Murder at the Rocks (12 page)

CHAPTER 15

Early on Friday morning, Fitzjohn lined up with the legal fraternity at Silks Coffee Lounge on Phillip Street, and ordered his steaming brew.  Moments later, with his morning newspaper under his arm, he made his way to a table on the small terrace.  Knowing he had half an hour before he could present himself at Thomas Bentham, QC’s office, he settled himself down, spreading the newspaper out in front of him, savouring the change to his routine.  By the time he made his way into Wentworth Chambers, he felt particularly relaxed and cheerful.  His cheerfulness ebbed away, however, as soon as he stepped into Bentham’s offices to be met by a harsh looking man with steel grey, unsmiling eyes.  Of medium height and meticulous in his dark grey suit, he scowled at Fitzjohn.

‘Can I help you?’

Obviously this man has not had the same tranquil start to his day as I have, thought Fitzjohn.  He needs to change his routine
.  ‘Good morning.  I’m Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn.’  Fitzjohn flashed his warrant card.  ‘I’d like to speak to Mr Bentham, please.’

‘That won’t be possible, Chief Inspector.  Mr Bentham is due in court this morning.’

With the last remnants of his cheery mood fading, Fitzjohn bristled at this refusal.  ‘Nevertheless, it’s a matter of urgency,’ he said.

Challenged, the clerk glowered at Fitzjohn before replying.  ‘Very well, I’ll see what I can do.  If you’ll wait here for a moment.’  Fitzjohn smiled slightly, knowing he had upset the order of the clerk’s day.  Moments passed before the man reappeared, giving Fitzjohn a disdainful look.  ‘If you’ll come this way, Chief Inspector.’

Fitzjohn followed him into a large wood panelled office, its far wall a mass of books.  Thomas Bentham sat at his desk in front of a window overlooking Phillip Street.  A man in his fifties, with grey wavy hair and fine features, he looked up as the door opened.  His blue-grey eyes met Fitzjohn’s and a cold smile crossed his face as he rose slightly from his chair.  ‘Chief Inspector, please take a seat.’  Bentham looked past Fitzjohn, his expression dismissing the clerk before his attention came back to Fitzjohn.  ‘I don’t have long, I’m afraid.  I’m due in court shortly.  How can I help you?’

‘I’ll try to be brief, Mr Bentham.’  Fitzjohn sat back in the leather bound chair in front of Bentham’s desk.  ‘It’s a rather delicate matter, and in connection with the death of Laurence Harford.  No doubt you’ve heard?’

‘Yes, I read about Mr Harford’s death in the newspapers yesterday.  A shocking thing to have happened.’  Thomas Bentham picked up his pen turning it end to end.  ‘I only met Laurence Harford on a couple of social occasions, Chief Inspector.  I don’t see how I can help you with your investigation.’

‘You may or may not.  I understand you know Julia Harford.’  Bentham’s frowned.

‘Yes, I do.  We’ve sat on several fund raising committees together.  But what can that have to do with her husband’s death?’

‘When questioned, Julia Harford declined to disclose who she spent Wednesday evening with, but we’ve since learnt that she left the Shangri-la Hotel with you at approximately 8pm.’

Bentham hesitated before answering, a look of annoyance surfacing on his face.  ‘That’s correct.  We both attended a function there on Wednesday evening and left the Hotel at the same time.’  Bentham paused.  ‘What exactly do you want to know, Chief Inspector?’

‘Whether you spent the entire evening with Julia Harford.  She says she didn’t return home until around two o’clock the following morning.  As you’ll appreciate, we need to corroborate her alibi.’

Thomas Bentham sat in silence for a moment or two before throwing his pen down onto his desk and rising from his chair to stand at the window.  Fitzjohn, unperturbed, waited.  Moments passed before Bentham turned back.

‘Very well, she was with me.  My chauffeur drove her home just after 1am.’

‘So you were together all evening?’

‘Yes.’  Bentham sat down again and sighed.  ‘I keep a penthouse in Rose Bay – sometimes it’s too late to drive home.  I live in Palm Beach, you see.’  Bentham’s eyes looked steadily at Fitzjohn.  ‘I trust you’ll treat this information with the utmost discretion, Chief Inspector.  My wife, not to mention my reputation... you understand…’

‘As I said earlier, Mr Bentham, it’s a delicate matter and will be treated as such.’

Fitzjohn left Thomas Bentham’s office minutes later, sensing the barrister’s indignation at being questioned, and aware Thomas Bentham would, no doubt, contact the Assistant Commissioner to complain.  He buttoned his suit coat as he left Wentworth Chambers and made his way to Day Street Station, the ideal start to his day just a fond memory.

Betts was waiting for him when he arrived.  ‘Morning, Betts.’

‘Good morning, sir.’  Betts followed Fitzjohn into his office.  ‘How did Mr Bentham take to being questioned?’

‘What I expected.  He wasn’t happy about it and I’m sure it’s not the last I’ll hear of the matter.’  Fitzjohn crossed the room and sat down at his desk, reorganising the papers laid out in front of him.  ‘I doubt I was as diplomatic as Chief Superintendent Fellowes would have been, but nevertheless, it had to be done.’ He smiled slightly.  ‘And Williams’s information was correct.  Bentham confirmed that he and Julia Harford left the Shangri-la together around eight o’clock on Wednesday evening and were together until, approximately, 1am.’

‘I can see why he didn’t appreciate being questioned,’ said Betts.

‘Well, we won’t worry about that now.  We need to find Laurence Harford’s killer, and to be quite honest, I think we’ll have to look elsewhere.’

‘But it is possible that Bentham and Julia Harford could have been in the vicinity of Brayshaw’s within minutes of leaving the Shangri-la hotel, sir.’

‘True, but what was their motive?’

‘Couldn’t be money,’ said Betts.  ‘I had Julia Harford’s financial situation checked out.  She’s wealthy in her own right.  Of course, she just may have wanted to free herself of her husband.’

Fitzjohn shook his head.  ‘I don’t think so.  It seemed to me that she and Laurence Harford lived separate lives quite amicably.’  Fitzjohn removed his wire framed glasses, leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes.  ‘No, Betts.  As I said earlier, I think we’d be wise to look elsewhere for our killer.  Any luck finding Wilson?’

‘There might be, sir.  Williams and Saunders spent a few hours this morning going through military records and came up with a Corporal Phillip Wilson who served in the Vietnam War in 1971.  He was killed in a mortar attack not long after he arrived.’

Fitzjohn lifted one eyebrow.  ‘So, what makes you think that he could be the owner of the beret?’

A look of satisfaction came to Betts’s face.  ‘Because, according to Saunders, this particular Wilson was in the same platoon as Laurence Harford.’

‘Ah,’ said Fitzjohn, a wide smile breaking out across his face.

‘He’s survived by his wife, Margaret Wilson.  She lived in Manly at the time of his death, but unfortunately, I haven’t been able to find any trace of her.’

‘Mmm.  She would have been quite young at the time so may have remarried.  If so, it makes our task a little harder.  Nevertheless, we’ll start with her 1971 address.’  Fitzjohn thought for a moment.  ‘It still may not answer the question as to how Wilson’s beret ended up in Laurence Harford’s possession though.’  Fitzjohn glanced at Betts.  ‘Oh, I know he received it in the mail but who from?’

CHAPTER 16

The wooden gate opened into a small, lovingly tended garden where a woman in her late fifties could be seen kneeling on the stone path, planting punnets of pansies into a flower bed.  She looked up as Fitzjohn and Betts approached and got to her feet, shielding her eyes from the afternoon sun.  ‘Can I help you?’ she asked, smiling politely.

‘Perhaps,’ said Fitzjohn.  ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn, this is Detective Sergeant Betts.  We’re from the New South Wales Police.  We’re looking for Margaret Wilson.’

The woman’s smile disappeared.  ‘Well, I used to be Margaret Wilson, but I remarried many years ago.  I’m now Margaret Roberts.  What is it you want, Inspector?’

‘We’d like to speak to you in connection with our present investigation, Mrs Roberts.’

‘What kind of investigation?’

‘The suspicious death of a man in The Rocks area on Wednesday evening.’

‘You mean that jeweller they found?’

‘Yes,’ said Fitzjohn.

‘Well, I saw something about it on the news the other night, but I doubt I can help you.  I seldom go to The Rocks.’

‘It may help if we can explain the situation, Mrs Roberts.’

Margaret Roberts hesitated as she removed her gardening gloves.  ‘Right, well, in that case, it might be best if we go inside.’  Fitzjohn and Betts followed her into the house and through to a spacious kitchen at the rear, where the aroma of fresh bread baking filled the air.  ‘Please, make yourselves comfortable.’  Fitzjohn and Betts sat down at the table, covered as it was with rows of cupcakes, cooling on wire trays.  Margaret Roberts opened the oven door and brought out two loaves, placing them on racks before sitting down.  ‘You’ll have to excuse all this, gentlemen.  It’s for the Girl Guide stall in the morning.  Now, why do you think I can help you?’

‘We understand your first husband saw service in Vietnam, Mrs Roberts.’

A surprised look came to Mrs Roberts face.  ‘Yes, but not for long.  He was killed within the first two weeks.  He was only twenty-three at the time.  Very young to die, don’t you think, Inspector?’  Fitzjohn noted a tinge of bitterness along with sadness in the woman’s voice.  ‘What could Phil possibly have to do with your investigation?’

‘Our inquiries have revealed that the man who died on Wednesday evening was a member of the same platoon as your late husband.’

‘Oh, I see.’  Margaret Roberts paused.  ‘But I still don’t see what connection his death could have with Phil.’

‘There may not be one, Mrs Roberts, but we have to follow all possibilities.  You see we found a military beret amongst the man’s possessions.  It has the name Wilson inside.  Apparently, it was mailed to the victim the week before his death.’

Margaret looked at Fitzjohn aghast.  ‘And you’re wondering whether I mailed it?  Well, I can tell you that I didn’t, nor have I seen that beret since the day Phil left for Vietnam.’  She paused for a moment, her voice quivering when she continued, ‘And besides, if it is Phil’s, how did it come to be in someone else’s possession?’

‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.  There’s every possibility that when your husband’s belongings were collected, the beret was left behind and one of the other members of the platoon kept it.’

‘I can’t think why.’

‘Perhaps the person who took it was a collector of memorabilia,’ offered Fitzjohn.

‘The man who died was murdered, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes.  His name was Laurence Harford.  Have you ever heard that name before?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘No, I can’t say I have and I don’t really remember Phil ever saying anything about the men in his platoon.  Although...’  Margaret hesitated before continuing.  ‘I seem to remember him mentioning one man who didn’t get on very well with the rest.’

‘Do you remember his name?’

‘No, it’s so long ago, but I still have all Phil’s letters.’  A reflective look came to Margaret Roberts face.  ‘I couldn’t get rid of them.’  She got to her feet.  ‘If you’ll excuse me for just a moment, I’ll get them out.  I keep them in the buffet in the dining room.’

As Margaret Roberts left the room, Fitzjohn glanced at Betts whose eyes were on the cupcakes.  Moments later, Mrs Roberts reappeared with a small pile of letters in her hand.  She removed the top letter and handed it to Fitzjohn.  ‘You’ll find his name mentioned in there, Inspector.  Corporal Neville Price.’

Fitzjohn took the letter.  ‘Do you mind if I keep this for now?  It’ll be returned in due course.’

Fitzjohn and Betts left Margaret Roberts looking through her letters and stepped back out into a, now, blustery afternoon.  Betts carried with him, a large bag of cupcakes. Fitzjohn eyed him speculatively.  ‘Do you plan on eating them all, Betts?’

‘No, sir.  I was just about to offer you one.’

‘I doubt my waistline could cope,’ said Fitzjohn, ‘and unless you want to have the same problem in twenty years, I suggest you share them around when we get back to the station.’

Betts settled himself behind the wheel of the car, putting the bag on the back seat.  ‘I felt a bit sorry for Mrs Roberts.  She lost her husband such a long time ago, and still finds it difficult to talk about him.’

‘Time doesn’t heal all wounds, Betts, just numbs them.  Is Neville Price on your list of platoon members?’

‘Yes, sir, the only one other than Laurence Harford who was originally from Sydney.’

‘In that case, I want to know where he is now.  In fact, I want all the platoon members traced.  One of them must have mailed that beret to the victim.’

‘For now, though, we’ll have another word with Nicholas Harford to try to find out why he met with Piers LaSalle on Wednesday evening, and where we can find LaSalle.’

CHAPTER 17

Tired from his journey from Newcastle in the rush hour traffic, Nicholas unlocked the door to his father’s Mosman home and stepped inside, the quiet, empty atmosphere filling him with a sense of loss.  He realised in that moment, that he needed to sell the place and move on.  In the study, he pulled off his jacket and slumped down into the chair behind the desk, consumed by the events of the past forty-eight hours; the unanswered questions posed in his father’s letter uppermost in his mind.  As he did so, a knock sounded on the front door and moments later, he opened it to find the portly, but meticulously dressed figure of Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn and his ginger haired Sergeant.

‘Good evening, Dr Harford.’

‘Good evening,’ said Nicholas, disconcerted by the Chief Inspector’s reappearance.