Murder at the Rocks (20 page)

Minutes went by before Elizabeth Price reappeared from along the hall.  ‘Neville will see you.  He’s in the lounge.  Mind you don’t stay too long.’

As they walked into the large sitting room the door closed behind them and Fitzjohn’s gaze came to rest on the man seated in an armchair beside a bay window.  Recognition of the man at the cemetery sparked in his mind immediately and he glanced at Betts whose eyebrows rose slightly.  Fitzjohn turned back to face Neville Price.

‘Mr Price, I’m Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn, this is Detective Sergeant Betts.’

Price gestured for Fitzjohn and Betts to sit down on the sofa.  ‘You’ll have to excuse my sister.  She’s not known for her politeness.  She says you want to speak to me about a suspicious death, Inspector.’

‘Yes.  That of a man called Laurence Harford.  You may have read about it in the newspapers.’  Price did not reply.  ‘We understand you were both members of the same platoon during the Vietnam War.’

‘That’s right, but it was a long time ago.  I don’t see how I can help you with your present investigation.’

‘It seems our enquiries now include a man called Phillip Wilson, Mr Price.  I understand he was also a member of that platoon.’  Neville Price’s expression did not change.  ‘Is that right?’

‘Yes, but what’s Phil Wilson got to do with your investigation?  He died in Vietnam.’

‘So we understand.’  Fitzjohn paused.  ‘In a mortar attack, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you had any contact with Laurence Harford since the war, Mr Price?’

‘No.’

‘Not even through the RSL or ANZAC Day commemoration services?’

‘I’ve never got involved in all that.’

‘So you’d have no idea how Wilson’s beret came into Laurence Harford’s possession.’

‘His beret?  No.  The last time I saw Laurence Harford was just before that mortar hit.’  Sensing Neville Price’s disquiet, Fitzjohn waited a moment before continuing.

‘Were all the platoon members involved in that attack, Mr Price?’

‘No.  Just Harford, Wilson, Greenwood and myself.’

‘Greenwood?’

‘Yes.  Martin Greenwood.  We became friends of sorts.  For the short time we knew each other at least.’

‘Were you all injured in the attack?’

Neville Price shook his head slowly, his eyes staring across the room at nothing in particular.  ‘All except Harford.  The rest of us... Wilson was killed outright and Greenwood... I think he was alive when the Dust Off got us out, but he couldn’t have survived.’

‘You didn’t see him again?’

‘No.’

‘What about Laurence Harford?’

‘He stayed behind.  Where’s all this leading, Inspector?’

‘It’s leading to the fact that you’ve been seen outside Laurence Harford’s offices over the past few weeks, and yesterday at his funeral at Old South Road Cemetery.’

‘That’s ridiculous.  I’ve never been to either place.’

‘Well, you were at the funeral, Mr Price, because I saw you there myself.’  Price glowered at Fitzjohn.  ‘So, have you also been to Laurence Harford’s offices of late?’

Price reached for a cigarette packet on the table next to his chair.  ‘Okay, I have.  What of it.’

‘That’s better.  Now we’re getting somewhere,’ said Fitzjohn.  ‘Did Laurence Harford ever see you there?’

‘Of course.  I made sure he did.’

‘Why?  What was your purpose?’

‘I wanted to watch him squirm if you must know.’  Neville Price rose from his chair, limped heavily to the mantelpiece and grabbed a lighter before slumping back down again.  His hands trembled as he lit up.  ‘Phil Wilson was already dead when the mortar hit us.  Harford had knifed him minutes before.’

‘What?’

Price ignored Fitzjohn’s retort.  ‘After the mortar hit... well, no one would have known he’d been murdered would they?’  Price winced and silence ensued.

‘Was Laurence Harford aware you’d seen him kill Phillip Wilson?’

‘Of course.  I’ve spent years worrying about it.’

‘Then why did you go to Brayshaw’s?’

‘I suppose you could say I had to face my demons.  I couldn’t hide any longer.’  Price put his cigarette to his lips and inhaled.

‘Why not report what you’d seen instead?’

Price shook his head.  ‘I thought about it, but do you think anyone would have believed me over a man like Laurence Harford?  Rich, influential.  I couldn’t see that happening.’  Fitzjohn paused as Howard Parish and his dilemma with Laurence Harford came to mind.

‘Were you anywhere near Brayshaw’s last Wednesday evening, Mr Price?’

Price watched the smoke from his cigarette curl into the air before answering.  ‘Yes.’

Fitzjohn sat straighter in his chair.  ‘What time were you there?’

‘Around seven.’

‘And did you go into the laneway that runs beside the Brayshaw premises?’

‘I started to, but then I saw someone, a bloke, coming out of there, so I decided to wait.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Oh, I don’t know.  It was getting dark by then.  He looked stocky though, and I think he had dark hair.’

‘Did you go into the laneway after he left?’

‘Yes, when he’d finished speaking to the blonde he met in the street on his way out.  She’d been walking past.  After they left I went into the laneway and that’s when I saw Harford lying there.  I nearly fell over him for god’s sake.’  Neville Price glared at Fitzjohn.  ‘I never thought I’d have to see anything like that again.’  Price took another drag on his cigarette.  ‘There was another bloke there too.  He was standing in the doorway of the back entrance to the building.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Mmm.  Medium height and build, and I’m sure he had a moustache.’

‘What was he doing?’

‘Standing there before he closed the door.’

‘What time was it when you left the laneway?’

‘It must have been about eight thirty.’

‘Did you see anyone else around?’

‘No.’

‘Right, Mr Price.’  Fitzjohn got to his feet.  ‘I think that’ll be all for now, although we may need to speak to you again at some stage.’

Minutes later, Fitzjohn and Betts emerged from the house and made their way back to their car.

‘Well, we’ve found our uninvited guest at the funeral.’

‘Yes, sir.  Not exactly a vagrant either.’

‘No.  What time did Piers LaSalle say he and Howard Parish left Brayshaw’s the night Laurence Harford died?’

‘Around eight, sir.’

‘And thought he sensed someone in the laneway when he and Parish left the premises.’

‘Yes.’

Fitzjohn buckled his seat belt as Betts turned on the engine.  ‘If that someone was Price, then LaSalle left the laneway much later than he claims, so he’s either lying or he’s not too good at guessing the time.’

Betts pulled away from the curb and they drove in silence until Fitzjohn said, ‘So, Price and Wycliffe’s recollection matches.  They both saw a woman with blonde hair talking to a man of stocky build.  Charlotte Holmes is a blond and admits to being outside Brayshaw’s at the time.  Plus she recalls seeing Michael Wycliffe.’

‘And Wycliffe thinks the stocky built man he saw that night could have been Eric Holmes,’ said Betts.

‘It seems all four were in proximity of the crime.’

‘I did think Price’s reasoning for hanging around Brayshaw’s a bit odd, sir.’

‘To you and me perhaps, but not necessarily to someone who’s been plagued with the memories he described.’  Fitzjohn shook his head.  ‘The remnants of war, Betts.’

Fitzjohn sat in thought for a while before continuing.  ‘I want you to find out exactly what happened to that member of the platoon who was injured in the mortar attack.’

‘Martin Greenwood?’

‘Yes.  And if, in fact, he was Martin Greenwood, the artist.’  Betts gave Fitzjohn an inquiring look.  ‘There was a painter by that name who I know died some years ago, but I don’t know in what circumstance.  A number of his works are hung in the entrance hall of Laurence Harford’s residence as well as in his study.’

CHAPTER 29

While Betts started his search for Martin Greenwood, Fitzjohn returned to the station to be met by the Duty Officer.  ‘Excuse me, Chief Inspector; Superintendent Grieg is waiting to speak to you in his office.’  Fitzjohn frowned, his annoyance evident.

‘Did he say what it’s about?’

‘Yes.  There’s been another death.  The body of a young woman by the name of Charlotte Holmes.  She was found in the Harbour about an hour ago.’

Charlotte Holmes’s battered face, with its haunted expression on the day he had interviewed her, flashed through Fitzjohn’s mind.  He sighed and thanked the Duty Officer before making his way to Grieg’s office where he knocked and opened the door.  Grieg, who stood at the window, turned as the door opened his pudgy face and small brown eyes revealing a disdain for Fitzjohn which was returned in full measure.

‘Ah, Fitzjohn.  You took your time.’  Grieg walked over to his desk and sat down, his interminable arrogance grating on Fitzjohn’s already frayed patience.  ‘I take it you’ve heard the news.’

Without being offered a seat, Fitzjohn remained standing.  ‘Yes, sir.’

‘I understand you interviewed the dead woman in connection with your present investigation.’

‘I did.’

‘Well, with that in mind, I suppose you’d better add her to your list.’  Grieg’s eyebrows rose.  ‘Who was she anyway?’

‘The wife of Brayshaw’s Retail Manager.  She had an affair with the victim, Laurence Harford, and admitted to being at Brayshaw’s the night he died.’

Grieg leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen on the edge of the desk.  ‘Too bad someone’s got to her then.  She’d, no doubt, have been useful.’  Reminded of Grieg’s callous nature, Fitzjohn did not reply.

‘This investigation, which I might remind you, I did not sanction you being involved with, is taking far too long, Fitzjohn.  Next time we speak I want a result.’  Fitzjohn turned to leave.

‘Before you go.  There’s something else,’ said Grieg.  ‘I’ve had a complaint about you from Thomas Bentham, QC.  Seems you questioned him regarding his whereabouts the night of Laurence Harford’s death.  What the hell were you thinking of?  You don’t question people like that.’

‘I had reason to,’ said Fitzjohn.

‘I don’t care what bloody reason you had.  The last thing I need is someone like Bentham being antagonised.’  Grieg threw his pen down onto the desk.  ‘If you’re not careful you’ll find yourself out of a job.’

Moments later Fitzjohn left Grieg’s office, aware of the Superintendent’s unease at anything that would disturb the appearance of a smooth running machine before his hopeful promotion to Chief Superintendent.  His irritation subsided, however, as thoughts of Charlotte Holmes took its place with his belief that if he had found Laurence Harford’s killer, Charlotte may still be alive.  He sat down heavily into his chair.  As he did so, Betts came into the office.

‘You’ve heard about Charlotte Holmes?’ Fitzjohn asked.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I don’t need to tell you that this changes everything, Betts.  It’s conceivable that Price could have killed Laurence Harford, although, I tend to doubt it.’

‘He did have motive and the opportunity, sir.’

‘Yes but physically I don’t think he’d have been capable, and as far as Charlotte Holmes is concerned, he had no motive and I doubt opportunity.’

‘Unless she saw him kill Harford.’

‘Then why wait five days?’  Fitzjohn paused.  ‘No, Betts.  I can’t see that happening.  Eric Holmes, on the other hand, had both motive and opportunity to not only kill Laurence Harford but his wife as well.’

Fitzjohn looked at his watch.  ‘We’d better get to the morgue and see what Charles has to say.’ 

Betts hung back as they entered the room where Charles Conroy stood over the body of a woman.  ‘Ah, Alistair.  I didn’t know you were involved in this.’

Fitzjohn looked at the body on the stainless steel table, a scene he had failed to get used to in his thirty-three years of policing.  And in this case, he felt particularly disturbed because she had hit a nerve.  Why was that he thought?  Was it the air of innocence she exuded when he had interviewed her?  One might say a child-like view of the situation she found herself in.  ‘I interviewed her in connection with my present investigation,’ answered Fitzjohn.  ‘How did she die?’

‘From a brain haemorrhage.’

‘Not from drowning?’

‘No, she was dead when she entered the water.’  Conroy bent over the body again.  ‘She was bludgeoned to death.  She also has a nasty contusion on her face but not as recent.  I’d say it’s about a week old.’

‘Mmm.  She had that when we spoke to her the other day.  Tell me, Charles.  Is there any way of telling whether the person who bludgeoned her was left - or right - handed?’

‘Well, we don’t have the murder weapon, but as you can see, the shape of this latest contusion suggests the direction of impact, so the person who did this was right handed.’  Conroy paused before continuing.  ‘There’s something else you might find interesting.  Note the scratches on her neck.  I’d say you’ll find her assailant has traces of her skin under the nails of his left hand as he grabbed at her.’

‘What time would you say she died?’

‘Between eight and midnight last night.’  Conroy gestured to his assistant to cover the body as he pulled off his rubber gloves.

‘I was about to have afternoon tea.  Would you care to join me?’  Fitzjohn glanced at Betts, his face pale.

‘Thanks, but we’d better get on.  Another time, perhaps.’

Betts led the way out of the building at a quick pace.  ‘How can he talk about afternoon tea?’  Fitzjohn sensed that the question was purely rhetorical.

As they climbed into their car, Fitzjohn said, ‘I want Eric Holmes taken into custody for a forensic DNA procedure, Betts.  Obtain an order from the Magistrate, would you?  While you do that, I’ll speak to Charlotte Holmes’s mother.’

An hour later, accompanied by Saunders, Fitzjohn’s car pulled up in front of Irene Burbridge’s home.  Fitzjohn hesitated before climbing out, remembering the woman’s apparent frailty at the time of their first meeting.  The emotions he was about to face now with the death of her only daughter were going to be particularly heart wrenching.   He stood for a moment before knocking, and as he did so, the door opened and Irene Burbridge appeared her eyes dull and sunken.