Murder at the Rocks (5 page)

At that moment, Betts appeared in the doorway.  Fitzjohn gave him a questioning look.

‘I’ve had a look through Laurence Harford’s office, sir.  Other than the cabinet, everything seems in order except for a number of bank statements in the top drawer of the desk.  They’re addressed to an Edward Harford.’

Fitzjohn looked toward Howard Parish.  ‘Does that surprise you Mr Parish?’

‘Yes, it does, as a matter of fact.  I can’t imagine why they’d be there.  When Edward Harford retired, I know he removed all his personal papers.’

‘Very well, we’ll look into it a bit later, Betts.  For now, I want you to have a word with the staff as they arrive.  Mr Parish will show you where to find them.’

At that same moment, a chubby young woman with dark brown hair, cut in a bob, appeared in the doorway.  Her brow wrinkled when she saw Fitzjohn.  ‘Mr Parish, what’s going on?’

Howard Parish got to his feet followed by Fitzjohn.  ‘Constance.  It’s Mr Harford.  I’m afraid…’

As Howard Parish faltered, Fitzjohn said, ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn.  I take it you’re the Office Administrator.’

‘Yes, Constance Plummer.’

Fitzjohn looked toward Parish.  ‘Mr Parish, perhaps you could show Detective Sergeant Betts where he can speak to the rest of the employees.’

‘Yes, of course.’  Parish looked toward Betts.  ‘This way, Sergeant.’

As they left, Fitzjohn turned back to Constance Plummer.  ‘Have a seat, Ms Plummer.’  Gripping her handbag, her knuckles white, Constance perched herself on the edge of the nearest chair, her eyes darting from Fitzjohn to the overall clad figures visible through Laurence Harford’s open office door.  Fitzjohn half sat on the side of the desk.

‘What’s happened, Inspector?’ said Constance, her voice all but a whisper.

‘Mr Parish found Laurence Harford’s body in the back lane when he arrived for work this morning.’  Constance Plummer gaped at Fitzjohn.

‘You mean he’s dead?’

‘I’m afraid so.’  Constance Plummer’s handbag fell to the floor as her hand went to her mouth.  Fitzjohn reached down to pick the bag up.  Sensing her distress and spying a water cooler in the outer office he said, ‘Can I get you some water?’  Constance grabbed a tissue from her hand bag, nodding as she dabbed her nose.  Fitzjohn waited for a moment or two while she sipped the water before asking, ‘Do you have any idea what happened in Laurence Harford’s office yesterday afternoon?’

Constance put the paper cup on the desk beside her.  ‘You mean the cabinet?’

‘So you do know.’

‘Yes, a man came to see Mr Harford late in the day.  I’ve not seen him before, although, it was evident they knew each other.  They spoke in Mr Harford’s office for a few minutes before I heard a crash so I went in.  Mr Harford was laid out on the floor and the man was standing over him.  He said…’

Fitzjohn sensed Constance Plummer’s increasing distress.  ‘Take your time, Ms Plummer.’  Fitzjohn waited.

‘He said, “You’ll live to regret this”. Then he left.’

‘Can you describe the man?’

‘Yes.  He was quite tall.  I think a little taller than Mr Harford.  And he had fair hair.’

‘How old do you think he was?’

‘Mid-thirties.  He was rather good looking, I thought.  Actually, very good looking.  Oh God, do you think he came back and killed Mr Harford?’

Fitzjohn ignored the question and said, ‘What happened after the man left?’

Constance thought for a moment.  ‘I asked Mr Harford if I should telephone the police, but he said it wouldn’t be necessary.  He said I could leave for the day.  I told him I hadn’t finished transcribing the letters he’d dictated earlier, but he said I could finish them this morning.’

‘What time was this, Ms Plummer?’

‘About half past five.’

‘Can I see the letters he dictated to you?’

‘Yes.  They’re on my desk.  Well, at least one of them is.’  Followed by Fitzjohn, Constance Plummer left Howard Parish’s office and made her way to her desk in the far corner of the main office.  Once there, she reached for a file resting in a plastic tray, opened it and handed the letter to Fitzjohn.

His eyes scanned through the letter before he looked back up.  ‘It’s addressed to a solicitor.’

‘Yes.  Mr Harford’s solicitor.’

‘And the second letter?’

Constance reached for a notebook in the centre of the desk and handed it to Fitzjohn who frowned at the shorthand.  ‘I didn’t realise shorthand was still used in offices.’

‘I’m sure it’s not generally, but Mr Harford preferred to dictate his letters rather than type them himself.’

‘And who is this one to, Ms Plummer?’ asked Fitzjohn handing back the notebook.

‘It’s addressed to Andrew Pemlett of Pemlett & Slythe.  They have offices on Phillip Street.  Andrew Pemlett was Edward Harford’s solicitor.  I know because Mr Harford had me telephone Mr Pemlett on a number of occasions after his brother died.’  The letter advises Mr Pemlett that Mr Harford intends to contest his brother’s will.  Would you like me to transcribe it for you, Inspector?’

‘Yes, that would be helpful.’

‘I’ll have it ready for you before you leave.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Now, Ms Plummer, I have just one more question.  Can you think of anything else that happened yesterday that you think is significant?’

Fitzjohn watched as the young woman’s face grimaced.  ‘Well there was that business with Mr Holmes late in the afternoon.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes, he’s our Retail Manager.  He came upstairs at about five and went in to see Mr Harford.  They were in Mr Harford’s office for about half an hour before I heard them arguing.  After a few minutes, Mr Holmes came back out, followed by Mr Harford.’

‘So this was shortly before the young man arrived.’

‘Yes.’

‘And to your knowledge, did Mr Holmes return to the office yesterday?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Right, Ms Plummer.  You’ve been most helpful.  I’ll keep this if I may.’  Fitzjohn held up the letter.  He crossed the room to where Betts and Howard Parish now stood.

‘You’ve spoken to everyone, Betts?’

‘Except for a Mr Holmes.  Seems he hasn’t arrived yet.’

Fitzjohn turned to Parish.  ‘Is it usual for Mr Holmes to be late for work?’

‘No, on the contrary, Inspector.  He’s always been most punctual.’

‘I see.  In that case we’ll need his address.’

‘Yes, of course.’  Parish started to walk toward his office, followed by Fitzjohn and Betts.

While Howard Parish looked to his computer for the address, Fitzjohn continued.  ‘Ms Plummer tells me there was another visitor here late yesterday.’

Parish thought for a moment.  ‘Oh, you must mean Nick Harford, Mr Harford’s nephew.  He arrived as I was leaving for the bank.  I’m sorry.  With all that’s happened, it completely slipped my mind.’

‘Do you know where we can contact him?’

‘Possibly at his father’s home in Mosman.’

‘Then perhaps you can include that address too.’  Fitzjohn paused for a moment.  ‘Was Laurence Harford married, Mr Parish?’

‘Yes, to Julia Harford.’  Howard’s hand went to his mouth.  ‘Goodness.  She’ll have to be told what’s happened, poor woman.’

‘We’ll see to that, Mr Parish,’ said Fitzjohn as Parish handed a sheet of paper with the addresses on it to Betts.

‘I just have one more question, Mr Parish.  Where were you between the hours of seven and midnight yesterday?’

Parish pursed his lips.  ‘I was at home, Inspector.’

‘All evening?’

‘Until I came in this morning, yes.’

‘Were you alone all evening?’

‘Yes.  I live alone.  My wife died last year.’

‘I see.  Very well, Mr Parish, I think that will be all for the moment.’

Moments later, Fitzjohn and Betts descended the back staircase and emerged out into the lane now devoid of the victim and Charles Conroy.  ‘Whereabouts does Mrs Harford live, Betts?’

‘Watson’s Bay, sir.’

‘Right.  We’ll go there first, after which, I want to speak to a man by the name of Andrew Pemlett.  He’s a solicitor.  I’ll fill you in while we drive.’

CHAPTER 6

Betts pulled over to the curb as they arrived at the Hartford residence on Pacific Street in Watson’s Bay.  ‘This is it, sir.’

Fitzjohn looked out of the car window at the imposing white house just visible through an abundance of shrubbery.  ‘Right,’ he said, opening the car door.  ‘Now to perform one of our most difficult tasks, Betts.  Telling a victim’s spouse that her loved one won’t be coming home.’  He climbed out of the car and straightened his suit coat before pressing the intercom button on the wrought iron gate.  Moments later, a man’s voice could be heard.

‘Can I help you?’

‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn from the New South Wales Police.  I’d like to speak to Mrs Julia Harford, please.’  A moment of silence followed before the gate clicked open.

Moments later, Fitzjohn and Betts looked into the face of a lean, wiry man in the front doorway.  Dressed in a dark blue suit, his brown wavy hair combed back from an austere face, he studied their warrant cards.  ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn.’  Fitzjohn half turned toward Betts.  ‘This is Detective Sergeant Betts.’ 

Unsmiling, the man moved back from the doorway to allow Fitzjohn and Betts to step inside.  ‘If you’d care to wait here, gentlemen, I’ll see if Madam is at home.’

When the butler left, Fitzjohn turned to Betts and lifted his eyebrows before taking in the entrance hall, its marble floor and lavish furnishings lending an air of opulence.  As the minutes ticked by, his eyes came to rest on a series of paintings on the wall facing the front door.  Alistair Fitzjohn, having a keen interest in art, removed his glasses and took a closer look.  He noted immediately the artist’s name “Martin Greenwood” and realised the wealth that must be in the Hartford family.  As he admired the paintings, footsteps sounded again and the butler reappeared.

‘Madam will see you now.  If you’ll come this way.’  They followed the butler along a wide hallway until he stopped at a set of double doors on the left and tapped gently.  A voice sounded from within and he turned the brass knob.  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn and Detective Sergeant Betts, Madam.’

‘Thank you, Mapsom.’

As Fitzjohn and Betts entered the room, the butler left, closing the door as he did so.  Fitzjohn and Betts looked across to a woman in her mid-forties, her brunette hair swept back from her face in a chignon, an aura of gentility evident at first glance.  She sat on a sofa next to a large white, stone fireplace, its carvings adding to the luxuriousness of the room.

‘Please, come and sit down gentlemen.’  The two men settled themselves into the armchairs that faced the sofa.  ‘Now, what can I do for you?’ she said with an air of superiority.

‘I’m afraid we have disturbing news, Mrs Harford,’ said Fitzjohn.  ‘It’s your husband.  His body was found early this morning in the lane that leads to Brayshaw’s side entrance.’  Julia Harford gasped, a look of disbelief descending onto her face.  Fitzjohn waited for a moment before he continued.  ‘I have also to tell you that we are treating the matter as suspicious.’

‘You mean Laurence has been murdered?’  Julia Harford got to her feet and went to stand in front of the fireplace before turning back to face them, her arms wrapped around herself.

‘I know this is a shock, Mrs Harford.  Is there anyone we can contact who can come and stay with you?  A family member perhaps.’

‘No, that won’t be necessary.  I’ll be fine, thank you, Inspector.’  Julia returned to the sofa where she remained silent for a moment.

‘I realise this is difficult, Mrs Harford,’ said Fitzjohn, ‘but can I ask when you last saw your husband?’

Julia Harford hesitated as if trying to gather her thoughts before she said, ‘The last time I saw Laurence?  Let’s see.  It would have to have been on Monday evening.’  She thought for a second longer.  ‘Yes, it was.  We were due to attend a charity dinner, but at the last minute, Laurence said he had another commitment so I went alone.’

Fitzjohn’s brow furrowed.  ‘And you haven’t seen or spoken to him since?’

‘No.’  Julia Harford paused before she spoke again.  ‘I can see what you’re thinking, Inspector.  How can we live in the same house and not come face to face in almost a week.  Well, as you can see, this is a large house and… how can I put this?  My husband and I were not close.  It wasn’t unusual for us not to see each other for days at a time.’

‘I see,’ said Fitzjohn, a sense of bewilderment taking hold.  ‘Well, in that case you won’t be able to help us with his movements during the past few days.’

‘No, I’m afraid not, although, I’m sure Mapsom can.  He quite often drove Laurence to wherever he wished to go.’

‘Very well.  We’ll have a word with him on our way out.’

‘Can I ask where you were last evening, Mrs Harford?’

‘I was at a function at the Shangri-la Hotel in town.’

‘And what time did you leave there?’

‘Oh, let’s see.  Around eight, I think.’

‘And you came straight home?’

Julia Harford frowned.  ‘Are these questions altogether necessary, Inspector?’

‘I’m afraid they are, Mrs Harford.  You see, we need to establish the whereabouts, last evening, of all who knew your husband.’

‘Well, in that case, I didn’t come straight home, I visited a friend.’

‘And your friend’s name?’  Fitzjohn waited.

‘I’d rather not say.’

‘We need to corroborate your story, Mrs Harford.’  Julia Harford remained silent.  ‘Very well, then can you tell me what time you arrived home?’

‘Two or so.  I can’t quite remember the exact time.’

‘Did Mr Mapsom drive you?’

‘No, my friend’s chauffeur brought me home.’  Julia Harford shifted in her chair.  ‘Do you think we could continue this at some other time, Inspector?  My husband and I weren’t close, it’s true, but even so this has come as rather a shock.’

‘I understand and I apologise, but there is one more question I must ask.  Do you know of anyone who may have had a grudge against your husband?’