Poisoned Palette

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Poisoned Palette Page 16

by Jill Paterson


  ‘I know I should have come forward before,’ Frank blurted, his voice quivering. ‘It’s just that Carolyn’s my wife and… I just couldn’t do it.’

  Sensing Frank Winter’s anguish, Fitzjohn said, ‘Do you feel able to do so now?’

  ‘I have to. I can’t go on like this, not with what I know now,’ replied Frank taking his handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his forehead. ‘I just don’t know where to start.’

  ‘What about if you start when you and your wife were travelling back from the Gold Coast,’ said Fitzjohn.

  Frank nodded and swallowed hard. ‘That’s when Carolyn received a phone call from her stepbrother, Patrick. He asked if she’d meet him at his hotel in Sydney.’

  ‘Which hotel?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘The Marriott.’

  ‘Did you go straight there when you reached the city?’

  ‘Yes. We arrived around midday. Carolyn met with Patrick for about an hour and then we left and drove home.’

  ‘Did your wife tell you what Patrick wanted to talk to her about?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Yes. She said he was passing on a message from Florence who wanted to repair the rift between them.’ Frank looked up. ‘They’ve been estranged for some time. She said he’d suggested that she make the first move and drive up to Leura to speak to Florence.’ Frank paused. ‘Of course, as I now know, it was all a lie because the truth is, they were conspiring to kill Florence.’ Frank winced. ‘I’ve been such a fool.’

  After a moment’s pause Fitzjohn said, ‘You mentioned your wife and sister-in-law’s estrangement, Mr Winter. Do you know what caused it?’

  ‘All I know is, Carolyn demanded a certain percentage of profits from Florence’s business because she believed that it had been her mother’s money that had enabled Florence to get it started. When Florence refused, Carolyn threatened her.’

  ‘In what way?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Apparently, when Florence was quite young, she had an illegitimate child, a son, whom she had adopted. I don’t know how, but Carolyn found out and threatened to leak it to the media.’ Frank shook his head. ‘I’m sure that in this day and age, it wouldn’t have hurt Florence’s reputation in the least, but she grew up in another era when such an occurrence could have been her ruin. Perhaps she was also trying to protect her son, who knows? Anyway, she was horrified at Carolyn’s threat but, nevertheless, she didn’t give in.’ Frank paused. ‘Knowing this, when Carolyn and Patrick were arrested for conspiracy, I started to question everything that had happened up until that point. That was when I panicked and left for home because I had to…’

  ‘Had to what?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  Frank Winter met Fitzjohn’s intense gaze. ‘Sergeant Betts has probably told you about my family’s watch making business.’ Fitzjohn nodded. ‘Well then you know that everything left from that business is stored in my garage at home including two vials of cyanide left over from that era when it was used to clean the insides of watches.’

  ‘So what are you saying?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘I’m saying that when I got home I went straight out to the garage to make sure both vials were still there. I prayed they were, that it was all in my imagination but it wasn’t.’ Frank’s eyes filled with tears. ‘One of the vials was missing. I can only think that Carolyn took it with her when we went to Leura to see Florence.’ Frank rubbed his face with his hands. ‘I’m responsible for her death. I should have got rid of the cyanide years ago.’

  ‘Mr Winter, are you willing to testify in court to what you have just told us?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Everything is falling into place,’ said Fitzjohn as he and Betts left the interview room. ‘The only thing now is, none of what Mr Winter says proves that Carolyn Winter had cyanide in her possession when she arrived at Lyrebird Lodge, let alone used it to poison the victim. Even so, have her brought in along with Patrick Fontaine for further questions and we’ll see what transpires.’

  ‘And Maxine Simpson, sir?’

  ‘I think we can discount her as a person of interest in Florence Fontaine’s murder. Charge her with one count of identity theft and two counts of attempted murder against Claire Reynolds.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  It was late in the evening when Fitzjohn and Betts walked into the interview room where Carolyn Winter sat next to her council waiting to be questioned. Fitzjohn observed her steady gaze as he crossed the floor to the table and sat down. He also sensed an uncharacteristic aloofness but other than that, her manner was difficult to read.

  ‘Good evening, Mrs Winter,’ he said. Carolyn Winter did not reply. Ignoring this, Fitzjohn began the interview by stating the time, date and introducing himself. Betts and the solicitor followed suit and after some coaxing, Carolyn Winter stated her name.

  ‘Mrs Winter we’ve asked you to come here this evening because we have further questions we’d like to ask you about the death of your stepsister, Florence Fontaine,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘In your official statement you said that on the night of the auction, you planned to give Florence an overdose of sleeping pills.’

  ‘That’s right but whether or not I would have gone through with it is another matter,’ said Carolyn with an indignant air.

  ‘Nevertheless, conspiracy is a crime of intent whether or not the actual crime was carried out and in your case, it was,’ said Fitzjohn.

  ‘But it wasn’t. I didn’t give Florence any sleeping pills.’

  ‘I’m aware of that but nevertheless, Florence Fontaine is dead and we now have a witness who states that you had access to a vial of cyanide stored in the garage at your home.’ Carolyn tensed. ‘You took the cyanide with you when you went to Lyrebird Lodge to see Florence and used it to lace the champagne she drank, didn’t you, Mrs Winter?’

  Carolyn glared at Fitzjohn as resentment and panic welled up from within. ‘Who told you that?’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘It was Frank, wasn’t it? I should have known when he left, he couldn’t be trusted.’

  With an air of arrogance, Patrick Fontaine sat next to his solicitor at the table in the interview room. ‘Do you have any idea why I’ve been brought here?’ he asked his tone sharp and demanding.

  ‘I was told it was for further questioning in relation to your sister’s death,’ replied the solicitor.

  ‘Well, all I can say is it hadn’t better be to revoke my bail.’

  As Fontaine spoke, the door opened and Fitzjohn, followed by Betts, walked into the room.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Fontaine,’ said Fitzjohn as he and Betts took their seats.

  ‘Why on earth am I here at this hour of the night, is what I want to know?’ said Patrick. ‘Couldn’t it have waited until morning?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Mr Fontaine because there’s been a development in our investigation into the death of your sister, Florence Fontaine, that necessitates questioning you again,’ replied Fitzjohn.

  Fontaine narrowed his eyes. ‘What kind of development?’

  ‘It’s come to our attention that your co-conspirator, Carolyn Winter, was in possession of a vial of cyanide when she arrived at Lyrebird Lodge on the day of the auction.’

  Patrick glared at Fitzjohn. ‘Are you suggesting that it was Carolyn who poisoned Florence because if it is, I had no knowledge of that fact and as such, I can’t be seen to have been involved in her death. I’ve admitted that I suggested she use sleeping pills and I’ve been charged with conspiracy. Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘No, it isn’t, Mr Fontaine, because the fact remains that you conspired with Carolyn Winter to murder Florence Fontaine and since she died at your co-conspirator’s hand, you along with Carolyn Winter will be charged with her murder.’

  Patrick Fontaine slumped back in his chair.

  In the early hours of the morning, Fitzjohn and Betts sat in the station’s canteen sipping coffee.

  ‘It’s been a long day,’ said Fitzjohn with a sigh, ‘but worthwhile in the end. Nevertheless, I have t
o admit that there was a point when I started to wonder whether we’d get a satisfactory outcome to this investigation and that might have been the case if you hadn’t brought Frank Winter back with you, Betts.’

  ‘You never explained why it was so important to find out the reason he’d left and returned home, sir,’ said Betts before he took a sip of his coffee.

  ‘It was because you mentioned that Mr Winter’s family had been in the watchmaking business. I seemed to remember there was a connection between watchmakers and cyanide. I don’t know why. Probably something I’ve read at some point.’

  ‘What do you think will happen to Maxine Simpson?’ asked Betts. ‘It’s just that she appears to me to be unbalanced.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘No doubt the death of her husband, not to mention the way in which he died, sent her over the edge. Whether she goes to prison or to a mental health facility will have a lot to do with the result of her psychiatric assessment.’

  A long silence descended before Betts said, ‘I would never have thought that this would be our last case together, sir. I’m going to miss working with you.’

  ‘It isn’t going to come to that, Betts, not yet anyway because we’ll both be returning to Day Street together.’

  ‘How so?’ asked Betts brightening up.

  ‘Let’s just say that after I’ve spoken to Chief Superintendent Grieg, he’ll realise that it’s in his interest to revoke my transfer.’

  CHAPTER 23

  Taking hold of his overnight bag and briefcase, Fitzjohn opened the door and stepped out into the hall to find Betts descending the stairs. He turned to take one last look at the room where he had slept for the past few weeks with its matching chintz curtains and bedspread and closed the door. When he reached the hall below, he found Winifred Gifford and Betts in the open doorway.

  ‘I’m going to miss you both so much,’ said Winifred, her eyes glistening with tears.

  ‘We’ll miss you too, Mrs Gifford,’ replied Fitzjohn with a smile. ‘Thank you very much for making our stay so pleasant.’ As he said the words, Winifred flung her arms around his neck and gave him a lingering kiss on his cheek. Betts stood by with a wide smile while Fitzjohn levered himself from her firm grasp and stood back.

  ‘Be sure to come and stay again if you find yourself in the Blue Mountains,’ she said, dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

  ‘We will, and thank you again,’ replied Fitzjohn with a wave of his hand as they made their way through the garden gate and out to the car.

  ‘I told you she fancied you, sir,’ said Betts as he slid in behind the wheel.

  ‘Rubbish. Mrs Gifford is just a lonely widow,’ replied Fitzjohn, eager to be on his way. ‘No doubt she’ll have a house full of new guests by the weekend. Now, let’s get to Springwood Police Station to say our goodbyes so that we can be on our way.’

  With the moment he had been waiting for at hand, Fitzjohn straightened his suit coat, adjusted his tie, and proceeded to Chief Superintendent Blake’s office where he tapped lightly on the open door.

  ‘Ah, Fitzjohn,’ said Blake, looking up from the morning paper spread out across his desk. ‘Congratulations on an investigation well done. I know it hasn’t been an easy case to solve.’

  ‘We managed in the end, sir.’

  ‘You’re too modest. Have a seat why don’t you?’

  ‘I can’t, sir. My sergeant is waiting for me in the car. I just came in to say goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye?’ What do you mean, goodbye?’ sputtered Blake as his seat slammed forward with a jolt.

  ‘I mean just that,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘My investigations into Florence Fontaine’s death and the attempts made on Claire Reynolds’ life are complete and I’m returning to Day Street Station.’

  ‘But you can’t. What I mean is there’s no longer a position for you there. Surely you realise your transfer to the Blue Mountains Local Area Command is permanent. If you wish to remain on the force, that is.’

  ‘I intend to remain on the force, sir, but I won’t be working here in the Blue Mountains.’

  Blake shook his head. ‘I’m afraid you have no say in the matter, Fitzjohn, and if you continue with this diatribe, I’ll have no alternative but to inform Chief Superintendent Grieg. You could end up with disciplinary action taken against you. It’s not worth it.’

  Fitzjohn thought he saw a glimmer of genuine concern in Blake’s eyes as he said the words, or was it the fact he was worried that everything he and Grieg had concocted concerning his transfer and the Police Integrity Board inquiry, was about to come unstuck?

  ‘You needn’t concern yourself about me,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘I know how I came to be transferred permanently as well as your involvement in the matter. Having to repay a debt called in by Chief Superintendent Grieg, wasn’t it? Something to do with a 2007 investigation into the murder of Patricia Wilson that saw the incarceration of an innocent man.’ Fitzjohn watched the colour drain from Blake’s face. ‘As I’m sure you’re no doubt aware, last year, in 2015, the Police Integrity Board conducted an inquiry into the matter and named me as that investigating officer. What you didn’t know or expect is that I was out of the country when that investigation took place. Needless to say, that inquiry although stalled, isn’t closed and the officer concerned will, eventually, be found.’ Fitzjohn gave a wry smile. ‘Goodbye, Chief Superintendent Blake.’

  Later that day, Fitzjohn and Betts walked into Day Street Station to the welcomed cries of those around them. Amid the din, Fitzjohn broke away from the group and made his way eagerly to his office where he opened the door and stepped inside. Devoid of his personal belongings, it felt stripped of its identity but even so, he smiled to himself. Taking off his suit coat, he placed it on the back of his chair and sat down with a sigh. As he did so, however, the door burst open and as he expected, Chief Superintendent Grieg walked into the room, his heavy-set frame dominating the space.

  ‘What the hell are you doing back here?’ he bellowed.

  ‘And a good afternoon to you too, sir,’ replied Fitzjohn with a wide smile. ‘Thank you for keeping my office free for my return.’

  ‘This isn’t your office or your police station for that matter, so I suggest you leave. Now.’

  Fitzjohn got to his feet, his eyes riveted on Grieg. ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Chief Superintendent because I’m not going anywhere, at least for the next ten years, so you may as well get used to it.’

  Grieg sneered. ‘You’ve gone too far this time, Fitzjohn. I’ll have you off the force by the end of the day for insubordination and a dozen other reasons I’ll think up.’

  ‘Mmm. I won’t deny you’re capable of doing precisely that, Chief Superintendent. After all, you’ve already demonstrated you’re skilled in manipulating the system as well as people, to get what you want. In my case, however, I wouldn’t bother because if you do, I’ll be forced to go to the Police Integrity Board and tell them how you wrought the system concerning the 2007 Patricia Wilson case.’ Fitzjohn noted Grieg’s stunned look. ‘I myself am going to let things take their natural course because inevitably the Board will discover the investigating officer on that case was Blake and that you were instrumental in misleading them. When that happens, you’re finished. Of course, I doubt you’ll get much sleep until that occurs but then again, you might not choose to stick around.’

  Grieg’s face reddened with unspent rage as he turned and strode from the room without another word.

  With a spring in his step, Fitzjohn left the station and climbed into his waiting taxi, the weeks of tension that had engulfed him falling away as the car wended its way to his home in Birchgrove. As it pulled over in front of his cottage, however, another dilemma looked to be brewing. At his front door, Fitzjohn could see Owen Carstairs from Sunshine Realty walking in along with two, presumably, perspective buyers. As they disappeared inside, Carstairs turned when he heard the squeak of the front gate.

  ‘Ah, Mr Fitzjohn, you’re just the person I want to t
alk to,’ he said with a sly smile. ‘I’m giving the couple who I told you about on the phone the other day a second viewing of your property. It’ll make things easier for them when choosing fabrics and colours. They want to get a head start before they move in.’

  ‘I thought I made it clear that I wanted my house taken off the market until further notice, Mr Carstairs,’ said Fitzjohn, his patience wearing thin.

  ‘I know but they’re desperate to buy the cottage and I know they’re willing to accept your counter-offer whatever that might be.’

  ‘There is no counter-offer nor is there going to be one because I’m not putting my home back on the market.’

  ‘But you have to,’ replied Carstairs.

  ‘No I don’t, and I won’t,’ said Fitzjohn as he stepped inside. ‘Now, perhaps you’d be kind enough to go upstairs and convey that to your clients.’

  Whilst Carstairs ran up the stairway, Fitzjohn put his bag and briefcase down next to the hall table and waited. When the prospective buyers and Carstairs reappeared, he said, ‘If there’s any paperwork that needs to be dealt with, Mr Carstairs, give me a call in the morning and I’ll see to it.’ Fitzjohn closed the front door behind the trio and sighed.

  Finally, I’m home, he thought, making his way through to the kitchen. Opening the back door, he stepped out onto the porch and stood for a moment or two surveying the garden and taking in its peaceful ambience.

  ‘You’re back again, I see.’

  Fitzjohn turned to see Rhonda Butler peering over the murraya hedge. ‘Yes, Mrs Butler,’ he replied with a wide smile. ‘I’m back and it’s for good I’m happy to say.’

  ‘But I thought you had an offer on the place.’

  ‘I did, but I’ve decided not to take it. It means, of course, that you and I will be neighbours for a long time to come.’ Fitzjohn gave a wry smile while Rhonda scowled and marched back into her house. Now I know I’m home, he thought as he carried on down the garden path and into the greenhouse.

 

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