ONCE UPON A LIE (A Fitzjohn Mystery) Read online

  ONCE UPON A LIE

  A Fitzjohn Mystery

  JILL PATERSON

  Once Upon A Lie

  Copyright © 2013 Jill Paterson

  Cover design by Renee Barratt http://www.thecovercounts.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright holder.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-0-9873955-3-5

  Publisher: J. Henderson, Canberra, Australia

  Publication Date: 2 April 2013

  For Emily

  Once Upon A Lie

  A Fitzjohn Mystery

  Featuring Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn, Once Upon A Lie, is the third book in the Fitzjohn Mystery Series.

  Little did, businessman and entrepreneur, Michael Rossi know that the telephone call he answered on that fateful Friday would be the catalyst for his death, and the subsequent recovery of his body from the waters of Sydney Harbour the following morning.

  Recalled from leave to take on the case, Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn confronts the first of many puzzles; how Rossi spent the unaccountable hours before he died. This leads him on a paper-trail into a tangled web of deception, jealousy and greed that unravels the mystery surrounding Michael’s death.

  Unaware of her nephew’s fate, Esme Timmons retires for the evening, unsuspecting of the events about to unfold; events that will, ultimately, expose a grim lie, buried deep in the past.

  CHAPTER 1

  Esme’s eyelids flew open, her body tensed and her arthritic joints twinged as the scraping sound came again from the room above. She turned her head slightly to look at the clock on the bedside table, its numbers illuminated in the darkened room. Twenty-three minutes past two. A myriad of frenzied thoughts ran through Esme’s mind. She knew every creak and squeak in the old house. They were many and varied, but this was different. Shivering despite the warmth of the March night, Esme strained to hear through the pulsating in her ears. Moments passed before it came again, and when it did, she stiffened. ‘This is ridiculous,’ she muttered, turning over, ‘get a grip on yourself, girl.’ Esme closed her eyes and let her thoughts go back to the previous evening when her nephew, Michael, had dropped by. Not unusual in itself. He often called in to check on her. But last night was different. This time it was not a social call, but a request that she allow him to rummage through the rooms upstairs; in particular, the one his sister, Claudia, had used as a study before her untimely death. Esme sighed. How long ago was that? A year or more and still Michael insisted that foul play was involved. Why did he persist?

  Barely had that thought crossed Esme’s mind when the floorboards above creaked again. There is someone up there. Unless, of course, Michael opened the window while he was up there and that wretched possum got in. Esme rose from her bed, put her dressing gown on, and slipped her feet in to a pair of faded pink slippers. As she did so, her eyes fell upon her walking cane hooked over the bed head. She loathed using the thing, refusing to accept that at eighty-one it helped steady her. But in this case, it could have other uses, she thought, running her fingers over the carved metal handle. Picking it up, and gingerly peering out of the bedroom door, she felt her way along the passage. Faltering as the living room clock chimed the half hour, Esme continued on to the foot of the staircase where she hesitated. She had rarely been upstairs since her fall two years ago. Only Claudia’s study had seen any use since that time. Esme grabbed the banister and sighing, made her slow ascent. Minutes passed before she reached the landing to find it bathed in moonlight from the window at the end. Trying to still her panic, she moved in to the shadows and peered towards the study, its door ajar. Had Michael forgotten to close the door? If not, who… With her heart pounding in her tiny frame, Esme edged along the passage, her trembling hand gripping the middle of her walking cane. It was then the door moved inward and a figure, silhouetted in the moonlight, stepped out in front of her. Esme gasped and raised her cane. It was the last thing she remembered.

  CHAPTER 2

  Summonsed back from leave, Detective Chief Inspector Alistair Fitzjohn settled himself comfortably in to the Silver Cab as it sped off through the streets of Birchgrove toward Sydney’s CBD, and Day Street Police Station. His thoughts traversed the last few weeks, encapsulating his journey back to York in England at the behest of his sister Meg. He hated to admit it, but she had been right. The journey to the places where he and his late wife Edith spent their youth had brought him a sense of peace at last, lifting him out of the quagmire he had been in for the past eighteen months.

  As the cab pulled up in front of the station, Fitzjohn adjusted his wire-framed glasses and grabbed his briefcase. As he did so, he wondered what was in store for him now that Grieg had been elevated to Acting Chief Superintendent. With his once rotund shape somewhat diminished by an activity-packed holiday, Fitzjohn paid the driver, climbed out of the taxi, and made his way inside, where the familiar sights and sounds gave rise to a feeling of contentment. The acknowledgement of those around him of his return as he walked through the station added to his pleasure. When Betts, his tall, ginger-haired Sergeant appeared, Fitzjohn’s return to duty was complete, and with a wide smile, he took the young officer’s outstretched hand.

  ‘Sir. You’re looking well.’

  Fitzjohn looked down at his dark blue suit that hung unusually loose. ‘The result of spending a month on holiday with my sister, and being persuaded in to adopting her healthy eating regime. I dare say I’ll have to pay my tailor a visit.’ They continued on through the station toward Fitzjohn’s office.

  ‘Do you have any idea why I’ve been called back from leave, Betts?’

  ‘Yes. All hell broke loose early this morning, sir, when Chief Superintendent Grieg was asked to provide assistance in a suspicious death over at Rushcutters Bay.’

  Fitzjohn stopped suddenly, his hand dropping from his office door handle. ‘Did I hear you correctly? Grieg’s no longer Acting Chief Superintendent?’

  ‘No, sir, he’s the Chief.’

  Fitzjohn ran his hand over the few remaining wisps of hair on top of his head as the frustration at not being able to voice his opinion of Grieg to his Sergeant, got the better of him. ‘How could such a thing happen? Before I left, I really thought that, in the end, commonsense would prevail, but it seems not.’ Realising this was a purely rhetorical statement, Betts did not reply as they walked in to Fitzjohn’s office. While Fitzjohn put his briefcase on his desk and commenced removing his papers, Betts opened the blinds.

  ‘So, what’s this about a suspicious death?’ asked Fitzjohn, brushing the dust from his chair before sitting down.

  ‘Well, it seems…’

  At that moment, loud voices sounded outside Fitzjohn’s office before the door burst open and Chief Superintendent Grieg walked in to the room, his imposing, heavy-set frame lending an air of dominance. ‘Fitzjohn.’ Fitzjohn got slowly to his feet while Grieg’s beady brown eyes glared at Betts, who headed for the door. ‘Don’t go Detective Sergeant Betts.’ said Grieg. ‘I take it you’ve told Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn of the situation.’

  ‘I was just about to, sir.’

  ‘Ah, well, in that case let me enlighten you, Fitzjohn. A body was found early this morning at a marina in Rushcutters Bay. The victim was one of the owners of an electro
nics business there. Rossi & Prentice Yachting Electronics Pty Ltd. The Kings Cross LAC is short-staffed and has requested our assistance, so I’m seconding you.’

  ‘For how long, sir?’ asked Fitzjohn, frowning.

  ‘For as long as it takes.’ Grieg’s pudgy face smirked. ‘And judging by the length of time you took on your last case, that may be some time.’ Fitzjohn ignored the remark, detecting Grieg’s pleasure at imparting this news that would ensure his absence from the station. ‘Kings Cross will provide you with an incident room and whatever else you require, so…’

  ‘So, I have no need to be here.’ Unable to contain his indignation, Fitzjohn gathered his papers, putting them back in to his briefcase before slamming it shut. ‘We’ll be off, then.’

  ‘Oh, I mustn’t have made myself clear. Detective Sergeant Betts won’t be accompanying you,’ said Grieg with a bemused smile. ‘He has other duties to attend to.’

  Was it Fitzjohn’s newfound peace, knowing he no longer needed his work as a coping mechanism since Edith’s death, or was it his revulsion for Grieg, that made him throw caution to the wind and reply, ‘In that case, I’ll continue my annual leave.’ Fitzjohn grabbed his briefcase and started toward the door.

  ‘That would be a grave mistake, Fitzjohn.’

  Fitzjohn stopped and glared at Grieg. ‘Mistake or not, Chief Superintendent, I’ll need Betts if I’m going to take on this case.’

  Grieg’s face reddened. ‘You’ll regret this, Fitzjohn. Mark my words.’

  As the door slammed behind Grieg, Fitzjohn turned to Betts. ‘I’m sorry you had to witness that, Betts.’

  ‘Did I miss something? What happened there, sir?’

  ‘Nothing that concerns you, Betts.’ Fitzjohn smiled to himself, aware that his knowledge of Grieg’s infidelity gave him the edge he needed in dealing with the now, Chief Superintendent. Chuckling to himself he said, ‘Let’s be on our way, shall we?’

  CHAPTER 3

  Fitzjohn and Betts arrived on New Beach Road in Rushcutters Bay twenty minutes later. Bordered by tall deciduous trees, the roadway gave the impression of coolness in the early morning heat. In stark contrast, the predominantly white facades of the dwellings facing the Bay and clinging precariously to the hillside, glared in the morning sun. Continuing past the Cruising Yacht Club to the buildings fronting the marina and cordoned off with police tape, Betts pulled over. A uniformed police officer met them as they climbed out of their car. ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen. You’ll have to move on.’

  Fitzjohn straightened his suit coat before pulling out his warrant card. ‘I’m DCI Fitzjohn, Constable. This is DS Betts. We’re from Day Street Police Station. We’ve been called in regarding this investigation.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir.’ The constable lifted the police tape allowing Fitzjohn and Betts to scurry underneath. ‘The victim’s in the marina on the pontoon.’ Fitzjohn looked along the quarry-tiled walkway between two buildings joined at the far end by a covered balcony on the upper level. ‘You’ll find DC Reynolds there with the man who found the body, sir.’

  ‘Thanks, Constable.’

  Fitzjohn and Betts walked in silence to where the two buildings opened out in to the marina, the only sound the lapping of water against the hulls of the yachts moored there. A man, hunched over, his head in his hands, sat at an outside table of the nearby coffee shop. A younger man in a light grey suit stood nearby. He approached Fitzjohn.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘Morning,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘DC Reynolds, is it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m DCI Fitzjohn. This is DS Betts. I dare say you’ve been expecting us.’ Fitzjohn gestured to the man seated at the table.

  ‘That’s Nigel Prentice, sir,’ offered Reynolds. ‘He found the body. I haven’t been able to get much out of him other than the fact he was the victim’s business partner.’

  ‘He’s probably in shock. Stay with him for the time being, Reynolds.’ Fitzjohn turned, and followed by Betts, continued along a ramp that led to a pontoon bordered by yachts of varying sizes. A few feet away, a young woman knelt beside the body of a man, his sodden clothes forming a pool of water around him. She looked up and smiled as Fitzjohn approached.

  ‘Chief Inspector Fitzjohn?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m Simone Knowles. I’m filling in for Charles Conroy while he’s on leave.’ Simone got to her feet, towering over Fitzjohn, her lean, wiry frame lending her an air of agility and fitness.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Simone,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Betts.’ Betts tripped as he approached, his eyes riveted on Simone.

  ‘I think we’ve met, haven’t we, Sergeant?’ she asked. ‘But I can’t think where.’

  ‘It was at the running club last Sunday,’ said Betts, smiling slightly.

  ‘Ah. So it was.’

  ‘I didn’t know you ran, Betts,’ said Fitzjohn, looking at his sergeant in surprise.

  ‘I’ve just taken it up, sir’ replied Betts as they each knelt down next to the victim’s body.

  ‘As you can see,’ said the pathologist, ‘the victim received a blow to the left side of the head here.’ Simone pointed to the side of the victim’s head where blood mixed with the gathering pool of water. ‘Resulting, I suspect, in a contre coup.’ A puzzled look came across Betts’s white face. ‘Essentially it means damage to the opposite side of the brain in addition to the initial point of contact. In other words, the brain bouncing around inside the head.’ Fitzjohn lifted his gaze to the yacht, where the SOCOs were going about their business in relative silence.

  ‘I take it he received that blow from somewhere on the yacht.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Simone. ‘And it happened below deck. Fragments of bone have been found adhering to the side of the sink. Even so, he might still be alive if not for this second injury at the front of his head. It was sustained on deck when his head came into contact with the edge of the instrument panel just forward of the helm. Traces of hair and blood have been found, even though someone’s tried to wipe it off.’ Simone paused. ‘Other than that, he has a couple of torn fingernails, and I can’t say for sure at this stage, but I doubt he was alive when he entered the water.’

  ‘In which case he had help,’ said Fitzjohn.

  ‘Not an unreasonable assumption. As I said, someone’s tried very hard to clean up the blood, both below deck as well as on the instrument panel.’

  Fitzjohn looked closer at the victim’s fist where a small piece of paper protruded from its grip. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Looks like the remains of a page from a book, sir,’ said Betts peering closer.

  ‘Mmm. I wonder if that book was the cause of all this.’

  ‘Do you have any idea of the time of death, Simone?’ asked Fitzjohn, getting to his feet.

  ‘I’d say somewhere between eight and midnight. I’ll be able to be more exact after the post mortem.’

  Fitzjohn and Betts left Simone Knowles and made their way back along the ramp to where Reynolds stood. ‘Do you know who owns the yacht, Reynolds?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Yes, sir. His name’s Graeme Wyngard. He’s on his way here now.’

  ‘Good.’ Fitzjohn looked over at Nigel Prentice who now sat straighter on his seat, sipping a cup of coffee. ‘How’s Mr Prentice?’

  ‘Feeling a little better, I think, sir. At least the initial shock seems to have worn off.’

  ‘Good. I’ll have a word with him after we’ve looked in the victim’s office.’

  Followed by Betts, Fitzjohn made his way up a set of cement steps to the balcony above where he opened a glass door marked Rossi & Prentice Yachting Electronics Pty Ltd. Inside, amidst the activity of the SOCOs, they walked in to the office overlooking the marina. Fitzjohn took in the room, its neat appearance giving the impression of exactness at whatever went on normally within its walls. The undisturbed surface of the desk displayed a clean coffee mug, laptop computer and pens and pencils arranged in order of
size in the desk organizer. Sat prominently behind the desk on a long narrow cupboard, were two, silver framed, photographs. One of a young woman with shoulder length fair hair and a beaming smile, standing at the helm of a yacht. The other photograph, yellowed with age, showed the victim with what looked like his parents, and perhaps a sister. A briefcase lay open next to the photographs, its contents displaying the same orderliness as the desk and the room.

  ‘It’s all very neat and tidy,’ remarked Betts.

  ‘It is, Betts. Whoever the killer is, he wasn’t interested in anything here.’ Fitzjohn gestured to the mobile phone, sitting inside its pocket in the lid of the briefcase. ‘Contact Telstra and get a list of all incoming and outgoing calls for that phone, Betts.’ As he spoke, Fitzjohn lifted his gaze to the window and the harbour beyond, its waters sparkling in the summer sunshine. ‘Let’s have a word with Mr Prentice, shall we?’

  They emerged on to the balcony outside and descended the steps to find a man of medium build in his mid to late fifties speaking to Reynolds. ‘This is Mr Wyngard, Chief Inspector,’ said Reynolds as Wyngard pushed passed him.

  ‘I take it this means my sloop will be tied up for the time being. Just how long for, Chief Inspector? I have a race on tomorrow.’

  Taken aback by the question and sensing Wyngard’s dogged personality, Fitzjohn tried to still his growing irritation before he replied, ‘That, I can’t say. All I can tell you, at this point, is that you’ll be informed when your yacht has been released.’ Fitzjohn cleared his throat. ‘Tell me, Mr Wyngard, when did you last speak to Michael Rossi?’

  ‘It would have been last Wednesday when I booked my yacht in for the alterations. I rang him again on Friday before I brought it in, but Nigel, over there, said Mike was out of town for the weekend.’