Lane's End (11 page)

‘Then all I can say is good luck.’

Fitzjohn leaned against the door as it shut and he sighed. ‘Rhonda, the bane of my existence.’ Pushing himself off the door, he walked slowly through the house to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of whisky, and made his way out into the back garden. With the birds roosting in the trees and no hint of a breeze, the evening lay peaceful and quiet. He sat down in one of the garden chairs, and took a sip of his whisky before his eyes came to rest on the greenhouse, now a silhouette against the evening sky
. If you think I’m tearing that down, Rhonda Butler, you’ve got another think coming.

CHAPTER 14

Fitzjohn arrived in his office at dawn the following morning and settled himself at his desk. In the early hour before the hubbub began, his thoughts traversed the Peter Van Goren case until a knock sounded and Betts came into the room. Fitzjohn set his pen down, somewhat disappointed at the interruption. ‘Morning, Betts.’

‘Morning, sir. I thought I’d get in early because we’re speaking to Amanda Marsh first thing, aren’t we?’

‘I am, but I want you to make a concerted effort to find out more about Peter Van Goren. There has to be something we’ve missed concerning his link to the Carmichael family. Without it, our investigation doesn’t make sense. I’ll take Williams with me.’

With Williams at the wheel and displaying a certain amount of preoccupation, the two officers made their way in silence to Glebe and the home of Amanda Marsh. Fitzjohn’s thoughts dwelled for a time on Rhonda Butler’s threat. No doubt he could expect a letter from the Council in a matter of days if last year’s debacle over her tree was anything to go by.

‘This is it, sir,’ said Williams, breaking the silence.

Brought back from his thoughts, Fitzjohn peered out of the passenger window at a two-storey Victorian terrace house, its upper balcony trimmed with rich iron lacework. Climbing out of the car, he led the way through the small garden to the front door and rang the bell, all too aware of Williams’s reticence. When the door opened, Amanda appeared. In the light of day she looked older than she had the night Peter Van Goren had died. Even so, she was impeccably dressed in a pair of light green slacks and a white blouse, her bright blue eyes contrasting her short silver grey hair. ‘Good morning, Ms Marsh,’ said Fitzjohn with a smile.

‘Morning,’ she replied with a look of surprise.

‘We have a few more questions we’d like to ask,’ Fitzjohn continued. ‘Can we come in?’

‘I was about to leave for the office,’ Amanda replied, looking at her watch. ‘Will it take long?’

‘I shouldn’t think so.’

‘Very well.’ Amanda led the way into a small sitting room, its furnishing matching the era of the house. ‘Is there news about the man who died at the Observatory?’ she asked, sitting down while Fitzjohn and Williams settled themselves on the sofa.

‘Not yet, but events have necessitated that we speak to you again.’

‘Well, I’m sure I told you everything I know when we were at the Observatory the other night, Chief Inspector.’

‘It’s not about the death of Peter Van Goren, Ms Marsh. In the course of our investigation, it’s come to light that you once worked for the Carmichael’s as a housekeeper.’

‘Yes. Didn’t I mention that before? I started working for them shortly after their first child was born. That would have been in 1978, if I remember correctly.’

‘And when did you leave their employ?’

‘Let’s see. That would have been in 1983. Not long after Mrs Carmichael died.’ Amanda paused. ‘The first Mrs Carmichael, that is. Do you know about that?’

‘Yes. Rachael Carmichael. We understand she died at Whale Beach.’

‘That’s right.’ Amanda quivered. ‘Her death still haunts me.’

‘Can you tell us what you remember about that day, Ms Marsh?’

‘I can. As if it was yesterday, Chief Inspector. It’s replayed in my mind many times. It was a Friday. I’d accompanied Mrs Carmichael and the two children to Lane’s End, at Whale Beach. It was a property the family owned so that they could get away from the city from time to time. We were to spend the long weekend there. Mr Carmichael was to join us that evening. The gardener met us when we arrived and helped us in with the bags and soon after, Mrs Carmichael went off to paint as she always did. She was an artist, you see. She used a small cottage on the property as her studio.’ Amanda thought for a moment. ‘I spent the morning looking after the children and getting the house organised for our stay before I prepared lunch.’

‘Did Mrs Carmichael return to the house for lunch?’

‘No. I took a salad down to the cottage for her at mid-day.’

‘And where were the children while you did that?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘Oh. Let me see. Ben was out following the gardener around as he always did, and I took Joanna, the baby, with me.’

‘Was Rachael in the cottage when you arrived?’

‘No. It was such a beautiful day, she said she’d decided to sit outside. She’d set her easel up on the grass outside the cottage.’

‘And how did she seem at the time?’

‘Very content. She loved being at Lane’s End.’ Amanda paused in reflection.

‘Did you see her again that day?’

‘No. I never saw her again.’ Amanda Marsh’s voice broke and she grabbed a tissue from the coffee table to stem her tears. ‘You’ll have to excuse me. Talking about it brings it all back.’

Fitzjohn waited before he continued. ‘Are you all right to go on, Ms Marsh?’ Amanda nodded. ‘Can you tell us what happened after you left Mrs Carmichael that day?’

‘I returned to the house and had lunch with the children. After that, Ben went back out to play and I put Joanna down for her afternoon nap. Not long after, Mr Newberry arrived. He’s Richard Carmichael’s half-brother. Or at least he was. I asked him if he’d like to sit down and have some lunch, but he said he wanted to go and speak to Rachael first. It wasn’t long though before he was back saying he couldn’t find her. That’s when the day became a nightmare. Lane’s End is such a big place. I told him she might have wandered off to paint on the other side of the cove so he went back out but, of course, he didn’t find her. When he arrived back the second time, he called the police and also his brother, Richard.’

‘Where was the gardener while all this was going on?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘Henry? Well, at the time, I assumed he was helping Mr Newberry look for Mrs Carmichael, but I later learnt that he’d packed his belongings and left. Of course, it raised suspicion that he had something to do with Rachael’s death, although I’ve always found that hard to believe. What reason could he have to hurt Mrs Carmichael, but there again, why else would he disappear at a time like that?’ Amanda threw her hands in the air.

‘What sort of a person was Henry Beaumont, Ms Marsh?’

‘Well, as I remember, he was a fairly quiet man. Kept to himself a lot, but he was a good worker. He transformed the grounds at Lane’s End into a botanical masterpiece.’

With thoughts tumbling through his mind including Williams’s continued silence, the two officers returned to the station and went their separate ways. Fitzjohn got himself a cup of coffee and went to his office to prepare for the next case management meeting. It wasn’t long, however, before Williams appeared in the open doorway.

‘Can I speak to you, sir?’ he asked.

‘Can’t it wait for the meeting, Williams? I just want to get a few things straight in my mind before we start.’

‘It’s not about the case, sir,’ replied Williams, looking uncharacteristically awkward.

‘Oh?’

‘No. It’s... more or less personal.’

Fitzjohn put his pen down and sat back in his chair. ‘Then you’d better come in and close the door.’ He gestured to the chairs in front of his desk.

Williams sat down and rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I’m not sure how to start, sir.’

‘Why don’t you start with what it’s about?’

‘Okay. It’s about someone on staff.’ Williams hesitated. ‘Someone of higher rank.’

‘Me?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘No, not you, sir. It’s about Chief Superintendent Grieg.’

‘Oh.’ Fitzjohn sat forward. ‘What about him?’

‘Do you remember during your secondment to Kings Cross Station last autumn when you found I’d been permanently moved there by the Chief?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, as I think I told you at the time, I was happy with the move until...’

Fitzjohn frowned. ‘Until what?’

‘This will sound ridiculous…God, I can hardly believe I’m sitting here telling you.’

‘You haven’t told me anything yet, Williams.’

‘Well, it’s just that I have the feeling my transfer to Kings Cross was set up for a purpose not related to my career in the police force.’ Williams’s eyes locked onto Fitzjohn’s. ‘I’m probably not making myself very clear here, am I?’ Williams ran his trembling hand through his hair. ‘You see, sir, I’d been at Kings Cross Station for about a week when you arrived. After your arrival, Chief Superintendent Grieg contacted me and told me to report to him on the case you were working on at the time.’

‘The Michael Rossi case?’

‘Yes. Chief Superintendent Grieg said he wanted to know everything that went on.’ Williams paused. ‘It went against the grain, but I’m afraid I did what he told me to do.’

‘So why are you telling me this now?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘Because... Oh, God.’ Williams took a deep breath. ‘Because last week, I found myself transferred back here to Day Street and this morning before we left to interview Amanda Marsh, the Chief Superintendent told me to do the same again. I’m to report to him on your activities in relation to the Van Goren case. There, I’ve said it.’ Williams slumped back in his chair.

‘Did the Chief Superintendent give you a reason?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘No, sir, but he did make it clear that it wouldn’t be in my best interest to refuse. I got the feeling I’d end up transferred to the farthest reaches of New South Wales. What should I do, sir?’

‘Well, first let me say that I appreciate your coming to see me because I know how difficult it must have been for you, especially since it concerns a senior officer. Secondly, I apologise for the manner in which you’ve been treated. And as far as what you should do, I’d say there’s nothing you need to do. I’ll see to this matter myself and we’ll speak again when I’ve done so.’

As Williams left the office, Fitzjohn sat back in his chair. So, he thought, Williams was and, it seems, still is Grieg’s mole. What possible motive could Grieg have for enlisting a junior officer to spy? Is he paranoid enough to think I want his job? If so, what lengths will he go to get rid of me? As these thoughts ran through his head, Betts appeared.

‘The Duty Sergeant said you want to see me, sir,’ he said, striding into the room.

‘Yes, Betts. I want to know if there’s any news on Van Goren before we go into the case management meeting.’

‘There is, sir. We’ve ascertained that Peter Van Goren’s bank account records started in October, 1983. He had no records prior to that. In Australia, at least. I’ve contacted Interpol. I’m just waiting to hear back.’

‘Good. So, we could conclude that before then he lived overseas. With a name like Van Goren, he might have been an immigrant. Didn’t Ida Clegg mention that he spoke with a slight accent?’

‘She did,’ replied Betts, standing with both hands on the back of one of the chairs in front of Fitzjohn’s desk. ‘But when I checked with the Immigration Department, I found there is no record of anybody by the name of Peter Van Goren entering Australia as either an immigrant or a tourist, which only leaves the possibility that he came into the country illegally.’

‘But how?’ mused Fitzjohn.

‘Well, there are a few possibilities. He could have entered as a tourist and changed his name when he overstayed his visa. Or he might have come in as an employee of some foreign company and never left. Then there’s the possibility he worked for a shipping line and jumped ship.’

‘Check them all, Betts.’ Fitzjohn thought for a moment. ‘It’s not that easy to open a bank account. What did he use as verification?’

‘His Australian passport, sir.’

‘Really? How did he manage that one, I wonder.’

‘Not through the usual channels,’ replied Betts. ‘I contacted the Passport Office in Canberra. They have no record of issuing a passport in the name Peter Van Goren.’

‘A forgery then. Not difficult to get, I suppose, if you know the right people.’ Fitzjohn looked thoughtful.

‘There’s something else, sir. His bank records show that his initial account in 1983, was opened with a sizeable amount. Twenty-five thousand dollars. Quite a sum at the time, I imagine.’

‘It was, Betts. Enough to get him started with his first business venture, I’d say.’

‘I think it did, sir, because on checking with Raymond West, Van Goren opened his first coffee shop around that time. West did the conveyancing.’

‘Very well. Why don’t we make ourselves familiar with Mr Van Goren’s business ventures because we don’t seem to be making much headway in any other area? To start with, arrange for a search warrant to search his home at Vaucluse. Hopefully it’ll help us get a better perspective on the man.’ Fitzjohn paused. ‘The other thing I want to discuss is Rachael Carmichael. I know her death isn’t part of our investigation, but with that case left unsolved and the fact that our present case involves the same family, I feel we should keep it in mind. If nothing else, it could give us some insight into those who are of interest to us in the Peter Van Goren case.’