Murder at the Rocks (22 page)

“Dear Alistair, As promised in my earlier communiqué, I have enclosed the flight details for Sophie and me.  As you haven’t been in touch, I take it our stay won’t interrupt your plans for the next couple of weeks.  Can’t wait to see you again and spend some quality time.

Your loving sister, Meg

P.S.  I take it you will be picking us up at the airport.

Fitzjohn glared at the letter then took a large gulp of whisky.  ‘Two weeks?  Why?’  Finishing his drink, he scrambled to his feet and went looking for the unopened letter that had arrived earlier that week.

CHAPTER 31

Fitzjohn paced back and forth in front of his desk, his impatience getting the better of him.  As he did so, the door opened and Betts walked into the room.  Fitzjohn spun around with an expectant look on his face.

‘Ah, Betts, any news?’

‘Yes.  The forensic DNA sampling on Eric Holmes came back positive, sir.  The flakes of skin found under the nails of his left hand are that of Charlotte Holmes.  The other news is that Charlotte Holmes’s handbag and her wallet have been fished out of the Harbour not far from where her body was found.’  Fitzjohn’s face showed a glimmer of satisfaction as he walked over to his desk and sat down.  ‘Forensics is looking at them now.  Shouldn’t be too long, sir.’  Betts ran his hand through his thick ginger hair.

‘Very well.  As soon as we get the report back on the handbag and wallet, we’ll interview Holmes again.  For now, however,’ Fitzjohn looked at his watch.  ‘I have to get to the airport in a hurry.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes.  My sister, Meg, is arriving from Melbourne along with her daughter, Sophie.  It seems Sophie is looking to study at Sydney Uni this semester.’

‘Oh, so Sophie will be staying with you, will she, sir?’

Fitzjohn shot a look at Betts.  ‘Good God, the thought hadn’t occurred to me.  It would just be like Meg to spring that one on me.’  Betts grinned.

Eric Holmes made his way across the interview room accompanied by his solicitor.  He sat down into one of the chairs at the desk, his eyes cast down.  Moments later, Fitzjohn and Betts entered the room and settled themselves into the two seats opposite.  Betts switched the recording device on and stated the date and time.  Those present introduced themselves and Fitzjohn started the interview.

‘As you’ve been informed, Mr Holmes, the forensic DNA procedure has revealed that flakes of your wife’s skin, including her face foundation, were found underneath the nails of your left hand.  Also your wife’s handbag with traces of her blood has been recovered from the Harbour.’  Eric Holmes paled.  ‘You are, of course, under no obligation to answer any questions.’

Holmes, his face gaunt continued his silence.

‘Do you have anything to say, Mr Holmes?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘Only that I didn’t kill Charlotte.’

‘Then how do you explain the facts I’ve just presented to you?’

Eric faced his solicitor who spoke to him in a low voice before he looked to Fitzjohn.  ‘My client doesn’t wish to answer any questions, Inspector.’

‘Very well, but before we terminate this interview there is the matter of Laurence Harford’s demise.  We have two witnesses who saw you coming out of the lane at the time of his death, Mr Holmes.’

‘What?’  Holmes’s voice quivered.  ‘But he was already dead when I got there.’

‘I thought you said you weren’t at Brayshaw’s the night Laurence Harford was murdered.’

Eric Holmes glowered at Fitzjohn.  ‘All right, I was there.  After I left the pub I went back to Brayshaw’s to have it out with Laurence.  I decided to go into the building by the back stairs.  That’s when I...’

‘What, Mr Holmes?’

‘I tripped over him.’

‘Who?’

‘Laurence.  He was lying in the lane.  It was dark.  I didn’t see him because the lamp above the archway was out.’  Holmes hesitated.  ‘There was blood all over his shirt.  He looked...’

‘Dead?’

‘Yes, but I swear I didn’t kill him.’

‘Why should we believe you?  After all, you certainly had a motive to kill Laurence Harford.  Only that afternoon, he’d told you of his affair with your wife.’  Fitzjohn waited for Eric Holmes’s to reply, but he remained silent.

‘Very well, I take it you don’t wish to comment further, but there is another matter I want to ask you about.  How well do you know Michael Wycliffe?’

Eric Holmes grimaced.  ‘Wycliffe?  Hardly at all other than to pass the time of day.  He used to come into Brayshaw’s to see Laurence.  They sat on some kind of committee together.’

‘Do you know of any other dealings they might have had?’

‘No.’

Disappointed, Fitzjohn sat back in his chair.  ‘Very well.  That will be all for the moment, Mr Holmes.  Is there anything you wish to clarify or add before we terminate the interview?’

‘No.’

Moments later, Betts informed Eric Holmes of his rights before arresting him for the murder of Charlotte Holmes.

As Holmes was led away, Fitzjohn put his wire framed glasses back on, got to his feet and buttoned his suit coat around his rotund shape.  ‘I’m still not satisfied Holmes killed Laurence Harford, Betts.  I know he had motive and we have two eye witnesses who saw him in the vicinity at the time of Harford’s death, but there’s something wrong.  I feel it in my bones.’  Fitzjohn gathered his papers together and they left the interview room.  ‘We’ll speak to Wycliffe, but before we do, I want to have another word with Piers LaSalle.’

‘You can’t think he’s involved in Charlotte Holmes’s murder, sir.’

‘No I don’t, but we can use that as an excuse to speak to him.  There’s something about that man that I just can’t put my finger on.  Until I do, I can’t discount him from Laurence Harford’s death.’

Fitzjohn and Betts arrived at Quay West an hour later and made their way to Piers LaSalle’s suite.  The door opened and LaSalle appeared, a look of surprise on his face.

‘Chief Inspector.’

‘Good afternoon, Mr LaSalle.  We’d like to speak to you again if we may.’

LaSalle moved back from the doorway.  ‘Of course, come through.’  Fitzjohn and Betts followed him into the sitting room where now, in the light of day, a view over the Harbour was visible.  Piers followed Fitzjohn’s gaze.  ‘Magnificent view isn’t it, Inspector,’ he said, as he gestured for the two men to be seated.

‘It is indeed, and not something one would tire of.’  Fitzjohn settled himself on the sofa.

‘We’re here because there have been further developments in our investigation, but we won’t keep you too long.  Can you tell us where you were between eight and midnight last night?’

‘I spent a few hours with Nick Harford.  We dined downstairs in the Harrington Restaurant.  He left at about eleven after which I came back upstairs to my suite.  Why do you ask?’  Fitzjohn watched LaSalle light a cigar, the smell filling the air.

‘Did you see or speak to anyone after eleven o’clock?’

‘No.’

‘You didn’t go out again?’

‘No.’

‘Very well, I have just one more question.  Are you sure there’s nothing else you can tell us about the night Laurence Harford died?’

‘Yes, I’m quite sure.’

Moments later, Fitzjohn and Betts left Piers LaSalle’s suite and made their way back downstairs.  ‘Well, Betts, we now know that Piers LaSalle didn’t kill Laurence Harford.’

‘How?’

‘He’s left handed.  Laurence Harford’s killer was right handed as was the person who bludgeoned Charlotte Holmes to death.  I knew I was missing something significant when we spoke to LaSalle before, but I just couldn’t see what it was until he lit that cigarette just now.’

CHAPTER 32

Early the next morning Betts arrived at Fitzjohn’s Birchgrove home to be met at the door by a tall, slender young woman with sparkling blue eyes and long dark hair.  She smiled as she opened the screen door.

‘Hello.  You must be Sergeant Betts.’

Transfixed, Betts hesitated before answering.  ‘It’s Martin.’

‘I’m Sophie.  Come in, Martin.’

Betts followed Sophie into the kitchen where he found Fitzjohn at the table gathering his papers together and putting them into his briefcase.  Dressed in a dark blue suit, his crisp white shirt setting off a navy and mauve striped tie, he appeared the epitome of propriety.  ‘Morning, Betts.  I see you’ve met my niece and, of course, you know my sister, Meg.’  Betts looked toward the plump woman standing in front of the sink with an amused look on her face.

‘Hello, Sergeant.’  She eyed Fitzjohn.  ‘I’m sure my brother will see your arrival as rescuing him from our chatty presence.’

Fitzjohn closed his briefcase ignoring her comment.  ‘You have the directions I gave you to the University, Meg?’

‘Yes, Alistair.  We’ll find our way.  Don’t worry.’

‘Then I’ll see you tonight.’  Fitzjohn picked up his briefcase, kissed both women on the cheek, and followed by Betts, marched out of the kitchen.

‘Bye, Martin,’ came Sophie’s soft voice.

‘
Martin
?’ said Fitzjohn under his breath as Betts looked back to be further mesmerised by Sophie’s image.

As they emerged from the house and climbed into the car, Fitzjohn glanced at Betts, who remained unusually quiet.  ‘So, will Sophie be staying with you, sir?’

Fitzjohn eyed his Sergeant suspiciously.  ‘No.  Her mother has secured her a university residence.’  Fitzjohn paused.  ‘And just so you know, Betts, my niece is off limits.’  Betts sighed.

‘Any luck finding out what happened to Martin Greenwood?’

‘I have, sir.’

‘As Price said, he and Greenwood were air lifted to the 1
^st
Australian Field Hospital in Vung Tau.  After a couple of days, Neville Price was shipped home, but Greenwood...’

‘Died there?’

‘In a manner of speaking.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘According to the records, Martin Greenwood disappeared from the hospital.  There’s no explanation how because they probably didn’t know.  He was never found.’  Fitzjohn’s face grimaced.

‘Do you want to speak to Price again, sir?’

‘Yes, but not before we’ve spoken to Christopher Leonard.  Find out where he can be contacted.’  Fitzjohn noted Betts’s quizzical look.  ‘He’s an artist.  You may or may not have noticed one of his paintings in Nick Harford’s study.’

‘I didn’t, sir.  How do you think he fits into all this?’

‘As I think I told you, there’s an artist called Martin Greenwood and I know he died some years ago.  The paintings that cover the walls of Laurence Harford’s front entrance hall as well as those in his study are Greenwood’s work.  I’m wondering whether the Martin Greenwood who disappeared from Vung Tau and the artist, Martin Greenwood, might be one and the same.’

‘And you think Christopher Leonard might know because he’s also an artist.’

‘Something like that,’ said Fitzjohn, pulling on his seat belt.

They arrived in Bowral later that morning, driving slowly through the small community.  ‘Christopher Leonard lives some distance out of town, sir.’  Ten minutes later, Betts turned onto a gravel driveway that wound its way through the undulating countryside and ended in a paved parking area.  The roof of a two-story house could just be seen through the trees.  Betts pulled up alongside a stone path edged with rosemary and lavender, the scents wafting through the open car windows.  Fitzjohn climbed out and took a deep breath.  ‘There’s nothing like it, is there, Betts.  Fresh air and countryside.’

‘No,’ said Betts, baffled that fresh air and countryside could lighten his bosses mood.

Together they started along the path, Fitzjohn whistling to himself.  Moments later, the white stone walls of the house came into view, brilliant against the clear blue sky.  A woman could be seen sweeping the front porch.  She looked up, shading her eyes from the sun, as they approached, and putting her broom to one side said, ‘Can I help you?’

‘I hope so,’ said Fitzjohn, smiling.  ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn and this is Detective Sergeant Betts.  We’re from New South Wales Police.  We’re here to see Mr Leonard.’

‘Is he expecting you?’

‘No.’

The woman hesitated.  ‘I’m Mr Leonard’s housekeeper, Inspector.  He rarely sees anyone without prearrangement.’

‘It’s in connection with our investigation into a suspicious death, Mrs...’

‘Evans.  Joan Evans.  A death you say.’

‘Yes.’

‘In that case I’ll have a word with him.  If you’ll come inside.’

Fitzjohn and Betts followed the woman through the house and into a large sitting room.  ‘Make yourselves comfortable, I shan’t be long.’  As she disappeared out through the sliding glass doors, Fitzjohn took in the paintings that covered the walls, each by Martin Greenwood.  As he did so, Joan Evans reappeared.  ‘Mr Leonard will see you, gentleman.  He’s in his studio at the bottom of the garden.’  She pointed to a building, its walls covered in jasmine and honeysuckle.  It faced a small lake quite separate from the house.  Fitzjohn and Betts made their way across the lawn where they found a man sitting in a wheelchair on a stone terrace.

‘Mr Leonard,’ said Fitzjohn as they approached, ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn, this is Detective Sergeant Betts.  I hope you’ll pardon the intrusion.’

A slight breeze blew Christopher Leonard’s hair back from his face revealing scars across his forehead.  With a gnarled hand, its fingers deformed by burns, he gestured for the two men to sit down.  ‘How can I help, Inspector?’  Fitzjohn and Betts sat down on two padded garden chairs beneath a large awning.  ‘You told my housekeeper you’re investigating a suspicious death.’

‘That’s right.  A man by the name of Laurence Harford.’

‘I see.  I seem to remember reading something about that in the newspaper.  Why do you think I can help?’

‘Did you know Laurence Harford by any chance, Mr Leonard?’