Lane's End

by Paterson, Jill

  ‘Can you tell us who the beneficiaries are?’ asked Fitzjohn, watching West remove the will from its envelope.

  ‘Other than bequests to his staff, there’s only one beneficiary.’ West smoothed the pages flat with his hands before he peered through his bifocals. ‘His name is Benjamin Carmichael.’

  Fitzjohn’s brow furrowed. ‘Carmichael?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Can you tell us what relation Ben Carmichael was to Peter Van Goren?’

  ‘He wasn’t a blood relation. I know that because Mr Van Goren told me as much. He said he had no next-of-kin. As to what connection he had to Mr Carmichael, that I don’t know. Mr Van Goren didn’t offer that information, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What does the estate entail?’ continued Fitzjohn, feeling a surge of interest at the mention of the Carmichael name.

  ‘It’s quite substantial,’ replied West, looking at Fitzjohn over his glasses. ‘Besides monies, stocks and bonds, Mr Van Goren owned a number of commercial properties, and a chain of coffee shops. There’s also his home in Vaucluse. That, however, has been left to a member of Mr Van Goren’s staff. His housekeeper, Ida Clegg.’

  A slight smile came to Betts’s face.

  ‘Even so, all in all, I’d say we’re looking at an estate of at least fifty million. Perhaps more.’

  ‘Can I ask when you executed Peter Van Goren’s first will, Mr West?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Yes, of course. Now, let me see.’ Raymond West rummaged through the manila folder and brought out a sheet of paper which he held up. ‘This is a list of instructions I have taken from Mr Van Goren over the years.’ West perused the list. ‘Mmm. I thought so. The first will was executed on the tenth of October, nineteen eighty-six.’ West looked up and gave a quick smile.

  ‘So is that when you first met Mr Van Goren?’

  ‘Yes. At the time, he’d just bought his first commercial property.’

  A soft rain fell as Fitzjohn and Betts left the building and walked toward their car. ‘Finally, Betts, we have a connection between the Carmichaels and Peter Van Goren. Van Goren had to have known the family. One doesn’t leave their entire estate to a stranger.’

  With the long day behind him and darkness falling, Fitzjohn walked into his office and closed the blind before he sat down at his desk. As he did so, the office door flew open and Chief Superintendent Grieg walked into the room.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ he roared. ‘Why are you involved in the homicide at the Observatory? And why wasn’t I told?’

  Knowing nothing irritated Grieg more than his temperate demeanor on such occasions, Fitzjohn dug deep to contain his abhorrence of Grieg. ‘I daresay that’s because you weren’t here at the time, sir. But now that you are, I can tell you all about it.’ Fitzjohn gave a wry smile.

  ‘Don’t patronise me,’ spat Grieg.

  ‘I wouldn’t think of it,’ continued Fitzjohn. ‘Would you care to sit down?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Very well. In your absence, the Chief Constable merely asked me to take charge of the investigation. He didn’t explain why, but I’m sure if you ask him...’

  ‘I know what you’re up to, Fitzjohn, and it won’t work.’ Grieg’s fist came down on top of the metal filing cabinet. The vibration sent the frame containing Edith’s photograph crashing to the floor.

  Fitzjohn’s right hand clenched. His eyes locked onto Grieg. ‘I have no idea what you mean,’ he replied before leaving his desk to pick the photograph up from amidst shards of glass.

  ‘Of course you do,’ hissed Grieg. ‘And don’t think undermining me is going to get you a promotion. It’s more likely to get you fired.’

  Fitzjohn watched the door to his office slam behind Grieg. Minutes later the door re-opened and Betts’s head appeared. ‘Everything all right in here?’ he asked.

  ‘Couldn’t be better,’ replied Fitzjohn, brushing Edith’s photograph off and placing it carefully against the pot of pens on his desk.

  ‘Chief Superintendent Grieg’s in a foul mood since he got back from leave,’ continued Betts, glass crunching under the soles of his shoes as he walked across the room. ‘Word has it his wife’s left him.’

  ‘Oh? That’s not good news.’

  Fitzjohn sat down heavily behind his desk, his thoughts going back to the previous year and his chance meeting with Grieg and a woman other than Grieg’s wife. Not that he was the least bit interested in Grieg’s personal life, but the encounter was enough to ensure that Grieg stepped carefully in his dealings with Fitzjohn. If Grieg’s wife was out of the picture, what could he now expect from Grieg? More of what he had just experienced, no doubt. Unable to voice his thoughts to his sergeant, Fitzjohn sat back and said, ‘How did you get on with your queries about Van Goren?’

  ‘Silver Service cabs were very helpful, sir. Their records show that they picked the victim up three times last Friday. Once at 2pm from his home in Vaucluse, dropping him at St Vincent’s Hospital in Darlinghurst, and then again just before 6pm, taking him to Raymond West’s address on Phillip Street. From there, he took a third taxi to the Observatory, arriving around seven-thirty. I checked with the hospital. Van Goren had just finished a course of radiation treatment and received his prognosis. It wasn’t good, sir. They’d given him a few months to live at the most.’

  ‘Which gels with what Raymond West told us,’ said Fitzjohn.

  Fitzjohn arrived home that evening by taxi. At the gate, he stopped to extract letters from the box before starting along the garden path. As he did so, he could see a soft light emanating through the stained glass panel in the front door of his cottage. Finding the door ajar, he tentatively pushed it open. ‘Sophie? Is that you?’ As he spoke, his sister Meg appeared at the end of the hallway. Fitzjohn felt a sinking feeling. Ever since his late wife, Edith’s, death eighteen months earlier, Meg had made it her quest in life to inflict her ministrations on him. Of course, it came as no surprise. He was well aware of Meg’s propensity for over-involvement in other people’s lives. This was demonstrated by her daughter Sophie’s move to Sydney to escape her mother’s unwanted attention.

  ‘I didn’t expect you, Meg,’ he said, placing his briefcase and the mail on the hall table.

  ‘That’s because I decided to drop everything and fly up from Melbourne late this afternoon, Alistair.’

  ‘Why would you do that? Is there something wrong?’

  ‘Of course there’s something wrong. Something is very wrong.’

  With growing concern, Fitzjohn walked to where Meg stood in the kitchen doorway. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s Sophie.’

  A warning bell went off in Fitzjohn’s head. ‘As far as I know, Sophie’s fine,’ he replied.

  ‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong, Alistair. She hasn’t returned my calls or replied to any of my emails in days. Therefore, there is something the matter.’

  ‘Meg, I think you’re over-reacting. I spoke to Sophie last Thursday and she’s fine. She’s just busy moving house, that’s all.’

  ‘Moving house?’ Fitzjohn took a step back as Meg’s voice went up an octave. ‘What do you mean, moving house?’

  ‘Just what I said. She and a couple of her university friends have decided to share an apartment together.’

  Meg wobbled on her high-heeled shoes and caught hold of the door-jamb. ‘She can’t do that,’ she screamed. ‘The only reason I agreed to her studying here in Sydney was that she’d live in university accommodation. Who are these, so-called, friends?’

  ‘All I know is they’re a couple of fellows in one of her tutorial groups.’

  ‘A couple of what? You mean she’s sharing accommodation with two males? Alistair! How could you let this happen? You’re supposed to be looking after Sophie.’

  Fitzjohn winced in despair at his over-bearing sister. ‘Meg, Sophie is 22 years old, studying forensic medicine at Sydney University. She can look after herself, live where she likes, and with whomever she likes
.’

  ‘No she can’t. What gave you that idea?’ Meg turned back into the kitchen, the tea towel in her hand flying into the air. ‘You do have a short memory, Alistair Fitzjohn. And you a policeman too. Have you forgotten that this time last year Sophie got arrested for being a public nuisance in that damned university sit-in? That alone demonstrates she can’t look after herself.’ Meg slumped down into a kitchen chair. ‘This is worse than I thought. There’s nothing else for it, she’ll have to come home to Melbourne. I won’t have my daughter cavorting around Sydney living who knows where.’ Fitzjohn sighed and started toward the stairs. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Meg, it’s late and I’m tired. I’m turning in. I have an early start in the morning.’

  ‘But you can’t. We have to talk about this because I need your support when I speak to Sophie in the morning.’

  ‘I’m working on a case, Meg. I won’t be taking any time off until it’s solved.’

  CHAPTER 5

  With his camera equipment slung over one shoulder and a haversack over the other, photojournalist, Ben Carmichael, pushed his way through the crowded Cairo International Airport in an effort to secure a seat on a flight out as the city descended into chaos.

  Torn between his desire to extend his assignment and remain to film the Arab Spring revolutionary wave of demonstrations, and his fiancée, Emma Phillips’s wish that he return home, Ben moved unwillingly to the ticket counter. After all, Emma had left him with no false illusions when last they spoke by telephone a few days earlier. His constant absences were causing them to drift apart. Ben knew which he must choose because he was aware that once he found himself in the throes of an assignment, the adrenalin kicked in and everything other than what he caught on camera was forgotten.

  It was late on Saturday evening when he climbed into a cab at Sydney’s Kingsford Smith Airport on the last leg of his journey home. Weary, and yet tense, he stretched his long lean body out and tried to quell the images of the horrors he had witnessed during the past four weeks. At the same time, he contemplated the reception he was likely to receive from Emma.

  When the taxi pulled up in front of the home they shared in CrowsNest, he paid the driver, slung his haversack over his shoulder, and walked through the garden to the front door. In the darkness he did not notice the junk mail spilling out of the letterbox at the gate nor see a yellow tinge to the grass on either side of the path. He just felt an overwhelming desire for his life to resume its normal path, at least for the next few weeks until his next photojournalism assignment. Hastening to the front door, he turned the key in the lock and walked inside. As he did so, a feeling of unease took hold. His haversack dropped from his shoulder, the thud as it hit the old oak floor filling the silence.

  ‘Emma?’ he called into the hot, stuffy atmosphere. ‘Emma, darling, I’m home,’ he called again up the stairwell. ‘Hey, sleepy-head.’ Ben took the stairs two at a time to the landing above where moonlight emanated through the front bedroom window, producing an eerie glow. A tingling sensation went through him. Tentatively, he walked into the room. The bed remained empty and undisturbed. ‘Emma,’ he whispered before his thoughts tumbled back to recall their last conversation. Had his relentless pursuit to capture,on camera, life as it happened, driven Emma away? He dived at the closet door, pulled it open and stood back. There, hung in meticulous order, were Emma’s clothes. Relieved but puzzled, he made his way back down the stairs, stepped over his haversack and walked through to the kitchen. The steady drip of the tap into the sink of unwashed dishes caught his attention before his gaze went to his reflection in the glass patio doors. Sliding the doors open, he stepped outside. In the darkness, as if forgotten, clothes hung limp on the line. Emma’s car space remained empty. Pulling his mobile phone from his pocket, he dialled her number.

  “Your call could not be connected,” answered the dispassionate recorded voice.

  With growing desperation, he retraced his steps. As he reached the front hall, he heard a knock on the front door. ‘Emma?’ he yelled with a surge of relief.

  ‘No, it’s me,’ a voice came from the darkened porch.

  ‘Joanna? Is Emma with you?’ he asked opening the screen door.

  ‘No. I haven’t heard from her since last week. I came over because I have to talk to you, Ben.’

  ‘Is it about Emma?’

  ‘No. Why do you keep asking about her?’

  Ben noticed the uncharacteristic sharpness in Joanna’s voice and hesitated. ‘Because I’m worried. I just got home and she’s not here.’

  ‘Have you tried her mobile?’

  ‘Yes. It’s turned off.’

  ‘Then I’d say she’s at a movie.’

  It was then that Ben took in the harried look on Joanna’s face and the tears brimming her eyelids. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, putting his hands on her shoulders and looking into her face. ‘This isn’t like you.’ Ben fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief. ‘Here, wipe those tears and tell me about it.’

  ‘It’s Dad.’

  Ben’s eyes hardened. ‘Joanna, please don’t start on about that again. Especially tonight. The situation between Dad and me is never going to be resolved. I’ve accepted that. Why can’t you?’

  ‘It’s not about your estrangement from Dad, Ben. I only wish it was.’

  ‘Then what is it?’

  ‘Dad suffered a heart attack early this morning. He’s in the Intensive Care Unit at North Shore Hospital.’ Ben gaped at his sister. ‘The doctor’s say it’s touch and go whether he’ll recover.’ Joanna’s voice broke and she began to weep.

  Ben put his arm around her, a multitude of thoughts racing through his mind. ‘I take it Laura is at the hospital.’

  ‘Yes. She wanted you to know what’s happened as soon as you arrived home.’

  ‘How is she coping?’ Ben thought of his step-mother, a stoic woman who doted on his father in every way.

  ‘She’s managing well under the circumstances. She knows Dad’s chances aren’t good, but as long as he’s alive she has hope.’ Joanna shook her head. ‘She’s such a positive person. I wish I was more like her. It helps at a time like this, and particularly with Dad being...’

  ‘Being what? Joanna?’

  Joanna glared at her brother. ‘Being a suspect in a murder investigation.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Seems unbelievable, I know. It happened last night. Dad and Laura, together with the Hunts, hosted a cocktail party at the Observatory. It was for some of their company’s clients. One of the guests was found dead in the grounds at the end of the evening. Someone, I don’t know who it was, told the police that earlier in the evening they’d seen Dad arguing with the man who died.’

  ‘Does Dad know this?’

  ‘Yes. Laura and Dad left the venue early, before the body was found, but Emerson telephoned Dad later in the evening and told him.’

  ‘When did Dad suffer his heart attack?’

  Joanna hesitated before she said, ‘Right after Emerson’s call.’

  ‘Was the man who died one of Dad’s clients?’

  ‘Laura doesn’t think so. She thinks he must be one of Emerson’s. His name was Peter Van Goren.’ Joanna looked into Ben’s face. ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘No. Should I?’

  ‘Well, it’s just that Mr Van Goren asked after you while I was talking to him last night. Are you sure you don’t know him, Ben? He’s not someone you’d forget in a hurry. He spoke with a slight foreign accent and walked with the aid of a cane. The cane alone might help you to recall the man if his name doesn’t. It had the most exquisite silver handle in the shape of an eagle’s head.’

  Ben’s shoulders slumped and his hand grabbed the banister.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Joanna in alarm. ‘You’ve gone all white.’

  Ben shook his head. ‘It’s jet lag. I haven’t had much sleep. You’d better drive us to the hospital.’

  ‘Okay. Are you going to leave Emma a note?’
r />   ‘No. I’ll keep trying her phone.’

  Laura Carmichael sat alone in the small waiting room, her hazel eyes sunken, her face pale. Even so, when she saw Ben standing in the doorway, a certain warmth transcended her sorrow. ‘Ben, I’m so glad you’re here at last,’ she said, getting to her feet.

  Ben caught Laura’s trembling hands before putting his arms around the woman who had been a mother to him since he was a small boy. ‘How’s Dad?’ he asked.

  ‘Not good, I’m afraid. The doctors don’t expect your father to survive.’ Laura Carmichael’s voice broke and she collapsed back into her chair. ‘They’ve been forthright and I do appreciate that. They say his heart is far too damaged.’ Silence ensued until Laura continued, ‘You must both go in to see him while there’s still time.’

  Ben sat down in the chair next to Laura while Joanna hovered nearby. ‘Do you think that’s wise? You know how it is between Dad and me. The last thing I want is to upset him at a time like this.’

  ‘You won’t upset him, believe me,’ replied Laura. ‘Make your peace with him, Ben. Even if he’s unable to respond, you need to resolve your troubles, for your own sake if not his.’

  Ben glanced up at Joanna. ‘You go first, Jo,’ he said, before his thoughts drifted back to his last meeting with his father when the rift between them had been fuelled, yet again, by his refusal to invest in the property market. It all seemed so trivial in the face of what was now happening. He felt Laura’s hand on his.

  ‘Here’s Joanna now. Go make your peace.’

  Ben walked the short distance to the Intensive Care Unit. At the door, he hesitated, the years of recriminations between him and his father pouring through his mind. Tentatively, he opened the door and walked into the hushed atmosphere where those in attendance moved silently between patients in their constant vigil. His father’s form lay still, his body monitored by machines, their steady beeps the only sound. Ben placed the palm of his hand over his father’s. As he did so, Richard Carmichael’s eyes fluttered. ‘It’s okay, Dad,’ he said softly. ‘You don’t have to speak. I’ll just sit here with you for a while.’