ONCE UPON A LIE (A Fitzjohn Mystery)

by Paterson, Jill

  Fitzjohn drummed his fingers on the desk.

  ‘Yes. Thank you, Sergeant. You’re very kind. I hope all this is of some help, Chief Inspector,’ said Esme, looking back at Fitzjohn. ‘I know it’s vital at the start of an investigation to get as much information as possible. At least that’s what I’m led to believe. I read a lot of crime fiction, and of course, there’s the nightly news.’

  ‘I can assure you, Miss Timmons, your efforts are much appreciated. As you’ve just said, it’s important to gather as much information as possible, as soon as possible.’ Fitzjohn sipped his tea. ‘What would really help is if you can tell us what time your nephew left your house last night.’

  ‘It was just after seven.’

  ‘Did he take anything with him?’

  ‘He did have a book under his arm when he left. It had a black leather cover. You never know, if he had found the letters, he might have popped them inside.’ Esme hesitated. ‘I’m sorry to be so vague, Chief Inspector. At the time, I wasn’t taking much notice.’

  ‘Did he say where he was going?’

  ‘Mmm. There again, I didn’t take a lot of notice. I wanted to get back to my dinner. But I seem to remember him saying he was going to call around and see Charlotte. She’s Claudia’s daughter, and my great-niece.’

  ‘Charlotte Rossi?’

  ‘Yes.’ Esme frowned. ‘Have you spoken to her?’

  ‘We have. Early this morning.’

  ‘Oh, the poor dear. I did try to ring her before I left the house this morning, but there was no answer.’

  ‘We found her at your nephew’s house, Miss Timmons. Apparently, waiting to accept the delivery of a fridge.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘She wasn’t alone. A woman by the name of Phillipa Braithwaite was with her.’

  ‘Oh, thank goodness for that. It makes me feel a bit better. It’s terrible to receive such news when you’re alone. More so, I think, when you’re young like Charlotte. Phillipa Braithwaite was Claudia’s friend. From school days. They lost touch, but were reunited a few years ago. After Claudia died, Phillipa took Charlotte under her wing, so to speak.’

  ‘I see. Where do you live, Miss Timmons?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Waverton. I’ve lived there all my life. I stayed on in my parents’ house when my fiancé failed to return from the Korean War.’ Esme paused for a moment in reflection. ‘It was 1953. He was very young. Twenty-three. Seems like yesterday.’ Esme gave a slight smile.

  ‘It’s been quite a journey for you all the way from the North Shore, Miss Timmons. Detective Sergeant Betts and I will be happy to escort you home.’

  ‘Well, that’s very kind. And I think I might accept. I was a bit worried about getting home again. The later in the day it gets, the busier the trains will be. It’ll also give you the opportunity to have a look through Claudia’s study. You never know, it could aid your investigation.’

  Fitzjohn smiled. ‘A good suggestion, Miss Timmons.’

  Esme’s home, nestled amongst the trees and shrubs in her garden, exuded elegant charm of a bygone era. Fitzjohn pushed the wrought iron gate open and let Esme pass though. ‘Well, this is home, Chief Inspector,’ she said, taking her keys out of her handbag and leading the way along the garden path to the house. ‘Unfortunately, you’re not seeing the garden at its best. It misses Claudia’s tender touch, I’m afraid.’ They ascended the steps to the front verandah where two white whicker armchairs, yellowed by age, gave further evidence of an era long past. Esme unlocked the front door and stepped inside. ‘Come in, gentlemen,’ she said, putting her handbag on the hall table. ‘You’ll find Claudia’s study upstairs at the end of the hall.’ Esme removed her straw hat. ‘I’m sure you’ll forgive me if I don’t accompany you. I don’t think my legs will take those stairs again today. And, at the moment, I don’t think I can face seeing the mess the study’s been left in.’ As the two police officers disappeared upstairs, Esme looked in to the mirror above the hall table. ‘Oh, you look a fright,’ she muttered. She replaced her lipstick, studied herself in the mirror again, and made her way to the kitchen, to the sound of floorboards creaking above. Unlike the previous evening, the sound gave her a renewed sense of security. Making the most of that feeling, Esme made tea, later wheeling the tea trolley, complete with chocolate cake, in to the living room, where she sat down and waited.

  Some time later, the Chief Inspector and his Sergeant reappeared. ‘I’ve made some refreshment for you both,’ she said. ‘I’ll let you pour your own.’

  ‘That’s very kind, Miss Timmons. Thank you.’ Fitzjohn poured himself a cup of tea, while Betts eyed the chocolate cake. ‘Did you notice anything missing from the study, Miss Timmons?’ he asked, settling himself into an armchair.

  ‘It’s hard to tell with the books and papers strewn everywhere. Hannah may know.’ Esme noted Fitzjohn’s questioning look. ‘She comes in to clean on Friday mornings. Yesterday she vacuumed and dusted upstairs.’

  ‘Then we must speak to her,’ said Fitzjohn, sipping his tea. ‘I’d also like to call in our forensic team. I’m sure they won’t inconvenience you too much, and it might help us to ascertain whether there’s a connection between last night’s break-in and your nephew’s death.’

  ‘If there is a connection,’ said Esme, ‘I suppose there’s every possibility the intruder might return.’

  ‘Is there anyone you can stay with, Miss Timmons? For the time being.’

  ‘So you do think there’s a possibility of the intruder returning,’ said Esme, with a glint in her eye. ‘But to answer your question, Chief Inspector. I daresay I could go and stay with Charlotte, but I prefer to stay here.’

  Moments later, Esme saw Fitzjohn and Betts to the front door where she said goodbye before returning to her armchair in the living room. A void had been created by their short stay and Esme felt it sweeping over her now, bringing with it a feeling of loneliness. She had felt it before, of course, after Tom failed to return from Korea in 1953, and then again when both her parents had passed away, and she found herself alone. But this time it was different. Michael’s life had been taken from him, he did not die because he was fighting for his country, or because he had grown old. Esme sat back and wept.

  CHAPTER 7

  Fitzjohn and Betts left Esme Timmons watching the midday news. Outside, Betts opened the wrought iron gate, hanging loosely from its hinges, and followed by Fitzjohn, made his way to the car. ‘I can’t help but feel sorry for Miss Timmons, sir. Other than her great-niece, Charlotte Rossi, she’s now quite alone.’

  Fitzjohn listened, somewhat surprised at Betts’s empathy. ‘She’s certainly had her fair share of loss,’ he replied. ‘Perhaps it would be a good idea for you to be here when the forensics team come in, Betts. Miss Timmons is remarkably stoic, but even so, it might be disconcerting for her to have a bunch of strangers in the house. Especially after the break-in.’

  ‘Do you think the break-in was connected to Michael Rossi’s death, sir?’ asked Betts, unlocking the car doors.

  ‘It’s hard to tell at this stage, but to be on the safe side, I want the Coroner’s report in to Claudia Rossi’s death, and as much information about her as you can lay your hands on.’ Fitzjohn settled himself in to the passenger seat, removed his glasses, and used the handkerchief from his breast pocket to mop the perspiration from his forehead. ‘Where did Miss Timmons say her cleaning lady lives?’ he asked.

  ‘In an apartment building on Willoughby Road, sir.’

  ‘Very well, we’ll go there first to make arrangements for her to look through the study,’ said Fitzjohn, adjusting the flow of cool air on to his face before putting his glasses back on.

  Minutes later, they walked in to the apartment building, Betts running his eyes down the list of tenants. ‘I don’t see her name here, sir.’

  ‘Are you sure we have the right address?’

  Betts pulled his notebook out and flicked through the pages. ‘This is the place all right. Hannah Blair, Unit
17. I suppose she could be living with a flat-mate and not listed.’

  ‘True,’ said Fitzjohn, walking back outside.

  ‘Shall I ask Miss Timmons again, sir?’

  ‘No. Stoic she may be, but I don’t want to alarm her unnecessarily. Finding out that her cleaning lady might have given a false address is the last thing she needs right now. Besides, I have every confidence you can locate Hannah Blair, Betts. But not until we’ve been to the morgue. I want to see how Simone Knowles is getting on with our victim.’ Fitzjohn sensed Betts’s uncharacteristic enthusiasm for what he knew was his Sergeant’s least liked task - visiting the morgue. Why doesn’t that surprise me, he thought?

  An antiseptic odor filled the air as they walked in to the Mortuary Office on Arundel Street in Glebe and were told that the post mortem was already in progress. With Betts hanging back, they followed the attendant in to a long room dominated by a row of stainless steel tables. Simone Knowles, now clad in her operating theatre garb, stood at one of them. She looked up as they approached.

  ‘Chief Inspector, Sergeant.’

  ‘Sorry we’re late,’ said Fitzjohn, taking in the scene. ‘Have you determined how Mr Rossi died?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. It was from a massive brain haemorrhage, and I was right, the brain injury was a case of contre coup. You might like to take a look.’ She smiled at Betts who hovered behind Fitzjohn. ‘There are also some fine paper cuts on his right index finger.’

  ‘The hand that the piece of paper was found in?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Yes. Possibly sustained when, whatever he was holding at the time, left his grasp.’

  ‘Have you established the time of death?’

  ‘Between 9:30 and 11.00pm.’

  They emerged from the morgue to find a slate grey sky and the rumble of thunder in the humid atmosphere. ‘Looks like we’re in for a storm,’ said Fitzjohn looking at the sky before his attention was taken by Betts. ‘Are you all right, Betts? You look a bit pale.’

  ‘I’ll be fine, sir. It’s just the smell of that place. It follows me out of the door.’

  ‘Mmm. I know what you mean. The morgue does have its own particular fragrance. And it does tend to cling.’ It was then that Fitzjohn’s mobile phone rang.

  ‘Fitzjohn here.’ A short silence followed. ‘Tell him it’s not possible, Sergeant. I’ll see what I can do later in the day.’ Fitzjohn put his phone back in to his pocket.

  ‘It seems Chief Superintendent Grieg wants to see me, Betts, but I think our time is better spent speaking to our victim’s winemaker, Pierce Whitehead. Where can we find him?’

  ‘He’s been renting an apartment in Annandale, since leaving the winery, sir.’

  The downpour came as Fitzjohn and Betts made their way in to the twenty-story apartment building on Collins Street. Reaching the lobby, Fitzjohn brushed his suit coat off before pressing the intercom button.

  ‘Hello,’ came a sharp, clipped voice.

  ‘Mr Whitehead?’

  ‘Yes, who’s this?’

  ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn from the New South Wales Police. I have with me Detective Sergeant Betts. We’d like to speak to you, please, sir.’ There was no reply only the release of the security door in to the building. Fitzjohn and Betts made their way to the elevator and up to the fourteenth floor, amid the muffled sound of thunder. The door to Pierce Whitehead’s apartment stood open when they approached, a stocky man of medium height in the doorway.

  ‘I suppose you’re here about Mike Rossi.’

  ‘We are, Mr Whitehead,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘May we come in?’ Whitehead stepped back from the doorway before leading the way in to the apartment.

  ‘I heard about what happened to Mike on the news this morning,’ he said, gesturing to a nestle of armchairs in the living area. ‘I thought you’d be along.’ After getting seated, Betts returned Whitehead’s stare as he took his notebook and pen out of his inside coat pocket.

  ‘Tell me, Mr Whitehead,’ said Fitzjohn, ‘why did you expect us?’

  ‘Because of my connection to Mike, of course. The very fact you’re here tells me that you know of that connection.’

  ‘You’re right. We do. We understand you were his winemaker.’

  ‘Until recently, yes.’

  ‘We’re also led to believe your departure from that position was, shall we say, somewhat sudden.’

  ‘I don’t see what that’s got to do with Mike’s death.’ Whitehead ran his hand through his lengthy brown hair.

  ‘It may not have anything to do with it, Mr Whitehead, but I’m sure you can appreciate that we have to follow every thread of information in an investigation such as this. For instance, I’m curious as to why you left your position as winemaker in the middle of the grape harvest. Surely, as a winemaker, you wanted to see your crop harvested if for no other reason than for your own satisfaction and sense of accomplishment.’

  ‘I didn’t have much choice in the matter, Chief Inspector. Mike Rossi fired me.’

  ‘Oh. I see. Why did he do that?’

  Whitehead shrugged. ‘Who knows? I stopped trying to figure Mike out a long time ago.’ Pierce Whitehead met Fitzjohn’s intense gaze. ‘Okay. We’d disagreed over a few matters concerning the harvest.’ He shrugged again. ‘Let’s face it. I should have left after Claudia died.’ Whitehead paused. ‘I take it you know about Mike’s sister, Claudia.’

  ‘Yes, we understand she was the person who initially employed you as the winemaker at Five Oaks Winery.’

  ‘That’s right. And we got on fine. Everything was fine, in fact, until Mike Rossi took over.’

  ‘How well did you know, Claudia Rossi, Mr Whitehead?’

  Whitehead looked guarded. ‘We had a good working relationship. She was open to advice for producing better wines, and she was interested in wine growing. But other than that, I knew very little about her.’

  ‘Where are you working now?’

  ‘As yet, I haven’t found another position. Mike declining to be a referee hasn’t made it easy.’

  ‘Is that why you went to see him at his office last Thursday morning?’

  ‘Oh, you know about that too, do you? And, I suppose you also know that we argued.’ Fitzjohn did not respond. ‘I went to ask Mike whether he would stand as a referee for a position I’m applying for. He refused and I lost my temper.’

  ‘Can I ask where you were between 8pm last night and 4 this morning, Mr Whitehead?’

  ‘I was here. I didn’t go out last night.’

  ‘Did you see anyone? Talk to anyone?’

  ‘No. Oh, I take that back. I did talk to Charlotte Rossi. Over the phone.’

  ‘Charlotte Rossi?’ Fitzjohn frowned. ‘You’ve kept in touch with her since you left the winery?’

  ‘No. It’s just that I’d had no luck with her uncle so I decided to ask Charlotte if she’d be willing to stand as a referee.’

  ‘But wouldn’t you need a reference from the owner of the winery?’

  ‘She is an owner. She and Mike Rossi are, or at least were joint owners since Claudia Rossi’s death.’

  A look of surprise crossed Fitzjohn’s face and he thought for a moment before continuing. ‘Did Charlotte Rossi agree to be a referee?’

  ‘Yes, she did.’

  ‘And would you say she took an active part in the winery?’

  ‘She didn’t when her mother was in charge. I don’t think the two of them got on very well. And after Mike took over... well, he wouldn’t have welcomed her input.’

  Fitzjohn and Betts headed back to Kings Cross Police Station through the rain soaked streets. ‘So, Whitehead didn’t walk out on the harvest after all,’ said Betts. ‘He was fired by Michael Rossi. Odd that Charlotte Rossi doesn’t appear to be aware of that fact.’

  Fitzjohn emerged from his thoughts. ‘Perhaps not so odd when you consider what Pierce Whitehead told us. That Charlotte Rossi had never taken an active role in the winery.’ Fitzjohn paused. ‘I wonder why she and her mother d
idn’t get on? I think we’ll speak to her again, Betts. And also, see what you can find out about Pierce Whitehead. There’s something about that man, but I just can’t put my finger on it.’

  Feeling damp from the rain, Fitzjohn removed his suit coat and hung it on the back of his chair before sitting down. Forming a pyramid with his fingers, he eyed Reynolds who sat sprawled in a chair. ‘Are we keeping you awake Reynolds,’ he asked.

  Reynolds shifted suddenly, his notebook falling to the floor. ‘Sorry, sir. I didn’t get much sleep last night. We have a new baby at home. She cried all night.’

  ‘She’s probably lactose intolerant,’ offered Williams who stood poised at the whiteboard, ‘It causes colic.’

  ‘I didn’t realise that you’re an expert on babies, Williams,’ said Fitzjohn, looking around.

  ‘I have a nephew, sir. He kept my brother-in-law awake for months.’

  ‘And your sister too, no doubt.’ Fitzjohn paused. ‘Let’s get on with what we’re here for, shall we? I want to know how you both got on with your inquiries?’

  Reynolds scrambled for his notebook and flipped through it’s pages. ‘In relation to Nigel Prentice, sir, I spoke to a member of council who was at last night’s meeting. He said Mr Prentice addressed council before leaving the meeting around 8pm.’

  ‘That’s interesting.’ Fitzjohn watched as Williams added the information to the whiteboard. ‘Prentice gave the impression he was at that meeting for its duration. So, where was he between 8 and 10pm?’

  ‘How about you, Williams? Were you able to get on to Rafe Simms?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ answered Williams as he continued writing. ‘Mr Simms confirmed that Michael Rossi was at the winery on Friday. He left around one o’clock that afternoon. He said he was surprised at the victim’s sudden departure.’

  ‘Didn’t Rossi give any explanation as to why he was leaving early?’

  ‘Apparently not, sir. Mr Simms said he’d spent the morning showing Michael Rossi the progress they were making with the harvest. After lunch, he left him in his study at the house to look for a spare set of house keys. When next he saw him, Michael Rossi announced he had to get back to Sydney.’