ONCE UPON A LIE (A Fitzjohn Mystery) (6 page)

Betts pulled his notebook out and flicked th
rough 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?’

‘B
etween 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 Superinten
dent 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 h
ere 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 wh
at 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 we
ll 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 Cha
rlotte Rossi had never taken an active role in the winery.’  Fitzjohn paused.  ‘I wonder why she and her mother didn’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 nephe
w, 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?’

Reyno
lds 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.’

‘Okay.’

‘There’s something else, sir,’ said Reynolds.  ‘The barman at the Cruising Yacht Club has come forward to say the victim was at that club on Friday night and spoke at length with one of the other patrons.  A man by the name of Robert Nesbit.’

‘
Oh?  What time was this?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘
Around seven-thirty, sir.’

‘Okay.
’  Fitzjohn swiveled his chair around to view the whiteboard as Williams stood aside.  ‘We’ve established that the victim left the winery at approximately one o’clock on Friday afternoon, presumably arriving back in Sydney around three.  At 6pm he entered his aunt’s house in Waverton, and left around seven.  At seven thirty, he entered the premises of the Cruising Yacht Club.  So, where was he in the hours between three and six.  We know he went home because his overnight bag was found in his study.  The question is, was he there until he left for Esme Timmons’s house?  If he wasn’t, I want to know where he was.  See what you both can do.  Oh, and first thing in the morning, find out what you can about Robert Nesbit.’  Fitzjohn looked at his watch.  ‘But for now, I think you can call it a day.’

As the door closed behind
the two officers, Fitzjohn picked up his pen and turned it end for end.  His thoughts went through the day’s events, culminating with Chief Superintendent Grieg, and his request for an audience.  It was then the Incident Room door opened and Betts walked it.  ‘Ah, Betts, there you are.  Any news?’

‘I had a bit of luck, sir
,’ said Betts sitting down.  ‘I located Hannah Blair.  Esme Timmons’s cleaning lady.  Apparently, she moved a couple of months ago and didn’t think to tell Miss Timmons.  I had her look through the rooms in the upper half of Miss Timmons’s home and to her knowledge, there’s nothing missing.  Even so, I think it was probably difficult for her to tell under the circumstances.’

‘Understandable,’ said Fitzjohn
, remembering the state of the room.  ‘I’ve just had Reynolds and Williams in here.’  Fitzjohn relayed his meeting with the two officers.  ‘So, at least we now have a time line on the victim’s movements yesterday.  I’ve got them both working on the intervening three hours.’  Fitzjohn sat forward.  ‘Let’s turn our attention to what we have so far.’