gradually dispersed to their individual pursuits.  As they did so, Fitzjohn smiled, looking to one remaining officer.  ‘Detective Constable Williams, I thought that was you in the crowd.’

Williams beamed. 
‘It’s Detective Senior Constable now, sir.’

‘Congratulations
,’ replied Fitzjohn.  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve also been seconded.’

‘No.  While you were away
on leave, I was permanently moved, at Chief Superintendent Grieg’s request.’

‘
Ah.  Any explanation why?’

‘No
, but it’s okay.  I’m happy with the change.’

Fitzjohn thought back to the last time Williams had worked with him on his investigative team
at Day Street Station.  He remembered him as a sallow looking young man with a sullen disposition and dry sense of humour.  The dry wit was still evident, but Williams looked transformed.  He actually looked happy.  ‘Well, Williams, the change appears to have done wonders for you.  Perhaps you’d like to work with Reynolds, here, in checking out Nigel Prentice’s alibi,’ Fitzjohn looked to Reynolds, ‘and then I’d like you both to speak to Rafe Simms at the winery.  I want to know if he has any idea why the victim returned to Sydney earlier than planned.’

As
Williams and Reynolds left, Fitzjohn sat back in his chair, took his glasses off and rubbed his face before he said,  ‘Well Betts, what do we have.  A victim with an uncompromising personality.  So one could assume he provoked those he came in to contact with.  His winemaker, Pierce Whitehead, being one of them.’

‘Even so, quitting
as winemaker couldn’t have been in his best interest,’ offered Betts.  ‘Maybe that’s why Whitehead went to see the victim on Thursday.  To ask for his job back.’

‘And possibly got turned down
, resulting in their argument,’ replied Fitzjohn.  ‘Michael Rossi doesn’t sound, to me, like the forgiving type.  And that’s why we’ll start by speaking to Pierce Whitehead.’

The
Duty Officer appeared at the door as Fitzjohn got to his feet.  ‘There’s someone here to see you, Chief Inspector.  A Mrs Timmons.  She wouldn’t say what it’s about.’

‘Can
you take care of it, Sergeant?  We’re just about to leave,’ said Fitzjohn, pulling on his suit coat.

‘
I tried that, sir, but she’s very determined.  She insists on speaking to you.’

Fitzjohn sighed.  ‘Oh, very well.’

CHAPTER 6

Esme
Timmons placed her steaming cup of tea on the small table next to her armchair and sat down heavily.  Her escapade in the early hours of the morning had left her with a badly bruised hip and elbow.  Still, she did not regret challenging last night’s intruder.  In fact, the thought sent a rush of exhilaration through her.  Had her cane made contact? She looked over to where it now lay on the dining room table, its silver handle glinting in the morning sun.  She should, she supposed, mention it to Michael.  But perhaps not.  He would make such a fuss.

It was then that
the morning news bulletin took Esme’s attention.  With her cup poised at her lips, she put it down and listened to the crisp English voice of a plain clothed police officer reporting the death of a local businessman at Rushcutters Bay, and asking anyone who had been in the vicinity of New Beach Road the previous evening, to come forward. New Beach Road, thought Esme.  I know New Beach Road.  Isn’t that where...  At that moment, the screen switched back to the newsreader and Michael’s name rang out.  Esme’s eyes glistened with tears.

Unaware of the time, s
he sat transfixed to the television screen long after the broadcast ended, a feeling of sadness sweeping over her.  Eventually she rose from her chair, and made her way in to the kitchen placing her cup in the sink, her mind trying to grasp what she had heard.  They were both gone now.  Michael and Claudia.  Through a haze of tears, Esme looked out of the window and in to the garden.  A lush, green retreat on a warm summer’s day.  Claudia had loved the garden.  Esme struggled to push away a growing despondence, her thoughts going back to last evening.  Did Michael’s unexpected appearance have anything to do with his death?  And what about that intruder? They had both been in Claudia’s study, after all.  Was it merely coincidence?

An hour later, dressed in a light blue cotton dress, Esme stood in front of the hall mirror running a comb through her silver grey hair before placing a wide brimmed straw hat on her head.  Adding a little lipstick to her lips, she picked up her handbag and walking cane, with its silver handle now captured inside a plastic bag, and left the house.

Ten minute
s later, Esme arrived at Waverton train station, and made her way to the ticket counter.  ‘A return pensioner’s concession to Kings Cross, please,’ she said to the unsmiling Indian man on the other side of the window.

‘You’ll have
to change at Town Hall, madam,’ he replied.

Esme nodded
and gathered up her ticket and change before taking the elevator down to the platform.  There, she settled herself on a blue painted bench and waited.  As she did so, a welcomed gust of air rushed past her, dissipating the heat for a few seconds before the train arrived.  Gathering her handbag and cane, she climbed aboard, sitting in the first seat by the door.  The only other occupant of that space was a youth with earphones plugged in to each ear, his eyes riveted to the floor.  Thinking what damage he must be doing to his hearing, Esme sighed and looked ahead at the advertisement displayed on the wall in front of her.  A photograph of The Three Sisters rock formation in the Blue Mountains.  It brought back a long forgotten memory of reading the Aboriginal dream-time legend of The Three Sisters to her young students.  A hint of a smile came to Esme’s face.  Half an hour later, after changing at Town Hall, the train arrived at Kings Cross Station and Esme made her way out of the station, and back in to the stifling heat.

Although she had never been
to Kings Cross, Esme knew of its sordid reputation so she took great interest in each establishment as she made her way up along Darlinghurst Road.  For the most part, it was deserted except for a few people sitting at outdoor cafés reading their morning papers, and sipping their coffee.  Of course, early on a Saturday morning was probably not the time to see the place in full swing, thought Esme.  Presently, she came to Fitzroy Gardens, a green oasis amid the hubbub of the city where she paused to catch her breath at the El Alamein Memorial Fountain.  Made up of dozens of small spray heads that formed a round sphere, it resembled a large thistle, the resulting fine spray moving gently in to the breeze providing a cooling effect.  Esme lingered a moment to read the plaque commemorating those who had fallen in battle before carrying on to the Kings Cross Police Station on the other side of the Gardens.  Feeling a twinge in her hip, she chose to walk along the wheelchair ramp to the front door.  Once inside the cool air-conditioned building, she approached the glass fronted counter.

‘
Good morning, madam, can I help you,’ came a voice from behind the glass.

‘Yes. 
My name is Esme Timmons, and I’m here to speak to Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn.  I believe he’s from this station.’

‘
He is, madam, but I’m afraid he’s unavailable at the moment.  Can I help you, perhaps?’

‘No
, I need to speak to the Chief Inspector personally.  How long do you think he’ll be?’

‘I
t could be up to an hour, madam.’

‘Oh
.  That’s a pity.’  Esme sighed.  ‘Very well.  I’ll just have to wait.  At least it’s cool in here.  The train that brought me from the city didn’t have any air con.’  With a quick smile, Esme glanced around and spied the chairs lining the lobby.  ‘I’ll wait over there.’

Twenty minutes
passed before a man in his mid-fifties appeared.  Of medium height and impeccably dressed in a dark blue suit, crisp white shirt with a light blue tie, he adjusted his wire-framed glasses as he approached.  Esme knew, at once, that this was the Detective Chief Inspector she had seen on the television news that morning.

‘
Good morning, madam.  I’m Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn.  I understand you wish to speak to me.’

Remembering
the pleasant tone of his voice and his English accent, Esme got to her feet and extended her hand.  ‘Yes, I do, Chief Inspector.  My name’s Esme Timmons and I’ve come to see you about my nephew, Michael Rossi.  I learnt of his death this morning on the news.’

The Detective Chief Inspector
appeared to hesitated before he said, ‘My apologies for keeping you waiting, Mrs Timmons, I wasn’t aware of the reason you wanted to see me.  I’m very sorry for your loss, and the manner in which you received the news.  It’s regrettable.’