Lane's End

by Paterson, Jill

  ‘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?’

  ‘You know I can’t do that, darling. Tulip hates to be alone. Don’t you sweetie pie,’ she said, kissing the dog on the head.

  Emerson’s eyes narrowed with annoyance.

  Fitzjohn turned to Theodora. ‘Mrs Hunt. You said that you saw Richard Carmichael argue with Peter Van Goren. Can you tell us what time that would have been?’

  ‘Just after eight o’clock, I think.’

  ‘And how long did their argument last?’

  ‘Five minutes or so. They weren’t shouting, you understand. But it was obvious that it wasn’t a friendly conversation. In the end, Richard ushered Mr Van Goren out of the marquee. I didn’t see him after that.’

  ‘What did Richard Carmichael do after Peter Van Goren left?’

  ‘For some reason, he became angry about the food presentation and said he was going to speak to the caterer, Amanda Marsh.

  ‘And how long was he gone?’

  ‘Fifteen minutes or so. It was when he came back that he became ill and Laura took him home.’

  Emerson glared at Theodora.

  ‘Why do I get the feeling that things aren’t quite what they seem between those two,’ asked Betts as they made their way back down the driveway to the car.

  ‘Because they’re not,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘I’d say there’s a great deal of intolerance between them. Not helped along by Mrs Hunt’s openness about Richard Carmichael’s argument with the victim and, it seems, his disapproval of the caterer’s food preparation.’

  ‘What if Richard Carmichael’s disapproval was just an excuse to follow Van Goren outside, sir? Perhaps to continue their argument. Things got out of hand and... Van Goren ended up dead.’

  ‘Sounds plausible,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘Except for one thing. Theodora Hunt told us that Carmichael left the cocktail party just after nine o’clock. He’d have been well away if Charles Conroy was right about the time of death of nine-thirty. Let’s make our way to the morgue and find out if he’s changed his mind since doing the post mortem.’ Fitzjohn climbed into the car and pulled his seat belt on. ‘After that, I want you to find out as much as you can about Mrs Hunt because I’d like to speak to her again, without her husband present. I might be wrong, but I think the lady likes to gossip and it could work in our favour.’

  CHAPTER 4

  A distinct antiseptic odor filled the air as Fitzjohn and Betts walked into the Parramatta morgue later that morning. After acknowledging the attendant at the front desk, they made their way along the hallway to find Charles Conroy and his assistant in a long rectangular room, its row of stainless steel tables empty except for one where Peter Van Goren’s body lay. Fitzjohn’s eye became fastened on the still form while Betts entered the room with a measure of apprehension.

  ‘Ah, there you are Alistair,’ said Charles when the two officers appeared. ‘I’m glad you’re here because I was right about the blows to the side of the victim’s head. They did cause a subdural haematoma and were the cause of death. But, I have to say that if it hadn’t happened, he’d have been dead in a month or so anyway.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ asked Fitzjohn, walking the full length of the room to Conroy’s side.

  ‘Because our victim suffered from pancreatic cancer. Quite advanced. So much so that he’d have had little strength to defend himself against his assailant.’

  ‘In that case, could a woman have been his attacker?’ asked Fitzjohn, looking down at Peter Van Goren’s emaciated body.

  ‘Undoubtedly. He would have had little strength to resist a man or a woman.’

  ‘And the time of death?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘I’m going to stick with what I said at the crime scene, Alistair. Nine-thirty, except that I’m going to add that the victim didn’t die immediately. After the attack, I’d say the poor beggar clung to life for anything up to an hour.’

  A myriad of thoughts ran through Fitzjohn’s head.

  Fitzjohn and Betts walked from the morgue. ‘Well, that changes things, Betts. Van Goren didn’t die immediately, after all, which means it’s entirely possible that Richard Carmichael could have been his assailant.’

  ‘But what motive would he have, sir?’

  ‘Good question. In fact, what motive would any of the people we’ve spoken to, so far, have? Including the women.’ Fitzjohn glanced at Betts. ‘I think in light of what Charles just said about the victim’s ill health, we can’t discount them from our list of persons of interest, and that includes Laura Carmichael.’ Fitzjohn pulled his seat belt on. ‘It’s quite a list. The question is, where do we begin?’

  Betts started the car. ‘What if I try to find out as much as I can about Peter Van Goren, sir? It might lead to something.’

  ‘Good idea, Betts. And also speak to the Silver Service taxi cab company. According to Ida Clegg, he left his home in Vaucluse at two on Friday. We need to know what he was doing in the five and a half hours until he arrived at the Observatory.’

  Later that morning, Fitzjohn and Betts took the elevator in the building on Phillip Street that housed Raymond West’s office. The doors reopened onto the 2nd level where West’s name appeared in gold lettering on a glass door. Fitzjohn peered into the unlit interior of the office. ‘Are you sure Mr West said he’d be here on a Saturday, Betts?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Until four this afternoon.’

  Betts tapped on the glass door. A moment later the interior lights flickered and a stout man with unruly dark curly hair and tortoise-shell rimmed glasses came into view. Straightening his tie and buttoning his rumpled suit coat around a portly girth, he crossed the reception area and unlocked the door.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Betts?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, Mr West, and this is Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn.’

  Raymond West looked toward Fitzjohn. ‘Pleased to meet you, Chief Inspect
or. Won’t you both come in.’ West stood back to let Fitzjohn and Betts inside before promptly locking the door again. ‘I’ve only just arrived myself,’ he said. ‘I should have turned the lights on when I first walked in. Come this way, gentlemen.’

  The two officers followed Raymond West across the reception area and into a small office, its dark wood-panelled walls diffusing any light that emanated from the window overlooking the street. He gestured to two green leather-bound chairs in front of a large walnut desk, itself inlaid with green leather.

  ‘Please, make yourselves comfortable,’ he said as Fitzjohn and Betts looked around the room. ‘It’s like walking into the past, I know, but I can’t bring myself to alter a thing. We’re a family firm, you see, and this office hasn’t changed since my grandfather’s time.’

  He sat down. ‘I understand you’re here to ask me about my client, Peter Van Goren,’ he continued, adjusting his glasses before clasping his hands together. ‘I heard about his death on the news this morning and was saddened. Especially since he wasn’t a well man.’

  ‘I take it he spoke to you about his ill health, Mr West,’ said Fitzjohn.

  ‘Yes. In fact, he did so yesterday. Apparently, he’d spent the afternoon at St Vincent’s Hospital. He suffered from some form of cancer, you see, and unfortunately, while he was at the hospital, they told him that it had spread. That’s why he came to see me. He wanted to go over his will.’

  ‘Did he make any changes to it?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Only to bring it up-to-date with his added investment properties. Other than that, it remains as it was executed some years ago. As a matter of fact, it was one of the first instructions I took from Mr Van Goren.’ West opened a manila folder that sat on the desk in front of him and took out a long thin envelope. ‘I have the revised will here, Chief Inspector. I got it out of safe custody in case you wanted to look it over.’