ONCE UPON A LIE (A Fitzjohn Mystery) Page 2

  ‘Why did you want to speak to Michael Rossi on Friday?’

  ‘Because I wanted to make sure my yacht would be ready to pick up on Sunday morning. As I said before, I have a race on.’ Wyngard’s eyes narrowed. ‘Will there be anything else, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘No. We’ll be in touch, Mr Wyngard.’

  As the disgruntled Wyngard left, Fitzjohn turned to Nigel Prentice who still sat in silence sipping his coffee, his face drawn and pale.

  ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn, Mr Prentice.’ Fitzjohn sat down on a chair opposite. ‘Do you feel up to answering a few questions?’

  Nigel Prentice nodded, dabbing his forehead with the handkerchief in his shaking hand. ‘It’s hard to believe this has happened,’ he said, looking out across the marina. ‘Who would want to do this to Mike?’ Fitzjohn, sensing Prentice’s distress, waited before he continued.

  ‘I understand you and Michael Rossi were business partners.’

  ‘We were. Since 2007. Pooled our resources to get the business up and running.’ Prentice gave a nervous laugh.

  ‘Can you tell me what time you arrived here this morning?’

  ‘It was fairly early,’ answered Prentice, putting his handkerchief in to his pocket. ‘Around seven o’clock. Reason being, I still had work to do on Graeme Wyngard’s yacht. He wanted to pick it up first thing on Sunday morning, you see.’

  ‘Did you notice anything different when you arrived? From the usual, that is.’

  ‘Yes, I did. The door to the office was unlocked and Mike’s desk lamp was on. Not unusual in itself, but he had told me he’d be away all weekend. I figured he must have changed his plans and was down in the marina working on Wyngard’s yacht, so I went down. That’s when I found him… in the water underneath the pontoon.’ Prentice winced. ‘His leg was caught between the pontoon and the yacht. Poor bastard… Mike didn’t deserve tha...’ Prentice took his handkerchief out of his pocket again and blew his nose.

  Fitzjohn waited before he asked, ‘Can you tell me when you last spoke to Mr Rossi?’

  ‘Yes. It was early on Friday morning. He called in to the office before he drove up to the Hunter Valley. He said he had an appointment with a real estate agent there.’

  ‘Did he plan on buying a property?’

  ‘Selling one, actually. Five Oaks Winery. It’s been in his family for many years. It’s where he grew up.’

  ‘I see. And did you have any further contact with Mr Rossi after he left for the winery?’

  ‘No, although, I did try to call him on his mobile, but it was turned off so I left a message.’

  ‘What was the message?’

  ‘It was just to tell him who’d telephoned the office that morning. He liked to be kept informed, even when he was away.’

  ‘Who were these people, Mr Prentice?’

  ‘Oh. Let’s see. There were three. Graeme Wyngard, calling about his yacht. Another was Rob Nesbit, and...’ Nigel Prentice rubbed his forehead and sighed.

  ‘Take your time, Mr Prentice,’ said Fitzjohn.

  ‘I’m sorry, Chief Inspector. This is ridiculous. I can’t seem to think straight. Oh, that’s right. It was Percy Green.’

  ‘All clients are they?’

  ‘Only Wyngard. The other two are… were acquaintances of Mike’s.’ Prentice paused. ‘I can’t understand it. Mike was very definite that he wouldn’t be back in the office until Monday morning. Something must have gone wrong for him to change his mind.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Because Mike was a fastidious man. Always had everything worked out. Rarely did he deviate from his plans.’

  Fitzjohn’s thoughts went to the victim’s office and the image its extreme neatness projected. ‘Did he appear troubled when he left here on Friday morning?’

  ‘No, not at all. In fact, I haven’t seen him quite so relaxed for a long time. He was looking forward to getting the winery listed for sale. Couldn’t talk about anything else.’ A thoughtful look crossed Nigel Prentice’s face. ‘I think he saw it as a means of moving on with his life. You see, Chief Inspector, before her death, his sister, Claudia Rossi, had seen to the winery’s management. I believe the place reminded him of her.’

  ‘When did she die, Mr Prentice?’

  ‘Oh, it must be almost two years ago now.’

  ‘Did she live at the winery?’

  ‘No. She lived here in Sydney with her partner, Richard Edwards. She employed a winemaker to manage the winery, although she did spend a lot of time there.’

  The family photograph of the Rossi family on the cabinet in the victim’s office came in to Fitzjohn’s mind. ‘The photographs on the bureau in Michael Rossi’s office, Mr Prentice...’

  ‘Yes,’ said Prentice, jumping in. The large one is of Mike with his parents and Claudia. The other photograph is of Charlotte Rossi, Claudia’s daughter.’

  ‘So Claudia Rossi never married.’

  ‘She did marry when she was young. To John Merrell. He was a yachtsman. You might have heard of him. He was quite well known. He died at sea not long after Charlotte was born. Apparently, after his death, Claudia reverted to her maiden name.’ Prentice looked out to the pontoon where Michael Rossi’s body laid. ‘I still can’t believe this has happened.’

  ‘Does anyone other than yourself and Mr Rossi have access to your offices?’ continued Fitzjohn.

  ‘Yes. Charlotte has a key. She comes in occasionally to help out, and… I’m not sure, but Stella might also have a key.’

  ‘Stella?’

  ‘Stella Rossi, Mike’s wife. Although, they were separated. She used to work in the business before the breakup.’

  ‘On friendly terms were they?’

  ‘I suppose as friendly as you can be after a separation.’

  ‘Do you know if Stella Rossi had been in touch with Michael Rossi lately?’

  ‘I have no idea, Chief Inspector. Mike wasn’t the type to share his personal life.’

  ‘I see. Are you aware of any problems he might have had involving other people?’

  Nigel Prentice sat in thought for a moment. ‘Not really, although, there was that trouble with his winemaker.’

  ‘The same one his sister had hired before her death?’

  ‘Yes. I think his name’s Whitehead. As a matter of fact, he called in to see Mike on Thursday.’ Prentice’s eyebrows rose. ‘They argued.’

  ‘Do you know what they argued about?’

  ‘No, I went outside until Mr Whitehead had left,’ answered Prentice.

  ‘Do you know where Mr Whitehead can be contacted?’

  ‘No, but I’m sure Charlotte will know.’

  ‘Very well, Mr Prentice, there’s just one more thing. Can I ask where you were on Friday evening between the hours of eight and midnight?’ With a look of bewilderment, Nigel Prentice hesitated as if trying to remember. ‘Take your time, Mr Prentice.’

  ‘It’s all right. I was at a council meeting in Woollahra.’

  ‘Are you a member of that council?’

  ‘No, I went there to address council about the parking on my street.’ Prentice shook his head. ‘Seems so trivial now.’

  ‘Did you go alone to the meeting?’

  ‘Yes. My wife had other plans.’

  ‘Was anyone at the meeting who can verify your attendance? A neighbour perhaps.’

  ‘No, but I did complete a Public Forum Registration form before the meeting started, so my attendance is on record.’

  ‘What time did you leave the meeting, Mr Prentice?’

  ‘When it finished. Shortly before ten, I think it was.’

  ‘And where did you go from there?’

  ‘I went straight home.’

  ‘So you would have arrived home at what time?’

  ‘About ten o’clock. I live close by.’

  ‘Very well, Mr Prentice,’ said Fitzjohn, getting to his feet. ‘I think we’ll leave it there for now, although, I dare say we’ll need to speak t
o you again at some stage.’ Fitzjohn paused. ‘Oh. There’s just one more thing. Charlotte Rossi…’

  ‘Oh, God. She’ll have to be told,’ said Prentice.

  ‘We’ll see to that, sir, if you’ll be kind enough to give Detective Sergeant Betts her contact details.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll do that.’

  Fitzjohn studied Prentice’s vague expression. ‘Will you be all right to get yourself home?’ he asked. ‘Otherwise, I can have one of my officers take you.’

  Prentice shook his head. ‘That won’t be necessary. I’ll be fine if I can just sit here for a bit longer.’

  In the morning’s building humidity, Fitzjohn and Betts left Reynolds in charge of the crime scene and walked back out on to New Beach Road. There, they were met by a barrage of media. ‘Can you give us a statement?’ shouted one reporter, thrusting his microphone at Fitzjohn’s face. Betts stood to one side as Fitzjohn lifted the police tape, and joined the mob.

  ‘All I can say at this stage, is that the body of a local businessman was found early this morning in the waters of the marina here at Rushcutters Bay. We’re treating the matter as suspicious, therefore I’d ask anyone who was in the vicinity of New Beach Road last evening, and believes they have information, to please come forward.’

  ‘Can you give any more details about what happened?’ asked another reporter.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s too early in our investigation. We’ll be holding a press conference a little later.’ Fitzjohn turned away and followed Betts to the car.

  ‘With any luck, that’ll help jog the memory of anyone who did see anything unusual here last night,’ he said, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and mopping his brow. Inside the car, he sat back in the passenger seat, savouring the cooling effects of the air conditioning system.

  ‘I didn’t know you were a runner, Betts.’

  ‘I’m not, sir.’ Betts pulled away from the curb. ‘Or at least I wasn’t until Chief Superintendent Grieg decided Day Street Police Station would enter a team in to the Sydney to Surf Fun Run this year.’

  ‘And you volunteered for that punishment?’ asked Fitzjohn, his face aghast.

  ‘It was that or find myself moved to some country town according to the Chief. Actually, the running hasn’t been that bad since I joined the running club. I’ve been pleasantly surprised.’ A slight smile crossed Betts’s face.

  ‘What with? The running or one of its female members?’

  ‘I suppose, if I’m being honest, it’s the latter. I don’t think I’m really cut out for running, sir.’ Betts paused. ‘But I’ll suffer through.’

  Betts turned the car around. ‘Nigel Prentice said we’d find Charlotte Rossi at the victim’s house this morning, sir. It’s not far. Just back along New Beach Road, opposite Rushcutters Bay Park.’

  CHAPTER 4

  The black wrought iron gate opened in to a small manicured garden where a low, light green, hedge bordered a tiled path that led to the front door. While Betts rang the bell, Fitzjohn looked out across Rushcutters Bay Park, bracing himself for his most loathed task, telling a loved one that their family member would not be coming home. As the front door opened, Fitzjohn turned back to see a slender young woman wearing a yellow polo shirt and jeans, the same young woman who had appeared in the photograph in the victim’s office.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asked with a breezy air, and displaying the same infectious smile.

  ‘We’d like to speak to Charlotte Rossi,’ said Fitzjohn.

  ‘I’m Charlotte.’

  ‘We’re from the New South Wales Police, Ms Rossi. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn, and this is Detective Sergeant Betts.’ Both Fitzjohn and Betts held up their warrant cards. ‘Nigel Prentice said we might find you here.’

  ‘Nigel? Is something wrong?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. May we come in?’

  The smile disappeared from Charlotte Rossi’s face as she stepped back from the doorway. ‘Come through.’ They followed her along the hall, up a short flight of stairs and in to a large rectangular living area overlooking Rushcutters Bay. Another woman in her late forties with brown wavy hair and a curvaceous shape, stood with her back to them looking at a large sketch hung on the wall at the far end of the room. Dressed in white slacks and black top, she turned when they appeared.

  ‘This is my friend, Phillipa Braithwaite,’ said Charlotte Rossi. ‘These gentlemen are from the police, Phil.’ Charlotte gestured for Fitzjohn and Betts to sit down before settling herself on the edge of an armchair, a questioning look on her oval shaped face. Phillipa Braithwaite seated herself on the arm of a small sofa, adjusting the gold bracelets on her wrists before crossing her long legs. ‘Why are you here?’ asked Charlotte, a tinge of uncertainty in her voice.

  ‘It’s your uncle, Ms Rossi. Michael Rossi’s body was found early this morning…’

  ‘His body?’ Charlotte Rossi’s voice rang out, a look of disbelief coming to her face. ‘You mean Michael is dead?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘But that can’t be.’ Charlotte paused, glaring at Fitzjohn before she continued in a whisper. ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘All I can tell you at this stage is that we’re treating your uncle’s death as suspicious. As I was about to say, his body was found this morning at the marina outside his business premises.

  ‘But he’s supposed to be in the Hunter Valley this weekend. I don’t understand.’

  ‘In that case, if you can tell us when you last saw your uncle, Ms Rossi, it might help us to find out why he was here in Sydney.’

  Charlotte Rossi swallowed hard. ‘I saw him yesterday morning around seven. He called at my flat to drop off the keys to his house because he planned to be away all weekend, and he needed someone to be here when his new fridge arrives. That’s what Phillipa and me are doing here. Waiting... for the fridge.’ Charlotte Rossi fell silent before she continued. ‘He won’t need it now, will he?’ She grabbed a tissue from the box on the coffee table.

  ‘Do you feel able to answer a few questions, Ms Rossi, or would you prefer we come back later?’

  ‘No, I’ll be right.’ She ran her index finger along the bottom eyelashes of her right eye, stemming a tear. ‘What do you want to know?’ she sniffed.

  ‘We understand your uncle owned a winery in the Hunter Valley.’

  ‘Yes. That’s right. Five Oaks Winery. It’s been in our family since… since my grandparents moved to the Hunter in the early 1950s. They’re both gone now.’ Charlotte’s brow furrowed. ‘Michael had arranged to meet a real estate agent there so he could have the property listed for sale. He said he’d be driving back early on Monday morning.’ Charlotte pulled another tissue from the box and dabbed her nose.

  ‘Was that the last time you spoke to him?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Yes. It was.’

  ‘Is there anyone at the winery we can speak to? If so, there’s every chance we’ll be able to find out why your uncle returned to Sydney early.’

  ‘There’s Rafe Simms. He has the property next door. He’s been helping out for the past few weeks since the…’ Fitzjohn waited for Charlotte Rossi to continue. ‘Oh, it’s not important.’

  ‘In this situation, Ms Rossi, everything’s important.’

  ‘I suppose it is. I didn’t think. I was just about to say that Rafe has been managing the winery since our winemaker, Pierce Whitehead, left.’

  ‘Why did Mr Whitehead leave?’

  ‘I don’t know. Michael didn’t offer any explanation. He just told me Pierce quit.’ Charlotte Rossi sighed. ‘I didn’t press him for details.’ Charlotte met Fitzjohn’s intense gaze. ‘It would have just annoyed Michael and, at the time, I didn’t feel like a confrontation with him. Besides, I think I know why Pierce quit. He and Michael often clashed when Michael visited the winery. Pierce didn’t like Michael’s interference.’ Charlotte Rossi paused. ‘You see, Chief Inspector, Pierce was hired by my mother in 2010. He had a five-year contract.
It wasn’t until after her death that Michael had to have anything to do with the winery, or Pierce. I suppose, in the end, it just got the better of Pierce. He walked off the property two weeks ago, right in the middle of the grape harvest.’ Charlotte threw her hands in the air. ‘The whole thing culminated in Michael deciding to sell the winery. That’s when Rafe Simms stepped in. He offered to finish the harvest and buy the grapes.’

  ‘Do you know where Mr Whitehead can be contacted?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t. But his phone number will be in my phone because he rang me last night.’

  ‘Oh? What was the reason for his call?’

  ‘He wanted to know if I’d be a referee for a job he’s applying for in a Victorian winery.’

  ‘And did you agree?’

  ‘Yes. I couldn’t see any reason not to. He was an excellent winemaker. He’d proved that over the last couple of years. I think his sudden departure from Five Oaks Winery was more to do with his inability to get on with my uncle than anything else. And as far as his present whereabouts, I’m sure his details will be in the study. Michael would have kept them for superannuation and tax purposes. I’ll have a look for you.’ Charlotte Rossi rose from her chair. As she did so, she steadied herself on its arm. ‘The study is this way, Chief Inspector.’ Fitzjohn and Betts followed Charlotte out of the living room, and in to a room overlooking a small courtyard. ‘She crossed to the bookcase and reached for a folder. ‘That’s odd.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘It’s my uncle’s overnight bag. He must have left it in here when he got back from the winery.’ She pointed to a bag on the floor beside the desk, its zipper half-undone. ‘I don’t understand. Michael would not normally leave his bag here.’ She looked at Fitzjohn. ‘He was organised to the extreme. Nothing ever out of place. Compulsive, obsessive, I think you’d call it.’

  Betts knelt down to look inside the bag. ‘It doesn’t look like it’s been unpacked, sir.’

  ‘Right,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘Have forensics come in to look over the room and the rest of the house, Betts.’ Fitzjohn then turned back to Charlotte Rossi, her eyes fixed on the bag. Sensing her anguish he said, ‘Is this the folder, Ms Rossi?’