Murder at the Rocks (4 page)

Every best wish and love,

Edward

Nicholas sat back in his chair as Piers LaSalle returned to the table.  ‘Any the wiser?’ he said, placing his glass on the table and sitting down.

Stunned as well as pleased at his father’s openness, Nicholas hesitated for a moment before answering.  ‘No, although, I get the feeling from this letter that it wasn’t as simple as I thought.  Dad mentions their estrangement, but says he’s not at liberty to give the reason.’  Nicholas looked down at the letter.  ‘Then he goes on to say that he’s put a deterrent in place that, he believes, will discourage Laurence from contesting the will.  I wonder what it was because obviously, it didn’t work.’

CHAPTER 5

Alistair Fitzjohn rose in the pre-dawn and made his way down the garden path to the greenhouse, his faded blue jumper and corduroy trousers no defence against the chill of the early hour.  Opening the glass door, he stepped inside to be met by row upon row of orchid plants standing like shadowy sentinels.  He flicked the light switch and at the same time turned on the CD player he kept on the shelf beside the door.  This morning, Nessun dorma, from the final act of Puccini’s opera,
Turandot
, filled the air.  The orchids, a legacy left by his late wife, Edith, and at first a burden, had since become a source of enjoyment to Fitzjohn.  Especially, since Edith’s membership in the North Sydney Orchid Society had passed to him, their monthly benching competitions sparking his competitive spirit.  It helped to still the memories.  But it did not stop his sister, Meg, with her consistent interference and her quest to help him through his grief.  Her last letter, in its usual pale green envelope, he had left unopened.

By dawn, Detective Chief Inspector Alistair Fitzjohn found himself at his desk in Day Street Police Station.  Now dressed impeccably in a dark blue suit, white shirt and maroon tie, his wire framed glasses resting on the end of his nose, he sat down at his desk to finish paperwork from the night before, and to muse over his investigations without interruption.

Part of the old guard of detectives, Fitzjohn’s methodical, painstaking methods were, no doubt, viewed by some as archaic.  Nevertheless, over the years, they had brought him success as well as the respect of all but one of his colleagues; Superintendent Grieg, the man Fitzjohn regarded as his nemesis.

Fitzjohn opened his briefcase, relishing the opportunity of an hour to himself.  He removed his wire-framed glasses and smoothed his thinning grey hair before shuffling through the pile of papers in front of him.  His solitude ended moments later, however, when a knock sounded at the door and Chief Superintendent Fellowes walked into the room.  ‘Alistair.  I thought I’d find you here.  I’d like to have a word if I may.’

A man of large proportions with a shock of thick white hair, Reginald Fellowes was a man that Fitzjohn not only respected but genuinely liked.  As a result, he forgave the intrusion, but even so, he looked down at the paperwork now spread over his desk and sighed as he got to his feet.  ‘By all means, sir.’

Fellowes closed the door, crossed the room and sat down in the chair in front of Fitzjohn’s desk.  ‘As you’re no doubt aware, Alistair, at this hour of the day I’m not here to pass the time.  There’s been a suspicious death reported.  The victim is, shall we say, a prominent businessman.  I’d like you to drop whatever else you’re doing and take the case.’  A man of quiet, determined nature, Fellowes sensed Fitzjohn’s hesitation.  ‘I’ll speak to Superintendent Grieg when he gets in.  I’m sure he won’t mind.’  Fitzjohn felt a sense of amusement as he thought of Grieg’s reaction to the Chief Superintendent’s request.

Putting his glasses back on, he said, ‘Who is it, sir?  The suspicious death, I mean.’

‘Laurence Harford.  I daresay you’ve heard the name in connection with Brayshaw’s.  They’re diamond merchants and jewellers.  They have a business in The Rocks area.  I understand Harford took over management of the company after his brother’s retirement earlier this year.’  Fellowes paused.  ‘A bit of a philanthropist by all accounts who moved in the higher echelons of our society.’  Fellowes’ eyes sparkled.  ‘The powers that be will expect a thorough investigation, Alistair and I know I can depend on you to do that.’

All too aware of Fellowes’ wish to keep the bureaucrats happy, at least, until his retirement, Fitzjohn said, ‘Where was the victim found?’

‘In the lane that runs along-side the building housing Brayshaw’s.  Apparently, one of the employees found him when he arrived for work this morning.’

Fitzjohn sat forward in his chair.  ‘Right, sir.  I’ll look into it at once.’

‘Thanks, Alistair.’  Reginald Fellowes got to his feet.  ‘I’ll leave you to it then.’  At that moment, the office door burst open and a tall, slim young man appeared, his short, curly ginger hair damp from the rain.  His face reddened and his body stiffened when he saw the Chief Superintendent.

‘I beg your pardon, sir.’  A look of amusement came to Reginald Fellowes’ face as he walked toward the door.

‘Morning, Sergeant Betts.’

‘Good morning, sir.’

As the door closed behind the Chief Superintendent, Betts looked over at Fitzjohn.  ‘I’m sorry, sir.  I didn’t realise you were busy.’

A look of annoyance crossed Fitzjohn’s face.  ‘Then perhaps in future you’ll knock and save us both embarrassment.’ Fitzjohn liked Betts even though his youthful exuberance caused him to blunder at times.  Looking past that, however, he knew Betts had all the qualities needed to make a fine detective.  Fitzjohn got to his feet, took his suit coat from the back of his chair, pulled it on and buttoned it around his rotund shape.  ‘We’ll discuss your misgivings later, Betts.  For now, we have a suspicious death to attend.’

‘Where, sir?’

‘Brayshaw’s Jewellers.  I understand they’re at The Rocks.  The body of Brayshaw’s Managing Director, Laurence Harford, was found early this morning by one of the employees.’

As Betts stopped the car alongside the curb outside Brayshaw’s, Fitzjohn looked out through the rain-splattered side window at the gathering crowd and frowned.  He grabbed his umbrella, stepped out into the rain and watched it unfurl as a young constable approached.  ‘Good morning, sir.’

Fitzjohn looked at the pale-faced young man.  ‘Morning, Constable.’

‘The body is through the archway in the lane, sir.’

Fitzjohn nodded and looked again at the crowd.  ‘Move these people on Constable unless, of course, they’re Brayshaw employees in which case, Detective Sergeant Betts here will deal with them.’

Without another word, Fitzjohn turned and walked through the archway and into the lane where the pathologist, Charles Conroy, crouched under a canopy erected over a body sprawled on the flagstones.  Fitzjohn closed his umbrella and hesitated before approaching, his years of attending such grizzly scenes no weapon against his reluctance.  Conroy looked up at the sound of his footsteps and got to his feet.  ‘Alistair, how are you?’

‘I’m well, Charles.  And you?’

‘Can’t complain except for the early hour.’

Conroy pushed his thick grey hair back from his forehead and knelt down again.  Fitzjohn joined him, running his eyes over the body.  A chill went through him.  Dressed in a dark blue suit, the victim’s clouded eyes stared up at him.  Fitzjohn lowered his gaze to the man’s blood soaked shirt before looking up at Charles.  ‘Stab wounds?’ he asked.

‘Yes, and from what I can tell, they were made with a single edged knife.  There’s no sign that he struggled though.  No cuts on his hands or arms from what I can see.’  Conroy pointed to a pool of blood that the victim’s head lay in.  ‘He also received a blow to the head beforehand, either from his attacker or possibly from slipping on those stairs.’  Conroy gestured toward a staircase, visible through a doorway in the side of Brayshaw’s building.  ‘Even so, he was very much alive when he was stabbed.’

Fitzjohn grimaced.  ‘How long do you think he’s been dead?’

‘Well, I’ll be able to be more precise after the post mortem, but I’d say the best part of ten hours.’

‘So, somewhere around 8pm last night.’

‘Or there abouts.’

‘Any sign of the murder weapon?’

‘No.’  Conroy got to his feet.

At that moment, Betts appeared and knelt down next to Fitzjohn, his face agape at the site of the victim.

‘Ah, Betts.  Anything untoward upstairs?’

‘Yes.  It looks like there’s been a bit of a scuffle in one of the offices, sir.’

‘Very well.  I’ll have a word with whoever found the body.’

‘That’ll be Mr Parish.  He’s Brayshaw’s accountant.  He’s in a bit of shock so I left him in his office on the first floor of the building, sir.’  Fitzjohn nodded and got to his feet.

‘I’ll no doubt see you later in the day, Charles,’ he said, as he made his way toward the side entrance of the building.  As he did so, a slight man in his mid-sixties appeared at the base of the staircase just inside the doorway, his face drawn and white.

‘Mr Parish?’

‘Yes.  I’m Howard Parish.’

‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn, Mr Parish.  I understand you found Laurence Harford when you arrived for work this morning.’

‘Yes, I did.’  Parish looked across the lane at the body.  ‘Dreadful sight to witness.’

Fitzjohn sensed Howard Parish’s anguish.  ‘Are you up to answering a few questions?’

‘Yes, of course.  If you’ll come this way, Inspector.’  Parish turned back into the building.  ‘The offices are on the first floor.’

Fitzjohn glanced around the small entrance way.  ‘Where does that door lead, Mr Parish?

‘Into the back of the jewellery shop.’  Parish started up the stairs.  Fitzjohn followed, the sound of Howard Parish’s laboured breathing filling the stairwell.

‘Are there stairs at the front of the premises?’

‘Yes.  Accessed from the street.’

‘And what’s on the second floor?’

‘Two workshops.’

When Howard Parish reached the landing, he hesitated for a moment and took a deep breath.  ‘I find the stairs rather taxing these days.’  He pointed to a doorway.  ‘Through here, Inspector.’  Fitzjohn followed him into Brayshaw’s main office, looking at the clock on the wall as he did so.

‘You must have arrived early this morning,’ said Fitzjohn.

‘I did.  Half past six to be precise.’

‘Is it your usual practice?’

‘It varies.  If I’m behind in my work I like to come in an hour or so before we open.’  Parish raised his eyebrows.  ‘Less interruption.’

‘Detective Sergeant Betts tells me there’s been a disturbance in one of the offices.’

‘Yes, there is.  Through here, Inspector.’  Fitzjohn followed Parish to an open doorway on the far side of the main office where two forensic officers went about their tasks.  His eyes took in the wood panelled room, its walls adorned with photographs, military medals and plaques.  At his feet a cabinet lay on its side, the glass doors smashed.

‘Do you have any idea what happened here, Mr Parish?’

Howard Parish shook his head.  ‘No.’

‘Then you weren’t the last person to leave Brayshaw’s last night?’  Fitzjohn followed Parish back out into the main office.

‘No.  I had an appointment at the bank so I left early.  Mr Harford was still here, as was our Office Administrator, Constance Plummer, and Mr Holmes.’

‘Holmes?’

‘Yes.  He manages our jewellery shop downstairs.’

‘I see.  So, all was well when you left?’

Howard Parish’s hand trembled as he grabbed the top edge of a metal filing cabinet.  ‘No, it wasn’t.  As I left, Mr Holmes and Mr Harford were having words.’

‘You mean they were arguing?’

‘In a word, yes.’

‘Did this happen often?’

‘Before Mr Edward Harford’s retirement due to ill health, never, but since…’  Howard Parish paused.  ‘Laurence Harford was a man of uneven temper, I’m afraid, Inspector.’

‘And he and Holmes didn’t get along?’

‘No.’

‘You say, Edward Harford.  I take it he was Laurence Harford’s brother.’

‘Yes, his older brother.  By quite a few years, I understand.’  Howard Parish ran his hand over his brow as beads of sweat appeared.

Fitzjohn, aware of Parish’s increasing anxiety stopped his questioning.  ‘Is there somewhere we can sit down, Mr Parish?’

A look of relief came to the older man’s face.  ‘Yes.  My office is just along here, Inspector.’  Parish led the way to a small glassed in room overlooking the street below.  He gestured for Fitzjohn to sit down before settling himself into the chair behind his desk.

‘Tell me, Mr Parish, when did you last see Laurence Harford alive?’

Howard Parish cleared his throat.  ‘When I left for the bank just before five o’clock yesterday afternoon.’

‘Have you found anything unusual about Laurence Harford’s behaviour in recent days?’

‘Well, as I mentioned before, he’s never been an even tempered man, but in the past few days, I did find him particularly irritable.  On edge, so to speak.’

‘Do you have any idea why?’

‘No.  He wasn’t the sort of person who shared his thoughts, Inspector’

Fitzjohn glanced back over his shoulder into the main office.  ‘How many employees are there altogether, Mr Parish?’

‘Between the jewellery shop downstairs and here in the office, we have six, two of whom are part-time.  And then, of course, there are the four employees in the workshops upstairs.’

‘And I understand Brayshaw’s are not only jewellers but also diamond merchants.’

‘That’s correct.’

Fitzjohn sat in silence for a moment before continuing.  ‘Then I think it would be prudent to do a stock take, don’t you?  This may not just be a suspicious death we’re dealing with.’

‘I see what you mean.  I’ll see to it, Inspector.’

‘What else can you tell me about yesterday, Mr Parish?  For example, were there any other upsets?’

Howard Parish ran his right index finger along the edge of his desk.  ‘Not to my knowledge.  Mr Harford arrived at the office around 10am.  He wasn’t in the best of moods, as I remember.  He did have one appointment just before lunch.  It was with Mr Wycliffe who has a couple of restaurants in the area.  “Wycliffe’s at the Quay” and “Wycliffe’s Sea Food Restaurant” here in The Rocks.’