ONCE UPON A LIE (A Fitzjohn Mystery) (3 page)

‘
It’s all right.  I was at a council meeting in Woollahra.’

‘
Are you a member of that council?’

‘No
, I went there to address council about the parking on my street.’  Prentice shook his head.  ‘Seems so trivial now.’

‘
Did you go alone to the meeting?’

‘Yes.  My wife
had other plans.’

‘Was anyone at the meeting who can
verify your attendance?  A neighbour perhaps.’

‘No
, but I did complete a Public Forum Registration form before the meeting started, so my attendance is on record.’

‘What time did you leave
the meeting, Mr Prentice?’

‘When it finished.  Shortly before ten, I think
it was.’

‘And
where did you go from there?’

‘
I went straight home.’

‘
So you would have arrived home at what time?’

‘About ten
o’clock.  I live close by.’

‘
Very well, Mr Prentice,’ said Fitzjohn, getting to his feet.  ‘I think we’ll leave it there for now, although, I dare say we’ll need to speak to you again at some stage.’  Fitzjohn paused.  ‘Oh.  There’s just one more thing.  Charlotte Rossi…’

‘Oh, God
.  She’ll have to be told,’ said Prentice.

‘
We’ll see to that, sir, if you’ll be kind enough to give Detective Sergeant Betts her contact details.’

‘Yes.  Yes, of course.  I’ll do that.’

Fitzjohn studied Prentice’s vague expression.  ‘Will you be all right to get yourself home?’ he asked.  ‘Otherwise, I can have one of my officers take you.’

Prentice shook his head.
  ‘That won’t be necessary.  I’ll be fine if I can just sit here for a bit longer.’

In the morning’s building humidity, Fitzjohn and Betts left Reynolds in charge of the crime scene and walked back out on to New Beach Road.  There, they were met by a barrage of media. ‘Can you give us a statement?’ shouted one reporter, thrusting his microphone at Fitzjohn’s face.  Betts stood to one side as Fitzjohn lifted the police tape, and joined the mob.

‘
All I can say at this stage, is that the body of a local businessman was found early this morning in the waters of the marina here at Rushcutters Bay.  We’re treating the matter as suspicious, therefore I’d ask anyone who was in the vicinity of New Beach Road last evening, and believes they have information, to please come forward.’

‘Can you give any more details about what happened?’ asked another reporter.’

‘I’m afraid it’s too early in our investigation.  We’ll be holding a press conference a little later.’ Fitzjohn turned away and followed Betts to the car.

‘
With any luck, that’ll help jog the memory of anyone who did see anything unusual here last night,’ he said, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and mopping his brow.  Inside the car, he sat back in the passenger seat, savouring the cooling effects of the air conditioning system.

‘
I didn’t know you were a runner, Betts.’

‘I’m not
, sir.’  Betts pulled away from the curb. ‘Or at least I wasn’t until Chief Superintendent Grieg decided Day Street Police Station would enter a team in to the Sydney to Surf Fun Run this year.’

‘And you volunteered for that punishment?’
asked Fitzjohn, his face aghast.

‘I
t was that or find myself moved to some country town according to the Chief.  Actually, the running hasn’t been that bad since I joined the running club.  I’ve been pleasantly surprised.’  A slight smile crossed Betts’s face.

‘What with?  The running or
one of its female members?’

‘
I suppose, if I’m being honest, it’s the latter.  I don’t think I’m really cut out for running, sir.’  Betts paused.  ‘But I’ll suffer through.’

Betts turned the car around. 
‘Nigel Prentice said we’d find Charlotte Rossi at the victim’s house this morning, sir.  It’s not far.  Just back along New Beach Road, opposite Rushcutters Bay Park.’

CHAPTER
4

The
black wrought iron gate opened in to a small manicured garden where a low, light green, hedge bordered a tiled path that led to the front door.  While Betts rang the bell, Fitzjohn looked out across Rushcutters Bay Park, bracing himself for his most loathed task, telling a loved one that their family member would not be coming home.  As the front door opened, Fitzjohn turned back to see a slender young woman wearing a yellow polo shirt and jeans, the same young woman who had appeared in the photograph in the victim’s office.

‘Can I help you?’ she
asked with a breezy air, and displaying the same infectious smile.

‘
We’d like to speak to Charlotte Rossi,’ said Fitzjohn.

‘
I’m Charlotte.’

‘
We’re from the New South Wales Police, Ms Rossi.  I’m Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn, and this is Detective Sergeant Betts.’  Both Fitzjohn and Betts held up their warrant cards.  ‘Nigel Prentice said we might find you here.’

‘
Nigel?  Is something wrong?’

‘I’m afraid so
.  May we come in?’

The smile disappeared from Charlotte Rossi’s face as she stepped back from the doorway.  ‘Come through.’  They followed her along the hall, up a short flight of stairs and in to a large rectangular living area ove
rlooking Rushcutters Bay.  Another woman in her late forties with brown wavy hair and a curvaceous shape, stood with her back to them looking at a large sketch hung on the wall at the far end of the room.  Dressed in white slacks and black top, she turned when they appeared.

‘This is my
friend, Phillipa Braithwaite,’ said Charlotte Rossi.  ‘These gentlemen are from the police, Phil.’  Charlotte gestured for Fitzjohn and Betts to sit down before settling herself on the edge of an armchair, a questioning look on her oval shaped face.  Phillipa Braithwaite seated herself on the arm of a small sofa, adjusting the gold bracelets on her wrists before crossing her long legs.  ‘Why are you here?’ asked Charlotte, a tinge of uncertainty in her voice.

‘It’s your
uncle, Ms Rossi.  Michael Rossi’s body was found early this morning…’

‘His body?’ 
Charlotte Rossi’s voice rang out, a look of disbelief coming to her face.  ‘You mean Michael is dead?’

‘I’m afraid so.
’

‘But that can’t be.
’  Charlotte paused, glaring at Fitzjohn before she continued in a whisper.  ‘What happened to him?’

‘
All I can tell you at this stage is that we’re treating your uncle’s death as suspicious.  As I was about to say, his body was found this morning at the marina outside his business premises.

‘But he’s supposed to be in the Hunter Valley
this weekend.  I don’t understand.’

‘In that case, if you can tell us when you last saw
your uncle, Ms Rossi, it might help us to find out why he was here in Sydney.’

Charlotte
Rossi swallowed hard.  ‘I saw him yesterday morning around seven.  He called at my flat to drop off the keys to his house because he planned to be away all weekend, and he needed someone to be here when his new fridge arrives.  That’s what Phillipa and me are doing here.  Waiting...  for the fridge.’  Charlotte Rossi fell silent before she continued.  ‘He won’t need it now, will he?’  She grabbed a tissue from the box on the coffee table.

‘Do you feel able to answer
a few questions, Ms Rossi, or would you prefer we come back later?’

‘No, I’ll be right.’  S
he ran her index finger along the bottom eyelashes of her right eye, stemming a tear.  ‘What do you want to know?’ she sniffed.

‘We understand
your uncle owned a winery in the Hunter Valley.’

‘Yes.  That’s right
.  Five Oaks Winery.  It’s been in our family since… since my grandparents moved to the Hunter in the early 1950s.  They’re both gone now.’  Charlotte’s brow furrowed.  ‘Michael had arranged to meet a real estate agent there so he could have the property listed for sale.  He said he’d be driving back early on Monday morning.’  Charlotte pulled another tissue from the box and dabbed her nose.

‘
Was that the last time you spoke to him?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘Yes.
  It was.’

‘Is
there anyone at the winery we can speak to?  If so, there’s every chance we’ll be able to find out why your uncle returned to Sydney early.’

‘
There’s Rafe Simms. He has the property next door.  He’s been helping out for the past few weeks since the…’  Fitzjohn waited for Charlotte Rossi to continue.  ‘Oh, it’s not important.’

‘In this situation,
Ms Rossi, everything’s important.’

‘
I suppose it is.  I didn’t think.  I was just about to say that Rafe has been managing the winery since our winemaker, Pierce Whitehead, left.’

‘Why did
Mr Whitehead leave?’

‘I don’t know.  Michael didn’t offer any explanation.
  He just told me Pierce quit.’  Charlotte Rossi sighed.  ‘I didn’t press him for details.’  Charlotte met Fitzjohn’s intense gaze.  ‘It would have just annoyed Michael and, at the time, I didn’t feel like a confrontation with him.  Besides, I think I know why Pierce quit.  He and Michael often clashed when Michael visited the winery.  Pierce didn’t like Michael’s interference.’  Charlotte Rossi paused.  ‘You see, Chief Inspector, Pierce was hired by my mother in 2010.  He had a five-year contract.  It wasn’t until after her death that Michael had to have anything to do with the winery, or Pierce.  I suppose, in the end, it just got the better of Pierce.  He walked off the property two weeks ago, right in the middle of the grape harvest.’  Charlotte threw her hands in the air.  ‘The whole thing culminated in Michael deciding to sell the winery.  That’s when Rafe Simms stepped in.  He offered to finish the harvest and buy the grapes.’

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

‘
I’m sorry, I don’t.  But his phone number will be in my phone because he rang me last night.’

‘Oh? 
What was the reason for his call?’

‘He wanted to know if I’d be a referee for a job he’s applying for
in a Victorian winery.’

‘And did you agree?’

‘Yes.  I couldn’t see any reason not to.  He was an excellent winemaker.  He’d proved that over the last couple of years.  I think his sudden departure from Five Oaks Winery was more to do with his inability to get on with my uncle than anything else.  And as far as his present whereabouts, I’m sure his details will be in the study.  Michael would have kept them for superannuation and tax purposes.  I’ll have a look for you.’  Charlotte Rossi rose from her chair.  As she did so, she steadied herself on its arm. ‘The study is this way, Chief Inspector.’  Fitzjohn and Betts followed Charlotte out of the living room, and in to a room overlooking a small courtyard.  ‘She crossed to the bookcase and reached for a folder.  ‘That’s odd.’

‘What is it?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘It’s my uncle’s overnight bag.  He must have left it in here when he got back from the winery.’  She pointed to a bag on the floor beside the desk, its zipper half-undone.  ‘I don’t understand.  Michael would not normally leave his bag here.’  She looked at Fitzjohn.  ‘He was organised to the extreme.  Nothing ever out of place.  Compulsive, obsessive, I think you’d call it.’

Betts knelt down to look
inside the bag.  ‘It doesn’t look like it’s been unpacked, sir.’

‘
Right,’ said Fitzjohn.  ‘Have forensics come in to look over the room and the rest of the house, Betts.’  Fitzjohn then turned back to Charlotte Rossi, her eyes fixed on the bag.  Sensing her anguish he said, ‘Is this the folder, Ms Rossi?’

Charlotte shot a look at Fitzjohn.  ‘Yes.’

Fitzjohn took the folder and ushered her back toward the living room.  As he did so, he took in the sleek lines of the white contemporary sofas, chairs and glass topped tables that imparted a feeling of austerity.  Charlotte sat down.  ‘There’s just one more question I have to ask, Ms Rossi,’ said Fitzjohn.  ‘Can you tell us where you were between the hours of eight and midnight last evening?’  Phillipa Braithwaite gave Fitzjohn a disparaging look.

‘
Yes.  I closed the shop at around 6pm,’ replied Charlotte. ‘It’s a bookshop.  In Double Bay.  After closing up, I stayed on to do some paperwork until about nine.’

‘And what time did
you receive the telephone call from Pierce Whitehead?’

Charlotte Rossi removed her mobile phone from her handbag and
after pressing some buttons, handed it to Fitzjohn. ‘As you can see, it was twenty-six minutes past seven.’

‘
Did you see or speak to anyone else yesterday evening?’