Lane's End (3 page)

CHAPTER 3

Fitzjohn looked out of the passenger window and sighed as Betts brought the car to a stand-still outside the Carmichael’s home on Prince Albert Street in Mosman. ‘It seems the gods aren’t looking favourably on us this morning.’

Betts followed Fitzjohn’s gaze up the winding steps through a tiered, manicured garden that led to the imposing residence high above the roadway. When they reached the front door, Fitzjohn took his handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit coat and wiped his brow while Betts rang the bell. The door opened almost at once and a young woman in her mid-twenties appeared. She was dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a loose fitting light grey top that gave her a breezy air, but belied the tension evident across her face.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked, a wary look in her dark blue eyes.

The two officers introduced themselves and held up their warrant cards. ‘We’re here to speak to Mr and Mrs Carmichael,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘It’s in relation to a function they hosted at the Sydney Observatory on Friday evening.’

‘I’m sorry, they’re not here, Chief Inspector.’

‘Oh? When will they be back, Ms..?’

‘It’s Carmichael. Joanna Carmichael. I don’t know when my parents will be back.’

With trembling hands the young woman pushed the wisps of fair hair framing her face back into her pony tail. ‘You see, my father suffered a heart attack through the night. He’s been taken to North Shore Hospital.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ replied Fitzjohn, taken aback.

‘It’s about the person who died at the Observatory last night, isn’t it? My step-mother, Laura, expected you might call round. She asked me to tell you that she’s more than willing to speak to you, but it’ll have to be at the hospital. She won’t leave my father’s bedside at a time like this.’

‘Of course.  Look, I think under the circumstances, we’ll make it another time, Ms Carmichael. Can you let her know, please?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Fitzjohn and Betts turned to leave. ‘I don’t suppose I can help you with your enquiries, can I?’

‘Not unless you were at the cocktail party last night and I don’t remember seeing your name on the guest list,’ replied Fitzjohn, turning back.

‘Well, that’s just it. I was there, albeit, for a short period of time.’ Joanna stepped back from the door. ‘Come through to the sun-room. We can talk there.’ Fitzjohn and Betts followed Joanna through the house to a large living area, its floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking a garden shaded by tall trees and filled with blooms of every variety. She gestured to the sofas and chairs, each with billowing cushions, grouped around a glass-topped coffee table. ‘Please, have a seat.’

Fitzjohn sank into an armchair, the cushions consuming him. Betts shot an amused look his way before he sat down himself on one of the sofas and opened his notebook.

‘It’s a very comfortable room, Ms Carmichael, and the garden looks remarkable,’ Fitzjohn commented.

Joanna looked around wistfully. ‘Needless to say, it’s my father’s favourite room in the house. He sits here and watches Laura toil in the garden. Of course, it’s her passion. She has what they call a green thumb.’ Joanna sighed and looked back at Fitzjohn and Betts.

‘I hope I can help with your enquiries even though I wasn’t at the function for very long. The only reason I went was to drop off some papers that Dad forgot to take with him.’ Joanna caught Fitzjohn’s questioning look. ‘I work in the Carmichael Hunt Real Estate office.’

‘Oh, I see. What time did you arrive at the cocktail party, Ms Carmichael?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘About seven-thirty. The thing is, Chief Inspector, I think I might have spoken to the man who died. I heard on the news this morning that he walked with a cane.’

‘That’s right. It has a silver handle in the shape of an eagle’s head,’ replied Fitzjohn.

‘Well, in that case, I did speak to him. We arrived at the Observatory at the same time, and we spoke as we walked through the grounds to the marquee.’ Joanna Carmichael paused. ‘I think he said his name was Peter. I can’t remember his surname.’

‘It’s was Van Goren.’

‘Ah, yes, that was it. I knew it was something unusual.’

‘What did you speak to Mr Van Goren about?’ continued Fitzjohn.

‘The weather to start with and then he asked how my brother, Ben, was and whether he’d be there that evening. He seemed disappointed when I told him he wouldn’t be. I guess he must have known Ben. Seems a bit odd really. I thought I knew all my brother’s friends,’ she added as if to herself.

‘Was there any reason Mr Van Goren should have expected your brother to be there?’

‘I can’t think of one. Ben never attends the company’s functions. He has no reason to. He’s not involved in the business.’ Joanna fell silent before she added, ‘It’s going to be such a shock for him when he hears what’s happened to our Dad.’

‘He doesn’t know?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘No. He’s been overseas for the past few weeks. He’s a photojournalist. Spends most of his time in the world’s trouble spots. He arrives back home tonight.’ Joanna paused. ‘I tried to phone him last night when Dad was taken to hospital, but his phone was turned off. I guess he’d already boarded his flight.’

‘Did you notice who else Peter Van Goren spoke to, by any chance?’ asked Fitzjohn.

Joanna thought for a moment. ‘I seem to remember he had a word with Theodora. She’s the wife of my father’s business partner, Emerson Hunt.’

‘Was there anyone else?’

‘I don’t know. We got separated after that.’ Joanna met Fitzjohn’s gaze. ‘I hope you don’t think my father had anything to do with this man’s death, Chief Inspector. You see, I am aware that he argued with the man who died. Laura told me. She’s worried what you might assume. Especially now that Dad isn’t able to speak for himself.’

‘I understand your concern, Ms Carmichael, and I’ll be honest with you, the very fact that your father argued with the deceased does prompt questions.’

‘Are you saying he’s a suspect?’

‘A person of interest, Ms Carmichael, as is everyone who attended the function.’

‘Well, I suppose that’s some consolation.’

Fitzjohn ignored Joanna’s comment and continued. ‘Of course, it would help us if we knew what your father and Peter Van Goren argued about. Does your stepmother have any idea?’

Joanna opened her mouth to speak but hesitated before she said, ‘No, she doesn’t. Look, I hate to cut this sort, but I feel that I should get back to the hospital. Laura’s alone and quite upset.’

‘Of course,’ replied Fitzjohn, struggling to get out of the chair. ‘Oh, there’s just one quick thing. Do you remember what cab company Peter Van Goren arrived by?’

‘Same as me. Silver Service.’

‘I could swear that Joanna Carmichael was about to tell us what her father’s argument with Van Goren was about, but thought better of it,’ said Fitzjohn as he and Betts made their way back to the car.

‘Probably because it would have indicated that he knew the victim, sir.’ Betts pulled away from the curb.

‘Mmm. You might be right. Anyway, whatever it was, there’s definitely more going on here than we’re seeing right now. Let’s hope we can glean something from Mr and Mrs Hunt. Where do they live?’

‘In Seaforth, sir.’ Betts turned onto Military Road and headed toward the Spit Bridge. ‘Shouldn’t take long to get there unless we’re held up at the Spit.’ As Betts said the words, the car rounded the bend in the road to find the traffic backed up the hill. He slammed his foot on the brake. The car came to a sudden stop. Below, in the distance, a yacht glided slowly past the raised Spit Bridge and into Sydney Harbour.

Thrown forward, Fitzjohn glared at Betts. ‘I’d like to get there in one piece, if you don’t mind.’

‘Sorry, sir.’

Minutes passed. Betts drummed his fingers on top of the steering wheel.

‘You’re very edgy this morning, Betts. What’s wrong with you?’

‘We’ve been up all night, sir. I get this way when I don’t get enough sleep.’

‘Mmm. Well, I think sleep isn’t something we’re going to get a lot of over the next few days.’ Fitzjohn yawned. ‘I’m a bit tired myself, come to think of it.’

As the bridge moved back into place, Betts inched the car forward down the hill and across the Spit. They entered the leafy suburb of Seaforth a few minutes later, driving along Abernethy Street and eyeing the properties that rose high above the roadway.

‘If I’m right, Emerson and Theodora Hunt live just along here, at number twenty-seven. There it is there, sir.’ Betts pulled over and looked up at the terraced garden and sweeping driveway leading to the house. ‘Looks like it pays to be in real estate.’

Fitzjohn peered out of the window. ‘I prefer something a little smaller myself and closer to the roadway, like my cottage in Birchgrove.’ They climbed out of the car and started up the drive. ‘Why does everyone have to live on mountain tops?’ mumbled Fitzjohn to himself while ignoring Betts, who stopped mid-way to admire a dark grey BMW, its nose edging its way out of the open garage. Carrying on, he reached the front door and rang the bell. When it sounded, a dog barked, after which the door flew open and Emerson Hunt appeared, a scowl across his face. Wearing a pair of track pants and a T-shirt displaying a large green tick, he struggled with a wriggling mass of long white hair caught under his left arm.

‘Good morning, Mr Hunt. I wonder if we might speak to you again.’ Fitzjohn glanced behind him to see Betts reach the front porch.

Emerson stepped back from the doorway. ‘Yes, of course. For a moment there, I thought you were going to be one of those religious groups trying to save my soul. That’s all I need right now. Come through, gentlemen,’ he continued, now holding the dog at arm’s length. ‘I daresay you’ve heard that Richard is in the hospital.’

‘Yes,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘It’s most unfortunate.’

‘It certainly is. Especially at a time like this when it could be construed he had something to do with that man’s death last night. Not to mention what harm this whole thing is going to do to our business once word gets out.’ Fitzjohn glanced sideways at Betts while Hunt stopped at an open doorway. ‘If you’d care to wait in there,’ he said, gesturing into a large living room. ‘I’ll get rid of this damned dog.’ With that, Emerson disappeared.

‘Sounds like Mr Hunt is more concerned with the business side of things than he is about his partner’s life,’ said Betts, walking into the room and looking around.

‘Takes all kinds, Betts.’

While Fitzjohn studied a painting on the wall above the fireplace, Betts crossed to the window and took in the view overlooking Middle Harbour with the Sydney skyline in the distance. ‘It’s amazing how some people live. Just look at that view. There’s no two ways about it, I should have gone into real estate. I can just see myself living in a place like this. Sitting here on a cold winter’s evening in front of a roaring fire, relaxing after a hard day at the office selling houses.’

Fitzjohn glanced at Betts and rolled his eyes. As he did so, Emerson Hunt reappeared.

‘Have a seat, gentlemen,’ Emerson said, sitting down in an armchair. ‘I’m sorry about the dog. It belongs to Theodora.’

‘I should have mentioned, Mr Hunt,’ said Fitzjohn, settling himself into a chair. ‘We’d like to speak to Mrs Hunt as well.’

‘Oh, I see. Well, she’s not here at the moment. She’s at the tennis club. Plays every Saturday morning.’ Emerson looked at his watch. ‘She should be home soon, though.’ As he spoke, a door slammed and hurried footsteps could be heard.

‘For god’s sake, Emerson,’ a woman’s voice yelled. ‘Why did you lock Tulip in the storeroom? You know it frightens her to be in the dark. Oh!’ Dressed in a short white tennis dress and cradling Tulip in her arms, Theodora Hunt gaped at Fitzjohn and Betts. ‘I didn’t know we had company,’ she continued in a softer voice as she peered from beneath the neb of her cap.

‘The police want to ask us more questions about last night, darling.’

Theodora edged into the room and chose to sit on a long couch where she crossed her plump legs. Tulip curled up on her lap while Theodora removed her cap and shook out her long curly blonde hair.

When she had settled herself, Fitzjohn said, ‘Last night you said that you’d both spoken to the deceased. Can you tell us what was said?’

The Hunts glanced at each other before Theodora said, ‘Well, in my case, not much. I remarked on what a lovely evening it was and after that, Mr Van Goren caught sight of Richard and went off to speak to him. I told you last night what happened next, didn’t I? They argued.’

Emerson Hunt glared at his wife. Theodora returned the look and shrugged.

‘And you, Mr Hunt. Do you recollect what your conversation with Peter Van Goren was about?’

‘Yes. I admired the uniqueness of the cane he carried.’

‘Was that the extent of your conversation?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘Pretty much, because we were interrupted.’

‘By whom?’

Emerson hesitated. ‘By one of my clients. He wanted to introduce me to his wife.’ Hunt looked over at Theodora. ‘Theo, why don’t you put the dog out in the kitchen while these gentlemen are here?’