‘If that’s his ultimate plan, I suspect it wouldn’t be realised without the acquisition of Lyrebird Lodge estate seeing it’s in the middle. That, if for no other reason, makes his motive to kill Florence Fontaine stronger than ever, wouldn’t you think?’
‘It does, sir.’ Betts turned the page of his notebook and a hint of a smile came to his face as he read the next name on his list. ‘Next, we have Audrey Green.’
‘Ah, yes. I remember you saying she’d displayed a remarkable amount of composure for someone who had just witnessed a death.’
‘I did, sir, but that was before I’d learnt about her husband’s obsession with the victim and the fact that Mrs Green loathed Florence believing that she encouraged her husband’s flirtations.’
‘So, her motive would have been one of passion; an age-old motive.’
‘And an age-old method, sir. Poison! Generally, but not always thought to be favoured by women. We could probably put Carolyn Winter’s method into the same category, I suppose, with planning to have the victim overdose on sleeping pills.’
‘If that is, in fact, what was planned,’ replied Fitzjohn.
‘Do you still think she changed her story and she and Patrick Fontaine are responsible for the victim’s death, sir?’
‘At this point in time, I do, because it seems far too much of a coincidence that there would be two attempts on the victim’s life in one day. Of course, we might get a breakthrough if we could find out where the killer got the cyanide. It isn’t easily obtained, not nowadays. Look into it, will you, Betts?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Betts looked back at his notebook. ‘So, we’re left with Claire Reynolds and Laura Evans. As far as Ms Evans is concerned, she’d lived in Sydney all her life and worked in various art shops and commercial galleries before moving to Leura approximately three months ago.’
‘Mmm. She told me the driving force behind that decision had been the death of her husband and thought a fresh start might help her avoid the constant reminders. I can see her reasoning,’ said Fitzjohn, his thoughts going to Edith. ‘I can’t, however, see what motive she would have to destroy what she’d gained by moving here and obtaining employment in her chosen field.’
‘Anything more on the man that Claire Reynolds mentioned who left the marquee before the toast was made?’ continued Fitzjohn after a moment’s pause. ‘I seem to recall her saying that he’d been standing near the refreshments table so he might have had an opportunity to tamper with the victim’s champagne.’
‘I’m running some background checks on him, sir, but nothing so far.’
‘In that case, chase it up.’ As Fitzjohn spoke, his mobile rang.
‘Fitzjohn here.’
‘Mr Fitzjohn, it’s Owen Carstairs from Sunshine Realty. How are we today?’
‘I’m fine, thank you, Mr Carstairs,’ replied Fitzjohn, reminded of Carstairs wheedling personality.
‘Splendid, and I’m going to make it even better because there’s good news. I have an offer on your property. I told you it wouldn’t last long. They’re a young couple who are keen for a quick settlement and offering one point seven million. Will you accept the offer?’ This statement brought silence on the line. ‘You can, of course, make a counter-offer, Mr Fitzjohn,’ continued Carstairs.
‘I’ll have to give it some thought and get back to you, Mr Carstairs,’ replied Fitzjohn, stunned at this sudden turn of events.
‘Well, I wouldn’t leave it too long because they are looking at another property as we speak. Shall I call you back in, say an hour?’
‘No, Mr Carstairs, I’ll call you back when I’ve decided what I wish to do.’ Fitzjohn frowned as he disconnected the call. ‘What an insufferable fellow,’ he said under his breath as he slipped his mobile back into his suit coat pocket and descended the verandah steps in search of Betts whom he found waiting in the car.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Betts, that was Owen Carstairs, my real estate agent on the phone. He’s received an offer for my cottage.’
‘That was quick.’
‘A little too quick, I’m afraid because I haven’t dealt with the practicalities of the situation, namely my orchids. It’s my own fault for being too compulsive and rushing in to put the place on the market.’
‘You could ask for an extended settlement date, sir.’
‘That’s not a possibility in this case since the buyer has asked for as short a settlement period as possible.’
The orchids played on Fitzjohn’s mind as they drove back to Springwood Police Station, and once there, he had decided there was perhaps one person who might be able to help; Ron Carling. Friends since their earliest days on the force, they had never completely lost touch even though their career paths rarely crossed. Fitzjohn chose the quiet of the empty Incident Room and settled himself into a chair before he punched Ron’s number into his phone. It rang for several seconds before he heard Ron’s familiar voice.
‘Ron, it’s Alistair.’
‘Speak of the devil. I’ve been thinking about you. I heard on the grapevine that you’ve been transferred permanently to the Blue Mountains LAC.’
‘It’s true and in part why I’m calling,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘I seem to remember your brother-in-law is in the plant nursery business.’
‘That’s right. He and my sister have a business up on the Central Coast. Why?’
‘Because I have a greenhouse full of orchids that need a new home. Since I’m transferred, I’ve decided to sell up in Birchgrove.’
‘That’s a wrench, Alistair,’ replied Ron, concern in his voice. ‘Have you thought about commuting?’
‘I have, but it’s just not feasible. It’s a two-hour journey by train each way.’
‘Mmm. I see what you mean. It wouldn’t be easy, especially with the hours we tend to keep. Okay, I’ll have a word with Ken. I’m sure he’ll be willing to help you out and if not, he’s bound to know someone who can.’
‘Thanks, Ron. I appreciate it.’
‘Don’t mention it. How did all this come about anyway? Did you finally decide you’d had enough of Grieg?’
‘On the contrary, I think it was more the case that he’s had enough of me and an opportunity presented itself.’
‘That sounds as though you had no say in the matter?’
‘It’s a long story. I’ll tell you about it one day.’ replied Fitzjohn.
‘I look forward to it. I suppose there is one positive. You’ll finally be rid of him altogether, although a difficult way to have it happen. Who’s the Chief Super at Springwood by the way?’
‘His name’s Blake?’
A moment of silence followed before Ron said, ‘Not Sidney Blake.’
‘The very same. Why? Do you know him?’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘Not personally, but I know of him,’ replied Ron. ‘He and Grieg are friends.’
‘Friends?’
‘Yes and have been for the last thirty odd years. They were at the Academy together. The Class of 1986.’
‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ said Fitzjohn, slumping back in his chair.
‘It’s probably wise.’
After saying goodbye to Ron, a myriad of thoughts tumbled through Fitzjohn’s mind the most significant being how Grieg had managed to transfer him with such ease. It was through an old friendship. But if that is the case, how did he convince Blake to go along with it? Did Blake owe Grieg a favour? One that Grieg was now calling in. At that moment, Betts burst in through the door.
‘There’s been a development, sir, concerning Claire Reynolds. Her fingerprints have been found on the champagne glass that the victim drank from.’
CHAPTER 14
Betts turned onto a quiet street where the tree branches lay bare, their fallen leaves carpeting the pavement in a sea of red. ‘Claire Reynolds lives at number sixteen, sir,’ he said before pulling over to the curb in front of a white painted cottage, its small garden bordered by a matching white picket fence.
The two officers climbed
out of the car and made their way through the front gate to the door where Betts rang the bell before standing back. Fitzjohn, meanwhile, straightened his tie in preparation for the task ahead, the questioning of Claire Reynolds in relation to her involvement in Florence Fontaine’s death. With no apparent motive, this development had come as somewhat of a shock to Fitzjohn since, for all intents and purposes, she did not appear to have anything to gain by her employer’s death; rather she would lose. As these thoughts passed through his mind the door opened and Claire Reynolds appeared. Dressed in a pair of skinny jeans and a slim fitting sky blue sweater she looked somewhat surprised by the presence of the two detectives.
‘Chief Inspector, Sergeant Betts.’
‘Good afternoon, Ms Reynolds,’ said Fitzjohn, stepping forward. ‘We’d like to speak to you again if we may because we have a few more questions we’d like to ask.’
‘Is it about Florence’s brother? I heard about his arrest on the news and that he’s out on bail. He dropped into the gallery today.’
‘It’s not about Mr Fontaine, Ms Reynolds. May we speak to you inside?’
‘Yes, of course,’ replied Claire, standing back from the doorway before leading Fitzjohn and Betts into a small living room on the other side of the hall. ‘Please excuse the mess,’ she said indicating to a pile of newspapers and logs in a basket beside the fireplace. ‘I was just laying the fire for this evening. It gets so cold in this old cottage at night.’ After moving the basket, she gestured to the sofa before sitting down herself with an inquiring look. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s about your possible involvement in Florence Fontaine’s death,’ said Fitzjohn.
‘My involvement! I don’t understand. Are you suggesting I had something to do with her death?’
‘I’m sorry, Ms Reynolds but it seems that Forensics have found your fingerprints on the champagne glass that Florence drank from.’
A long silence fell over the room as Claire stared at Fitzjohn in disbelief. ‘There must be some mistake,’ she said at last. ‘I didn’t touch Florence’s glass.’
‘There’s no mistake, Ms Reynolds.’
Claire swallowed hard, ‘So, what happens now?’
‘We want you to accompany us to the Springwood Police Station where you’ll be formally interviewed.’
‘You mean right now?’
‘Yes.’
Fitzjohn could see the tension in Claire Reynolds’ face as he and Betts entered the interview room where she sat rigid in her chair next to her solicitor. ‘I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Ms Reynolds,’ he said as he pulled out a chair and sat down. As he did so, Betts prepared the recording device and, after introductions were made, he got the interview underway.
‘Ms Reynolds, I’d like to start by obtaining a little background concerning yourself and Florence Fontaine,’ Fitzjohn began. ‘I seem to remember you said you’d worked for Florence for seven months prior to her death.’
Claire cleared her throat. ‘That’s right. I started at the end of last September.’
‘And where did you work before that?’
‘I had several temporary positions. They were in the UK while I was on a working holiday. I’d been there for about eighteen months when I happened to meet Florence at one of her exhibitions in London. Ultimately, she offered me a position as her business manager and we flew back to Australia together.’
‘I see. And what did you do before your working holiday?’ Fitzjohn sensed Claire’s hesitation.
‘I worked for a charter airline service,’ Claire replied, her voice quavering as she met Fitzjohn’s steady gaze.
‘In what capacity?’
‘I was employed as one of their pilots.’
‘A pilot,’ repeated Fitzjohn, somewhat surprised. ‘Can I ask what prompted such a complete change in your career path?’
‘It was a couple of things. I had planned a career in business management when I did my business degree at university before I took up flying and got side-tracked. Meeting Florence with the prospect of working with her made me realise I’d made a mistake and that the career she was offering was better suited to me.’ Claire Reynolds hesitated. ‘Look, Chief Inspector, I don’t know how my fingerprints got onto Florence’s glass but I assure you, I had nothing to do with her death. What can I do to convince you of that?’
‘You can start by telling us, again, the events leading up to her death.’
‘But I’ve already told you everything I saw.’
‘Nevertheless, I want you to go over it again,’ persisted Fitzjohn. ‘We’ll start from when the auction finished.’
‘All right,’ replied Claire with a sigh. ‘When it finished, everyone who remained made their way to the marquee for a toast to the auction’s success.’
‘How was the champagne served?’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘The catering staff had set out the champagne glasses on the refreshments table near the entrance. Everyone took a glass as they entered.’
‘And where were you standing at the time of the toast?’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘By the time Florence and I went in it was so crowded we had to stand in front of the table.’
‘I seem to remember you saying there were others who came in late as well.’
‘That’s right. There were three others. No that’s wrong, there were four. Aiden Farrell, the café owner, Audrey Green, she’s a local woman who owns a tea shop in the village, my colleague, Laura Evans and the last person to come in was Carolyn Winter, Florence’s stepsister.’
‘And as the marquee was so crowded, where did they stand?’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘Carolyn tried to push her way between Florence and me but ended up with the others around the sides and the back of the refreshments table.’
‘And at that point, did everyone have a drink in their hand?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Did Florence?’
Claire Reynolds stared at Fitzjohn before she said, ‘I can’t remember.’
‘Try, Ms Reynolds. It’s important.’
‘I suppose she did. We all did,’ replied Claire with a shrug.
‘But you don’t know for sure.’
‘No.’
‘Do you remember if anything took your attention while Florence gave her speech, anything at all, however insignificant it might seem? For example, someone’s inattention to what she was saying.’
‘No, there was nothing like that which is not surprising since she had such a charismatic personality. Florence had the ability to drawn everyone in when she spoke. Although…’ Fitzjohn watched Claire start to twist the silver bracelet on her wrist. ‘There was a man who left during her speech.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘No, he wasn’t a local.’
‘Can you describe him?’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘He was probably in his fifty’s, I think, of medium build with short grey hair. I seem to remember he’d been successful in bidding on Florence’s painting palette as well as one of her small landscapes.’
‘Did he return to the marquee for the toast?’
‘No. He kept going in the direction of the parking area.’
‘But how do you know that if you were inside the marquee?’
‘Because by that time I wasn’t. I was outside. You see, he’d bumped into me when he left and some of my champagne spilt on the front of my dress.’
‘Ah. So, he was the person you mentioned had nudged your arm when we spoke on the day,’ said Fitzjohn.
‘Yes.’
‘When you left the marquee, did you take your glass with you?’
‘No. I left it on the refreshments table.’ Claire frowned.
‘Had you taken a sip at any time beforehand?’ asked Fitzjohn, his interest piqued.
‘No. I was waiting for the toast to be made.’
‘What do you think, sir’ asked Betts as the two officers left the interview room.
‘Other than the fact that on the two occasions she’s mentioned the ma
n who left the marquee she becomes visibly agitated, there are two things that worry me. Firstly, she says she doesn’t remember whether Florence had a glass in her hand when she left the marquee. Secondly, if she didn’t and was about to propose a toast, she may have picked up the glass that Claire Reynolds had left on the table when she went outside.’
‘Which would mean the cyanide was really meant for Ms Reynolds,’ said Betts, opening the door to the Incident Room.
‘Either that or Ms Reynolds placed her glass down in the hope that the victim would pick it up and drink from it.’
‘In which case, she’s either the killer or was meant to be the victim.’
‘Precisely,’ replied Fitzjohn.
‘If she is the killer, I can’t see what motive she’d have to kill her employer, sir.’
‘Neither can I, and there lies the problem,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘Of course, she might have had a motive we aren’t aware of yet. For instance, her sudden career change in the midst of a working holiday. Of course, it could be as she says, a good opportunity came along and she decided to go with it but it might also be because she wanted to get close to the victim for some reason. What better way than to become her business manager? Regardless, we need to know more about Claire Reynolds’ past.’
‘I’ll get onto it, sir. I’ll also arrange for a search of her home and workplace while we’re holding her.’
In the quiet atmosphere of the Incident Room, Fitzjohn turned his pen end for end, his thoughts traversing the fact that Claire Reynolds could either be Florence Fontaine’s killer or the intended victim. If the latter were the case, the likelihood of another attempt on her life was a real possibility given the preparation that had gone into the failed attempt on the day of the auction. Taking his wire-framed glasses off, he wiped his eyes and sat back, the scenarios of the case seeming endless. As he did so, the door opened and Betts came into the room.
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