Murder at the Rocks (14 page)

Fitzjohn descended the steps, followed by Betts.  Once inside the car, he sat in silence as the past rushed toward him; Ellen Ashworth’s face in his mind’s eye as she told him he was too late, Edith was gone.

‘You know the young lady, sir?’

The question jarred Fitzjohn back from his thoughts.  ‘Yes, she was the Sister on the ward at the hospital when Edith died last year.’  Fitzjohn paused as if in reflection.

‘It’s a small world,’ said Betts starting the car.

‘Mmm.  Quite a coincidence that she knows Nick Harford.’

It started to sprinkle with rain as Betts pulled away from the curb.  ‘Looks like we’re in for a storm,’ he said, looking up toward the sky.  ‘Where to now, sir?’

‘Andrew Pemlett’s office.  We need to find out where we can find Piers LaSalle.’

‘I think we’ll be pushing it, sir.  It’s after six.  Mr Pemlett’s probably left for the day.’

‘Nevertheless, we’ll try.  I’d really like to talk to LaSalle tonight.’

They drove in silence for a time before Betts said, ‘The deterrent mentioned in that letter, sir.  It could be the reason for Laurence Harford’s death.  After all, it does threaten that something will happen to him if he contests the will.’

‘Yes, but to have one’s own brother murdered?’  Fitzjohn shook his head.  ‘Still, anything’s possible, I suppose.’

‘Do you think we should speak to Howard Parish again, sir?  After all, if he was the link between Laurence Harford and his brother, he may know more than he realises about their relationship.’

‘Good point, Betts.’

They continued through the rain swept streets, arriving on Phillip Street some twenty minutes later and made their way into the building that housed Pemlett and Slythe.  Fitzjohn brushed the rain from his suit coat and ran his hand over his sparse hair as Betts pressed the elevator button.  As he did so, the doors opened and Andrew Pemlett appeared, briefcase in hand.

‘Ah, Mr Pemlett.’

‘Inspector.  Is there a problem?’

‘No, but I am glad we caught you.’

Pemlett looked past Fitzjohn and out to the street at the rain.  ‘I knew I should have brought my umbrella today.’  He looked back at Fitzjohn.  ‘I’m sorry, Inspector.  How can I help?’

‘I understand from Nicholas Harford that you have the contact details for a man called Piers LaSalle.’

‘Yes, I do, although I don’t know whether you’ll still find him there.  Our business being concluded, you understand.  Since I’ve known Mr LaSalle, which is over the past six months, he’s been living at Quay West Suites in The Rocks.  You’ll no doubt know the place.  They’re serviced apartments across the street from the Shangri-la Hotel.  I should imagine Mr LaSalle found it convenient whilst working for Mr Harford.’

‘Do you have a home address for him?’

‘No.  He never offered and I had no reason to ask.  I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, Inspector.’

‘Do you expect him to contact you again?’

‘Not really.  Our business is concluded, after all.’

‘I see.  Very well, Mr Pemlett we’ll try Quay West, but if he does get in touch, would you get his permanent address, please?’

The doorman greeted Fitzjohn and Betts when they arrived at Quay West Suites, its quiet opulence pervading the atmosphere.  They approached the reception desk, to be greeted by a young man with dark, short cropped hair, his long sharp nose accentuated by an angular face.

‘Can I help, gentlemen?’ he asked, forcing a smile.

‘Yes, we’re looking for a Mr Piers LaSalle,’ said Fitzjohn.

‘I’m afraid Mr LaSalle isn’t with us at the moment, sir.’

‘He does stay here on occasion though, doesn’t he?’

‘I can’t divulge information about our guests, sir.’

Fitzjohn took his warrant card from his inside coat pocket and held it up.  ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn, this is Detective Sergeant Betts.  We’re from the New South Wales Police.’

The desk clerk’s eyebrows lifted.  ‘I see.  Well, in that case, Mr LaSalle has been living here, off and on, for the past six months.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘Early yesterday morning at about ten o’clock.’

‘Any mention of when he’d be back?’

‘No, I’m afraid not.’

‘Then perhaps you can give us his home address.  I take it you do have an address for him.’

‘Yes.  That shouldn’t be a problem.’  The desk clerk looked to his computer screen.  As the minutes passed, Fitzjohn’s impatience grew, his fingers drumming on the counter while Betts circled the lobby, peering up at the mezzanine level.

‘Here it is, Inspector.  I’ll print it out for you.’  Moments later, he handed Fitzjohn a sheet of paper.

‘Thank you, Mr..?’

‘Fisher.’

Fitzjohn ran his eyes over the address on the page before folding it in two.  ‘Tell me, Mr Fisher.  Do you recall whether Piers LaSalle had any visitors over the past few days?’

The desk clerk thought for a moment.  ‘No, although, I seem to remember a gentleman returning with him late Wednesday evening.  They went to sit in the Harrington Bar on the mezzanine.’

‘Can you describe the man?’

‘Yes, he was an older gentleman.  In his mid-sixties, I’d say.  Medium build and height.  Grey, thinning hair.’  Fisher paused.  ‘Oh, and he wore a silver signet ring on his right hand with a small ruby on its face.  I noticed because he turned it incessantly.’

Impressed by Fisher’s articulate description, Fitzjohn said, ‘Have you ever seen this man with Piers LaSalle before?’

‘No.’

‘What time did he leave?’

‘I have no idea.  He and Mr LaSalle were still up in the bar when my shift ended.’

Fitzjohn and Betts emerged from Quay West Suites into the chilly evening air.  ‘Well, Betts.  We haven’t been able to speak to Piers LaSalle, but I think we know who his visitor was.’

‘Who, sir?’

‘Howard Parish, if I’m not mistaken.  I seem to remember he wears a signet ring with a ruby stone.  I doubt there are a lot of those around.  I’ll have a word with him first thing in the morning.  While I’m doing that, I want you to go to this address the desk clerk gave us for LaSalle.’

Betts took the sheet of paper running his eyes over it.  ‘Mittagong?’

Fitzjohn smiled.  ‘Yes, it’ll get you out of the city for a few hours.  See if you can flush out LaSalle.’

CHAPTER 19

It was the following morning that Nicholas decided to go to his office, not only to reacquaint himself with the courses he would teach in the weeks to come, but also to find a quiet place where he could think through the dilemma he found himself drawn into.  A Saturday morning, he thought, would be ideal to do that without interruption, but his assumption was wrong as he found out when he entered his office and found Matthew Howell.

‘Matt.’

Matthew, standing behind the desk reading a newspaper, looked up.  ‘Nick, I didn’t expect you.  I’m just borrowing one of your texts.’  He smiled and held up the thick volume.

Sensing Matthew’s uncharacteristic aloofness, Nicholas walked into the room, putting his briefcase on the desk.  ‘I thought I’d familiarise myself with a few things before I start back at work next week.’

‘In that case I’ll leave you in peace.  Perhaps we can have lunch a bit later and catch up.’

‘I’d like to, Matt, but I planned to go and see my aunt this afternoon.’

‘Yes, of course.  She must be distraught with losing her husband and... everything else.’

Puzzled at Mathew’s remark Nicholas said, ‘We’ll do it another time when things quieten down.’

‘Sure.’  Matthew moved toward the door.

‘Is everything all right, Matt?’

Matthews Howell turned to face Nicholas again.  ‘No, it isn’t actually.’  Nicholas waited for Matthew to continue.  ‘It’s Claire.’

Nicholas tensed.  ‘What about her?’

Matt hovered for a moment in the doorway.  ‘Well, since you ask.  There is something I want to know.’  Nicholas bit the inside of his lip and waited for Matthew’s question.  ‘Did you sleep with my wife before you left for South America?’  Matthew’s words hung in the air.  ‘It’s just that everyone else seems to have.’  Matthew’s gaze followed Nicholas as he opened his briefcase and his eyes narrowed.  ‘You did, didn’t you?’  Matthew glowered at Nicholas.  ‘My God.  And I thought we were friends.’

‘It wasn’t the way you think, Matt.  It was one night.  I was drunk.  Claire...’

‘I know what she’s like.  You don’t have to spell it out but... how could you?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Have you seen her since you got back?  You have haven’t you?  For God’s sake, Nick.’

‘You don’t understand.’

As Nicholas spoke the book Matthew held flew across the room.  ‘I understand all right.’

The door slammed behind Matthew Howell, the noise carrying through the building.  Nicholas slumped down into his chair, knowing the situation was irretrievable.  With his deep seated guilt rising to the surface, a sense of loss engulfed him as he came face to face with the consequences of his actions.  His fist hit the desk sending the newspaper slithering to the floor.  Sitting back in his chair, he swung around, taking in the room that he had occupied for the past six years.  Many of those years had been taken up with senseless arguments with his father.  Arguments he could have prevented merely by being more sensitive to his father’s uncertainties.  Instead, he had let him take those uncertainties to his grave.  Minutes ticked by, his feelings of anguish grew and a myriad of thoughts rushed through Nicholas’s mind, the stillness and quiet of the building going unnoticed.  He had treated Matthew in much the same way.  Indifferently.  He knew he could never expect his friendship again.  That was completely lost to him.  But perhaps he could ensure that Brayshaw’s, a business his father had put his life into, remained a success.

With this in mind, Nicholas got to his feet, gathering up the newspaper as he did so.  It was then his eye caught his aunt’s face splashed across the front page.  Realising what Matthew had been alluding to, he read the damning headline. 

When he arrived at his aunt’s Watsons Bay residence, Nicholas found a crowd of media staked out along its perimeter.  Tentatively, he climbed out of his car and, not surprisingly, found himself consumed by the mob.  Ignoring the whirring of their cameras and shouted questions, he pushed his way through to the gate where he pressed the intercom and gave his name.  To his relief, the gate released immediately and as he made his way along the walkway to the house, the front door opened and Mapsom appeared, his face showing a degree of anxiety.

‘I’m glad you’ve come, Dr Harford.’  Mapsom glanced out toward the crowd before closing the door again.

Nicholas followed his gaze.  ‘I take it that crowd is the result of the morning papers.’

‘I dare say it is, sir.’  Nicholas followed Mapsom through the house.  ‘I’m worried about Madam.  She’s a strong woman, but one can only take so much.’

Mapsom stopped at the open living room door.  ‘If you would care to wait in here, sir, I’ll let her know you’ve arrived.’

As the door closed behind him, Nicholas crossed the room to stand with his back to the fireplace, where the hot embers glowed in the grate.  His eyes took in the newspaper that lay open across half the sofa, his Aunt’s reading glasses on top.  As the minutes passed, he sat down in one of the armchairs, the soft ticking of the clock on the mantle emphasising the stillness of the room.  As he waited, he began to rummage through a pile of magazines on the coffee table, and as he did so, his gaze fell upon a photograph, yellowed with age.  He picked it up and stared at the faded image.  In it his mother sat at an outdoor table, while his father, Laurence and a young man in uniform stood behind.  Nicholas’s eyes locked onto the man in uniform and at that same moment, the living room door opened and Julia Harford appeared.  Nicholas put the photograph back down onto the coffee table and got to his feet.  He sensed his aunt’s anxiety as she walked into the room.

Her face pale and unsmiling she said, ‘Nick, how are you, my dear?’

‘I’m fine and you?’

Julia reached for a gold cigarette case on the coffee table, her hand trembling as she flipped it open.  ‘I’ll feel a lot better when this police investigation is finished.’  She removed a cigarette and put it to her lips.  Nick lit it.

‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘Nothing unless you can get rid of that rabble of reporters outside.’  She glanced down at the newspaper.  ‘I suppose you’ve read the headlines.  It’s true, of course.  I did leave the Shangri-la on Wednesday evening with Thomas Bentham.’  Julia put the cigarette to her lips again and inhaled before blowing the smoke gently into the air.  ‘No point in denying it now that it’s been splashed across the front page of every newspaper in Sydney.’  She sat down on the sofa.  ‘Heaven knows what will happen to Thomas now.  His career ruined, I imagine.  Not to mention his marriage.’

Julia glanced up.  ‘I’m sorry, Nick.  You didn’t come here to talk about my woes.  You said on the telephone you wanted to discuss Brayshaw’s.’

‘Yes, but that was before I heard about this.’  He pointed to the newspaper.  ‘I think perhaps this isn’t the right time.’

‘On the contrary, it’s the perfect time.’  Julia’s hand flicked the newspaper.  “It’ll take my mind off this.  In fact, Brayshaw’s has been on my mind over the past few days because I’ve been advised by Laurence’s solicitor that I will inherit Laurence’s shares after all.’  She paused.  ‘I must admit, little has ever surprised me about Laurence, but this has.  I’ve been trying to decide why he would leave me anything.  I can’t think it was because, in truth, he really did care for me, and it can’t be because I need the money.’  Julia caught Nicholas’s questioning look.  ‘You won’t be aware that I came into my marriage, financially independent.’

‘No, I had no idea.’

‘Few people do.  They believe Laurence was a successful man.  The reality is quite different, of course.  Not that I knew that when we met.  But going back to Brayshaw’s.  I’ve decided to keep the shares for now because I think I’ll be able to make a more informed decision later on when all this is over.  What about you, Nicholas?  Have you come to a decision?’