Lane's End (10 page)

‘Mr West, before we proceed, are you aware that I didn’t know Peter Van Goren?’ asked Ben with a measure of concern. ‘I’m sure you have the wrong Ben Carmichael.’

West looked at Ben over his glasses.

‘According to my instructions, Mr Carmichael, I can assure you that you are the Benjamin Carmichael that Peter Van Goren named as his beneficiary, but if it will make you feel more comfortable, I can read you the details, about yourself, that Peter Van Goren furnished me with.’ Raymond West shuffled through the file and brought out a sheet of paper. ‘Now, let me see,’ he said, peering through his bifocals. ‘Your full name is Benjamin Richard Carmichael, the son of Richard and Rachael Carmichael. You were born on the 17th of May, 1977, educated at Shore, Sydney Church of England Grammar School, and later at The University of Sydney. There, you obtained a Bachelor of Astrophysics with Honours. And,’ West’s brow furrowed. ‘You are a photojournalist by occupation.’ West gave Ben a quizzical look.

‘You’re thinking that it’s an unlikely career choice after studying astrophysics,’ said Ben.

West chuckled. ‘It did cross my mind. I might have liked to do the same thing after law school, but it would have killed my father.’ West paused, as if to reflect for a moment. ‘Anyway, Mr Carmichael, have I managed to allay your fears about your eligibility as Peter Van Goren’s beneficiary?’ Ben nodded. ‘Good, then I’ll now read out Mr Van Goren’s last will and testament.’

Ben listened as Raymond West read the opening paragraph of the will before reading out the bequests to Peter Van Goren’s staff.

‘“To my housekeeper, Ida Clegg, I leave the sum of three hundred thousand dollars and my home at number two, Wentworth Street, Vaucluse, New South Wales. To my other household staff, Marjorie Reynolds, my cook, and Leonard Preston, groundsman and chauffeur, I leave the sum of two hundred thousand dollars each. The remainder of my estate, I leave to Benjamin Richard Carmichael. This includes all monies, shares, debenture stocks, and my business interests as listed below.”’

When Raymond West finished, he removed his glasses and sat back. ‘I don’t need to tell you, Mr Carmichael, it’s a considerable sum.’

‘I don’t know what to say,’ replied Ben. ‘I feel uncomfortable being a beneficiary of someone I didn’t know, but this makes it... Are you sure Mr Van Goren had no family?’

‘That was one of the first questions I asked him when he made this will,’ replied West. ‘Because as you may or may not be aware, any children of a deceased can contest a will that leaves them nothing. Mr Van Goren, however, assured me that he did not have any off-spring nor did he have any next-of-kin.’

‘Can I ask how long Mr Van Goren had been your client, Mr West?’ asked Ben.

‘I’ve taken instruction from Peter Van Goren for many years. He first came to see me in the 1980s when he purchased his first commercial property, and then again for the conveyance of his home in Vaucluse.’

Still bewildered by Raymond West’s insistence that he was the right beneficiary, Ben left the city and made his way to the hospital, where Joanna waited.

‘Has there been any change?’ he whispered as he joined her at Emma’s bedside.

‘No.’ Joanna got up from her chair and looked back down at Emma’s still form. ‘She looks like she’s sleeping peacefully, doesn’t she?’

Ben stroked Emma’s hand that lay on top of the covers. ‘I hope she eventually wakes up,’ replied Ben, only too aware that there was a chance she may not.

‘She will,’ said Joanna, following Ben from the ICU. ‘You have to believe she will.’

They made their way along the corridor to the small waiting room and sat down. ‘What did the solicitor have to say? Did you tell him that you didn’t know Mr Van Goren?’

‘Yes. I questioned him as to whether he had the right Ben Carmichael and he’s adamant he does. He went through a list of details that Peter Van Goren had given him about me. They’re all correct.’ Ben looked at his sister. ‘I can’t understand it, Joanna. I really can’t. As you know, I’ve never met Peter Van Goren. To make me his sole beneficiary is ridiculous.’

‘Sole beneficiary?’

‘Yes. Other than bequests to three members of his staff, Mr Van Goren left me his entire estate. As I said before, this whole situation is surreal.’

‘What are you going to do?’ asked Joanna, looking puzzled.

‘I don’t know.’ Ben leaned back in his chair and rubbed his face with his hands.

‘Well, I think you should start by telling that detective who’s investigating Peter Van Goren’s death. Surely under the circumstances, the police will want to know.’

‘I imagine they already do know and unfortunately, it won’t look good as far as Dad is concerned.’

‘Why? Dad wouldn’t have known what Mr Van Goren’s will contained.’

‘Perhaps not, but with Peter Van Goren making me his sole beneficiary, they’re bound to think he and Dad knew each other and surmise that Dad knew about the will. Don’t you see, Joanna? In their eyes, it gives Dad a motive to kill Mr Van Goren.’

CHAPTER 13

‘Can I give you a lift home, sir?’ asked Betts, putting his head around the side of Fitzjohn’s office door.

Fitzjohn looked up at his young sergeant, a tinge of guilt surfacing after the reprimand he had given him over Sophie. ‘Thanks, Betts, but I want to read through this Investigation Report into Rachael Carmichael’s death again and also speak to Chief Superintendent Grieg before I leave this evening. It’ll help to have his thoughts on the case before we talk to Amanda Marsh in the morning.’

Once Betts left, Fitzjohn settled back in his chair and began to read the report before he stopped. Was his concern for Sophie’s welfare merely interference, something that he did not like to see his sister, Meg, do. Fitzjohn sighed and went back to the report. When he had finished, he pulled his suit coat on, straightened his tie, and made his way through the station to Grieg’s office. He knocked once and put his head around the side of the door to find the Chief Superintendent sat hunched over at his desk.

‘What is it?’ grunted Grieg.

‘I’d like to speak to you about an old case,’ replied Fitzjohn, stepping inside.

‘Oh? What case is that? And why?’

‘It was an investigation into the death of a woman by the name of Rachael Carmichael in September, 1983. And the reason I want to speak to you about it is because as I’m sure you’re aware, the Carmichael family happen to be involved in my present investigation.’

Grieg glared at Fitzjohn, his manner exuding his arrogant nature. ‘Why come to me?’ he sneered. ‘I think you’ll find that that investigation was conducted by our now retired Chief Superintendent Fellowes. He was a Detective Chief Inspector at the time. So, you’re wrong, Fitzjohn. It wasn’t me.’

‘I agree, he was in charge initially, sir, but according to the records, only up until he was taken ill. At which time you took charge.’ Fitzjohn gave a quick smile. ‘It’s probably slipped your memory. After all, it was a
long
time ago.’

Grieg’s eyes narrowed at Fitzjohn. ‘Okay,’ he said, sitting back and throwing his pen onto the desk. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘I had hoped you could give me your thoughts on the case, sir.’

Grieg bristled. ‘I can’t see what possible difference my thoughts on an old case can have on your present one.’

‘Oh, but I’m sure it will,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘A bit of added insight into the Carmichael family can only help.’

‘Well, I don’t see how because there’s little to tell. There were no witnesses as to what really happened to Rachael Carmichael. She’d gone out early that morning to paint, leaving her two young children with the housekeeper. She wasn’t discovered missing until mid-afternoon when her brother-in-law arrived from the city and went to seek her out.’

‘The investigation report mentions a gardener who absconded on that day, sir.’

‘That’s right. Everything led to the fact that he was responsible for Mrs Carmichael’s death, but we couldn’t question him because he was never found.’

‘So it was left at that?’ asked Fitzjohn, frowning.

Grieg shrugged. ‘There was nothing else to be done with the situation as it was, Fitzjohn. We didn’t have the manpower to spend any more time on the case when everything pointed to the gardener. Plus the fact that the Coroner’s Court couldn’t prove that there was foul play involved. Rachael Carmichael’s death might have been suicide or an accident.’ Grieg sat forward again, grabbed his pen and looked at Fitzjohn dismissively. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me.’

So, thought Fitzjohn, smiling to himself as he left Grieg’s office. That’s why Grieg didn’t want me on the Carmichael case. He knew I’d find out about his
unsolved
case. Back in his own office, Fitzjohn picked up the telephone and dialed Reginald Fellowes’s number.

As the shadows of the city skyscrapers lengthened with the setting sun, Fitzjohn left the station and made his way out to the waiting car. After placing his briefcase on the back seat, he opened the passenger door to find Williams at the wheel.

‘Evening, sir.’

‘Good evening, Williams.’ As he spoke, Fitzjohn thought again as to whether Williams had been Grieg’s mole at Kings Cross LAC. Perhaps this evening was one way to find out.

‘Where to, sir? Home?’

‘Yes, but first I want to go to Frenchs Forest to see our retired Chief Superintendent, Reginald Fellowes.’

‘Oh. So, you two keep in touch then, sir.’ Williams pulled the car away from the kerb. ‘That’s a good thing because it can’t be easy to retire and have no contact with those you’ve served with for so many years.’ Williams paused. ‘I hope there’s someone who still wants to see me after I retire.’

‘I’m sure there will be, Williams. This, however, isn’t a social call.’ They continued on in silence. If Williams was, indeed, Grieg’s mole, thought Fitzjohn, no doubt Grieg would hear of his visit to see Reginald by first thing the next morning.

The door opened to reveal a tall man of large proportions with a shock of thick white hair, his quiet, determined nature still evident. ‘Alistair,’ he said with a broad smile. ‘It’s good to see you. Come in.’

‘Sorry for the late hour, Reg,’ replied Fitzjohn, stepping inside and following Fellowes into the living room.

‘Not a problem. I welcome the company.’ Fellowes gestured to one of the armchairs. ‘I was just having a whisky. Would you like one? I brought back a nice drop from Scotland last month while on holiday.’

‘Thanks,’ replied Fitzjohn, sitting down.

Fellowes handed Fitzjohn a glass before he sat down himself. ‘You said on the phone you wanted to ask me about an old case I was involved in.’

‘That’s right. It was the investigation into the death of a woman by the name of Rachael Carmichael at a place called Lane’s End in September, 1983.’

‘Rachael Carmichael?’ Fellowes thought for a moment. ‘Ah, yes. I do remember it. She fell from a cliff up on the northern beaches. Why are you interested?’ Fellowes took a sip of his drink.

‘Because my present case into the murder of a man at the Observatory last Friday night involves Rachael Carmichael’s family.’

‘Ah. You’re on that case, are you?’ said Fellowes. ‘I read about it in the newspaper. Some chap with a foreign sounding name died. Van something.’

‘Van Goren. Peter Van Goren,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘He’d attended a function held by Rachael Carmichael’s husband, Richard.’

‘Now I’m with you.’ Fellowes paused. ‘I met Richard Carmichael, of course, when his wife died. Seemed like a nice chap as I remember. How do you think I can help, Alistair?’

‘I hope you can give me your thoughts on what happened to Rachael because after reading through the Coroner’s Report, it seems there was no conclusion as to how she died.’

‘That’s right,’ said Fellowes. ‘But I doubt I can help because I wasn’t on the case for very long. I got sick that winter and had to surrender it to another officer, a Senior Sergeant at the time, who is, by the way, the now Chief Superintendent Grieg.’

‘So I understand.’

‘Have you spoken to him about the case?’ asked Fellowes.

‘I have, but without much success.’

‘Mmm. I don’t wonder. I seem to remember that Evelyn wasn’t at all pleased about being seconded to take on that case in the first place.’

‘Evelyn?’ Fitzjohn’s brow furrowed.

‘Yes. Evelyn Grieg. He once told me his mother had named him after Evelyn Waugh, the English writer. Didn’t you know?’

‘No,’ replied Fitzjohn, amused. ‘I’ve never seen his given name on any paperwork. And you say that, at the time, he was seconded to Day Street Station. From where?’

‘North Shore LAC, and, as it turned out, it was a one-way move.’ Fellowes’s right eyebrow arched. ‘It was obvious they didn’t want him back. I think that fact has stuck in his craw ever since. I doubt he wants to be reminded by questions about the case that brought him to Day Street in the first place, let alone that it was never solved. I wouldn’t expect too much cooperation if I were you.’

‘I never do,’ replied Fitzjohn. He sipped his whisky. ‘I’ve read the investigation report. By all accounts, it was thought that, the gardener, Henry Beaumont, did it.’

‘Yes. He disappeared the day that Rachael Carmichael fell from the cliff. I put in train a search for him, of course, but not long after, I left the case. I’m afraid I can’t comment on what happened after that. Why he was never found or why the case was abandoned, I have no idea.’

‘I know you left the case early, Reg, but what were your thoughts concerning Rachael when you began the investigation? For example, did you think she was alone when she went over that cliff?’

‘You mean do I think it was an accident or suicide?’ Fellowes rubbed his chin. ‘Mmm. Good question. I seem to remember that when I first arrived at the scene, there was evidence to suggest - only suggest, mind - that the victim was not alone.’

‘What kind of evidence?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘We found a half smoked cigarette on the grass next to her easel. Recently smoked, and it wasn’t hers. Rachael didn’t smoke. It was thought it may have been dropped by the gardener who, according to the housekeeper, was a smoker.’ Fellowes paused. ‘Other than the housekeeper and the two children, the only other person at Lane’s End that day was Rachael’s brother-in-law, Sebastian Newberry. He didn’t smoke either. He arrived at Lane’s End mid-afternoon and raised the alarm. Richard Carmichael arrived at about five-thirty. He’d been working in the city. We checked that out. It was confirmed. He’d been in a meeting since early morning. Of course, when we went to question Henry Beaumont, we found he’d packed his things and left. And as far as Rachael is concerned, her body was found washed up on North Palm Beach forty-eight hours later. That’s all I can tell you, I’m afraid. I’m sorry, Alistair.’

Fitzjohn arrived home that evening to find Meg’s suitcase in the front hall. ‘Meg?’ he called as he placed the mail on the hall table and put his briefcase down.

‘Home at last, I see,’ came the sound of Meg’s voice. Fitzjohn turned to see his sister descending the staircase.

‘I know it’s late, Meg, but we can still discuss Sophie’s situation if you wish.’ Fitzjohn looked down at the suitcase. ‘There’s no reason to go home in a huff.’

‘I’m not going home, Alistair. And I’m not in a huff. I’ve been invited to stay with Sophie for a few days.’ Fitzjohn gaped at his sister. ‘You needn’t look so surprised.’

‘I’m not. I’m... I’m just glad that you and Sophie have come to an agreement about her living arrangements.’

‘Ah, well. That’s still to be determined. I’ll do that after my visit.’

‘How do Sophie’s room-mates feel about your staying with them?’

‘Brian and Andrew? They’re pleased, of course. It was their idea that I stay for a few days.’

‘It was?’ Fitzjohn’s brow furrowed. ‘You mean Sophie doesn’t know?’

‘Not when I was invited.  She wasn’t at the apartment when I visited, but I’m sure she knows by now.’ Meg gave a quick smile before she glanced at her reflection in the hall mirror. ‘You didn’t tell me her roommates are gay, Alistair.’

‘I didn’t know.’ Fitzjohn paused. ‘I hope that doesn’t colour your judgment, Meg.’

‘Not in the least. If anything, I think it’s a definite plus.’ Meg zipped up her handbag and hooked it on her shoulder. ‘We don’t have to worry about hanky panky, do we?’ she continued, looking at her watch. ‘They should be here shortly. Now Alistair, I’ve left some dinner for you in the oven and I’ve cleaned out the fridge. I threw out a lot of things that are just not healthy eating.’ Meg paused. ‘Now, I think I have everything but I’m sure there was something else I had to tell you. What was it now? Ah, yes. It’s about that next door neighbour of yours.’

‘Which one? Not Rhonda Butler?’

‘If that’s the one whose tree fell on your greenhouse last autumn, then, yes. She dropped by earlier this evening to tell you... actually her words were “to warn you”, that she’s going to complain to the council about your new greenhouse. Apparently the roof, being so much higher than the old greenhouse roof, is reflecting the afternoon sun through her kitchen window and blinding her while she’s doing the dishes. She’s going to demand that you have the greenhouse removed.’

‘
She’s what?
’

‘Don’t shout at me, Alistair. I’m merely the messenger. Although I did tell her that she has Buckley’s chance and that if I lived here she wouldn’t get past the front gate.’

Fitzjohn gaped at his sister. ‘You said that to Rhonda Butler?’

‘Yes. Perhaps I shouldn’t have but I was quite incensed at the time’ As Meg spoke the doorbell rang. ‘Ah. That’ll be Brian and Andrew. Got to run.’ She gave a quick smile.

Still reeling from Meg’s reproach to Rhonda, Fitzjohn opened the door. As he did so three faces appeared, one of them Sophie’s. Meg bustled off with the two young men in tow, while Sophie turned to her uncle.

‘I’m sorry about this,’ Fitzjohn said.

‘It’s not your fault, Uncle Alistair. We’ll manage, somehow. Brian and Andrew were taken by surprise. I wasn’t at home when Mum called around, you see. They didn’t realise what was happening until Mum had invited herself.’