ONCE UPON A LIE (A Fitzjohn Mystery) (2 page)

‘Chief Inspector Fitzjohn?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m Simone Knowles.  I’m filling in for Charles Conroy while he’s on leave.’  Simone got to her feet,
towering over Fitzjohn, her lean, wiry frame lending her an air of agility and fitness.

‘Pleased to meet you, Simone,’ said Fitzjohn.  ‘This
is Detective Sergeant Betts.’ Betts tripped as he approached, his eyes riveted on Simone.

‘I think we’ve met
, haven’t we, Sergeant?’ she asked.  ‘But I can’t think where.’

‘It was a
t the running club last Sunday,’ said Betts, smiling slightly.

‘Ah.  So it was
.’

‘I didn’t know you ran, Betts,’ said Fitzjohn
, looking at his sergeant in surprise.

‘
I’ve just taken it up, sir’ replied Betts as they each knelt down next to the victim’s body.

‘
As you can see,’ said the pathologist, ‘the victim received a blow to the left side of the head here.’  Simone pointed to the side of the victim’s head where blood mixed with the gathering pool of water. ‘Resulting, I suspect, in a contre coup.’  A puzzled look came across Betts’s white face.  ‘Essentially it means damage to the opposite side of the brain in addition to the initial point of contact.  In other words, the brain bouncing around inside the head.’  Fitzjohn lifted his gaze to the yacht, where the SOCOs were going about their business in relative silence.

‘I take it he received that blow from somewhere on the yacht.’

‘Yes,’ replied Simone.  ‘And it happened below deck.  Fragments of bone have been found adhering to the side of the sink.  Even so, he might still be alive if not for this second injury at the front of his head.  It was sustained on deck when his head came into contact with the edge of the instrument panel just forward of the helm.  Traces of hair and blood have been found, even though someone’s tried to wipe it off.’  Simone paused.  ‘Other than that, he has a couple of torn fingernails, and I can’t say for sure at this stage, but I doubt he was alive when he entered the water.’

‘In which case he had help,
’ said Fitzjohn.

‘
Not an unreasonable assumption.  As I said, someone’s tried very hard to clean up the blood, both below deck as well as on the instrument panel.’

Fitzjohn looked closer at the victim’s fist where a small piece of paper protruded from its grip.  ‘What’s this?
’

‘Look
s like the remains of a page from a book, sir,’ said Betts peering closer.

‘
Mmm.  I wonder if that book was the cause of all this.’

‘Do you have any idea of the time of death, Simone?’
asked Fitzjohn, getting to his feet.

‘I’d say somewhere between eight and
midnight.  I’ll be able to be more exact after the post mortem.’

Fitzjohn and Betts left Simone Knowles and made their way back along the ramp to where Reynolds stood.  ‘Do you know who owns the yacht, Reynolds?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘Yes, sir.  His name’s Graeme Wyngard. 
He’s on his way here now.’

‘Good.’  Fitzjohn looked over at Nigel Prentice who now sat straighter on his seat
, sipping a cup of coffee.  ‘How’s Mr Prentice?’

‘Feeling a little better,
I think, sir.  At least the initial shock seems to have worn off.’

‘
Good.  I’ll have a word with him after we’ve looked in the victim’s office.’

Followed by Betts, Fitzjohn
made his way up a set of cement steps to the balcony above where he opened a glass door marked Rossi & Prentice Yachting Electronics Pty Ltd.  Inside, amidst the activity of the SOCOs, they walked in to the office overlooking the marina.  Fitzjohn took in the room, its neat appearance giving the impression of exactness at whatever went on normally within its walls.  The undisturbed surface of the desk displayed a clean coffee mug, laptop computer and pens and pencils arranged in order of size in the desk organizer.  Sat prominently behind the desk on a long narrow cupboard, were two, silver framed, photographs.  One of a young woman with shoulder length fair hair and a beaming smile, standing at the helm of a yacht.  The other photograph, yellowed with age, showed the victim with what looked like his parents, and perhaps a sister.  A briefcase lay open next to the photographs, its contents displaying the same orderliness as the desk and the room.

‘
It’s all very neat and tidy,’ remarked Betts.

‘
It is, Betts.  Whoever the killer is, he wasn’t interested in anything here.’  Fitzjohn gestured to the mobile phone, sitting inside its pocket in the lid of the briefcase.  ‘Contact Telstra and get a list of all incoming and outgoing calls for that phone, Betts.’  As he spoke, Fitzjohn lifted his gaze to the window and the harbour beyond, its waters sparkling in the summer sunshine.  ‘Let’s have a word with Mr Prentice, shall we?’

T
hey emerged on to the balcony outside and descended the steps to find a man of medium build in his mid to late fifties speaking to Reynolds.  ‘This is Mr Wyngard, Chief Inspector,’ said Reynolds as Wyngard pushed passed him.

‘I take it this means my sloop will be tied up for the time being.  Just how long for, Chief Inspector?  I have a race on tomorrow.’

Taken aback by the question and sensing Wyngard’s dogged personality, Fitzjohn tried to still his growing irritation before he replied, ‘That, I can’t say.  All I can tell you, at this point, is that you’ll be informed when your yacht has been released.’  Fitzjohn cleared his throat.  ‘Tell me, Mr Wyngard, when did you last speak to Michael Rossi?’

‘
It would have been last Wednesday when I booked my yacht in for the alterations.  I rang him again on Friday before I brought it in, but Nigel, over there, said Mike was out of town for the weekend.’

‘Why did you want to speak to
Michael Rossi on Friday?’

‘
Because I wanted to make sure my yacht would be ready to pick up on Sunday morning.  As I said before, I have a race on.’  Wyngard’s eyes narrowed.  ‘Will there be anything else, Chief Inspector?’

‘
No.  We’ll be in touch, Mr Wyngard.’

As the disgruntled Wyngard
left, Fitzjohn turned to Nigel Prentice who still sat in silence sipping his coffee, his face drawn and pale.

‘I’m Detective Chief
Inspector Fitzjohn, Mr Prentice.’  Fitzjohn sat down on a chair opposite.  ‘Do you feel up to answering a few questions?’

Nigel Prentice
nodded, dabbing his forehead with the handkerchief in his shaking hand.  ‘It’s hard to believe this has happened,’ he said, looking out across the marina.  ‘Who would want to do this to Mike?’  Fitzjohn, sensing Prentice’s distress, waited before he continued.

‘I understand you and
Michael Rossi were business partners.’

‘
We were.  Since 2007.  Pooled our resources to get the business up and running.’  Prentice gave a nervous laugh.

‘
Can you tell me what time you arrived here this morning?’

‘
It was fairly early,’ answered Prentice, putting his handkerchief in to his pocket.  ‘Around seven o’clock.  Reason being, I still had work to do on Graeme Wyngard’s yacht.  He wanted to pick it up first thing on Sunday morning, you see.’

‘Did you notice anything different
when you arrived? From the usual, that is.’

‘
Yes, I did.  The door to the office was unlocked and Mike’s desk lamp was on.  Not unusual in itself, but he had told me he’d be away all weekend.  I figured he must have changed his plans and was down in the marina working on Wyngard’s yacht, so I went down.  That’s when I found him… in the water underneath the pontoon.’  Prentice winced.  ‘His leg was caught between the pontoon and the yacht.  Poor bastard…  Mike didn’t deserve tha...’  Prentice took his handkerchief out of his pocket again and blew his nose.

Fi
tzjohn waited before he asked, ‘Can you tell me when you last spoke to Mr Rossi?’

‘
Yes.  It was early on Friday morning.  He called in to the office before he drove up to the Hunter Valley.  He said he had an appointment with a real estate agent there.’

‘
Did he plan on buying a property?’

‘Selling
one, actually.  Five Oaks Winery.  It’s been in his family for many years.  It’s where he grew up.’

‘
I see.  And did you have any further contact with Mr Rossi after he left for the winery?’

‘No, although, I did try to call him on his mobile, but it was turned off so I left a message.’

‘What was the message?’

‘
It was just to tell him who’d telephoned the office that morning.  He liked to be kept informed, even when he was away.’

‘
Who were these people, Mr Prentice?’

‘
Oh.  Let’s see.  There were three.  Graeme Wyngard, calling about his yacht.  Another was Rob Nesbit, and...’  Nigel Prentice rubbed his forehead and sighed.

‘Take your time, Mr Prentice,’ said Fitzjohn.

‘I’m sorry, Chief Inspector.  This is ridiculous.  I can’t seem to think straight.  Oh, that’s right.  It was Percy Green.’

‘All
clients are they?’

‘
Only Wyngard.  The other two are… were acquaintances of Mike’s.’  Prentice paused.  ‘I can’t understand it.  Mike was very definite that he wouldn’t be back in the office until Monday morning.  Something must have gone wrong for him to change his mind.’

‘Why do you say that?’
asked Fitzjohn.

‘Because Mike
was a fastidious man.  Always had everything worked out.  Rarely did he deviate from his plans.’

Fitzjohn’s thoughts went to the victim’s office and
the image its extreme neatness projected.  ‘Did he appear troubled when he left here on Friday morning?’

‘No, not at all. 
In fact, I haven’t seen him quite so relaxed for a long time.  He was looking forward to getting the winery listed for sale.  Couldn’t talk about anything else.’  A thoughtful look crossed Nigel Prentice’s face.  ‘I think he saw it as a means of moving on with his life.  You see, Chief Inspector, before her death, his sister, Claudia Rossi, had seen to the winery’s management.  I believe the place reminded him of her.’

‘When did
she die, Mr Prentice?’

‘Oh, it must be almost two years ago now.’

‘Did she live at the winery?’

‘No.
  She lived here in Sydney with her partner, Richard Edwards.  She employed a winemaker to manage the winery, although she did spend a lot of time there.’

The family photograph
of the Rossi family on the cabinet in the victim’s office came in to Fitzjohn’s mind.  ‘The photographs on the bureau in Michael Rossi’s office, Mr Prentice...’

‘Yes
,’ said Prentice, jumping in.  The large one is of Mike with his parents and Claudia.  The other photograph is of Charlotte Rossi, Claudia’s daughter.’

‘So Claudia Rossi never married.’

‘She did marry when she was young.  To John Merrell.  He was a yachtsman.  You might have heard of him.  He was quite well known.  He died at sea not long after Charlotte was born.  Apparently, after his death, Claudia reverted to her maiden name.’  Prentice looked out to the pontoon where Michael Rossi’s body laid.  ‘I still can’t believe this has happened.’

‘Does anyone other than yourself and Mr
Rossi have access to your offices?’ continued Fitzjohn.

‘Yes. 
Charlotte has a key.  She comes in occasionally to help out, and… I’m not sure, but Stella might also have a key.’

‘Stella?’

‘Stella Rossi, Mike’s wife.  Although, they were separated.  She used to work in the business before the breakup.’

‘On friendly terms were they?’

‘I suppose as friendly as you can be after a separation.’

‘
Do you know if Stella Rossi had been in touch with Michael Rossi lately?’

‘
I have no idea, Chief Inspector.  Mike wasn’t the type to share his personal life.’

‘
I see.  Are you aware of any problems he might have had involving other people?’

Nigel Prentice sat in thought for a moment. 
‘Not really, although, there was that trouble with his winemaker.’

‘The same one his sister had hired before her death?’

‘Yes.  I think his name’s Whitehead.  As a matter of fact, he called in to see Mike on Thursday.’  Prentice’s eyebrows rose.  ‘They argued.’

‘Do you know what they argued about?’

‘No, I went outside until Mr Whitehead had left,’ answered Prentice.

‘Do you know where Mr Whitehead
can be contacted?’

‘
No, but I’m sure Charlotte will know.’

‘
Very well, Mr Prentice, there’s just one more thing.  Can I ask where you were on Friday evening between the hours of eight and midnight?’  With a look of bewilderment, Nigel Prentice hesitated as if trying to remember.  ‘Take your time, Mr Prentice.’