Poisoned Palette

by Jill Paterson

  ‘I’ll be sorry to see you go, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Williams. I’ll speak to you before I leave.’ Fitzjohn walked on along the corridor, hesitated at his office door and continued to Grieg’s office where he knocked and entered. Grieg looked up at the sound of the door opening, a trace of amusement in his beady brown eyes.

  ‘You took your time,’ he said. ‘I need that office of yours cleared out and you gone within the hour.’

  ‘And a very good afternoon to you too, sir,’ said Fitzjohn.

  ‘You impertinent bastard,’ screeched Grieg a rising redness in his pudgy face. ‘Get out of here before I have you thrown out.’

  ‘Not before I’ve said what I came to say,’ replied Fitzjohn, moving the chair in front of Grieg’s desk aside to stand directly in front the man. ‘I concede you’ve won the battle by having me transferred, but don’t start celebrating yet because you haven’t won the war. I don’t know what strings you pulled to rid yourself of me or who you used to do it, but let me leave you with one thought. I’ll find out and when I do, you’ll wish you hadn’t interfered in my career.’ Fitzjohn’s steely gaze met Grieg’s shifting look before he turned and left the room.

  Closing the door of his office behind him, Fitzjohn stood for a moment, taking comfort in the familiar surroundings while images from the past flashed through his mind. Presently, he walked over to the window and pulled up the blind. How many times had he stood here and looked out onto just such a wet, stormy afternoon? The surrounding buildings soaked to a murky dark grey with rain, the pavement glistening below the street lights and pedestrians hidden under a blanket of umbrellas. Sighing, he turned away and walked over to his desk where Edith’s smiling face looked out at him from the silver picture frame. Reaching for a small cardboard box in the corner next to the filing cabinet, he took the contents of the desk drawers out and placed them inside along with a coffee mug depicting a man having a panic attack in front of his computer screen, given to him by Betts. A grin came to Fitzjohn’s face before he placed it along with Edith’s photograph into the box. As he left the room, he turned back, his eyes glistening.

  In the back seat of the taxi, Fitzjohn sat in silence as he made the journey across Anzac Bridge toward Birchgrove and his sandstone cottage; another hurdle to be faced. When he arrived, the autumn leaves, still wet from the rain, floated down from the trees in the breeze, sticking to the wet garden path. Struggling with the cardboard box and his briefcase, he pushed the front gate open with his knee and as he reached the door, fumbled for his key. Once inside the familiar surroundings, a feeling of calm took hold. He put the box and his briefcase down next to the stairs, took the frame holding Edith’s photograph and set it on the hall table before standing back with a smile. Making his way through to the kitchen, Sophie’s many text books piled on the table and dishes in the drainer at the sink were testament to her presence while he had been away. What would he have done without her support? Anxious to see the garden, he opened the back door and stepped outside before walking between the flowerbeds, taking in their fragrances that wafted in the air as he did so. When he reached the bottom of the garden, he opened the greenhouse door and stepped inside to find the orchids standing straight and tall, their blooms glorious in the humid atmosphere. He switched on the CD player to the side of the door and for the next hour listened to Chopin’s Etude in E Flat as he tended the orchids letting the things that worried him slip away. An hour later, having come to grips with what he knew he had to do, he left the greenhouse and returned to the house, pulled out the phone book from its resting place on the kitchen bookshelf and ran his finger over the numerous real estate agency listings. After choosing one, he picked up the telephone on the kitchen wall and dialled the number.

  To his surprise, an hour later the doorbell sounded. Having had little experience with real estate agents since he and Edith had purchased their cottage, Fitzjohn had no idea what to expect. He opened the door to find a short wiry man wearing a dark grey suit, his long pointed nose supporting plastic horn-rimmed glasses.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Fitzjohn. I’m Owen Carstairs from Sunshine Realty. ‘We spoke on the telephone earlier. My card.’ Carstairs shoved the card into Fitzjohn’s hand.

  ‘You’re prompt, Mr Carstairs.’ Fitzjohn stood back from the doorway and watched Carstairs step inside, his small brown eyes darting instantly through the open doorway into the living room.

  ‘Why don’t we start in here?’ said Carstairs, gliding into the room.

  ‘Good a place as any, I expect,’ said Fitzjohn starting to think the valuation idea had not been one of his better decisions.

  ‘Just look at that fireplace, what a gem,’ continued Carstairs. ‘And the mouldings on the ceiling are exquisite,’ he continued, twirling around in the centre of the room his face turned upwards. And the décor… absolutely charming. Is it of your choosing, or did you engage an interior decorator?’

  ‘An interior decorator,’ replied Fitzjohn, remembering Edith’s enthusiasm and delight as she plunged into the task after he had suggested they refresh their out-dated furnishings.

  ‘Well, remind me to get the name. I could use someone who has such an eye for detail as well as elegance and charm.’ Carstairs looked at Fitzjohn with a quick smile. ‘Shall we carry on?’ Fitzjohn led the way through to the kitchen where the real estate agent scanned the room before heading into the conservatory. ‘This is adorable,’ he gushed before turning back to Fitzjohn. ‘I must say, Mr Fitzjohn, if the rest of the house is as outstanding as what I’ve seen so far, it won’t be on the market for long. Oh, my! What do we have out there?’ Carstairs bolted to the kitchen window and gaped at the garden. ‘I think I’ve died and gone to heaven. What a glorious garden. And a greenhouse!’

  ‘I haven’t decided whether the greenhouse will stay as yet,’ said Fitzjohn.

  ‘Well, my advice is that it should stay. It’s an excellent selling point. Not that you really need one but it is the icing on the cake, so to speak. So much so that I can’t imagine why you’re selling.’ When Fitzjohn was not forthcoming with any information, Carstairs said, ‘And the upstairs, Mr Fitzjohn?’

  After rummaging through each room on the floor above, Fitzjohn led the way back downstairs feeling somewhat invaded by this stranger. ‘So, what’s your valuation?’ he asked, anxious to be rid of the man.

  ‘I’ll have that for you in just a moment.’ Carstairs looked at his clipboard. While he did so, Fitzjohn stepped out onto the back porch feeling sapped by Carstairs's high energy.

  ‘You’re back, I see.’

  Fitzjohn look up to see Rhonda Butler hovering on the other side of the murraya hedge. ‘Yes, Mrs Butler. For a short time.’

  ‘I’ve seen your niece in the evenings. She said you’re working away at the moment.’

  ‘That’s right, I am.’

  ‘Was that a real estate agent I saw you with earlier because if you’re thinking of renting your place out, I hope you’ll allow me to vet the prospective occupants. After all, I’m the one who’ll have to live next door to them.’

  ‘You needn’t worry, Mrs Butler. I’m not putting my home on the rental market. If anything, I’ll be selling in which case I imagine you’ll be the first to know because there’ll be a large, “For Sale”, sign placed in the middle of my front garden in full view of your living room window.’ Rhonda glared at Fitzjohn dumbfounded. I don’t believe it, thought Fitzjohn. I’ve said something that has affected her vocal chords. As Rhonda retreated inside, Carstairs emerged onto the porch.

  ‘Well, Mr Fitzjohn, I can say, with confidence, that your property is valued in the area of one point six to one point eight million.’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘Oh. I take it you were expecting a higher value,’ said Carstairs. ‘Vendors often do, but I’m afraid that at the end of the day, the market sets the price. I can say, however, that in this particular case, my valuation is slightly higher than other properties in the area. Usual
ly, these cottages go for around the one point two million mark. But in those cases, they need varying amounts of refurbishment. Here, however, I can see that there’s nothing to be done. One could move in without a worry.’ Carstairs paused. ‘Of course, if you decide to auction it, you might get a higher price.’

  ‘I’ll give it some thought.’ Fitzjohn escorted Carstairs back through the house towards the front door. As he did so, the door opened and Sophie appeared. A number of things ran through Fitzjohn’s mind, one being that he had not yet told Sophie about his permanent transfer to the Blue Mountains.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry to intrude. I didn’t realise you were home, Uncle Alistair.’

  ‘It’s fine, Sophie,’ Fitzjohn said as he ushered Carstairs out through the front door. ‘Mr Carstairs is just leaving. Thank you, Mr Carstairs. I’ll be in touch,’ he said, closing the door behind him before turning back to see Sophie’s questioning look.

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘It was Mr Carstairs.’

  ‘I know that, but who is he?’ Sophie met Fitzjohn’s gaze. ‘I’m sorry, I’m being nosy. It’s just that you look so flustered.’

  ‘That’s because I wasn’t expecting you to be here at the same time as Mr Carstairs and since you were, I now have to explain something to you.’

  Sophie sat in silence as Fitzjohn recounted the news of his transfer to the Blue Mountains.

  ‘I just don’t see how they can transfer you without any consultation and after so many years of service,’ she said at last. ‘Isn’t there anyone you can appeal to?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  Sophie fell silent before she said, ‘You mustn’t sell the cottage, Uncle Alistair. You really mustn’t. It’s your peaceful place in the world.’

  ‘Under the circumstances it’s not practical to keep it, Sophie. Don’t worry, I’ll find something eventually,’ replied Fitzjohn endeavouring to sound optimistic.

  ‘What about the orchids?’ asked Sophie.

  ‘The orchids do present a problem because I won’t leave them here and I can’t take them with me. I’ll have to give it some thought.’

  Late that afternoon, after Sophie had left, Fitzjohn picked up the wall phone and dialled Carstairs' number.

  ‘Mr Carstairs, I’m ready to list my property.’

  CHAPTER 11

  Fitzjohn made the two-hour journey back to Springwood by train the following morning, enough time to sit and contemplate the turmoil occurring in his life but perhaps more importantly, how Chief Superintendent Grieg fitted into that upheaval. After all, he knew Grieg was involved, if not the driving force. Shaken from his thoughts as the train stopped and the doors opened, Fitzjohn stepped out and felt the bite of fresh mountain air on his cheeks. As he did so, his glasses fogged and he paused to wipe them with his handkerchief before making his way out of the train station and into the parking area where he could see Betts leaning against the car as he waited.

  ‘Morning, Betts.’

  ‘Good morning, sir.’ Betts pushed himself off the side of the car and opened the back door. ‘How did everything go?’

  ‘It’s done. I cleared out my office and said my goodbyes.’ Fitzjohn placed his briefcase on the back seat. ‘I also put my house on the market.’

  ‘I didn’t realise you planned to list it right away, sir,’ said Betts with a frown as both men climbed into the car. ‘It can’t have been an easy decision.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t but I decided it had to be done,’ replied Fitzjohn as he buckled his seatbelt. ‘It didn’t pass Rhonda Butler’s notice either when she saw that real estate fellow out in the garden. She had been under the impression I planned to rent the place out and wanted to vet the prospective tenants. I wouldn’t be surprised if she applies the same rule for anyone who makes an offer on the place.’ Fitzjohn sat back as Betts merged into the traffic. ‘Any news on the case?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, there has been a development, sir. While you’ve been away, I made further inquiries about Patrick Fontaine with an unexpected result. It just so happens that he’s in debt and has been advised by his solicitor to declare bankruptcy.’

  ‘That comes as a surprise,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘I took him for an astute, highly successful businessman. I must be losing my knack for sizing people up or perhaps his affluent appearance clouded my judgment. Of course, the reason he’s in this position could be purely from making some bad investments and not bad business acumen. But either way, bankruptcy would, no doubt, be his last resort because it has all sorts of repercussions.’ Fitzjohn paused. ‘For us, of course, it puts a whole different perspective on the man, being that he’s the sole beneficiary of our victim’s estate. With her death, he’ll be able to clear his debts and avoid bankruptcy altogether.’

  ‘Couldn’t be better timing for him, sir. Then again, he might be our killer but there’s just one catch with that probability; he wasn’t at the auction.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have to be if he had an accomplice,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘After all, if you plan to kill your sibling, I should imagine a bit of distance would not only provide an alibi, but make it easier by taking away the possibility of any last-minute apprehension. And even if that isn’t the case, I should think if the opportunity came your way, you’d prefer to distance yourself from the actual crime.’

  ‘You might be right, sir, because I also discovered that Patrick Fontaine checked into the Marriott Hotel on Phillip Street in Sydney three days before Florence Fontaine’s death and met up with Carolyn Winter and her husband Frank.’

  Fitzjohn stared at Betts, somewhat startled by this revelation. ‘Well, this is a turnaround. Not only has he lied to us about his arrival time in Sydney, but he also lied about his relationship with his stepsister being one of animosity. I seem to remember him saying he hadn’t had any contact with her for years. On top of that, he led us to believe that she could be implicated in the victim’s death. It sounds like he could be setting her up, doesn’t it?’

  Betts pulled over to the curb outside the police station and the two officers made their way inside. ‘Carolyn Winter does have motive concerning the victim, sir,’ continued Betts. ‘I did a further background check on the Winters’ financial position and they don’t have a bean to their name. They rent a house in the outer suburbs of Sydney and they’re behind in their rent. You never know, Patrick might have made her an offer she couldn’t refuse, like a percentage of the estate if she agreed to attend the auction and dispose of Florence.’

  ‘It sounds feasible, albeit cold-blooded,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘Still, when it comes to money, some people will do anything.’ Fitzjohn thought for a moment before he continued, ‘It might all come to nought, Betts, but I think there’s enough here to warrant speaking to both Patrick Fontaine and Carolyn Winter again. We’ll start with Mr Fontaine. Ask him to come in for a formal interview, will you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Fitzjohn and Betts entered the interview room to find Patrick Fontaine sitting alone. Dressed in a dark grey suit with the Windsor knot of his blue tie set flawlessly into his collar, and his diamond-encrusted cuff links showing just below his coat sleeves, he looked the epitome of wealth and sophistication rather than a man on the verge of bankruptcy.

  ‘Mr Fontaine, thank you for making yourself available,’ said Fitzjohn, placing his papers on the table and settling himself into the opposite chair.

  ‘If it helps with your investigation, Chief Inspector, I’m only too pleased to be of assistance,’ replied Patrick with an air of innate confidence as he clasped his hands together on the table.

  ‘That’s gratifying but before we commence, I take it you were informed that you can have a solicitor present,’ said Fitzjohn, looking at the empty chair next to Fontaine.

  ‘I was, but I didn’t see any reason why I should need one.’

  ‘Very well, but if you change your mind during the course of our interview, please let us know. We’ll start by introducing ourselves.’

  ‘You’re r
ecording this?’ asked Fontaine as he noticed Betts preparing the recording device.

  ‘It’s purely routine when conducting a formal interview,’ replied Fitzjohn.

  ‘Even so, I came here to help, not to be recorded.’

  ‘I’m afraid those are the rules, Mr Fontaine. I don’t make them, I just follow them. If it will make you feel more at ease to have a solicitor present, we can adjourn the interview.’

  ‘No, that won’t be necessary,’ replied Patrick.

  ‘Very well, we’ll get started.’

  After introductions were made and Fitzjohn had advised Patrick Fontaine of his right to remain silent, he commenced by asking, ‘Since we last spoke, we’ve received information that is in conflict with what you told us previously and as such, we’d like to go over everything again, just to make sure we have all our facts correct.’

  ‘What conflicting information?’ asked Patrick.

  ‘It’s in regards to your arrival in Sydney last Tuesday the nineteenth of April. It was the nineteenth, wasn’t it?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Patrick.

  ‘Did you come directly to Leura from the Kingsford Smith Airport on that day?’

  ‘Yes. After we landed, I rented a car and drove straight up here.’ Fontaine moved in his chair with an air of impatience. This is all so trivial, Chief Inspector. What’s your point?’

  ‘It might appear trivial, Mr Fontaine, but I find any information no matter how inconsequential it might appear, can expose problems during an investigation. For example, your date of arrival in Sydney has confirmed that you weren’t on the passenger manifest for the flight from Perth at midnight on Tuesday, the nineteenth of April.’

  ‘Of course, I was,’ replied Fontaine, indignantly.

  ‘Then why does the information we’ve received suggest you weren’t? asked Fitzjohn. ‘Unless, of course, you were travelling under an alias.’