Lane's End (2 page)

‘No we didn’t,’ replied Fitzjohn, turning to Newberry, who sat thoughtfully stroking his goatee. ‘Are you in the real estate business too, Mr Newberry?’

‘No, I’m an interior designer. The reason I came along this evening is because many of Richard and Emerson’s clients are also my clients.’

‘I see. Your brother and his wife left early, I understand.’

‘Yes. Richard wasn’t feeling well.’

‘Exactly what time did they leave?’

‘It was just after nine,’ put in Theodora.

Fitzjohn looked to both Emerson and Sebastian, who nodded in agreement before he said, ‘Amanda Marsh told me that you were the first person to respond to her call for help, Mr Newberry. Can you tell us your recollection of events?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Newberry stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray and sat up straight in his chair. ‘It was around ten o’clock when I heard the scream. I remember because I was just about to leave. Anyway, I ran straight out of the marquee and found Amanda standing over the man. At first I thought he’d had too much to drink and fallen, but when I saw the cut on the side of his head, I realised he was hurt quite badly. That’s when I tried to find a pulse but, regrettably, he was already gone.’

‘Did anyone leave the scene before the police arrived?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘I ran back to the marquee to get my coat,’ replied Theodora. ‘To put over the man. I thought he might be in shock. I didn’t realise he was... dead.’

‘What about Amanda Marsh?’

‘Oh, well, she was inconsolable,’ said Emerson. ‘As soon as the police arrived, I took her into the marquee and gave her a shot of brandy.’

Fitzjohn looked to each of those seated. ‘Very well. Now, according to the victim’s identification, his name was Peter Van Goren. Was he one of your clients, Mr Hunt, or one of Richard Carmichael’s?’

‘He wasn’t one of mine, so he must have been Richard’s.’

‘I don’t remember seeing the name Peter Van Goren on the guest list,’ remarked Theodora.

‘That’s because it isn’t there, Mrs Hunt,’ said Fitzjohn.

‘Mmm. That’s typical,’ put in Emerson. ‘Richard must have omitted to include him on the list.’ He looked to Fitzjohn. ‘Unfortunately, my business partner can be a bit slap dash, at times, Chief Inspector.’

‘So,’ continued Fitzjohn. ‘Am I to understand that none of you knew the deceased? What about you, Mr Newberry? Is the name Peter Van Goren familiar?’

‘No, it isn’t. I’ve never heard the name before.’

‘Do you remember speaking to Mr Van Goren during the course of the evening?’

‘No.’

Fitzjohn turned to the Hunts. ‘And you, Mrs Hunt. Did you speak to Peter Van Goren?’

‘I greeted him when he first arrived. And you had a word with him too, didn’t you, darling?’ she said, looking towards her husband.

‘Briefly. Yes. Early on in the evening.’ Emerson struck a match and lit a cigarette, drawing the smoke into his lungs.

‘Did any of you happen to see who else he spoke to?’

Emerson sat back and watched the smoke from his cigarette curl in the air around him. ‘I was too busy seeing to my clients to notice.’

‘I saw him speak to Richard,’ said Theodora. ‘And if I’m not mistaken, they were arguing.’ Emerson shot a look at his wife and his eyes narrowed.

‘Do you have any idea what they were arguing about, Mrs Hunt?’ asked Fitzjohn with growing interest.

‘Not really, although I did hear Ben’s name mentioned. That’s Richard’s son. And I also heard Richard tell the man to leave at once.’ Theodora Hunt caught her husband’s intense stare.

The look was not lost on Fitzjohn. ‘Very well,’ he said, looking at his watch before getting to his feet. ‘We’ll leave it there for now, but I do ask that you keep yourselves available because I’m sure there’ll be more questions as the day progresses.’

A chill filled the night air as Fitzjohn and Betts made their way back through the Observatory grounds to the car.

‘So, the victim died at approximately nine-thirty and according to the Hunts and Newberry, Richard Carmichael and his wife left the cocktail party just after nine,’ said Fitzjohn.

‘That eliminates the Carmichaels then, sir.’

‘Not necessarily, Betts. After all, it depends on how long it took Peter Van Goren to die. He could have been lying out there in the grounds for some time before death occurred. Anyway, we’ll know for sure after the post mortem.’ Fitzjohn undid the button on his suit coat and climbed into the passenger seat.

‘Emerson Hunt didn’t look pleased when his wife told us that Richard Carmichael had argued with the victim, sir,’ continued Betts, starting the car.

‘No. I dare say Mr Hunt wants to protect his partner at all costs. Being a person of interest in such a crime can’t be good for business. Of course they all are. Persons of interest, that is.’ Fitzjohn paused. ‘I wonder if Richard Carmichael’s sudden attack of ill health was conveniently orchestrated. When you think about it, if he did kill Peter Van Goren, the best place to be is anywhere but at the murder scene. If only we knew what they argued about.’ Fitzjohn fell silent before he continued. ‘Of course, Emerson Hunt might be able to answer that question because he’s hiding something.’

‘He is?’

‘Most certainly. I feel it in my bones.’

‘All I feel in my bones right now is a night’s sleep coming on.’

Fitzjohn looked over at his young sergeant. ‘There’s no point in even thinking about it, Betts, because it’s not going to happen. We need to make contact with the victim’s next-of-kin as soon as possible.’

‘But it’s two in the morning, sir,’ replied Betts with a groan.

‘I don’t care what time it is. Mr Van Goren’s relatives need to know what’s happened to him. Where did he live?’

‘Vaucluse, sir.’

‘Then we’ll make our way there now.’

CHAPTER 2

In the early hours of Saturday morning, Wentworth Avenue in Vaucluse lay deserted. Betts pulled up in front of Peter Van Goren’s home.

‘This is it, sir. Shall I drive in?’

Fitzjohn peered out of the passenger car window at a wide sweeping circular driveway that meandered through a leafy garden and beneath a portico at the front door of the residence before emerging once again onto the street.

‘No. I think we’ll cause enough disruption without the car pulling up too.’ Fitzjohn climbed out and looked thoughtfully toward the house partly shrouded behind trees and bushes, themselves only shadows in the darkness. ‘Why does the task of telling people of their loved ones demise feel worse in the dead of the night?’

Together they made their way, reluctantly, to the front door. Betts rang the bell while Fitzjohn straightened his suit coat and adjusted his tie. After a few minutes, the heavy oak door opened to reveal a woman in her early sixties clasping her long blue dressing gown around herself. Barely visible through the wrought iron security door, she looked guardedly at the two men.

‘Good morning, madam,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn. This is Detective Sergeant Betts. We’re from the New South Wales Police Force.’ The woman narrowed her eyes at their warrant cards before peering again at Fitzjohn and Betts. ‘I apologise for the early hour. May we speak to Mrs Van Goren?’

‘There isn’t a Mrs Van Goren,’ said the woman in a soft voice.

‘I see,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘Then can you tell us where we can find Mr Van Goren’s next-of-kin?’

‘As far as I know, he doesn’t have any, Chief Inspector. I’m Ida Clegg, Mr Van Goren’s housekeeper. Has something happened to him?’

‘I’m afraid so, Mrs Clegg.  Might we come inside?’

‘I’d prefer you didn’t. Especially at this time of night. Let’s face it, you could be anybody.’

‘I can appreciate your hesitation, Mrs Clegg. The reason for our call is that Mr Van Goren’s body was found earlier this evening at the Observatory where he’d been attending a cocktail party.’

‘Oh.’ Ida Clegg wavered, her hand catching onto the large knob in the centre of the front door. ‘On second thought, perhaps you’d better come in because I have to sit down.’

Ida unlatched the security door. ‘Come through,’ she said, running her left arm along the wall for support as she led the way into a large living room. ‘We can talk in here,’ she said, falling into an armchair. ‘You said Mr Van Goren’s body was found. That means he’s dead.’

‘Yes,’ replied Fitzjohn.

The palm of Ida Clegg’s hand went across her mouth. ‘How?’ she whispered. ‘Did he have a fall? He wasn’t too steady on his feet, you know.’

Fitzjohn and Betts settled themselves onto the sofa. ‘He did fall, but it wasn’t through his own imbalance,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘I’m afraid we’re treating Mr Van Goren’s death as suspicious.’

Ida Clegg winced. ‘You mean someone killed him?’

‘That’s yet to be determined, but it does look to be the case.’

Tears brimmed Ida’s eyes and she fumbled in her dressing gown pocket before bringing out a small embroidered handkerchief to dab her eyes. ‘But why would anyone want to hurt Mr Van Goren? I don’t understand. I really don’t.’

Fitzjohn waited for a few moments before he said, ‘How long have you worked for Mr Van Goren?’

‘Oh, a long time. I started in 1986, just after he moved into this house. He told me he’d bought the place because of its location on the edge of the harbour. What he hadn’t considered was its size. Anyway, that’s why he decided he needed a housekeeper.’ Ida blinked back tears.

‘Are you his only employee?’

‘No. There’s also Marge, the cook, although she’s not here at the moment. She went to stay with her sister in Wollongong for the weekend. And there’s Len. He’s the grounds man. He has a small apartment out there in the garden.’ Ida gestured to the plate glass window where their images could be seen reflected against the inky blackness outside.

‘You mentioned that Mr Van Goren wasn’t always steady on his feet,’ continued Fitzjohn.

‘No, he wasn’t. There was something wrong with his right leg. He always walked with a cane. At least he has since I’ve known him.’ Mrs Clegg sighed. ‘I don’t know what was wrong with his leg. He didn’t offer to tell me and I would never have asked. He was a very private man, you see.’

‘Can you describe his walking cane?’

Mrs Clegg gave Fitzjohn a quizzical look. ‘Well, he has several, but the one he took with him when he left the house on Friday afternoon, was made of rosewood and has a silver handle in the shape of an eagle’s head. There’s also a silver tip on the end, although that’s covered up with a piece of rubber to prevent the silver being damaged. It was his favourite. Mr Van Goren once told me that it had belonged to his father.’

‘You said earlier that you don’t think Mr Van Goren has any next-of-kin.’

‘That’s because in all the years I’ve known him, he’s never had contact with any relatives to my knowledge. At least none have ever called here.’ Ida Clegg paused. ‘Still, I don’t suppose that means there aren’t any. Come to think of it, they might live overseas. He spoke with a slight accent, you see. I thought he could have been Dutch with a name like Van Goren.’

‘Do you have any idea how old he was?

Mrs Clegg’s face brightened. ‘Well, that question I can answer. He was fifty-nine last birthday.’ Ida smiled as if recalling the event. ‘Marge, Len and I had a little get-together for him. Marge baked him a sponge cake complete with candles.’

‘Did he receive birthday greetings from anyone else?’

‘Not that I know of. The only phone call I’m aware he received that day was from his solicitor, Raymond West. It was about one of Mr Van Goren’s business interests.’

‘Oh? What did Mr Van Goren do for a living?’ asked Fitzjohn, looking around the room, its opulence apparent.

‘Well, he was a bit of an entrepreneur and although I don’t know the extent of his business interests, I do know that he traded on the stock market and also that he owned a number of commercial properties as well as a chain of coffee shops. Other than that, however, I think you’ll have to talk to Mr West. I’m sure he’ll be able to help you.’

‘We’ll do that, Mrs Clegg,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘Now, I don’t want to keep you too much longer but Mr Van Goren arrived at the Observatory last evening in a taxi so I take it he didn’t drive.’

‘No. He found it difficult with his leg the way it was. He does have a car though. Len used to drive him wherever he wanted to go but on Friday, for some reason, he said he was going by taxi. I offered to order one for him but he said he’d already done so.’

‘What taxi company picked him up?’

‘It was a Silver Service taxi cab. It arrived at two o’clock on the dot.’

‘Did he say where he was going?’

‘No.’

‘And is that the last time you saw him?’

‘Yes, it was.’ Mrs Clegg stemmed a tear with her handkerchief.

‘You can’t help but feel sorry for Mrs Clegg,’ said Betts as he and Fitzjohn left the house. ‘Her life has changed with no warning after years of loyal service.’

‘Mmm. It makes you realise there’s no guarantees, doesn’t it,’ replied Fitzjohn, looking back through the trees. ‘Change can come when you least expect it.’

Betts unlocked the car doors and they climbed in. ‘Where to now, sir?’

‘The station. I want the investigative team to meet before day break. After that, I want you to find out where we can speak to Raymond West on a Saturday. Hopefully, he’ll be able to fill in some of the blanks concerning Peter Van Goren.’

Fitzjohn adjusted his glasses as he stood at the head of the Incident Room in front of a whiteboard. Gathered before him was an array of plain clothed as well as uniformed police officers. ‘Okay everyone,’ he said, his voice rising above the din. ‘I know it’s 4am and we’re all tired, but I want to go through what we have so far.’ A hush fell over the room. ‘Our victim is a fifty-nine year old male, identified as Peter Van Goren. His body was found earlier this evening at approximately ten o’clock in the grounds of the Observatory whilst he was attending a cocktail party.’ Fitzjohn lowered his glasses along the bridge of his nose and looked over them as he turned to point to a photograph of Van Goren’s body on the whiteboard. ‘As you’re by now aware, the victim suffered two blows to the right side of the head. However, it’s still to be determined whether these injuries were the cause of death. As far as physical evidence of the attack is concerned, this silver handled cane was recovered from the scene.’ Fitzjohn pointed to a second, enlarged, photograph showing the intricate silver carving of an eagle’s head. A stir went through the room.

Fitzjohn continued. ‘The function was hosted by business partners, Richard Carmichael and Emerson Hunt, and attended by eighty-three guests. It should be noted that our victim was not included amongst those invited. Guests started to leave the function at approximately nine-thirty. Nine-thirty is also the estimated time of the victim’s death.’

‘What about next-of-kin, sir?’ asked a young female police officer, sitting at a desk at the front of the room. ‘As yet, we haven’t been able to make contact with Mr Van Goren’s next-of-kin.’

Fitzjohn paused to push his glasses back up over the bridge of his nose. ‘That’s all we have at this point until such time as forensics have made their conclusions and the post mortem is complete. Our task for now is to interview each and every guest who attended last night’s cocktail party, conduct alibi follow-ups and look at phone records. I want your findings on my desk by four o’clock this afternoon.’ Another stir went through the crowd as those gathered dispersed.

When the room had emptied, Fitzjohn turned to Betts. ‘I want to speak to Mr and Mrs Carmichael as soon as possible. After that, we’ll have another word with the Hunts and that solicitor fellow, Raymond West.’ He gave Betts a wry smile. ‘Should keep us busy for the day. But, for now,’ he added, grabbing his suit coat and shrugging it on, ‘I’m going home to change. I suggest you do the same.’