ONCE UPON A LIE (A Fitzjohn Mystery) Page 9

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  CHAPTER 13

  Next morning, Fitzjohn arrived at Kings Cross Police Station at first light, a routine he had followed since Edith’s death. After tending his beloved orchids, he rarely lingered at home where his thoughts might dwell on the past. Instead, he found the early hour an ideal time to ponder his investigations before the day got underway. But this morning when he opened the Incident Room door, he was not alone.

  Ron Carling, bent over Fitzjohn’s desk, straightened when the door opened. ‘Ah, Alistair. Just looking for some papers. I thought I might have left them here after our meeting last night. Seems I didn’t.’

  Carling gave a quick smile as Fitzjohn’s thoughts went back to the previous day when he had chanced to see Ron talking to Chief Superintendent Grieg. The possibility that Ron could be Grieg’s mole filled Fitzjohn with not only disappointment, but a certain sense of loss. After all, he and Ron were part of that dwindling, older establishment of detectives. They went back a long way, and even though they had rarely worked together, a certain amount of trust had built up as their paths crossed over the years. Or so Fitzjohn thought. Had he been wrong?

  Placing his briefcase on the desk Fitzjohn removed his suit coat and hung it on the back of the chair as he tried to think of a way to find out whether his suspicions about Ron were correct. ‘I’ll let you know if they turn up,’ he said, sitting down as Ron turned to leave. ‘By the way,’ he continued, ‘I want to thank you for all your help getting Betts and me settled in. And for the investigative team you’ve provided. They’re excellent. Thank you.’

  ‘We aim to please,’ said Ron, smiling. ‘How’s the investigation going anyway?’

  ‘It’s coming along. And as you said on my arrival. My secondment has its advantages in that it’s a respite from Grieg, although having said that, he still manages to make his presence felt.’

  ‘Oh? In what way?’ Ron sat down on the corner of one of the desks.

  ‘Grieg’s got a mole,’ said Fitzjohn.

  ‘A mole? Here?’ Carling chuckled. ‘You’re becoming paranoid, Alistair.’

  ‘I wish I was.’

  ‘What on earth makes you think that?’ asked Ron Carling.

  ‘Because yesterday when I spoke to Grieg, he knew things about my investigation that he couldn’t possibly know. Not without an informant.’

  ‘Do you have any thoughts on who it might be?’

  At that moment, the Incident Room door opened and Betts walked in. Ron Carling jumped off the desk.

  ‘Well, I’d better get a move on. We can continue this conversation later.’ Ron acknowledged Betts as he left the room.

  ‘Any word on Whitehead, Betts?’ asked Fitzjohn opening his briefcase and taking his papers out.

  ‘Yes, sir. It seems the real Pierce Whitehead died three years ago in a light plane crash in South Africa.’

  The papers Fitzjohn held fell on to the desk. ‘Isn’t that around the same time our winemaker friend was employed by Claudia Rossi to manage Five Oaks Winery?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Charlotte Rossi said her mother hired Whitehead in 2010 on a five year contract.’ Betts sat down at his desk. ‘I’ve got a couple of the guys looking into who our Pierce Whitehead really is.’

  ‘Good,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘Hopefully it doesn’t take too long. However, in the meantime, I think it best we keep referring to him as Pierce Whitehead. Just to prevent any confusion. And I want him watched in case he gets the idea that we’re on to him.’

  ‘Now, I’d like to go through everything once again, Betts, but before we start, there’s something I want to ask you.’

  ‘What’s that, sir?’

  Fitzjohn hesitated before deciding not to tell Betts about the suspected mole. ‘On second thought, it can wait.’ Fitzjohn reorganised the papers on his desk. ‘What do we have?’

  Betts looked back down at his notes, tapping his pen on the desk before he said, ‘The way I see it, we’ve got two people who benefit financially from Michael Rossi’s death. His niece, Charlotte Rossi, and his estranged wife, Stella Rossi. The imposter, Whitehead, and Nesbit only had their pride and anger to satisfy.’

  ‘And what about Prentice?’ asked Fitzjohn removing his glasses, and placing them carefully on to his desk.’

  ‘Well, if Prentice did get word that Michael Rossi planned to buy him out of the business, not only did he have the motive to kill Rossi, but I daresay the opportunity as well as the means, sir.’

  ‘True,’ replied Fitzjohn, putting his glasses back on, and looking around at the whiteboard. ‘What about Robert Nesbit? Any joy from the staff at the hospital?’

  Betts turned the page of his notebook. ‘I spoke to the nurse who was on duty on Friday night. She remembered Richard Edwards having two visitors. The first, a man answering the victim’s description. He arrived around 3:20pm just as she started her shift, and left about 40 minutes later. A second man, identifying himself as Robert Nesbit, arrived about 8:30pm.’

  ‘Did she notice what time Nesbit left?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Fitzjohn leaned back in his chair. ‘So, Nesbit could have left the hospital at anytime during that evening. Gone back to Rushcutters Bay, killed the victim and returned to the hospital. Have another word with the staff on duty that night, Betts. See if anyone noticed Robert Nesbit coming or going.’

  Fitzjohn got to his feet and commenced pacing the length of the Incident Room. ‘Let’s turn our attention to our victim, Michael Rossi. You say he left the hospital just after 4pm. Yet he didn’t arrive at Esme Timmons’s home until six that evening. So, where was he in those intervening two hours?’

  ‘Presumably trying, and not finding whatever he was looking for, later, in his sister’s study, sir,’ answered Betts. ‘Speaking of which. Charlotte Rossi called in to the station today to report that Miss Timmons has found something missing from the study, after all.’ Betts looked down at his notebook again. ‘It’s described as a Limoges, porcelain footed perfume bottle. Hand painted in violets on a cream background. Oh, and there’s a small nick in one of its feet. The makers mark is D & Co France.’ Betts looked up. ‘Shouldn’t be too difficult to identify if it turns up.’

  ‘Did Ms Rossi know it’s value?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘No, sir. She just said it has a great deal of sentimental value for Miss Timmons. It’s a family heirloom.’ Betts leaned back in his chair. ‘It could mean that the break-in had nothing to do with Michael Rossi’s death, sir. Or, the perfume bottle was taken to make us think that. Especially in light of the forensic report I’ve just received concerning Claudia Rossi’s diary.’ Betts handed the report to Fitzjohn and the continued. ‘The report concludes that the slip of paper found in the victim’s hand, did come from Claudia Rossi’s diary.’

  ‘Did forensics find anything written on that piece of paper,’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘No, sir.’

  Fitzjohn looked thoughtful. ‘Well, even though Michael Rossi took the diary with him when he left Esme Timmons’s home on Friday evening, it doesn’t mean to say it was a significant factor in his death. But having said that, I want a list of everyone mentioned in that diary.’

  ‘It’s done, sir.’ Betts grinned, handing Fitzjohn the list. ‘Among them are Claudia Rossi’s friend, Phillipa Braithwaite, and two men. Aiden Maxwell and a Douglas Porteous. Maxwell’s an art dealer. He has three commercial galleries. Two here in Sydney, in Paddington and Mosman, and a third in Carlton in Melbourne. As it happens, Phillipa Braithwaite manages the Mosman gallery as well as the one in Melbourne.’

  ‘We met Phillipa Braithwaite when we first spoke to Charlotte Rossi, didn’t we? A friend of Claudia’s since school days, I seem to remember Miss Timmons saying.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And Douglas Porteous? Who is he, exactly?’

  ‘I have Williams working on that, sir.’

  ‘Then let’s start with Phillipa Braithwaite. Being an old school friend, she might be able to help us piece
together Claudia Rossi’s movements in the time leading up to her death. Where can we find her, Betts?’

  ‘At the Mosman gallery, sir.’

  After crossing the Harbour Bridge to the North Shore, Betts tapped his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel as they continued, at a snails pace, along Military Road.

  ‘Where exactly is this gallery?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Cowles Road, sir. At this next set of lights.’ Betts did a quick right turn in to a tree-lined street, awash with cafes and boutiques. He pulled over to the curb in front of a gallery nestled amongst them. ‘This is it, sir.’

  ‘The ArtSpace Gallery,’ said Fitzjohn, peering out of the passenger window. ‘Looks impressive, but I think we may have come at a bad time.’ Betts followed Fitzjohn’s gaze to see a short, dark haired man carrying two large bouquets of white carnations. Muttering to himself, he headed for a white van. Behind him came a tall, shapely woman wearing a colourful, blousy, top over a pair of slim line slacks.

  ‘That’s her, isn’t it, Betts?’ asked Fitzjohn. ‘Phillipa Braithwaite?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Fitzjohn and Betts left their car.

  ‘You do understand, don’t you, Mr Mason? I did specifically order red roses.’ With her claims ignored, Phillipa threw her hands in the air and turned back. As she did so, she caught site of Fitzjohn and Betts at the curb.

  ‘Looks like we’ve caught you at a bad time, Ms Braithwaite,’ said Fitzjohn.

  With a puzzled look Phillipa stared at Fitzjohn before a smile came to her face. ‘It’s Chief Inspector Fitzjohn, isn’t it? You brought the awful news to Charlotte about Michael Rossi last Saturday morning.’

  ‘Yes. And this is Detective Sergeant Betts.’

  ‘Of course.’ Phillipa pushed her long wavy brown hair back from her face, her dark eyes flashing. ‘You’ll have to excuse all the fuss. We’re in the throes of preparing for an exhibition this afternoon,’ She glanced disapprovingly at the florist’s van, pulling away from the curb. ‘Not everything is going to plan.’ Phillipa hesitated. ‘Is there something I can do for you, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘We wondered whether you could answer a few questions, Ms Braithwaite; concerning Claudia Rossi.’

  ‘Claudia?’ Phillipa Braithwaite’s brow furrowed. ‘Well, yes, of course. Come inside, won’t you.’

  Fitzjohn and Betts followed Phillipa in to the gallery.

  ‘I see you showcase a wide variety of work,’ said Fitzjohn, looking around.

  ‘We do,’ replied Phillipa, appearing pleased at Fitzjohn’s interest. ‘And it’s been a huge success. At different times you can find not only paintings in various mediums, but sculpture, photography and ceramics. But as you can see, at the moment, it’s all a bit of a mess. I think we’ll talk in my office.’ Fitzjohn and Betts followed Phillipa through the maze of people and paintings to a windowless room at the back of the gallery. ‘It’s not ideal, but I guarantee it will be quiet,’ she said closing the door. ‘Won’t you sit down.’ Fitzjohn and Betts settled themselves, Betts fumbling for his notebook. Phillipa sat in a large swivel chair, clasping her hands together on the desk. ‘Now, you said you wanted to ask me about Claudia.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘We understand you two were friends.’

  ‘We were.’ Phillipa smiled to herself. ‘We became friends on our first day at boarding school, here in Sydney. We were both twelve at the time. Claudia’s parents had decided it was to her benefit to be educated in the city, and mine… well, mine were in the midst of a rather nasty divorce.’ Phillipa paused. ‘What exactly do you want to know, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘We’re trying to piece together Claudia’s movements just prior to her death.’

  ‘Oh.’ Phillipa gave Fitzjohn a quizzical look. ‘Well, it was quite some time ago.’

  ‘So we understand,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘The week of July 11th, 2010, to be exact.’

  ‘So it was. Well, Claudia and I had planned to have dinner together on the Thursday evening of that week, but she cancelled at the last minute. She said her brother, Michael, had asked her to make up numbers at his dinner party. So as it turned out, I didn’t see her at all before she became ill. We only spoke on the telephone. And that was when she rang to cancel our dinner engagement.’

  ‘Did she speak about anything else when she rang, Ms Braithwaite?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  Phillipa thought for a moment. ‘She did, as a matter of fact. You know, after all that’s happened, I’d almost forgotten about it. She told me she’d just had another row with Richard. He was her partner. They’d separated earlier in 2010, and had just got back together again. She was upset because she suspected that Richard was straying again. She said she thought she’d made a mistake to take him back. It was the last conversation we had.’ Phillipa fell silent as if reflecting on that conversation.

  ‘We understand she died from liver failure caused by ingesting a particular lethal type of mushroom,’ continued Fitzjohn, taking the conversation on to a different path. ‘A mushroom that isn’t found here in New South Wales. It is, however, found in Canberra, and we understand that Claudia spent some time there before she died. Do you know if Claudia was in a habit of picking wild mushrooms, Ms Braithwaite?’

  ‘She did if she came across them when she was out walking in the mornings. I know because she'd done so when we'd walked together. But as you say, the variety that killed her doesn’t grow here in New South Wales. At the inquest it was thought she’d picked them while she’d been in Canberra during that week. But you probably know that already.’ Phillipa paused. ‘Can I ask why you’re enquiring about Claudia, Chief Inspector? I thought you were investigating Michael’s death?’

  ‘We are, Ms Braithwaite, but in so doing, questions about his sister’ death have been raised.’

  ‘Well, all that I can tell you is that Claudia and Michael were very close. He was devastated when she died. They were twins, of course, so perhaps the tie is greater. I don’t know.’ Phillipa sighed.

  ‘When was the last time you saw Michael Rossi, Ms Braithwaite?’

  ‘Oh. I can’t remember exactly. And the only place we ever did meet up was if he happened to drop in to see Charlotte when I was there.’

  ‘So presumably, not someone you knew well.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Very well. I think that will be all then,’ said Fitzjohn, getting to his feet. ‘Oh. There is something else. I understand you manage this gallery for a man by the name of Aiden Maxwell.’

  ‘Yes. I have done since it opened in 2008.’

  ‘Right. It’s just that Claudia had Mr Maxwell’s name penciled in to her diary. Can you tell us what connection she had with him?’

  ‘It was restoration work. Aiden used Claudia’s expertise in that area on many occasions. And she’s sadly missed, I might add.’

  Fitzjohn and Betts made their way, once again, through the commotion in the gallery, and out to their car. ‘Well, Betts. We didn’t learn much more about Claudia Rossi other than she cancelled having dinner with Phillipa Braithwaite two days before she died.’ Fitzjohn sighed and pulled his seat belt on. ‘I want you to pay a call to the New South Wales Art Gallery next, where Claudia used to work. You never know, Michael Rossi might have called in there on Friday if he was making enquiries about his sister. Oh, and have a word to Charlotte Rossi about her mother too. While you’re doing that, I’ll speak to that art dealer, Aiden Maxwell.’

  Fitzjohn arrived at the Paddington gallery amidst an exhibition. Undaunted, if not pleased, he made his way unobtrusively inside, welcoming the opportunity to view each painting he passed. ‘Welcome to our exhibition, sir,’ said a voice all too soon. Fitzjohn turned to see a young fair-haired man with a wide smile. ‘This is our program,’ he continued, handing Fitzjohn a colourful brochure. ‘If there’s anything I can help you with, please don’t hesitate to ask.’

  ‘There is as a matter of fact,’ said Fitzjohn, taking the brochure. ‘I’m here to see Aiden Maxwell.’
The young man smiled.

  ‘Ah. Our exalted leader. Now, where did I see him last,’ he said, looking around the crowded space. ‘Yes, there he is on the mezzanine level, sir. The fellow in the dark blue suit and red bow tie.’ As he spoke, the man with the bow tie looked down over the railing. ‘This gentleman would like to speak to you Aiden.’

  Fitzjohn made his way through the gathering to the foot of a spiral staircase to be met by Maxwell as he descended. A slim man with fine sharp features, Fitzjohn detected an air of smoothness about him. ‘Is there a particular piece you’re interested in, Mr...?’

  ‘It’s Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn. I’m from the New South Wales Police.’ Fitzjohn noted Maxwell’s disapproving air. ‘I realise this isn’t the most appropriate time…’

  ‘You’re right, it isn’t.’ Maxwell’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Nevertheless,’ said Fitzjohn, undaunted. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’

  Maxwell pursed his lips. ‘Follow me, Chief Inspector.’

  Fitzjohn fell in to step with Maxwell. ‘It’s a fine exhibition. I regret my visit doesn’t allow me the time to enjoy it.’ Maxwell passed Fitzjohn a churlish look as he opened the door to his office. Lavish beyond his expectations, Fitzjohn took in the exquisite detail on the Chippendale desk with its inlay and marquetry of flowers and birds. A piece of art in itself, he thought. The paintings on the walls and tufted leather chairs added to the richness of the room.

  ‘Have a seat, Chief Inspector.’ Maxwell settled himself behind his desk, sitting back and eyeing Fitzjohn with an air of arrogance. ‘Now, what can I do for you?’