Rose Scented Murder

by Jill Paterson

  ‘Of course. Silly of me to suggest it when you’re on duty,’ said Harriet. Fitzjohn did not reply, choosing not to explain his present state of suspension from the force. ‘Oh, I think the troops have arrived,’ she continued with a hint of anticipation from her vantage point in front of the bay window. ‘A police car and a van with forensic services written on the side.’

  ‘That’ll be Sergeant Betts.’ Fitzjohn made his way into the hall and opened the front door to find Betts, a young constable and a scene of crime officer.’

  ‘I came as soon as I could, sir,’ said Betts, his gaze going to the spray of flowers that rested on the hall table. ‘More roses, I see.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘I’ve explained to the ladies that you’re now in charge of the case so you might like to speak to both Ms Parsons and Ms Flynn concerning their delivery.’

  ‘I’ll do that, sir.’

  ‘This is Constable Whitelaw,’ continue Betts. ‘He’ll be here on duty throughout the night and will be relieved first thing tomorrow morning.’

  Fitzjohn glanced at the constable who hovered nearby. ‘Good, because I think the threat is real since Ms Parsons’ whereabouts are known.’

  ***

  ‘Have you had time to listen to the transcript we recorded while interviewing Stephanie Mowbray?’ asked Fitzjohn as the two officers left the house.

  ‘Yes, sir, and you were right. After stating she hasn’t heard the news about the homicide on Wednesday, July 11, she clearly states, “I haven’t heard about further evils being carried out at the theatre”, which suggests she knew there was more than one incident that night.’ Betts handed Fitzjohn a copy of the transcript as they settled themselves into the car. ‘And as such, I made a few inquiries and I believe we’ll find her at her place of business in the Strand Arcade.’

  ‘Good, but before we speak to her again, I’d like a talk with the staff at the nursing home where her mother is living. It might help to give us a bit more background information and, if we’re lucky, evidence to go on.’

  ***

  The two officers arrived at the Seaview Nursing Home to be met by one of the administrative staff. A tall, slender woman in her mid-fifties, her dark brown hair swept into a bun at the nape of her neck, she had intently watched Fitzjohn and Betts through her small office window as they entered the building.

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen. I take it you’re here to see one of our patients. If you let me have the name, I can point you in the right direction.’

  ‘Thank you, but that’s not the case,’ replied Fitzjohn as he approached the window. ‘I’m DCI Fitzjohn and this is DS Betts. We’re conducting investigations into two homicides and…’

  ‘Homicides!’ interrupted the woman, her attention piqued. ‘Heavens above. Surely you don’t think any one of our patients could be involved.’

  ‘Not at all, madam, but it will help our investigation if we can speak to whoever has looked after a particular patient over the past year. Her name is Greta Mowbray.’

  ‘Mrs Mowbray? Goodness. Poor woman. She isn’t related to one of the victims’ is she?’

  ‘No,’ replied Fitzjohn.

  ‘The perpetrator then? I can’t think which would be worse. How do you think our nursing staff can help you, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss any details with you,’ replied Fitzjohn with a growing sense of exasperation.

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ replied the woman with a look of disappointment. ‘Well, as you seem to be aware, Mrs Mowbray has been with us for the past year so, over that period of time, I’d say most of our nursing staff have looked after her. I’ll just go and see who is on duty to speak to you.’

  ‘Perhaps we should have questioned her,’ said Betts as the woman bustled off. ‘She gives me the impression she’s the font of all that goes on in this place.’

  ‘I think you’re probably right but for now we’ll stick to the nursing staff,’ replied Fitzjohn as he walked to the window and took a sweeping look over the ocean. Presently, a woman dressed in a blue uniform entered the reception area through the security door.

  ‘Good afternoon. I’m Cristin Reid,’ she said with a smile and extended her hand towards Fitzjohn. ‘I’m told you’re making inquiries in regard to Greta Mowbray.’

  ‘Not as such, Ms Reid,’ Fitzjohn replied as he shook her hand. ‘In actual fact we’re here to inquire about those who visit her.’

  ‘Oh I see. Well, Greta only has one visitor, her niece, who comes several times a week.’

  ‘Not her daughter, Stephanie Mowbray?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘No. I think I’d be right in saying that I’ve only seen her daughter on two occasions which were shortly after her mother was admitted to the nursing home and about six months later at Christmas time in 2017. She arrived, seemingly, to have her mother sign some papers. Of course, she could have visited her mother when I wasn’t on duty but, to be honest, I rather doubt it.’

  ‘Why is that?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘From the odd comments made by Greta from time to time. She may have dementia but there are times she’s quite lucid. In those moments, she expresses her disappointment that Stephanie never visits her. Sadly, she blames herself. It must be a heavy burden for her.’

  ‘And the niece who does come to see her?’

  ‘Her name is Elizabeth Tippet. She visits regularly. As a matter of fact, she’s here now if you’d like to speak to her.’

  ‘We would,’ replied Fitzjohn.

  ‘This is an unexpected development,’ said Betts as the two men waited once again.

  ‘All part of the journey,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘Like peeling an onion layer by layer. You never know what you’ll find.’ As he spoke, a woman in her mid-thirties entered the reception area. Wearing a slim fitting grey woollen dress with a long colourful scarf draped around her shoulders and exuding an elegant flare, she walked over to the two officers with a degree of apprehension. Fitzjohn glanced at Betts.

  ‘Hello. I’m Elizabeth Tippet,’ said the woman. ‘I understand you wish to speak to me about my aunt. I hope there isn’t a problem concerning her residency here.’

  ‘Not at all, Ms Tippet,’ replied Fitzjohn, gesturing to a nest of chairs set near the window. ‘We’re merely making inquiries in connection to our investigation and your aunt’s name has been raised,’ continued Fitzjohn as they sat down. ‘We’re trying to establish who comes to see your aunt.’

  ‘Oh? Can I ask what sort of investigation you’re conducting, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘We’re investigating two homicides.’

  ‘Homicides.’ Elizabeth stared at Fitzjohn. ‘I don’t see how they could involve my aunt unless… Were they people Aunt Greta knew?’

  ‘I don’t believe so,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘Our inquiries merely centre on who visited your aunt on Wednesday July 11.’

  ‘I see. Well, that would be me,’ replied Elizabeth.

  ‘No one else came to see her?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘I rather doubt it. I was here with Aunt Greta for most of that day and evening because she hadn’t been well. I arrived around twelve-thirty in the afternoon and stayed later than usual. Until about eleven that evening, I think. I didn’t leave until she’d fallen asleep.’

  ‘So you didn’t see her daughter, Stephanie, at all that day?’

  ‘Stephanie?’ No, not on that day or any other for that matter.’

  ‘We’re led to believe she did come to see her mother not long after she was admitted to the facility and again six months later.’

  ‘Evidently she did. I was informed by one of the nurses on duty at the time. They thought I should know because my aunt had become upset. Apparently, Stephanie wanted her to sign an enduring power of attorney. Thankfully, Aunt Greta was lucid on both occasions and refused.’ Elizabeth paused. ‘I’m not saying that such a document isn’t helpful for both parties at a time like this, Chief Inspector, but only if your chosen attorney has your best i
nterests at heart and not their own. Unfortunately, I doubt that is the case where Stephanie is concerned.’ Elizabeth hesitated. ‘What exactly is this all about, Chief Inspector, because to be honest your questions are unusual?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say, Ms Tippet. All I can tell you is that our questions are to confirm information that we’ve received from persons of interest.’

  ‘I take it Stephanie is one of those persons,’ said Elizabeth as she met Fitzjohn’s gaze.

  ‘She is,’ replied Fitzjohn.

  ‘Momentarily, Elizabeth covered her face with her hands before she continued. ‘You’ll have to excuse me, Chief Inspector. It’s a bit of a sore point with me, I’m afraid. Not that I mind visiting my aunt or paying for her care, she’s my mother’s sister after all. But as you can imagine it is expensive and a bit of help or even support from Steph wouldn’t go amiss, but this is something I didn’t expect.’

  ‘Are you saying that you are solely responsible for your aunt’s care,’ asked Fitzjohn taken aback by this latest revelation.

  ‘Yes. When it became obvious that Aunt Greta needed full-time care, I approached Stephanie but she refused to acknowledge the fact, so I made all the arrangements and have been responsible for the financial side of things ever since.’

  ‘Can you tell us what method the nursing home uses for the payments, Ms Tippet?’

  ‘Of course. It’s by direct debit from my bank account each month. It’s the only option the nursing home provides.’

  ***

  Dark clouds gathered over the ocean and a strong wind drove the first drops of rain as Fitzjohn and Betts left the nursing home and sprinted to their car. Slamming the doors as the storm intensified, Fitzjohn settled back in his seat before removing his rain splattered glasses to wipe the lenses. ‘We made it just in time,’ he said with a chuckle as the car rocked with the force of the wind.

  ‘I think we should wait here until this storm passes,’ said Betts as he peered out at the trees and foliage being ravaged by the wind. ‘You were right about the onion analogy, sir. Peeling back the layers revealed more than I expected about Stephanie Mowbray. She and her cousin look so alike. It’s uncanny.’

  ‘And explains why the description the nursing home staff gave you the other day led us to believe Mowbray had told us the truth about her whereabouts on July 11.’

  ‘Not to mention the power of attorney she wanted her mother to sign; under duress, by all accounts,’ Betts added. ‘And I thought she was so caring about her mother’s welfare. It just shows how wrong you can be.’

  ‘It’s always best to question and not to accept anything at face value,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘And it’s given us the breakthrough we needed to progress with our investigation now we know she doesn’t have an alibi for the night of Dolores Madden’s murder. And there’s also the fact that she isn’t financially responsible for payments to the nursing home, so we have to ask why she lied and what happened to the money she has been taking out of her bank account regularly over the past year.’

  ‘It’s enough to bring her in for questioning, sir. I’ll get that arranged as soon as I get back to the station.’

  As Betts spoke, Fitzjohn’s mobile phone rang. ‘It’s internal affairs, no doubt with news of my fate,’ he said as he looked at the screen and went to answer it. ‘Fitzjohn here. Very well, I’ll be there. The tribunal wants to speak to me in their offices at nine o’clock tomorrow morning,’ he said as he hung up.

  ‘In that case, it’s going to be a long night, sir,’ said Betts as he started the car.

  ***

  Absorbed with thoughts of his meeting with the tribunal the following morning and what the outcome would be, Fitzjohn arrived home, his hand fumbling in his pocket for his front door key. As the door opened, he stepped into the warmth, his nostrils taking in the aroma of food. He smiled to himself at the comforts of home as he placed his briefcase on the hall table. The sight of Meg’s suitcase at the foot of the stairs, however, caught his eye and caused him to hesitate, a sense of impending doom taking hold. This can only mean one thing, he thought. Meg is angry.

  ‘Alistair, where on earth have you been?’ Taken aback, Fitzjohn swung around to see Meg, her face contorted with rage and he braced himself. ‘Since Martin had to work, you said you’d be at Sophie’s new apartment when the furniture arrived and help us unpack.’

  ‘That was today?’ replied Fitzjohn, crestfallen. ‘I do apologise.’

  ‘It’s Sophie you should apologise to, not me. I can’t believe you forgot, unless…’ Meg’s eyebrows knitted together. ‘You were with Martin weren’t you; working on the case despite your suspension.’ Fitzjohn did not reply. ‘Do you realise you might have put his career on the line?’

  ‘In hindsight, yes, I do. It was selfish of me.’

  ‘Selfish isn’t the word. I’m appalled,’ said Meg.

  ‘Is that why you’re leaving?’ asked Fitzjohn, aware that his compulsion to continue his investigation despite his suspension had also caused difficulties for Sophie and undone all that had been gained in his relationship with his sister.

  ‘No, it isn’t. I just feel that now Sophie is settled into her new life with Martin and starting out in her career, it’s time for me to return home to Melbourne, not to mention the fact that I’m anxious to begin my new gardening project.’ Meg broke off and pursed her lips. ‘Don’t think for one minute it means I’m not still angry with you, Alistair.’

  ‘I don’t. You have every right to be angry,’ replied Fitzjohn relieved that, at least, his actions had not altered his sister’s new-found zest for life. ‘I’ll give Sophie a call now and apologise.’

  ‘That’s the least you can do. You might also consider finding a house-warming gift. It’ll help fill your time while you’re on suspension.’

  ‘I’ll do that too,’ said Fitzjohn as he dialled Sophie’s number.

  ***

  When he entered the kitchen some time later, he found Meg at the table setting out an array of brochures, each with a greenhouse depicted on its cover. ‘I want to ask your advice on which greenhouse you think would be ideal for my purpose, Alistair.’

  ‘I’d be delighted,’ he said as he joined her at the table.

  ‘I know this is a difficult time for you,’ said Meg as she watched him scan each brochure. ‘Please don’t think my returning home means I’m not concerned about your present situation because I am.’

  ‘I know that, Meg.’

  ‘So, you also know I’m always available on the other end of the telephone if you need to talk.’

  ‘I do and that’s reassuring,’ replied Fitzjohn, unaccustomed to his sister’s transformation and hoping it would be permanent.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘It’s about Rhonda Butler. How could I have forgotten? There’s news. This afternoon, I spoke to her sister, Blossom, and apparently Rhonda’s been let off on a one year good behaviour bond.’ Fitzjohn looked up from the brochures. ‘Blossom’s reaction surprised me though. She appeared amused about the whole affair but I’m sure Rhonda isn’t. In fact, it set me thinking, Alistair. It might be wise to start making plans to move. After all, your relationship with Mrs Butler will be at a new low. If you stay here you might not be safe in your own home after this debacle.’

  ‘Did Blossom mention what happened to Rhonda’s nephew?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Apparently, he received a two year good behaviour bond; I imagine because of his age and the fact that he’s never been involved in any sort of criminal activity in the past. He’s also been expelled from that posh school he attended.’

  ***

  With Meg happily absorbed with his greenhouse suggestions, Fitzjohn poured himself a glass of whisky and settled himself into a chair in the conservatory, his thoughts covering the events of the day and coming to rest on his meeting the following morning with internal affairs where he would learn his fate.

  CHAPTER 20

/>   A ware that his meeting with the internal affairs unit could alter his life completely, Fitzjohn tried to come to terms with that possibility as his taxi weaved through the traffic on its way to the CBD. Straightening his suit coat and adjusting his tie as he entered the building, he took the elevator to the thirteenth floor and emerged straight into the unit’s reception area. Deserted but for a woman in attendance behind a desk at the far end of the room, Fitzjohn approached and showed his warrant card.

  ‘I’m DCI Fitzjohn. I’m scheduled to appear before the tribunal at nine o’clock.’ he said.

  ‘Ah, yes, Chief Inspector,’ she replied with a smile. ‘You’re to see Chief Superintendents Marshall, Parker, and Fairday. Please take a seat and I’ll call you shortly.’

  With a growing sense of vulnerability, Fitzjohn settled himself into a chair and waited, a myriad of thoughts crisscrossing his mind, not the least being that this was a watershed moment where his life could alter forever.

  ‘They’re ready for you now, Chief Inspector. This way, please.’

  Fitzjohn got to his feet and, with a degree of nervous anticipation, followed the young woman along several corridors before being led into a large room, its windows overlooking the city skyline. Three uniformed police officers sat facing the door on the far side of a long table. Remaining seated, they looked up from their paperwork when Fitzjohn appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Chief Inspector Fitzjohn, please come in,’ said the officer in the centre. ‘I’m CS Marshall and this is CS Parker and CS Fairday. Thank you for coming in at such short notice,’ he continued, gesturing to the single chair on the opposite side of the table. Fitzjohn settled himself into his chair with a degree of apprehension.

  ‘Firstly,’ said Marshall, ‘I should inform you that this isn’t a formal tribunal into the incident you have been accused of but merely a discussion, the reason being that after studying the evidence put before us into the matter, we believe you have no case to answer.’ Fitzjohn felt a flood of relief and gave an involuntary sigh. ‘Our findings are that you found yourself in an unusual situation concerning a neighbour and were in the process of dealing with the occurrence when it was taken out of your hands. We regret that, with your many years of exemplary service as a police officer in the force, this situation occurred and we apologise for the distress it, no doubt, caused you. Consequently, your suspension is hereby lifted and you may resume your duties at Day Street Police Station.’