ONCE UPON A LIE (A Fitzjohn Mystery) Page 8

  ‘If you can convince my neighbour of that fact, Betts, I’ll give you a medal.’

  ‘I take it you’ve spoken to him about it, sir.’

  ‘It’s not a him, Betts, it’s a rather formidable woman by the name of Rhonda Butler. And yes, we’ve had words. On several occasions. But it hasn’t done any good. She refuses to take any action because the tree provides her house and garden with shade throughout the summer months.’ Fitzjohn lifted his eyebrows.

  ‘Nevertheless, I think you’re within your rights to, at least, have that branch removed, sir.’

  ‘I know. In fact, I rang the council this morning. They’re on their way now.’ Fitzjohn looked at his watch. ‘Or so I thought. If they take much longer, I won’t have time to drop my suits off at my tailor before Reynolds and I speak to Stella Rossi.’

  ‘I can wait here for the council to arrive, sir.’

  Fitzjohn eyed Betts over his glasses. ‘Have you ever had dealings with any councils, Betts?’

  ‘No, but I’ve watched my mother in action. I’m sure I’ve learnt something along the way. If you like, I can get Mum over here. She’ll soon sort this out.’

  ‘Thanks, but I think we’ll leave your mother out of this. I’d appreciate it though if you could wait here for the people from the council to arrive. I’m expecting they’ll come prepared to take that branch down and when they start cutting, I’m afraid Rhonda will go spare. To put it politely, she’s highly strung.’

  ‘You mean she’s neurotic, sir.’

  ‘I didn’t say that, Betts. But be warned. Rhonda Butler is a daunting adversary.’

  ‘Leave her to me, sir.’

  Fitzjohn left his tailor’s shop that morning preoccupied with thoughts of how Betts was getting on with the council, and with Rhonda Butler. Was the threatening tree branch finally being cut down, or had Rhonda halted proceedings by chaining herself to the offending branch? With this last thought in mind, Fitzjohn took his mobile phone from his coat pocket and started to punch in Betts’s number when his attention was drawn to two men walking ahead, in deep conversation. Fitzjohn slowed his pace when he realised who they were. Chief Superintendent Grieg, and Ron Carling? Together? For what purpose? Fitzjohn’s thoughts went back to his meeting with Grieg the previous day, and the knowledge Grieg had of Graeme Wyngard’s complaint about his yacht being impounded. Did this mean that Ron Carling was the mole?

  Confused as well as perturbed, Fitzjohn jumped in to the first taxi at a rank along O’Connell Street and sat back stiffly as it took off into the traffic. His mind traversed through all the years he had known Ron Carling. A man he had always considered his friend. Not to mention one who had made it clear, right from their first days on the force, that he did not like Grieg and would never consider working with him. So, if that was the case, what were Ron and Grieg doing together now?

  This last thought lingered with Fitzjohn as he and Reynolds started out for their interview with Stella Rossi. And it continued until Reynolds pulled up outside her Cammeray home where a set of garage doors, and a tall wrought iron gate, was all that gave any hint that a house lay beyond. ‘Right, Reynolds,’ said Fitzjohn, climbing out of the car. ‘Let’s see if Mrs Rossi’s alibi gels with Prentice’s, shall we?’ Fitzjohn opened the gate and the two officers descended a set of stone steps in to a small secluded garden. The front door to the residence lay down yet another set of steps. After pressing the doorbell, they waited before the door opened and an attractive woman in her late forties appeared. Tall and willowy, her dark hair swept up and held by an elaborate comb, she looked guardedly at the two men. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Mrs Stella Rossi?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn, and this is Detective Sergeant Reynolds. We’re from the New South Wales Police Force. We’d like to speak to you in connection with your husband, Michael Rossi. May we come in?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Actually I’m glad you’ve come to see me,’ she said as she led the way along a wide hallway that ran the full depth of the house. ‘I heard about Michael’s death on the news on Saturday morning, but I haven’t heard anything since.’ She glanced at Fitzjohn. ‘I’m still having difficulty believing what happened to him.’ They emerged in to a large living, dining area, its floor to ceiling glass bi-fold doors and windows revealing magnificent views over Long Bay. ‘Have a seat, gentleman.’ Stella Rossi gestured to several couches; not unlike the ones at the victim’s home in Rushcutters Bay. ‘Can I get you both a refreshment?’

  ‘That’s very kind, Mrs Rossi, but we’re fine, thank you,’ replied Fitzjohn.

  Stella Rossi nodded and sat on a couch, smoothing down the snug white slacks she wore. ‘I take it you know that Michael and I were separated.’

  ‘Yes, we are aware of that, Mrs Rossi,’ answered Fitzjohn, looking around the room as he settled himself. ‘Did you have much contact with your husband after the separation?’

  ‘Not a lot, no, but we did keep in touch. Mostly by telephone.’

  ‘And when was the last time you spoke to him?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, it was the day he died. I telephoned Michael to see how he was.’ Stella Rossi caught Fitzjohn’s questioning look. ‘He was a complex man, Chief Inspector. I worried about him. I had no idea it would be the last time we’d speak.’ She looked away, her eyes blinking back tears. ‘You know, I’ve been thinking that if I hadn’t left Michael, this would never have happened.’

  Fitzjohn waited before he continued, ‘I know this is difficult, Mrs Rossi, but to your knowledge, did your husband have any enemies?’

  ‘Enemies?’ Stella grabbed a tissue from the box on the coffee table in front of her and dabbed her nose. ‘I don’t know. It’s been over two years since Michael and I have lived together. The only person I know who didn’t like Michael is Robert Nesbit. And who could blame him.’ Stella shook her head. ‘I take it you know about the reason, so I won’t bore you with a repetition.’

  ‘We know that your husband and Robert Nesbit were business partners and friends at one time,’ Mrs Rossi, ‘so it would be helpful to us if you could fill us in on what happened to change that.’

  For the next few minutes, Fitzjohn and Reynolds listened to Stella Rossi’s account of her estranged husband’s love affair with Robert Nesbit’s wife. ‘It ruined Robert’s marriage, of course, not to mention our own.’ Stella glanced out to a yacht moored in the harbour at the end of the garden. ‘The ideal home for a man who loved yachts and sailing wouldn’t you say, Chief Inspector? And yet he threw it all away. Our actions can be so life changing. It’s frightening. Still, I can’t grumble. Michael and I had an amicable settlement that left us both financially secure. He insisted I have the house. It appeased his conscience, I suppose.’

  ‘So I take it you don’t expect to be a beneficiary of your husband’s estate,’ said Fitzjohn.

  ‘I wouldn’t expect to be, but as it turns out, I am. Michael didn’t change his will after we separated. I know because he told me. Again, I think it appeased his conscience.’

  Fitzjohn nodded. ‘There’s just one other question I have to ask, Mrs Rossi, and that is, where were you on Friday evening between the hours of eight and midnight?’

  A look of indignation came to Stella Rossi’s face. ‘You’re not suggesting…’

  ‘I’m sure you can appreciate the importance of knowing where everyone, who knew your husband was at the time of his death, Mrs Rossi.’

  ‘Well, since you put it that way. I attended a function at the art gallery with my friend, Janet Gibson. You can check with her. We left the gallery around 8:30pm and then... I met another friend.’ Stella hesitated. ‘Actually, it’s a rather delicate situation. You see, he’s married.’

  ‘Can you give us his name? So we can corroborate your alibi.’

  Stella grimaced. ‘Is that altogether necessary, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘It is, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well, this is embarrassing because I wa
s with Nigel Prentice, Michael’s business partner. We’ve been seeing each other for the last couple of months.’ Stella Rossi caught Fitzjohn’s eye. ‘It’s shabby of me I know, but I’ve been so lonely.’

  ‘Might I asked how you and Nigel Prentice spent the evening, Mrs Rossi?’

  ‘We went for a drive. Up as far as Colloroy, I think.’

  ‘Well, their alibi’s match, sir,’ said Reynolds as he followed Fitzjohn back through the garden to the car. ‘And you can’t help but feel sorry for the poor woman, can you? She seems to think that if she hadn’t left her husband, he might still be alive.’

  ‘It’s part of the human condition, Reynolds. We feel responsible and guilt for much of which we’re not.’ Fitzjohn climbed into the car and pulled his seat belt on, his thoughts going to Edith. ‘Even so, let’s not forget the fact that with the death of Michael Rossi, Stella Rossi and Nigel Prentice now own Rossi & Prentice Yachting Electronics Pty Ltd. Which means, they both had motive to kill our victim.’

  An hour later Fitzjohn sat at his desk in the Incident Room at Kings Cross Police Station turning his pen end for end, his thoughts not only on whether Ron Carling was Chief Superintendent Grieg’s mole, but also the fate of the tree branch. As he sat there lost in thought, the door opened and Betts walked in. Fitzjohn sat forward. ‘Tell me that the branch has been taken down,’ he said.

  Betts shook his head and slumped into his chair. ‘I’m sorry, sir. You were right. Rhonda Butler is one difficult woman. She threatened to phone the police if we touched the tree.’

  ‘But you are the police, Betts.’

  ‘That fact didn’t sink in, sir.’

  Fitzjohn threw his pen on to his desk. ‘What did the people from the council suggest I do?’

  ‘Unfortunately, Mrs Butler put the wind up them, sir, and they left in a hurry.’

  ‘Mmm. Let me guess. Rhonda dropped a few names and told them that if they so much as looked at her tree, none of them would have jobs by tomorrow morning.’ Betts nodded. ‘It’s her usual line of defence.’

  ‘Well, it worked,’ said Betts. ‘They packed up and left. Said they be in touch.’

  Fitzjohn nodded. ‘Well, you did your best under the circumstances. Rhonda is an indomitable character. How did you get on with the insurance company?’

  ‘I had better luck there, sir. As the solicitor said on Sunday, the beneficiary of Claudia Rossi’s life insurance policy was her partner, Richard Edwards. The insurance company paid out the policy of one million dollars, but not until April of 2011. Almost a year after her death.’

  ‘Has the Coroner’s report on Claudia Rossi come through yet?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Yes, sir. It just arrived.’ Betts took the report out of his briefcase and laid it on the desk in front of him. ‘She died from hepatic failure. In layman’s terms, acute liver failure. The postmortem examination revealed she’d ingested some form of fungi. And from her initial presentation at the hospital, it was thought to have been amanita phalloides. Otherwise known as death cap mushrooms.’ Betts grimaced. ‘It’s a grisly death, sir.’

  ‘It sounds it. Where are these mushrooms found?’

  Betts turned to the next page. ‘It says here they’re originally from the northern hemisphere, but can be found in south-eastern Australia, predominantly in the suburbs of Adelaide, Canberra and Melbourne as well as some Victorian towns.’

  ‘But not here in New South Wales?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘So where did Claudia Rossi come by them, I wonder?’

  ‘The Coroner’s findings are inconclusive on that,’ replied Betts, ‘although it was thought she probably picked the mushrooms herself while she was on a visit to the National Art Gallery in Canberra. Apparently, Claudia travelled by car to Canberra in July, 2010 to do some work at the national gallery. I’m waiting for the gallery to confirm the exact dates she was there.’ Betts handed the report to Fitzjohn.

  For the next few minutes, Fitzjohn read through it. ‘You’re right, Betts,’ he said at last. ‘Dying by ingesting death cap mushrooms is a most grisly death. The poor woman.’ He closed the report and sat back in his chair. ‘That explains why the insurance company took their time paying out the policy. One million dollars is a tidy sum.’

  ‘Both Claudia Rossi and Richard Edwards were life insured for the same amount, sir. Apparently a precaution so their mortgage could be paid out if something were to happen to either one of them.’

  ‘Seems reasonable. But in light of the fact that Michael Rossi wanted to speak to his solicitor about the policy, I think we should spend some time finding out everything we can about Claudia Rossi, including the circumstances surrounding her death. And I think her partner, Richard Edwards, would be a good place to start.’ As Fitzjohn spoke the Incident Room door opened and Detective Senior Constable Williams walked in.

  ‘I have that information you wanted on Robert Nesbit, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Ah, good. Take a seat, Williams,’ said Fitzjohn, wondering again whether Williams or Ron Carling could be Grieg’s mole. ‘What do you have for us?’

  Williams sauntered across the room to sit on the edge of a desk in front of Fitzjohn. ‘Robert Nesbit is a naval architect, and was joint owner of a yacht design business until its collapse in December 2009. His partners were a Richard Edwards and the victim, Michael Rossi.’

  ‘Richard Edwards?’ Fitzjohn shot a look at Betts. ‘Go on, Williams.’

  ‘The collapse of the company happened not long after Michael Rossi pulled out of the business, taking his capital with him. Since then Mr Nesbit’s life has changed dramatically. His marriage ended around the same time as the business. A number of his properties were sold off during the divorce settlement and he now lives in a modest apartment in Double Bay. He’s still a member of the Cruising Yacht Club. A life member, actually. And well known in yachting circles. Apparently he can be found there most days.’

  ‘And, it would seem, had motive to kill Michael Rossi,’ added Fitzjohn. ‘I think we’ll have a word with Mr Nesbit.’

  After arriving at the Cruising Yacht Club, Fitzjohn and Betts gained entrance and made their way through to a sun drenched deck overlooking the clubs marina, and Rushcutters Bay.

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen.’ Fitzjohn turned to see the barman looking expectantly at them. ‘Can I get you something?’ he asked as he wiped the counter.

  ‘We’re looking for Mr Robert Nesbit,’ replied Fitzjohn ‘The attendant at the front desk said we’d find him out here.’

  The barman nodded. ‘He’s the gentleman over there, sitting alone, wearing the blue shirt.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Followed by Betts, Fitzjohn made his way between the tables that buzzed with the lunchtime crowd. Robert Nesbit looked round as they approached. A commanding looking man in his late fifties with piercing blue eyes and a ruddy complexion, he gave them a questioning look.

  ‘Mr Nesbit?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Yes.’ Nesbit got to his feet. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘We’re from the New South Wales Police, Mr Nesbit. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn. This is Detective Sergeant Betts. We’d like to speak to you in connection with the death of Michael Rossi. Is there somewhere we can talk?’

  ‘We can talk here, Chief Inspector.’ Nesbit gestured to the other chairs at his table. ‘As a matter of fact, I was just sitting here thinking about Mike. It’s been an awful shock.’

  ‘We understand you spoke to Nigel Prentice on Friday wishing to speak to Michael Rossi,’ said Fitzjohn, settling himself in to a chair opposite Nesbit.

  ‘I did, but I was told that Mike was out of town and unavailable. I got him later on his mobile though.’

  ‘I see. Was there any particular reason you wanted to speak to him?’

  ‘Yes, it was about a mutual colleague, Richard Edwards. Richard’s in St Vincent’s Hospital, I’m afraid. He’s very ill. He’s not expected to live. I wanted to tell Mike how grave his condition has become, and also to pass o
n a message from Richard.’

  ‘What was that message?’

  ‘That Richard needed to speak to Mike about his sister, Claudia. I don’t know what about. Richard didn’t say.’ Nesbit paused. ‘Perhaps I should explain who Richard is, Chief Inspector. He was Claudia’s partner. She died in 2010. The three of us, Mike, Richard and I had been in business together at one time.’ Nesbit looked at his watch. ‘I’m afraid that you’re going to have to excuse me, gentlemen. I’ve got to get back to hospital. Is there anything else?’

  ‘Just one thing,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘We understand you spoke to Michael Rossi, here at the club, on Friday night.’

  ‘You’re well informed, Chief Inspector. Yes, we did speak on Friday night, after Mike had been to the hospital.’

  ‘Did he say why Richard Edwards had wanted to speak to him?’

  ‘No. He just told me that Richard wasn’t expected to make it through the night.’

  ‘Do you know what time Michael Rossi left the club?’

  ‘It was just before 8pm. I remember because I left a few minutes later.’

  ‘And where were you going, Mr Nesbit?’

  ‘Back to the hospital.’

  ‘I see. How long were you there?’

  ‘Until quite late. Eleven or so.’

  ‘And Mr Edwards never made any indication as to what he spoke to Michael Rossi about?

  ‘No. He wasn’t conscious for most of the time I was there.’

  ‘When you left the CYC on Friday evening, did you see anyone about?’

  ‘There were a few people out walking. It was a warm night.’ Robert Nesbit flinched as his mobile rang. ‘Excuse me.’ Nesbit answered the call and his face darkened before he said, ‘Richard died a few minutes ago.’

  Fitzjohn and Betts emerged from the CYC and made their way back to their car. ‘Well, it seems it was Richard Edwards and something concerning Claudia that prompted Michael Rossi to return to Sydney early last Friday, Betts. Now we just have to find out what it was all about.’ Fitzjohn sat back in the passenger seat of the car as Betts turned the ignition. ‘It’s unfortunate we weren’t able to speak to Richard Edwards, but it wasn’t to be. Whatever he spoke to our victim about died with him.’ Fitzjohn paused. ‘Let’s turn our attention to Robert Nesbit. Make some enquiries, Betts. I want confirmation that he was at St Vincent’s Hospital for the entire evening on Friday.’