Murder at the Rocks (10 page)

‘No, I found out last Sunday afternoon.  I’d suspected she was seeing someone for a while so I decided to follow her.  She met Laurence Harford at the Four Seasons Hotel.  I saw them talking together in the lobby.’  Holmes hesitated.  ‘Yesterday I confronted him with it.’

‘So that’s what you and Laurence Harford argued about on Wednesday afternoon?’

‘Yes, he laughed in my face and said she was a good...’  Holmes glared at Fitzjohn.  ‘I know what it looks like, Inspector, but I swear I didn’t kill him.  You’ve got to believe me.’

Moments later, Fitzjohn and Betts emerged from the house.  ‘Mr Holmes seems a bit on edge, sir.’

‘To say the least.  And whether it’s because of his wife’s unfaithfulness coupled with losing his job or because he killed Laurence Harford, remains to be seen.  By what he said, he certainly had a motive to kill Laurence Harford not to mention opportunity.’

‘And an alibi from 8pm to 10pm depending on whether Mrs Holmes agrees.’

‘Where does her mother live, Betts?’

‘In Rozelle, sir.  A Mrs Burbridge.’

‘Right, well let’s hope we find her daughter with her.’

CHAPTER 12

Fitzjohn opened the gate into a small, but enchanting garden, its path bordered by Italian lavender.  The front door of the Rozelle dwelling opened to a diminutive woman in her mid-seventies, her short, wavy grey hair framing a face with a guarded expression.

‘Mrs Burbridge?’

The woman adjusted the cardigan draped around her shoulders.  ‘Yes, can I help you?’

‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn.’  Fitzjohn half turned toward Betts.  ‘This is Detective Sergeant Betts.  We’re from the New South Wales Police.  We’d like to speak to Charlotte Holmes if she’s here.’

At that moment, a curvaceous young woman, with bleached blonde hair falling to her shoulders, appeared in the doorway.  ‘It’s all right, Mum.  I’ll speak to them.’  As her mother disappeared back into the house shaking her head, Charlotte Holmes turned to Fitzjohn and Betts.  Subconsciously, she put her hand to the side of her swollen face, her finger tips running across a gash on her cheekbone.  Fitzjohn saw Eric Holmes’s gold ring in his mind’s eye.  ‘I’m Charlotte Holmes.  Is there something wrong?’

‘May we come in, Mrs Holmes?  We’d like to ask you a few questions.’

Charlotte Holmes’s hesitated.  ‘If it’s about this...’  She pointed to her cheek.  ‘I don’t want to press charges.’

‘It’s not, Mrs Holmes.  It’s in connection with a suspicious death we’re investigating.’

Charlotte glowered at Fitzjohn.  ‘A what?’

‘May we come in?’

Charlotte Holmes stood back from the door before leading the way along a narrow hallway, its polished wooden floors creaking as they made their way into the living room of the house.  Meticulous in its period furnishings, it was in stark contrast to the home they had just left.  Charlotte gestured for the two men to sit down.

‘You said a suspicious death, Inspector.  Who is it?’

‘A man by the name of Laurence Harford.’

Charlotte Holmes gasped and grabbed the back of an armchair, her body swaying.

Betts put his arm out as she did so.  ‘Perhaps you’d better sit down, Mrs Holmes,’ said Betts.

Charlotte perched herself on the chair opposite Fitzjohn and Betts, her hands wringing together.  ‘Laurence is dead?’

‘Yes.  We’re speaking to everyone who knew him.’

‘I see.  Well, the only reason I knew him was because my husband was one of his employees.’

‘So you and he weren’t well acquainted?’

Charlotte Holmes shook her head, pressing her lips together.  ‘No.’

‘That’s strange, because we’re led to believe you spent last Sunday afternoon with Laurence Harford, at the Four Seasons Hotel.’

A look of indignation came across Charlotte’s face.  ‘Who told you that?’

‘We spoke to your husband earlier today.’

‘Oh.’  Charlotte Holmes paused.  ‘So you know about Laurence and me.’

‘Yes.  When was the last time you spoke to Laurence Harford, Mrs Holmes?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘Last Sunday at the Four Seasons.’

‘So, you haven’t seen him since?’

‘No.’

‘Can you tell us where you were last night?’

‘I was at home.’

‘All evening?’

‘Yes.  Until I left to come here to Mum’s.’

‘And what time was that?’

‘About 8:30pm.’

‘Your husband says you didn’t arrive home until eight o’clock yesterday evening.  Can you tell us where you were between seven and eight o’clock?’

Charlotte cleared her throat, a frown forming on her face.  ‘Okay, after I left work-I work at Myers in town-I went to see Laurence.’

‘Was he expecting you?’

‘No, but I needed to talk to him.’

Fitzjohn waited for Charlotte to continue.  ‘And?’

‘When I arrived at Brayshaw’s, I could see Howard Parish’s light still on in his office so I decided not to go in after all.  I came home instead.’

‘Did you see anyone about?’

Charlotte Holmes avoided Fitzjohn’s intense gaze.  ‘No.  Oh, except Michael Wycliffe as I crossed the street.’

‘Wycliffe?’

‘Yes.  He has a restaurant at Circular Quay.  I imagine he was on his way there.’

‘Exactly where did you see him, Mrs Holmes?’

‘He was just in front of that souvenir shop.  It’s a couple of doors down from Brayshaw’s.’

‘Did you speak to him?

‘No.  I don’t know him that well.’

‘But you do know him by sight.’

‘Oh, yes.  Laurence took me to dinner at one of his restaurants once.’

‘Was he a friend of Laurence Harford’s?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What time was it when you saw Mr Wycliffe, Mrs Holmes?’

‘Around seven, I think.’

‘Did you see anyone else about?’

Charlotte Holmes turned the ring on her right hand.  ‘No, no one.’

CHAPTER 13

Fitzjohn shook his head as the door closed behind them, the haunting image of Charlotte Holmes’s bruised and battered face still with him.

‘Mrs Holmes is in a bad way, sir.’

‘She is, Betts.  The work of her husband, I suspect.’  Fitzjohn paused at the car door.  ‘And if he’s capable of that, one would think there’s every possibility he’s capable of murder.’

As they drove away, Fitzjohn said, ‘I think it’d be a good idea to have a word with Wycliffe, Betts, because I have a feeling he wasn’t the only person Charlotte Holmes saw that night.  And if I’m right, it’s someone she knew, otherwise, why not say?’

‘You think it was her husband, sir?’

‘Well, it would explain why she didn’t go into Brayshaw’s, wouldn’t it?  I can’t think seeing Parish’s office light on would deter her.’

Betts stopped at the lights.  ‘Where to now, sir?’

‘The morgue.  I want to see how Charles Conroy is getting on.’  Fitzjohn noted Betts’s silence.  ‘You can come along or, if you prefer, you can call into the Sir Stamford hotel and see what you can find out about Dr Harford’s movements since he arrived back in Sydney.’

Betts smiled at the suggestion.  ‘I’ll do that.  No point us both being at the morgue, is there?  I’ll also go to the hotel on Darling Street that Eric Holmes says he went to last night and see if the publican remembers when he left.’

‘Good thinking,’ replied Fitzjohn.

They continued on in silence for a while before Fitzjohn said, ‘Who do we have on our team at the moment, Betts?’

‘Detective Constables Williams and Saunders, sir.  Oh, and possibly Carruthers.’

‘Carruthers?  The accident prone Carruthers?’

‘The very same, sir.  I understand he returned to work today.  If his doctor gave him the okay, that is.’

Fitzjohn grimaced.  ‘Why only those three?  Where’s everyone else?’

‘The rest are working on that robbery at Haymarket.  Superintendent Grieg...’

Fitzjohn groaned his annoyance evident.  ‘Say no more.  We’ll just have to make the best of it.  Have Williams and Saunders go to the Shangri-la Hotel.  With any luck someone might remember who Julia Harford left with the other night.  And also, have them, or Carruthers, if he’s turned up, speak to Michael Wycliffe.’

Fitzjohn returned to his office that evening fighting the fatigue that he felt sweeping over him.  Sitting down at his desk, he switched the desk lamp on, quivering as the graphic images of the day revisited him.  When the door opened, and Superintendent Grieg walked into the room, he was neither pleased nor surprised.  He had, in fact, anticipated Grieg’s arrival, knowing that Fellowes interference into the distribution of cases would anger Grieg.  Putting his glasses back on, and getting to his feet Fitzjohn said, ‘Superintendent,’ gesturing to the chair in front of his desk.  Grieg remained standing with his hands on his hips, his arrogant, belligerent nature all too apparent.

‘What the hell’s going on, Fitzjohn?  Bennett tells me he’s taken over your case and you’re dealing with the Harford matter.’

‘At Chief Superintendent Fellowes request, sir.’

‘I don’t care whose bloody request it was.  I don’t like interference on my watch.  I say who does what around here.’

His patience sapped by fatigue Fitzjohn said, ‘Then perhaps you’d better take it up with the Chief Superintendent.’

Grieg glowered at Fitzjohn.  ‘What did you sa...?’  At that moment, the door opened and Betts, along with Williams and Saunders appeared.  Betts faltered when he saw Grieg and turned to leave.

‘Don’t go Betts.  We’ll have that meeting now,’ said Fitzjohn, a sense of satisfaction taking hold.

Put off by the interruption, Grieg turned to go.  ‘I want a daily account of everything on the Harford matter, Fitzjohn,’ he said as he pushed past the men who hovered in the doorway.

As the door slammed behind him Fitzjohn slumped back down into his chair, throwing his glasses onto the desk.  ‘He’s a bastard of a man,’ he said under his breath.

Surprised as well as pleased by Fitzjohn’s uncharacteristic frankness regarding the much loathed Superintendent, Betts unbuttoned his suit coat and settled himself into the chair in front of Fitzjohn’s desk, wishing he could add his own sentiments.  Oblivious to Fitzjohn’s disquiet, Detective Constables Williams and Saunders sauntered into the room.  Williams, a sallow looking individual, perched himself on the edge of a two draw filing cabinet near the window while Saunders sat on the remaining chair in front of Fitzjohn’s desk.

‘No Carruthers?’ asked Fitzjohn.  As he spoke, a knock sounded on the door and a tall, heavily built young man hobbled into the room.  ‘Ah, speak of the...  It’s good to see you back, Carruthers.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Sit here,’ said Betts, rising from his chair and perching himself on the corner of Fitzjohn’s desk.  The four men watched as Carruthers slumped down heavily.

‘What happened to you, Carruthers?  If you don’t mind me asking.’ said Fitzjohn.

‘A rugby tackle, sir.’

‘Och.’  Fitzjohn grimaced.  ‘I had the same experience once.’  Incredulous, the four young police officers stared at Fitzjohn.

‘You played rugby, sir?’ asked Saunders, a hint of a smile on his face.

Aware that he had inadvertently opened up the flood gates for a fresh butt of jokes referring to his athletic ability, Fitzjohn replied, ‘Admittedly it was some time ago, but yes.  Put pay to my football career.’  This last statement brought a roar of laughter.

After a moment, Fitzjohn lifted his hands.  ‘I’m glad, gentlemen, that I’ve been able to lighten your day, but now let’s turn our attention to the matters at hand.  How did each of you get on?’

Betts took his notebook from his inside coat pocket and flipped it open.  ‘I had a bit of luck with my inquiries, sir.  I talked to the reception clerk who was on duty last night at the Sir Stamford hotel.  He said Dr Harford received a visitor in The Bar at around 6pm.  According to the barman, they talked for about an hour.’

‘Does this visitor have a name?’

‘Yes, a Mr Piers LaSalle.’

‘Unusual name.  Shouldn’t be too difficult to track him down.  See what you can find out, Betts.’

‘Yes, sir.’  Betts paused.  ‘Next, I spoke to Claire Howell, who is the woman Dr Harford claims called on him on Wednesday evening.’

‘And?’

‘Dr Howell denies it, sir.  She said she hasn’t seen Dr Harford since before he left for South America a year ago.’

‘That’s interesting.  One of them is lying.  I wonder which one.’  Fitzjohn paused before continuing.  ‘You said, Dr Howell, Betts.’

‘Yes, sir.  She’s an academic and works at the University of Sydney in the Faculty of Economics and Business.  Her husband, Matthew Howell, also an academic, works in the same school as Nicholas Harford, the School of Geosciences.’

Fitzjohn’s eyebrows rose.  ‘Perhaps that explains why she denies seeing Harford.  Attractive is she?’

A smile came to Betts’s face.  ‘Very.’

Fitzjohn looked across at Williams whose sullen disposition made Fitzjohn wonder, at times, whether he had chosen the right career.  ‘How did you and Saunders get on Williams?’

‘We called in at the Shangri-la and spoke to the doorman, sir.  He remembers Julia Harford leaving the hotel just before eight o’clock on Wednesday evening accompanied by Mr Thomas Bentham.’

‘He’s a QC and has rooms in Wentworth Chambers on Phillip Street, sir,’ put in Saunders, his exuberant personality undeniable.

‘I’m aware of that,’ replied Fitzjohn.  ‘That may explain Mrs Harford’s reluctance to volunteer who she was with.’

‘Who spoke to Michael Wycliffe?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘I did, sir,’ said Carruthers opening his notebook, ‘at his Circular Quay restaurant.  Personable sort of man.  Apparently, he’s the Treasurer of a fundraising committee that Laurence Harford was involved with, and called into Brayshaw’s on an ad hoc basis whenever he had cheques that needed to be counter-signed.’

‘What about last night?’

‘As a matter of fact, he brought that up himself and confirmed what Charlotte Holmes said.  He’d been at his restaurant at The Rocks and was making his way up to Circular Quay.  His recollection does differ slightly from Mrs Holmes, however.’