Lane's End (8 page)

CHAPTER 10

Ben, his face displaying his growing anguish, sat at a coffee shop’s outside table in Crows Nest and mulled over his conversation with Sebastian. With no new lead to follow, he felt powerless to help Emma when she might need him the most. He looked up when the waiter approached to take his order and saw Joanna and Laura walking along the sidewalk towards him.

‘Just coffee, please,’ he told the waiter before getting to his feet.

‘Ben. We’ve just been around to your house to see you,’ said Joanna as they all sat down. ‘Is there any news about Emma?’

‘Not from the police, but I did manage to catch up with my neighbour, Ron Evans. He said he saw Emma leave the house in her car early on Saturday morning. It seems he might be the last person to have seen her.’ Ben drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. ‘The rest of the morning I’ve spent speaking to Theodora and Sebastian.’

Ben recounted his meetings.

‘So Emma spoke to Theodora and Sebastian too about going to Lane’s End,’ said Laura, an edge to her voice. ‘She came to see me as well.’ Laura sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Ben, I should have told you about it, but with all that’s happened, I didn’t think. My mind’s been in such a state of confusion lately. Emma came to see me because she wanted permission to go and look at Ivy Cottage. I never found the right moment to broach the subject with your father although I doubt he would have agreed. I don’t even think he’d have wanted Emma to include your mother in the book. Her memory was so painful for him.’

‘I think you’re right,’ replied Ben. ‘Did she say anything else that might give me a clue as to what could have happened to her?’

‘No. I can’t think of anything. She just asked me about visiting the cottage and I said I’d get back to her. That’s all.’

‘I wonder if she got sick of waiting and went there anyway? She’s never been blessed with a great deal of patience when she really wants something,’ said Ben.

‘She wouldn’t do that,’ said Joanna. ‘Would she?’

‘No. She wouldn’t have gone without permission. She knew how your Dad felt about the place.’ Laura patted Ben’s hand.

‘Mmm. You’re probably right, but... I think I’ll take a drive out there anyway. Just to settle my mind.’

Ben turned off the main road onto a narrow lane, and with dust billowing up behind his car, he continued on at a slow pace looking for the entrance to Lane’s End. He caught sight of its tall, rusted, wrought iron gates, sagging on their remaining hinges, partially hidden amongst overgrown bushes. He brought the car to a standstill and peered beyond the stone wall bordering the property to a weed-ridden driveway that curved before it disappeared through a row of tall cedars. Gingerly, he drove in, the car tyres crunching on the last remaining pieces of gravel. When the majestic edifice of the house his parents had once called their “home by the sea”, came into view, his heart quickened. Built in an era of grand design, it dominated the landscape. The river stone walls once a feature of beauty, were now hidden behind ivy, the tentacles finding their way into every crevice and intertwining with the last remnants of a mandevilla vine that clung to life across the wide verandah.

Transfixed by memories of childish laughter and long hot summer days, he climbed out of the car, his gaze taking in the vast grounds and what, as a small boy, had seemed a limitless paradise of adventure. These reflections left him, however, when he made his way onto the verandah to peer in through one of the bay windows. There, frozen in time, he could see the living room as it had been thirty years earlier, a reminder of life once lived inside its walls. Pulling back, and with a certain amount of inquisitiveness, he grappled with the screen door and levered it open, dust flying in his face as he did so. Fumbling with the bunch of keys that Laura had given to him earlier in the day, he tried several before the front door, now warped and grey beneath peeling paint, swung open. Hesitantly he stepped into the hot dry atmosphere and made his way along the hallway, each floorboard squeaking under his tread. It was then that a sense of apprehension, mixed with panic, took hold. A chill went through his body, despite the heat, while visions of the past danced before him.

‘What’s happening to me?’ he heard himself shout.

Struggling back outside, he slammed the door behind him. On the verandah and with his heart pounding, he stood for a few minutes until his panic dissipated. Taking a deep breath, he descended the steps, and with childhood recollections to guide him, made his way along the side of the house on a path that he sensed would lead deeper into Lane’s End, and eventually to Ivy Cottage.

Gingerly he picked his way through the overgrown weeds and bushes until, at the rear of the house, a small stone building on the edge of the tree-line came into view. Ben started to recall the landscape and with it, long forgotten memories filtered through his mind.

‘The gardener’s cottage. I remember him now,’ he muttered. Ben stood staring at the small building as if waiting to learn more. Presently, he walked on into the trees along what had once been a well-worn path. Beads of sweat sprung from his brow in the hot humid atmosphere, the crunch of dead leaves the only sound as he trod until... ‘That’s it.’ Ben quickened his step and emerged out of the trees onto a clearing that sloped gently down to the edge of a cliff and the vast blue waters of the Pacific Ocean beyond. Shading his eyes from the sun, he scoured the tree line that bordered the clearing and tried to think in which direction Ivy Cottage lay. As he did so, he heard the tinkling of a bell. Strangely, it awoke something deep inside. He followed the sound, stumbling over the terrain as he went, until the peak of a roof came into view as if hovering above the trees. He hastened his step and pushed his way forward into the undergrowth until he found himself at the eroded edge of the cliff. High above, seagulls soared and in the face of a cool nor-easterly wind, he looked down to where the sheer wall of the cliff, wet with salt spray, gleamed in the afternoon sun above rocks in the churning sea. The image of his mother’s body splayed on the rocks flashed in front of him and he lurched back from the edge. Shaking, he turned to see the small clapboard structure that had once been her studio. With so many years of neglect, the cottage now lay hidden in the dense vegetation, virtually invisible to the naked eye. Above the doorway, its name, “Ivy Cottage”, hung precariously from one remaining nail. Beside it, a rusty metal mobile full of tiny bells, tinkled with the wind. The door of the cottage stood ajar. Surprised, he opened the door further and hesitantly peered inside. As he did so, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and a sense of foreboding gripped him. Pushing the feeling away, he crossed the threshold.

Untouched since the day Rachael Carmichael plunged to her death, the room remained as she had left it as if waiting for her return. Her easel stood in the centre of the room in the light of the front window, an unfinished painting perched there in anticipation of her next brush stroke. Beneath the easel, a photograph lay in the midst of shards of glass and a mangled silver frame. Ben knelt down, wiped away the glass and tentatively picked the photograph up. Faded with time the long forgotten image of his mother looked out at him. Beside her, in an awkward stance, stood a small boy, squinting in the sunlight. In her arms a baby. ‘Joanna,’ he said quietly to himself. Ben studied his mother’s smiling face and a lump formed in his throat. The striking resemblance of the small boy to the woman in the photograph was not lost on him.

Clutching the photograph and despite his sense of disquiet when he first entered the cottage, he continued on, each room producing a hint of déjà vu. Ultimately, with his curiosity satisfied, he retraced his steps and headed for the front door. As he did so, however, he heard a sound and looked back. The cottage resumed its silence. It was then his gaze fell upon a large tapestry hung against the far wall. Puzzled by its presence, he tried to picture the room as he remembered it. There was no tapestry, he thought to himself. He walked over and reached out to touch it. All at once, Ben ripped the tapestry aside to see a door, slightly ajar. It creaked as he opened it further. With its window covered in ivy the room lay in darkness. Hesitantly, he stepped inside and as he did, he fell forward. ‘What the hell!’ he barked. When he fumbled for his torch, its light revealed a body.

CHAPTER 11

Fitzjohn rose at first light, donned a pair of old beige shorts, a faded green shirt, and made his way downstairs. As he did so, a snore came from the guest bedroom, indicating that his sister, Meg, still slept. With relief, he smiled to himself and descended the stairs happy in the knowledge that he could follow his usual morning routine unhindered. In the kitchen, he grabbed the container of bird seed, slipped his feet into his gardening shoes, and opened the back door. Outside, he breathed in the fresh morning air and sighed, surveying the flower beds, their blooms a mass of colour. At the birdfeeder hung in the jacaranda tree, rainbow lorikeets squawked and fluttered in an effort to wrangle their positions in the line-up. Fitzjohn watched the foray with amusement. ‘Even you lot have a pecking order,’ he muttered to himself, pouring seed into the dish. The parrots dived for it and Fitzjohn continued on to the greenhouse, the orchids inside hidden behind the misted windows. Opening the door, he turned on the CD player, and the soft sound of Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto in A Major filled the air. Time slipped by unnoticed whilst he made his way along the rows of plants, tending to each one in turn.

‘Alistair. Are you in there, Alistair?’

Brought back from his musings, Fitzjohn looked at his watch and frowned before opening the door to find Meg, wrapped in her dressing gown. ‘I don’t know where the time’s gone. Thanks for coming down to remind me, Meg,’ he said, stepping outside and closing the greenhouse door behind him.

‘I’m not out here to remind you about the time, Alistair. I need to talk to you about Sophie,
before
you leave for work.’

‘It’ll have to wait until this evening,’ replied Fitzjohn, starting toward the house. ‘I don’t have time now. Betts will be here soon to pick me up.’

Meg bustled after him. ‘But this can’t wait. You have to help me persuade Sophie to stop all this nonsense and return to Melbourne where she belongs.’

Fitzjohn turned to face his sister. ‘Meg, I know your heart’s in the right place, but Sophie’s no longer a child. You can’t tell her what to do or where to live. Not anymore.’

Meg gaped at Fitzjohn. ‘I knew it. I just knew it. You two are in collaboration, aren’t you? I’d never have let that girl come to Sydney if I’d known you’d not back me up. This is too much, Alistair. Just
too
much.’

‘I’m sorry you feel that way, Meg.’ Fitzjohn touched his sister’s arm. ‘We’ll talk further this evening. I promise.’

Meg shrugged Fitzjohn’s hand off her arm and flounced through the back door and into the house.

Now dressed in a dark grey suit and blue tie against a crisp white shirt, Fitzjohn made his way downstairs and into the kitchen where he found Betts and Meg in conversation. ‘Good morning Betts,’ he sang out.

‘Morning, sir.’

Meg gave Fitzjohn a frosty look.

‘As I said, Meg. We’ll talk this evening.’ Meg turned away and busied herself at the kitchen sink. Fitzjohn raised his eyebrows, turned and closed his briefcase. ‘See you this evening.’ Followed by Betts, he started toward the front door.

Silence prevailed as the two men settled themselves into the car before Fitzjohn handed Betts Sophie’s green plastic bag. ‘I believe this contains something of yours.’

‘It does?’ Betts opened the bag and peered inside. ‘Oh. It’s my sweater. How did you get it?’ Betts looked into Fitzjohn’s piercing stare. ‘I can explain, sir.’

Fitzjohn pulled his seat belt on. ‘I thought I’d made myself clear as far as my niece is concerned, Betts. She’s off limits. You’re far too old for her.’

‘I’m not that old, sir.’

‘You are as far as Sophie is concerned.’ Fitzjohn pursed his lips.

Betts scratched his ear. ‘Mmm. I suppose I am a bit. It’s just that Sophie asked me to help her move into her new apartment. How could I refuse?’

‘Politely,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘Now, to business. ‘Any news on Van Goren?’

‘No, sir, but I do have the Coroner’s report into the Rachael Carmichael death.’ Betts handed the report to Fitzjohn. ‘She died in September, 1983, after falling from a cliff top that borders the property at Whale Beach. The property Theodora Hunt told us about. It’s called Lane’s End.’

‘So, what caused her to fall?’

‘The coroner’s findings were inconclusive,’ continued Betts. ‘It couldn’t be proved whether it was an accident, suicide or if foul play was involved.’ Fitzjohn leafed through the report as Betts turned the ignition and pulled away from the curb.

‘Did she have a history of depression?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘Not as far as any records show.’

Fitzjohn sat in thought before he said, ‘Very well. In that case, I’d like to look at the investigation records into her death. Find out who the investigating officer in charge of the case was at the time, will you, Betts?’

‘I already have, sir.’

‘Good. Who is it?’

Betts scratched the back of his neck.

‘Well?’ said Fitzjohn.

‘It was Chief Superintendent Grieg, sir.’

Fitzjohn gaped at Betts.

‘Then a Detective Senior Sergeant.’ Betts gave Fitzjohn a wry smile and chuckled. ‘Could be interesting. You questioning the Chief Superintendent about his
unsolved
case.’

‘Interesting indeed.’ Fitzjohn’s thoughts went to Grieg’s outburst the day before when he had learnt of his involvement in the Carmichael case. Could that be the reason Grieg had not wanted him on the case? Because of his, apparent, unsolved case?

‘There’s something else, sir. Not related to our case, of course, but I’m sure you’ll be pleased to hear that Ben Carmichael’s fiancée, Emma Phillips, has been found.’

‘Well! That is good news. Is she okay?’

‘She’s alive, but in a coma. Apparently medically induced. It’s not yet known what happened to her.’

Fitzjohn’s brow furrowed. ‘Where was she found?’

‘At Lane’s End by Ben Carmichael. According to the police officer who attended, Mr Carmichael was in the process of retracing Emma’s steps since her disappearance. He’d found out that she had asked Laura Carmichael for permission to visit the Lane’s End property to do some research for a book she’s writing. The reason being that Emma wanted to include Rachael Carmichael in that book. According to Ben Carmichael, that permission hadn’t been granted, but he thought she might have gone there anyway. He found her in the cottage that Rachael used as a studio.’

‘I see.’ Fitzjohn fell into silence as he looked down at the Coroner’s Report and began to read. When their car arrived at Day Street Police Station, he closed the report and said, ‘I’d like to go to Lane’s End, Betts. Make the arrangements, will you?’

Fitzjohn and Betts arrived at Lane’s End later that same day to find police cars lined up along the lane-way and a young constable at the entrance. ‘It looks pretty run down,’ said Betts, peering through the car window and beyond the stone wall into the grounds.

‘Not surprising after so many years of abandonment,’ replied Fitzjohn, opening the car door and climbing out.

After showing their warrant cards to the constable on duty, they made their way along the winding driveway, its gravel scattered into the foliage. ‘It must have been a beautiful place at one time,’ said Fitzjohn, his gaze taking in the geometric lines of old flower beds now overgrown with weeds. As they rounded the bend in the drive, a derelict two-storey stone house came into view. Another police officer stood nearby.

‘Good afternoon, Constable,’ said Fitzjohn, holding up his warrant card once again. ‘I’m DCI Fitzjohn and this is DS Betts. We’re from Sydney City LAC. We’re here to speak to DCI Roberts.’

‘He’s expecting you, sir, although he’s some distance away at the other side of the property. If you’ll come this way.’

‘Fitzjohn and Betts followed the constable along a narrow path that ran beside the house and passed another, smaller stone dwelling before entering dense bushland.

‘You’ll have to watch your step in here, sir,’ said the Constable. ‘I’ve seen the odd snake.’ Betts looked disconcertedly at Fitzjohn before he tripped over a tree root.

‘It would’ve been impossible to get an ambulance in here,’ said Fitzjohn, looking up, the sky all but obscured by foliage.

‘The young lady was carried out on a stretcher, sir,’ replied the Constable.

They reached the edge of the tree-line and emerged out into a clearing where a number of officers stood. One of them, a man in his mid-fifties, broke away from the group when Fitzjohn and Betts approached.

‘Alistair,’ he said, making his way toward them. ‘It’s been a while.’

‘It has, David. Good to see you. This is my sergeant, Martin Betts.’ Fitzjohn half turned toward Betts.

David Roberts nodded before he said, ‘When we spoke, you said you’re working on a case that’s related, in some way, to the young woman who was found here. The homicide at the Observatory isn’t it?’

‘That’s right. She’s the fiancée of Ben Carmichael. His father, Richard, was a host at the cocktail party held at the Observatory that night. And this property is owned by the Carmichael family.’

‘Ah. I see.’

‘Where was Emma Phillips found, David?’

‘In a cottage on the other side of this clearing. Come, I’ll show you.’ They followed Roberts to a small building all but hidden in the vegetation, its frontage facing the sea. ‘It seems the young woman was left here to die a lonely death.’ Roberts led the way inside to where the SOCO’s worked.

‘So, you don’t think it was an accident,’ said Fitzjohn, casting his eye around the front room.

‘No. She’d been bludgeoned and left in the adjoining room over there.’ Roberts gestured to an open doorway on the far wall. ‘According to her fiancé, Ben Carmichael, the entrance was covered up by that tapestry we have bagged up over there. He just happened to remember that there’d been a doorway on that wall.’ Roberts shook his head. ‘Just as well, otherwise it would have been too late. God only knows how long it would have been before she was discovered. By the look of the property, it doesn’t look like it’s been used in years.’

‘It hasn’t,’ said Fitzjohn, peering at the painting that sat on the easel. ‘Thirty years to be exact. There was a death here in 1983. A woman by the name of Rachael Carmichael. She was an artist and, I’m told, used this cottage as her studio.’

David Roberts looked thoughtful. ‘I remember that. She fell from the cliff, didn’t she?’ Fitzjohn nodded. ‘She must have been the woman in the photograph Mr Carmichael found and also on the remnants of another, torn up and scattered across the floor where Emma Phillips lay.’

‘Sounds disturbing,’ said Fitzjohn.

‘It does.’

‘Have you found a weapon,’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘No, but we have located the young lady’s car hidden in some bushes behind the house at the front of the property.’

With the heat in the cottage building, Fitzjohn took his handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed his forehead before they made their way outside. There, in the face of a cooling sea breeze, he walked to the edge of the cliff and looked down to the rocks below. They walked in silence for a time back through the property to their car, Fitzjohn smoothing down the few remaining wisps of hair left on top of his head as he went. ‘Of course, there is sort of a family connection between Emma Phillips and Rachael Carmichael through Emma’s engagement to Ben Carmichael,’ he said at last. ‘But I wonder if that connection extends to this attack on Emma and the death of Rachael?’

‘You’ve lost me, sir,’ replied Betts as they made their way out of Lane’s End to their car.

‘Well, it’s just that Emma Phillips was conducting research into Rachael Carmichael’s artistic life for a book on artists, wasn’t she?’

‘That’s right,’ replied Betts.

‘So, as part of her research, Emma came here to the place where Rachael had worked and died. I think there’s every chance that she stumbled upon something to do with Rachael’s death. What hospital did DCI Roberts say Ms Phillips was taken to?’

‘North Shore, sir.’

‘Mmm. The same hospital that Richard Carmichael died in only days ago. It can’t have been easy for his son to return there so soon,’ replied Fitzjohn thoughtfully.

Fitzjohn and Betts arrived at North Shore Hospital and made their way to the Intensive Care Unit. There they found Ben Carmichael pacing the floor outside the unit. ‘Mr Carmichael,’ said Fitzjohn, walking toward him. Ben, his face ragged and drawn, stopped pacing and looked toward the two officers. ‘We understand your fiancée has been found.’

‘Yes, thank God. I found her this morning at Lane’s End.’

‘And how is she?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Ben shook his head. ‘The doctors have put her in a medically induced coma. They said it would be just until the swelling in her brain recedes, although I’m told that there’s no telling how long it could take before she’s conscious again.’