ONCE UPON A LIE (A Fitzjohn Mystery) Read online

  ‘Duty calls, I’m afraid.’ Fitzjohn adjusted the handkerchief in the breast pocket of his suit coat. ‘But to what do I owe this surprise visit so early on a Sunday morning, young lady?’

  ‘I came to borrow a thermos. I seem to remember seeing one in your laundry cupboard when I was house-sitting last month.’

  ‘I didn’t know I had a thermos,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘Your Aunt Edith took care of all that kind of thing. But you’re welcome to look. Are you going on a picnic?’

  ‘No, Uncle. I’m going to a sit-in at the university. I want to take a hot drink along in case we’re there all night.’ Fitzjohn’s eyes narrowed. Since his sister, Meg, had allowed Sophie to continue her university studies in Sydney rather than Melbourne, Fitzjohn had felt a certain sense of responsibility toward his young niece. He also sensed that the move was Sophie’s way of escaping her mother’s overbearing grasp. Could he blame her? Ever since Edith’s death, he had experienced that overbearing grasp first hand.

  ‘What kind of sit-in is it, Sophie? You know that sort of thing can turn ugly.’

  Sophie smiled. ‘You don’t need to worry, Uncle Alistair, it’s just a campus matter to do with one of the libraries.’ Sophie made a quick exit in to the laundry room, and amidst the clatter of her emptying the cupboard, Betts arrived.

  ‘I thought you might like a lift, sir.’ Betts looked around as another crash sounded. ‘What’s that? Mice?’

  ‘No, it’s Sophie. She’s looking for something in the laundry.’ Fitzjohn moved over to the kitchen table and commenced placing papers in to his briefcase. Just then, Sophie reappeared, her face lighting up when she spied Betts.

  ‘Oh, Martin. Just the person I wanted to see. I’ve just this minute found your running shoes in the laundry cupboard. The ones that got soaked the night you helped me with the greenhouse.’

  Fitzjohn eyed Betts suspiciously as Sophie darted back in to the laundry, and reappeared with the shoes. She handed them to Betts.

  ‘Did you find the thermos, Sophie?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Not yet, but I’m sure it’s there.’

  ‘Then lock up when you leave and mind what I said. Sit-ins can get ugly.’

  ‘I will, Uncle Alistair,’ she answered while smiling at Betts. ‘It’s lovely to see you again, Martin.’

  Carrying his shoes, Betts looked back over his shoulder and smiled as he and Fitzjohn left.

  ‘I thought I made it clear that my niece is off limits, Betts,’ said Fitzjohn when they reached the car.

  ‘You did, sir. And it is… clear, that it.’

  ‘Then can you tell me why you were here, with Sophie, while I was away in England? And why your shoes were in my laundry cupboard.’ Fitzjohn glared at Betts over the car roof.

  ‘I came over to help Sophie with the greenhouse. I must have left my shoes... behind.’ Betts’s voice tapered off. ‘It’s not the way it sounds… exactly. You see, while you were away, we had a storm. A bad storm. Hail stones, the lot. One of the panes of glass in your greenhouse broke and Sophie rang and asked me if I could fix it.’

  ‘And you said yes? What do you know about installing glass?’

  ‘I don’t, and I didn’t. I just sealed it up with green garbage bags and masking tape until Sophie could get someone out to replace it the next day. She was concerned about the orchids, sir. She had visions of them all being destroyed by the time you got home.’

  ‘That doesn’t explain why you left your shoes behind.’

  ‘Oh, I can explain that too, sir. You see, they got soaked while I was out there putting the plastic over the break in the glass. Later, I took them off while Sophie made me a hot drink. She gave me a pair of yours to wear home.’

  Fitzjohn grimaced. ‘You wore a pair of my shoes? A better question. How did you manage to get your large feet in to a pair of my shoes?’

  ‘It wasn’t easy,’ said Betts. ‘In the end, I gave up and Sophie gave me a pair of your rubber boots. A green pair. I’ve still got them. I’ll return them tomorrow.’

  ‘See that you do, Sergeant.’ Skeptical that he had been told the whole story, but at the same time amused, Fitzjohn got in to the car. ‘Be warned, Betts. Sophie is far too young for you. She’s barely twenty years old.’

  ‘You’re right, sir. She is. Too young. For me, that is.’

  ‘Good, I’m glad you agree. Now, I want to turn our attention to Michael Rossi’s solicitor.’ Fitzjohn pulled his seat belt on.

  ‘Before we do, sir, a couple of things have turned up. Firstly, other than the phone calls that we know Michael Rossi received on the day of his death, he also received one from his estranged wife, Stella Rossi. And judging from the time of the call, he would have just arrived back in Sydney.’

  ‘So, we can dismiss the idea that her call had any bearing on him leaving the winery earlier than planned. What else, Betts?’

  ‘I ran a check on Pierce Whitehead, sir. Apparently, he lives in South Africa.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He has done for the past six years.’

  A stunned look on his face, Fitzjohn said, ‘So who’s the man purporting to be our winemaker?’

  ‘I’ve got Williams working on it, sir. He’s trying to contact the real Mr Whitehead in = to see if he’s able to identify our imposter.’

  ‘Good. In the meantime, where can we find Michael Rossi’s solicitor on a Sunday morning?’

  ‘At his home in Lavender Bay, sir. I called ahead. He’s expecting us.’

  A short, lean man opened the door, his tousled brown hair dipping over his forehead. In his mid-to-late-thirties, and younger than Fitzjohn had envisaged, he wore a T-shirt displaying the Eiffel Tower along with a pair of beige coloured shorts, cut off just below his knees. Fitzjohn and Betts showed their warrant cards.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen. I’m David Spencer. I’ve been expecting you. Please, come in.’ Fitzjohn and Betts followed David Spencer through a chaotic atmosphere filled with a screaming baby and two small boys arguing over a television remote. ‘You’ll have to excuse the racket. The delights of family life, I’m afraid. Pandemonium for the greater part of the time.’ He chuckled to himself and opened the door in to a room overlooking a small courtyard. ‘We can talk in my study undisturbed. The walls are sound proofed.’ As David Spencer closed the door behind them, Fitzjohn and Betts settled themselves in to the two rounded leather chairs in front of the solicitor’s desk. ‘I understand you’ve come to see me about Michael Rossi,’ he said, sitting down behind his desk. ‘How exactly can I help?’

  ‘According to Michael Rossi’s diary, Mr Spencer,’ began Fitzjohn, ‘Michael Rossi was to have an appointment with you this coming Monday morning. Can you tell us what the appointment was to be about?

  ‘Yes. He said he wanted to speak to me about his will, but on Friday afternoon, Mr Rossi rang to cancel Monday’s appointment and asked if he could come in to see me here at the house on Saturday instead.’ David Spencer’s brow furrowed. ‘I was preparing for that appointment yesterday morning when I heard the news of his death. A terrible business,’ said Spencer, shaking his head.

  ‘What time on Friday did he phone, Mr Spencer?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘He phoned my office in North Sydney around four o’clock in the afternoon, as I remember.’

  ‘Did he give any indication as to why he wanted to change the day of his appointment?’

  ‘No. But he did say he wanted to speak to me about another matter as well as his will.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. He said he wanted to discuss his sister, Claudia Rossi. He didn’t go into specifics, but he did say he wanted advice about her life insurance policy. Consequently, when Sergeant Betts telephoned earlier this morning, I made a point of not only getting a copy of Mr Rossi’s will out of safe custody, but also Claudia Rossi’s. Under the circumstances, I thought there was every possibility you’d want to see them both.’ Spencer took Claudia’s will out of its long thin envelope.

  ‘Does this tell us
who she was insured with?’ asked Fitzjohn running his eyes across the document.

  ‘Yes. On the second page.’ Fitzjohn turned to the next page. ‘As you can see. It was with the MLC for the sum of one million dollars.’

  ‘And the beneficiary?’

  ‘Her partner, Richard Edwards with Michael Rossi as contingent beneficiary. That is, Mr Rossi would receive the benefit if the primary designee had been unavailable or deceased.’

  ‘I see. May we take Claudia Rossi’s will with us, Mr Spencer?’

  ‘By all means.’ Spencer handed Fitzjohn the will’s envelope. ‘And as far as Michael Rossi’s will is concerned, I take it you want to know who the beneficiary is there too,’ said David Spencer.

  ‘There’s only one?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Yes.’ Spencer unfolded Michael Rossi’s will and laid it out in front of Fitzjohn and Betts. ‘I read through it before you arrived. The bulk of Mr Rossi’s estate goes to his wife Stella Rossi. It comprises all monies, shares, debenture stocks as well as the property in Rushcutters Bay and Michael Rossi’s share of the business, Rossi & Prentice Yachting Electronics Pty Ltd.’

  ‘So he didn’t change his will after he and his wife separated,’ said Fitzjohn.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Tell me, Mr Spencer, is Stella Rossi aware of this?’

  ‘Yes. Michael had me write to her not long after their separation, telling her that he had no plans to make any changes to his will. He never asked me to write a letter contradicting that.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Fitzjohn rubbed his chin before he continued. ‘We understand that Michael Rossi also owned half share in a winery in the Hunter Valley.’

  ‘That’s correct. Five Oaks Winery. The will stipulates that it’s to be inherited by his sister, Claudia Rossi, but if she predeceases him, it goes to her daughter, Charlotte Rossi, which is, of course, what will happen.’

  ‘And is Charlotte Rossi aware of this?’

  ‘That I can’t say, Chief Inspector, but being that the winery has passed down through the Rossi family from her great-grandparents, I should imagine she does.’

  Fitzjohn and Betts returned to their car, Fitzjohn settling himself in to the passenger seat. His gaze went the full length of Walker Street to where Sydney’s CBD shimmered in the heat like a mirage over the harbour, his thoughts, however, were elsewhere. ‘I wonder if the letters Michael Rossi was looking for at Esme Timmons’s residence on Friday night were to do with Claudia Rossi’s life insurance policy, Betts. And if that’s the case, I wonder what sparked his interest.’

  Betts shrugged as he started the car. ‘Surely the policy has been paid out by now, sir.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I want you to contact the insurance company and find out exactly when it was paid. But before you do that, we’ll speak to Nigel Prentice again. I’m interested to hear how he explains where he was after eight o’clock on Friday evening. And then there’s Charlotte Rossi. We’ll pay her a call as well to find out how she felt about her uncle selling the winery.’

  ‘You mean if she didn’t agree with the sale she had a pretty strong motive to kill Michael Rossi.’

  ‘If she knew she’d inherit his share; yes, I do, Betts.’

  Fitzjohn’s knock on Nigel Prentice’s front door was answered by a short, plump woman in her early fifties. ‘Are you collecting for the Salvos,’ she asked with an engaging smile.

  ‘No, madam. We’re from the New South Wales Police.’ Fitzjohn held up his warrant card. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn and this is Detective Sergeant Betts.’

  ‘Oh. I beg your pardon. Nigel did say he’d spoken to the police yesterday. I’m Maggie Prentice. Nigel’s wife. Please, come in, Chief Inspector. It’s shocking about poor Michael,’ she continued. ‘Seems nobody’s safe these days. If you’d care to wait in there,’ she gestured to the living room, ‘I’ll go fetch Nigel. He’s out the back.’

  As Mrs Prentice disappeared, Fitzjohn and Betts circled the living room, taking in its 1980s flare. Minutes passed before Nigel Prentice appeared, brushing his clothes down. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen. I was doing a bit of gardening. Won’t you have a seat.’

  ‘We have a few more questions,’ said Fitzjohn, sitting down. ‘We’d like to know where you were after you left the council meeting on the night Michael Rossi died.’

  ‘But I explained that yesterday, Chief Inspector.’ Prentice sat down on the sofa. ‘I came straight home.’

  ‘So you said. The only problem is, a gentleman who attended the same council meeting said you left that meeting around eight o’clock. And as you said you arrived home at ten, I wonder if you can tell us where you were in those two intervening hours. That is, between eight and ten.’

  With beads of perspiration appearing on his forehead, Prentice jumped up from his chair and closed the living room door. Returning to his seat, he clasped his hands together and whispered, ‘I met a friend, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘A friend?’ repeated Fitzjohn.

  ‘Yes. A woman friend, if you get my meaning.’ Prentice’s eyes darted toward the closed door.

  ‘Oh, I do,’ answered Fitzjohn. ‘Can we have your friend’s name?’ Fitzjohn waited for Prentice to reply. ‘It could cause you problems if you don’t tell us, Mr Prentice, because we might assume you were not with a friend at all, but at your place of business during the time of Michael Rossi’s murder.’

  ‘But that absurd.’

  ‘Then where were you, and who were you with?’ asked Fitzjohn again, his impatience growing.

  Prentice fidgeted with the crocheted doily on the arm of the sofa. ‘All right. I was with Stella Rossi. After the council meeting finished we met up and we went for a drive. Up the north shore. Colloroy way. I hope this doesn’t have to go any further, Chief Inspector. I’m sure you’ll understand. My wife, you see…’

  ‘Oh, I understand only too well,’ said Fitzjohn.

  ‘I wonder if teaming up with Stella Rossi was a strategic move on Nigel Prentice’s part,’ said Betts, getting in to the car a few minutes later. ‘I mean, he could see it as a way of gaining control of the company.’

  ‘You mean by persuading Mrs Rossi to let him run it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Sounds logical, but if he’s that devious, do you really believe he’d be satisfied with only owning half the shares?’

  ‘No. Probably not,’ replied Betts, ‘but one thing’s for sure. Nigel Prentice and Stella Rossi both had motive to murder Michael Rossi because between the two of them they now own Rossi & Prentice Yachting Electronics, outright.’

  ‘They do, Betts. But whether they had the means and opportunity to kill Michael Rossi, remains to be seen.’ Fitzjohn looked at his watch. ‘And while we’re figuring that out let’s have another word with Charlotte Rossi.’

  CHAPTER 10

  Gone was the infectious smile on Charlotte Rossi’s face, so visible the previous day. Instead, she appeared tense when she opened the door to her apartment.

  ‘Chief Inspector.’

  ‘Ms Rossi, our apologies for disturbing your Sunday, but we’d like to speak to you again if we may.’ Charlotte eyes darted from Fitzjohn to Betts and back to Fitzjohn.

  ‘By all means,’ she said, stepping back from the doorway. ‘Come in. Do you have news about my uncle?’

  ‘No, not yet,’ answered Fitzjohn, ‘but there are a few unanswered questions we thought you might be able to help us with.’

  ‘I hope I can,’ she said as she led the way along a short hallway and in to a sun filled living room. ‘What is it you want to ask?’

  ‘I seem to remember you said the last time you spoke to your uncle was on Friday morning,’ said Fitzjohn, sitting down.

  ‘That’s right. He came here to drop off his house keys so that I could take delivery of the fridge.’

  ‘So you didn’t see him after that? Miss Timmons seems to think he planned to call around after he’d left her place.’

  ‘Mmm. Esme mentioned that yest
erday, but as I think I told you before, Chief Inspector, I worked late on Friday night. I didn’t get home until after nine. So, I don’t know whether he called around or not.’

  ‘Did he try to contact you by phone?’

  ‘There was a missed call on my mobile, but when I rang him back, there was no reply.’ Charlotte’s brow furrowed. ‘By that time he was probably… Oh God.’

  Fitzjohn waited for a moment before he continued his questioning. ‘Can you think of anyone who would want to harm your uncle, Ms Rossi?’

  ‘He wasn’t popular with a number of people, Chief Inspector, but I wouldn’t have thought that their grievances would go as far as murder.’

  ‘Can you tell us who these people were?’ When Charlotte Rossi did not reply, Fitzjohn continued. ‘For instance. What do you know about a man called Percy Greene?’

  ‘Percy? He’s… He was an acquaintance of Michael’s. An old school friend. Percy handles the Old Boys network, but that’s all I know about him.’

  ‘What about Graeme Wyngard.’

  ‘Wyngard. I believe he was a client of Michael’s. I’ve had some dealings with him when I’ve worked in Michael’s office. Rather a pompous sort. Full of himself, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘And Robert Nesbit?’

  ‘Robert? I’ve known Robert all my life, Chief Inspector. He and my father were friends. They sailed together. Robert Nesbit was there when my father was lost at sea.’ Charlotte paused. ‘I’m also part of Robert’s crew. Once upon a time, he and Michael were friends as well as business partners until…’

  ‘Until what, Ms Rossi?’

  ‘Oh. Something happened… they fell out and Michael left the business.’

  ‘Can you tell us what happened?’ Charlotte Rossi remained silent. ‘If you know anything at all Ms Rossi…’

  ‘Well, I suppose you’ll find out eventually.’ Charlotte sighed. ‘The truth of the matter is, Michael had an affair with Robert’s wife. It broke up Robert’s marriage.’