Lane's End Read online

  ‘Oh, but I’m sure it will,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘A bit of added insight into the Carmichael family can only help.’

  ‘Well, I don’t see how because there’s little to tell. There were no witnesses as to what really happened to Rachael Carmichael. She’d gone out early that morning to paint, leaving her two young children with the housekeeper. She wasn’t discovered missing until mid-afternoon when her brother-in-law arrived from the city and went to seek her out.’

  ‘The investigation report mentions a gardener who absconded on that day, sir.’

  ‘That’s right. Everything led to the fact that he was responsible for Mrs Carmichael’s death, but we couldn’t question him because he was never found.’

  ‘So it was left at that?’ asked Fitzjohn, frowning.

  Grieg shrugged. ‘There was nothing else to be done with the situation as it was, Fitzjohn. We didn’t have the manpower to spend any more time on the case when everything pointed to the gardener. Plus the fact that the Coroner’s Court couldn’t prove that there was foul play involved. Rachael Carmichael’s death might have been suicide or an accident.’ Grieg sat forward again, grabbed his pen and looked at Fitzjohn dismissively. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me.’

  So, thought Fitzjohn, smiling to himself as he left Grieg’s office. That’s why Grieg didn’t want me on the Carmichael case. He knew I’d find out about his unsolved case. Back in his own office, Fitzjohn picked up the telephone and dialed Reginald Fellowes’s number.

  As the shadows of the city skyscrapers lengthened with the setting sun, Fitzjohn left the station and made his way out to the waiting car. After placing his briefcase on the back seat, he opened the passenger door to find Williams at the wheel.

  ‘Evening, sir.’

  ‘Good evening, Williams.’ As he spoke, Fitzjohn thought again as to whether Williams had been Grieg’s mole at Kings Cross LAC. Perhaps this evening was one way to find out.

  ‘Where to, sir? Home?’

  ‘Yes, but first I want to go to Frenchs Forest to see our retired Chief Superintendent, Reginald Fellowes.’

  ‘Oh. So, you two keep in touch then, sir.’ Williams pulled the car away from the kerb. ‘That’s a good thing because it can’t be easy to retire and have no contact with those you’ve served with for so many years.’ Williams paused. ‘I hope there’s someone who still wants to see me after I retire.’

  ‘I’m sure there will be, Williams. This, however, isn’t a social call.’ They continued on in silence. If Williams was, indeed, Grieg’s mole, thought Fitzjohn, no doubt Grieg would hear of his visit to see Reginald by first thing the next morning.

  The door opened to reveal a tall man of large proportions with a shock of thick white hair, his quiet, determined nature still evident. ‘Alistair,’ he said with a broad smile. ‘It’s good to see you. Come in.’

  ‘Sorry for the late hour, Reg,’ replied Fitzjohn, stepping inside and following Fellowes into the living room.

  ‘Not a problem. I welcome the company.’ Fellowes gestured to one of the armchairs. ‘I was just having a whisky. Would you like one? I brought back a nice drop from Scotland last month while on holiday.’

  ‘Thanks,’ replied Fitzjohn, sitting down.

  Fellowes handed Fitzjohn a glass before he sat down himself. ‘You said on the phone you wanted to ask me about an old case I was involved in.’

  ‘That’s right. It was the investigation into the death of a woman by the name of Rachael Carmichael at a place called Lane’s End in September, 1983.’

  ‘Rachael Carmichael?’ Fellowes thought for a moment. ‘Ah, yes. I do remember it. She fell from a cliff up on the northern beaches. Why are you interested?’ Fellowes took a sip of his drink.

  ‘Because my present case into the murder of a man at the Observatory last Friday night involves Rachael Carmichael’s family.’

  ‘Ah. You’re on that case, are you?’ said Fellowes. ‘I read about it in the newspaper. Some chap with a foreign sounding name died. Van something.’

  ‘Van Goren. Peter Van Goren,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘He’d attended a function held by Rachael Carmichael’s husband, Richard.’

  ‘Now I’m with you.’ Fellowes paused. ‘I met Richard Carmichael, of course, when his wife died. Seemed like a nice chap as I remember. How do you think I can help, Alistair?’

  ‘I hope you can give me your thoughts on what happened to Rachael because after reading through the Coroner’s Report, it seems there was no conclusion as to how she died.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Fellowes. ‘But I doubt I can help because I wasn’t on the case for very long. I got sick that winter and had to surrender it to another officer, a Senior Sergeant at the time, who is, by the way, the now Chief Superintendent Grieg.’

  ‘So I understand.’

  ‘Have you spoken to him about the case?’ asked Fellowes.

  ‘I have, but without much success.’

  ‘Mmm. I don’t wonder. I seem to remember that Evelyn wasn’t at all pleased about being seconded to take on that case in the first place.’

  ‘Evelyn?’ Fitzjohn’s brow furrowed.

  ‘Yes. Evelyn Grieg. He once told me his mother had named him after Evelyn Waugh, the English writer. Didn’t you know?’

  ‘No,’ replied Fitzjohn, amused. ‘I’ve never seen his given name on any paperwork. And you say that, at the time, he was seconded to Day Street Station. From where?’

  ‘North Shore LAC, and, as it turned out, it was a one-way move.’ Fellowes’s right eyebrow arched. ‘It was obvious they didn’t want him back. I think that fact has stuck in his craw ever since. I doubt he wants to be reminded by questions about the case that brought him to Day Street in the first place, let alone that it was never solved. I wouldn’t expect too much cooperation if I were you.’

  ‘I never do,’ replied Fitzjohn. He sipped his whisky. ‘I’ve read the investigation report. By all accounts, it was thought that, the gardener, Henry Beaumont, did it.’

  ‘Yes. He disappeared the day that Rachael Carmichael fell from the cliff. I put in train a search for him, of course, but not long after, I left the case. I’m afraid I can’t comment on what happened after that. Why he was never found or why the case was abandoned, I have no idea.’

  ‘I know you left the case early, Reg, but what were your thoughts concerning Rachael when you began the investigation? For example, did you think she was alone when she went over that cliff?’

  ‘You mean do I think it was an accident or suicide?’ Fellowes rubbed his chin. ‘Mmm. Good question. I seem to remember that when I first arrived at the scene, there was evidence to suggest - only suggest, mind - that the victim was not alone.’

  ‘What kind of evidence?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘We found a half smoked cigarette on the grass next to her easel. Recently smoked, and it wasn’t hers. Rachael didn’t smoke. It was thought it may have been dropped by the gardener who, according to the housekeeper, was a smoker.’ Fellowes paused. ‘Other than the housekeeper and the two children, the only other person at Lane’s End that day was Rachael’s brother-in-law, Sebastian Newberry. He didn’t smoke either. He arrived at Lane’s End mid-afternoon and raised the alarm. Richard Carmichael arrived at about five-thirty. He’d been working in the city. We checked that out. It was confirmed. He’d been in a meeting since early morning. Of course, when we went to question Henry Beaumont, we found he’d packed his things and left. And as far as Rachael is concerned, her body was found washed up on North Palm Beach forty-eight hours later. That’s all I can tell you, I’m afraid. I’m sorry, Alistair.’

  Fitzjohn arrived home that evening to find Meg’s suitcase in the front hall. ‘Meg?’ he called as he placed the mail on the hall table and put his briefcase down.

  ‘Home at last, I see,’ came the sound of Meg’s voice. Fitzjohn turned to see his sister descending the staircase.

  ‘I know it’s late, Meg, but we can still discuss Sophie’s situation if you wish.’ Fitzjohn looked down at th
e suitcase. ‘There’s no reason to go home in a huff.’

  ‘I’m not going home, Alistair. And I’m not in a huff. I’ve been invited to stay with Sophie for a few days.’ Fitzjohn gaped at his sister. ‘You needn’t look so surprised.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m... I’m just glad that you and Sophie have come to an agreement about her living arrangements.’

  ‘Ah, well. That’s still to be determined. I’ll do that after my visit.’

  ‘How do Sophie’s room-mates feel about your staying with them?’

  ‘Brian and Andrew? They’re pleased, of course. It was their idea that I stay for a few days.’

  ‘It was?’ Fitzjohn’s brow furrowed. ‘You mean Sophie doesn’t know?’

  ‘Not when I was invited. She wasn’t at the apartment when I visited, but I’m sure she knows by now.’ Meg gave a quick smile before she glanced at her reflection in the hall mirror. ‘You didn’t tell me her roommates are gay, Alistair.’

  ‘I didn’t know.’ Fitzjohn paused. ‘I hope that doesn’t colour your judgment, Meg.’

  ‘Not in the least. If anything, I think it’s a definite plus.’ Meg zipped up her handbag and hooked it on her shoulder. ‘We don’t have to worry about hanky panky, do we?’ she continued, looking at her watch. ‘They should be here shortly. Now Alistair, I’ve left some dinner for you in the oven and I’ve cleaned out the fridge. I threw out a lot of things that are just not healthy eating.’ Meg paused. ‘Now, I think I have everything but I’m sure there was something else I had to tell you. What was it now? Ah, yes. It’s about that next door neighbour of yours.’

  ‘Which one? Not Rhonda Butler?’

  ‘If that’s the one whose tree fell on your greenhouse last autumn, then, yes. She dropped by earlier this evening to tell you... actually her words were “to warn you”, that she’s going to complain to the council about your new greenhouse. Apparently the roof, being so much higher than the old greenhouse roof, is reflecting the afternoon sun through her kitchen window and blinding her while she’s doing the dishes. She’s going to demand that you have the greenhouse removed.’

  ‘She’s what?’

  ‘Don’t shout at me, Alistair. I’m merely the messenger. Although I did tell her that she has Buckley’s chance and that if I lived here she wouldn’t get past the front gate.’

  Fitzjohn gaped at his sister. ‘You said that to Rhonda Butler?’

  ‘Yes. Perhaps I shouldn’t have but I was quite incensed at the time’ As Meg spoke the doorbell rang. ‘Ah. That’ll be Brian and Andrew. Got to run.’ She gave a quick smile.

  Still reeling from Meg’s reproach to Rhonda, Fitzjohn opened the door. As he did so three faces appeared, one of them Sophie’s. Meg bustled off with the two young men in tow, while Sophie turned to her uncle.

  ‘I’m sorry about this,’ Fitzjohn said.

  ‘It’s not your fault, Uncle Alistair. We’ll manage, somehow. Brian and Andrew were taken by surprise. I wasn’t at home when Mum called around, you see. They didn’t realise what was happening until Mum had invited herself.’

  ‘Then all I can say is good luck.’

  Fitzjohn leaned against the door as it shut and he sighed. ‘Rhonda, the bane of my existence.’ Pushing himself off the door, he walked slowly through the house to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of whisky, and made his way out into the back garden. With the birds roosting in the trees and no hint of a breeze, the evening lay peaceful and quiet. He sat down in one of the garden chairs, and took a sip of his whisky before his eyes came to rest on the greenhouse, now a silhouette against the evening sky. If you think I’m tearing that down, Rhonda Butler, you’ve got another think coming.

  CHAPTER 14

  Fitzjohn arrived in his office at dawn the following morning and settled himself at his desk. In the early hour before the hubbub began, his thoughts traversed the Peter Van Goren case until a knock sounded and Betts came into the room. Fitzjohn set his pen down, somewhat disappointed at the interruption. ‘Morning, Betts.’

  ‘Morning, sir. I thought I’d get in early because we’re speaking to Amanda Marsh first thing, aren’t we?’

  ‘I am, but I want you to make a concerted effort to find out more about Peter Van Goren. There has to be something we’ve missed concerning his link to the Carmichael family. Without it, our investigation doesn’t make sense. I’ll take Williams with me.’

  With Williams at the wheel and displaying a certain amount of preoccupation, the two officers made their way in silence to Glebe and the home of Amanda Marsh. Fitzjohn’s thoughts dwelled for a time on Rhonda Butler’s threat. No doubt he could expect a letter from the Council in a matter of days if last year’s debacle over her tree was anything to go by.

  ‘This is it, sir,’ said Williams, breaking the silence.

  Brought back from his thoughts, Fitzjohn peered out of the passenger window at a two-storey Victorian terrace house, its upper balcony trimmed with rich iron lacework. Climbing out of the car, he led the way through the small garden to the front door and rang the bell, all too aware of Williams’s reticence. When the door opened, Amanda appeared. In the light of day she looked older than she had the night Peter Van Goren had died. Even so, she was impeccably dressed in a pair of light green slacks and a white blouse, her bright blue eyes contrasting her short silver grey hair. ‘Good morning, Ms Marsh,’ said Fitzjohn with a smile.

  ‘Morning,’ she replied with a look of surprise.

  ‘We have a few more questions we’d like to ask,’ Fitzjohn continued. ‘Can we come in?’

  ‘I was about to leave for the office,’ Amanda replied, looking at her watch. ‘Will it take long?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so.’

  ‘Very well.’ Amanda led the way into a small sitting room, its furnishing matching the era of the house. ‘Is there news about the man who died at the Observatory?’ she asked, sitting down while Fitzjohn and Williams settled themselves on the sofa.

  ‘Not yet, but events have necessitated that we speak to you again.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure I told you everything I know when we were at the Observatory the other night, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘It’s not about the death of Peter Van Goren, Ms Marsh. In the course of our investigation, it’s come to light that you once worked for the Carmichael’s as a housekeeper.’

  ‘Yes. Didn’t I mention that before? I started working for them shortly after their first child was born. That would have been in 1978, if I remember correctly.’

  ‘And when did you leave their employ?’

  ‘Let’s see. That would have been in 1983. Not long after Mrs Carmichael died.’ Amanda paused. ‘The first Mrs Carmichael, that is. Do you know about that?’

  ‘Yes. Rachael Carmichael. We understand she died at Whale Beach.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Amanda quivered. ‘Her death still haunts me.’

  ‘Can you tell us what you remember about that day, Ms Marsh?’

  ‘I can. As if it was yesterday, Chief Inspector. It’s replayed in my mind many times. It was a Friday. I’d accompanied Mrs Carmichael and the two children to Lane’s End, at Whale Beach. It was a property the family owned so that they could get away from the city from time to time. We were to spend the long weekend there. Mr Carmichael was to join us that evening. The gardener met us when we arrived and helped us in with the bags and soon after, Mrs Carmichael went off to paint as she always did. She was an artist, you see. She used a small cottage on the property as her studio.’ Amanda thought for a moment. ‘I spent the morning looking after the children and getting the house organised for our stay before I prepared lunch.’

  ‘Did Mrs Carmichael return to the house for lunch?’

  ‘No. I took a salad down to the cottage for her at mid-day.’

  ‘And where were the children while you did that?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Oh. Let me see. Ben was out following the gardener around as he always did, and I took Joanna, the baby, with me.’

  ‘Was Racha
el in the cottage when you arrived?’

  ‘No. It was such a beautiful day, she said she’d decided to sit outside. She’d set her easel up on the grass outside the cottage.’

  ‘And how did she seem at the time?’

  ‘Very content. She loved being at Lane’s End.’ Amanda paused in reflection.

  ‘Did you see her again that day?’

  ‘No. I never saw her again.’ Amanda Marsh’s voice broke and she grabbed a tissue from the coffee table to stem her tears. ‘You’ll have to excuse me. Talking about it brings it all back.’

  Fitzjohn waited before he continued. ‘Are you all right to go on, Ms Marsh?’ Amanda nodded. ‘Can you tell us what happened after you left Mrs Carmichael that day?’

  ‘I returned to the house and had lunch with the children. After that, Ben went back out to play and I put Joanna down for her afternoon nap. Not long after, Mr Newberry arrived. He’s Richard Carmichael’s half-brother. Or at least he was. I asked him if he’d like to sit down and have some lunch, but he said he wanted to go and speak to Rachael first. It wasn’t long though before he was back saying he couldn’t find her. That’s when the day became a nightmare. Lane’s End is such a big place. I told him she might have wandered off to paint on the other side of the cove so he went back out but, of course, he didn’t find her. When he arrived back the second time, he called the police and also his brother, Richard.’

  ‘Where was the gardener while all this was going on?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Henry? Well, at the time, I assumed he was helping Mr Newberry look for Mrs Carmichael, but I later learnt that he’d packed his belongings and left. Of course, it raised suspicion that he had something to do with Rachael’s death, although I’ve always found that hard to believe. What reason could he have to hurt Mrs Carmichael, but there again, why else would he disappear at a time like that?’ Amanda threw her hands in the air.