Lane's End Read online

  ‘Alistair. Are you in there, Alistair?’

  Brought back from his musings, Fitzjohn looked at his watch and frowned before opening the door to find Meg, wrapped in her dressing gown. ‘I don’t know where the time’s gone. Thanks for coming down to remind me, Meg,’ he said, stepping outside and closing the greenhouse door behind him.

  ‘I’m not out here to remind you about the time, Alistair. I need to talk to you about Sophie, before you leave for work.’

  ‘It’ll have to wait until this evening,’ replied Fitzjohn, starting toward the house. ‘I don’t have time now. Betts will be here soon to pick me up.’

  Meg bustled after him. ‘But this can’t wait. You have to help me persuade Sophie to stop all this nonsense and return to Melbourne where she belongs.’

  Fitzjohn turned to face his sister. ‘Meg, I know your heart’s in the right place, but Sophie’s no longer a child. You can’t tell her what to do or where to live. Not anymore.’

  Meg gaped at Fitzjohn. ‘I knew it. I just knew it. You two are in collaboration, aren’t you? I’d never have let that girl come to Sydney if I’d known you’d not back me up. This is too much, Alistair. Just too much.’

  ‘I’m sorry you feel that way, Meg.’ Fitzjohn touched his sister’s arm. ‘We’ll talk further this evening. I promise.’

  Meg shrugged Fitzjohn’s hand off her arm and flounced through the back door and into the house.

  Now dressed in a dark grey suit and blue tie against a crisp white shirt, Fitzjohn made his way downstairs and into the kitchen where he found Betts and Meg in conversation. ‘Good morning Betts,’ he sang out.

  ‘Morning, sir.’

  Meg gave Fitzjohn a frosty look.

  ‘As I said, Meg. We’ll talk this evening.’ Meg turned away and busied herself at the kitchen sink. Fitzjohn raised his eyebrows, turned and closed his briefcase. ‘See you this evening.’ Followed by Betts, he started toward the front door.

  Silence prevailed as the two men settled themselves into the car before Fitzjohn handed Betts Sophie’s green plastic bag. ‘I believe this contains something of yours.’

  ‘It does?’ Betts opened the bag and peered inside. ‘Oh. It’s my sweater. How did you get it?’ Betts looked into Fitzjohn’s piercing stare. ‘I can explain, sir.’

  Fitzjohn pulled his seat belt on. ‘I thought I’d made myself clear as far as my niece is concerned, Betts. She’s off limits. You’re far too old for her.’

  ‘I’m not that old, sir.’

  ‘You are as far as Sophie is concerned.’ Fitzjohn pursed his lips.

  Betts scratched his ear. ‘Mmm. I suppose I am a bit. It’s just that Sophie asked me to help her move into her new apartment. How could I refuse?’

  ‘Politely,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘Now, to business. ‘Any news on Van Goren?’

  ‘No, sir, but I do have the Coroner’s report into the Rachael Carmichael death.’ Betts handed the report to Fitzjohn. ‘She died in September, 1983, after falling from a cliff top that borders the property at Whale Beach. The property Theodora Hunt told us about. It’s called Lane’s End.’

  ‘So, what caused her to fall?’

  ‘The coroner’s findings were inconclusive,’ continued Betts. ‘It couldn’t be proved whether it was an accident, suicide or if foul play was involved.’ Fitzjohn leafed through the report as Betts turned the ignition and pulled away from the curb.

  ‘Did she have a history of depression?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Not as far as any records show.’

  Fitzjohn sat in thought before he said, ‘Very well. In that case, I’d like to look at the investigation records into her death. Find out who the investigating officer in charge of the case was at the time, will you, Betts?’

  ‘I already have, sir.’

  ‘Good. Who is it?’

  Betts scratched the back of his neck.

  ‘Well?’ said Fitzjohn.

  ‘It was Chief Superintendent Grieg, sir.’

  Fitzjohn gaped at Betts.

  ‘Then a Detective Senior Sergeant.’ Betts gave Fitzjohn a wry smile and chuckled. ‘Could be interesting. You questioning the Chief Superintendent about his unsolved case.’

  ‘Interesting indeed.’ Fitzjohn’s thoughts went to Grieg’s outburst the day before when he had learnt of his involvement in the Carmichael case. Could that be the reason Grieg had not wanted him on the case? Because of his, apparent, unsolved case?

  ‘There’s something else, sir. Not related to our case, of course, but I’m sure you’ll be pleased to hear that Ben Carmichael’s fiancée, Emma Phillips, has been found.’

  ‘Well! That is good news. Is she okay?’

  ‘She’s alive, but in a coma. Apparently medically induced. It’s not yet known what happened to her.’

  Fitzjohn’s brow furrowed. ‘Where was she found?’

  ‘At Lane’s End by Ben Carmichael. According to the police officer who attended, Mr Carmichael was in the process of retracing Emma’s steps since her disappearance. He’d found out that she had asked Laura Carmichael for permission to visit the Lane’s End property to do some research for a book she’s writing. The reason being that Emma wanted to include Rachael Carmichael in that book. According to Ben Carmichael, that permission hadn’t been granted, but he thought she might have gone there anyway. He found her in the cottage that Rachael used as a studio.’

  ‘I see.’ Fitzjohn fell into silence as he looked down at the Coroner’s Report and began to read. When their car arrived at Day Street Police Station, he closed the report and said, ‘I’d like to go to Lane’s End, Betts. Make the arrangements, will you?’

  Fitzjohn and Betts arrived at Lane’s End later that same day to find police cars lined up along the lane-way and a young constable at the entrance. ‘It looks pretty run down,’ said Betts, peering through the car window and beyond the stone wall into the grounds.

  ‘Not surprising after so many years of abandonment,’ replied Fitzjohn, opening the car door and climbing out.

  After showing their warrant cards to the constable on duty, they made their way along the winding driveway, its gravel scattered into the foliage. ‘It must have been a beautiful place at one time,’ said Fitzjohn, his gaze taking in the geometric lines of old flower beds now overgrown with weeds. As they rounded the bend in the drive, a derelict two-storey stone house came into view. Another police officer stood nearby.

  ‘Good afternoon, Constable,’ said Fitzjohn, holding up his warrant card once again. ‘I’m DCI Fitzjohn and this is DS Betts. We’re from Sydney City LAC. We’re here to speak to DCI Roberts.’

  ‘He’s expecting you, sir, although he’s some distance away at the other side of the property. If you’ll come this way.’

  ‘Fitzjohn and Betts followed the constable along a narrow path that ran beside the house and passed another, smaller stone dwelling before entering dense bushland.

  ‘You’ll have to watch your step in here, sir,’ said the Constable. ‘I’ve seen the odd snake.’ Betts looked disconcertedly at Fitzjohn before he tripped over a tree root.

  ‘It would’ve been impossible to get an ambulance in here,’ said Fitzjohn, looking up, the sky all but obscured by foliage.

  ‘The young lady was carried out on a stretcher, sir,’ replied the Constable.

  They reached the edge of the tree-line and emerged out into a clearing where a number of officers stood. One of them, a man in his mid-fifties, broke away from the group when Fitzjohn and Betts approached.

  ‘Alistair,’ he said, making his way toward them. ‘It’s been a while.’

  ‘It has, David. Good to see you. This is my sergeant, Martin Betts.’ Fitzjohn half turned toward Betts.

  David Roberts nodded before he said, ‘When we spoke, you said you’re working on a case that’s related, in some way, to the young woman who was found here. The homicide at the Observatory isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right. She’s the fiancée of Ben Carmichael. His father, Richard, was a host a
t the cocktail party held at the Observatory that night. And this property is owned by the Carmichael family.’

  ‘Ah. I see.’

  ‘Where was Emma Phillips found, David?’

  ‘In a cottage on the other side of this clearing. Come, I’ll show you.’ They followed Roberts to a small building all but hidden in the vegetation, its frontage facing the sea. ‘It seems the young woman was left here to die a lonely death.’ Roberts led the way inside to where the SOCO’s worked.

  ‘So, you don’t think it was an accident,’ said Fitzjohn, casting his eye around the front room.

  ‘No. She’d been bludgeoned and left in the adjoining room over there.’ Roberts gestured to an open doorway on the far wall. ‘According to her fiancé, Ben Carmichael, the entrance was covered up by that tapestry we have bagged up over there. He just happened to remember that there’d been a doorway on that wall.’ Roberts shook his head. ‘Just as well, otherwise it would have been too late. God only knows how long it would have been before she was discovered. By the look of the property, it doesn’t look like it’s been used in years.’

  ‘It hasn’t,’ said Fitzjohn, peering at the painting that sat on the easel. ‘Thirty years to be exact. There was a death here in 1983. A woman by the name of Rachael Carmichael. She was an artist and, I’m told, used this cottage as her studio.’

  David Roberts looked thoughtful. ‘I remember that. She fell from the cliff, didn’t she?’ Fitzjohn nodded. ‘She must have been the woman in the photograph Mr Carmichael found and also on the remnants of another, torn up and scattered across the floor where Emma Phillips lay.’

  ‘Sounds disturbing,’ said Fitzjohn.

  ‘It does.’

  ‘Have you found a weapon,’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘No, but we have located the young lady’s car hidden in some bushes behind the house at the front of the property.’

  With the heat in the cottage building, Fitzjohn took his handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed his forehead before they made their way outside. There, in the face of a cooling sea breeze, he walked to the edge of the cliff and looked down to the rocks below. They walked in silence for a time back through the property to their car, Fitzjohn smoothing down the few remaining wisps of hair left on top of his head as he went. ‘Of course, there is sort of a family connection between Emma Phillips and Rachael Carmichael through Emma’s engagement to Ben Carmichael,’ he said at last. ‘But I wonder if that connection extends to this attack on Emma and the death of Rachael?’

  ‘You’ve lost me, sir,’ replied Betts as they made their way out of Lane’s End to their car.

  ‘Well, it’s just that Emma Phillips was conducting research into Rachael Carmichael’s artistic life for a book on artists, wasn’t she?’

  ‘That’s right,’ replied Betts.

  ‘So, as part of her research, Emma came here to the place where Rachael had worked and died. I think there’s every chance that she stumbled upon something to do with Rachael’s death. What hospital did DCI Roberts say Ms Phillips was taken to?’

  ‘North Shore, sir.’

  ‘Mmm. The same hospital that Richard Carmichael died in only days ago. It can’t have been easy for his son to return there so soon,’ replied Fitzjohn thoughtfully.

  Fitzjohn and Betts arrived at North Shore Hospital and made their way to the Intensive Care Unit. There they found Ben Carmichael pacing the floor outside the unit. ‘Mr Carmichael,’ said Fitzjohn, walking toward him. Ben, his face ragged and drawn, stopped pacing and looked toward the two officers. ‘We understand your fiancée has been found.’

  ‘Yes, thank God. I found her this morning at Lane’s End.’

  ‘And how is she?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Ben shook his head. ‘The doctors have put her in a medically induced coma. They said it would be just until the swelling in her brain recedes, although I’m told that there’s no telling how long it could take before she’s conscious again.’

  ‘And no way of knowing who attacked her,’ said Fitzjohn. Ben shook his head. ‘In that case, we’ll leave what we want to talk to you about until another time, Mr Carmichael. Perhaps tomorrow if things improve for Emma.’

  ‘Tomorrow’s my father’s funeral, Chief Inspector.’ Ben ran his hand through his dark wavy hair. ‘If you have more questions about Peter Van Goren, I don’t think I can tell you any more than I already have. I honestly didn’t know the man.’

  ‘It isn’t Mr Van Goren we want to ask you about, Mr Carmichael. It’s about Emma,’ replied Fitzjohn.

  ‘Oh? I was under the impression another police officer was handling that case. Roberts I think he said his name is.’

  ‘That’s correct. DCI Roberts is in charge of Emma’s case. However, we wondered if you might be able to identify the people in a photograph that was found on the floor where Emma was found.’

  ‘I didn’t notice a photo there, but then the room was in darkness.’

  ‘It’d been torn in pieces and scattered.’ Fitzjohn looked to Betts who brought a photograph, encased in a plastic sleeve, out from a folder he held. He handed it to Ben. ‘It’s been pieced together and as you can see, some of the faces aren’t clear. Even so, we hoped you might have some idea who the people are.’

  Ben Carmichael stared at the image in silence before he said, ‘It’s a photograph of Joanna and me with our mother. I found a similar one in the cottage on the floor under the easel. Its frame had been shattered and it looked like someone had ground the photo into the floor with the heel of their shoe.’

  ‘Do you know who the other people in this photo are?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  Ben studied the image again. ‘The face of the woman next to my mother looks like the woman who used to be our housekeeper. Amanda Marsh is her name.’

  ‘Amanda Marsh?’ said Fitzjohn. ‘We met a woman by that name at the Observatory the night Peter Van Goren died.’

  ‘Yes, you would have. Apparently, after my mother’s death, Amanda moved on and started her own catering business.’

  ‘I see. So, she’s remained in touch with your family?’ replied Fitzjohn.

  ‘Only in as far as catering for functions held by Carmichael Hunt Real Estate.’

  ‘What about the man in the photograph standing next to Ms Marsh?’ asked Fitzjohn. I know his image is far from clear, but do you have any idea who he might be?’

  ‘Well, he’s not tall enough to be my uncle, Sebastian Newberry, or my father, for that matter.’ Ben shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Chief Inspector. I don’t know who he is.’ Ben handed the photograph back to Betts.

  ‘Right,’ said Fitzjohn as he and Betts left the hospital. ‘Tomorrow I want to talk to Amanda Marsh again because it seems she had more to do with the Carmichael family than providing her catering services.

  CHAPTER 12

  Those who gathered at Richard Carmichael’s graveside did so in silence, the mourners who had attended the cocktail party only days before still reeling in the knowledge that Richard was now dead. Ben and Joanna stood on either side of Laura, her face expressionless, both hands clasped together in front of her. Emerson Hunt and his wife, Theodora, together with Sebastian Newberry, positioned themselves on the other side of the casket. Ben’s gaze came to rest on Emerson, who fidgeted with the signet ring on his right hand. Theodora stemmed her tears with a tissue. Sebastian cast his eyes down. Behind him, Amanda Marsh looked straight ahead from beneath her large-brimmed black hat.

  When the minister’s words came to an end and those assembled dispersed, Ben and Joanna waited while Laura spoke to Theodora and Emerson Hunt.

  ‘The police are here,’ said Joanna, looking toward Fitzjohn and Betts who could be seen on a grass verge some distance away. ‘Why, I wonder?’ As Joanna spoke, the two officers turned and walked to their car.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ replied Ben. ‘But if you think about it, it’s likely that the person who killed Peter Van Goren is here among us.’

  ‘Oh.’ Joanna grimaced and looked arou
nd at the mourners now walking away from the graveside toward their cars. ‘I suppose you’re right. And whoever that person is, is about to make his way to Mosman to offer condolences and sip Earl Grey tea with us.’

  ‘What makes you think it’s a man, Joanna?’

  A look of shock came to Joanna’s face. ‘Well, it couldn’t be a woman. Could it?’ Ben shrugged.

  ‘Thanks for waiting, you two,’ said Laura as she approached and they started towards their car. ‘I just wanted to thank Theodora and Emerson. They’ve been so kind to me over the past few days.’ Ben opened the car door. ‘Was that the police I saw earlier?’ Laura continued.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Ben.

  ‘Then they must think that someone at the funeral killed Mr Van Goren.’ Laura sighed. ‘Oh dear.’

  Guests were already congregating at the Carmichael residence when Laura, along with Ben and Joanna, arrived. Ben looked at the strained face of his step-mother. ‘Are you okay, Laura?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine.’ She tapped his arm and walked into the house and through to the living room to greet the guests.

  In the front hall, Ben and Joanna received the continual flow of mourners, amongst them Theodora, followed by Emerson. With her tight black dress accentuating her plump shape, and her long blonde curls swept up and held by a butterfly-shaped hat, Theodora took each of their hands. ‘Darlings, we know how devastated you both must be. Don’t we, Emerson?’ she said, shooting a look his way. ‘And you especially Ben, with Emma still in the hospital. How is she, dear?’

  ‘Only time will tell, Theodora.’ Ben gave a quick smile and removed his hand from her tight grasp. ‘We’ll have to wait and see.’