Richard Carmichael’s lips moved. Ben bent over to listen to his whispered words. ‘He told me you s... I’m sorry...’ Tears glistened in Richard Carmichael’s eyes as they closed.
Perplexed, Ben patted his father’s hand. ‘I’m sorry too, Dad.’
In the early hours of Sunday morning, Richard Carmichael slipped from this life, and as the sun appeared on the horizon, Laura, Ben and Joanna emerged from the hospital lost in their own thoughts.
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like to come and stay with me for a few days, Laura,’ asked Joanna as they reached her car.
‘Thanks for the offer,’ replied Laura, her face pale with sadness and fatigue. ‘But I’d sooner be at home. I’ll feel closer to Richard there with all his things around me.’ She looked to Ben and caught his arm, concern on her face. ‘Joanna told me about Emma. Have you been able to reach her yet?’
‘No, but I’m sure it’s because her phone’s run out of battery.’ As Ben said the reassuring words, a surge of anxiety went through him because he knew that Emma’s fastidious nature would not allow that to happen. ‘She’ll be at home, I’m sure.’
In the growing humidity, Ben watched Joanna’s car disappear into the traffic before he turned to make his way through the garden to the front door. In the light of day, he saw the junk mail spilling out of the letter box at the front gate, and the lawn tinged with yellow from lack of water before he lifted his gaze to the front door. It remained closed. His heart sank. If Emma were at home, that door would be open. Turning the key in the lock, he stepped inside. On the floor lay his haversack where he had dropped it the night before. ‘Emma?’ he called in hope. Amid the silence, he made his way into the living room, his eyes going to Emma’s bright smile looking out at him from her photograph on the mantelpiece. ‘Where are you?’ he whispered. Clutching the frame, he slumped heavily into an armchair, his eyes glistening as his thoughts revisited their last conversation for a clue as to where she could be. When nothing came, he started to recall their first meeting in February 2011 during the Christchurch earthquake disaster. On assignment in New Zealand at the time, he had found himself attached to a group of journalists. Emma was one of them. Her resilience and spirit had drawn him to her at once and their romance blossomed amid the devastation and chaos. As he reflected, his mobile phone rang. ‘Thank God,’ he yelled, grabbing it from his pocket. ‘Em? Is that you?’
‘No, Ben, it’s Audrey McIntyre, Emma’s research assistant. I’ve been trying to contact Emma since last Saturday with no luck. That’s why I thought I’d try you. Can you tell her that I’ve finished the research on one of the artists for her book? The other I should have done by the end of this coming week.’
‘You say you’ve been trying to contact Emma since last Saturday?’
‘Yes.’
‘When did you last speak to her, Audrey?’
‘Last Thursday night. We’d spent the better part of the day at the Mitchell Library doing research, so we had a bite to eat together in town after we’d finished. The last time I saw her was at Wynyard Station before she caught her train home. Why do you ask?’
‘Because Emma wasn’t here when I got home last night. I’ve been out of the country for the past month. I’m worried sick. Especially now since you say you haven’t been able to reach her either.’
A moment of silence ensued on the line before Audrey said, ‘No one has, Ben. I’ve asked everyone we know and no one has heard from Emma since last week.’ Ben did not reply. ‘Are you still there?’ she asked.
‘Yes. I’m here.’
‘I think you should contact the police, don’t you?’
‘Yes. I’ll do that.’ As he spoke, the doorbell rang. ‘I’ve got to go, Audrey. There’s someone at the door. It might be news about Emma. I’ll call you back.’
Ben lurched out into the front hall. Through the screen door stood a man of medium height wearing a dark grey suit and maroon tie. With him a tall ginger-haired younger man.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked, opening the door.
‘Mr Ben Carmichael?’
‘Yes. And you are?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn and this is Detective Sergeant Betts,’ the man replied, his penetrating blue eyes looking through wire-framed glasses that sat on the bridge of his nose. ‘We’re from the New South Wales Police,’ he continued emanating an air of authority despite his small stature.
A chill went through Ben as he peered at their warrant cards. ‘Are you here about Emma Phillips, by any chance?’
‘No. We’d like to speak to you in connection with a suspicious death at the Observatory last Friday evening.’
‘Oh.’ Taken aback, Ben pushed his haversack aside with his foot before standing back from the doorway. ‘You’d better come in then.’ He led the two police officers into the living room. ‘Have a seat,’ he said distractedly.
‘We understand that since the incident at the Observatory, your father was taken to the hospital, Mr Carmichael,’ said the Chief Inspector as he walked into the room. ‘How is he?’
‘He died early this morning.’
A look of concern came to the Chief Inspector’s face. ‘I’m very sorry to hear that. Please accept our condolences.’
Ben sat down in an armchair as the two officers settled themselves onto the sofa. The one with the ginger hair took out a notebook and pen from his inside coat pocket.
‘It’s regrettable that we have to disturb you at a time like this,’ continued the Chief Inspector. ‘But it’s unavoidable, I’m afraid. Our investigation necessitates we carry on.’
Ben sat forward. ‘Before we begin, can I ask you a question?’
‘By all means.’
‘Actually, I need some advice. It’s nothing to do with your investigation but... it concerns my fiancée, Emma Phillips. You see I’ve been overseas for the past few weeks. I arrived back last night to find Emma gone. At the time, I thought she might be out with friends, but I’ve since learned that she hasn’t been seen by any of them since last Thursday evening.’ Ben hesitated. ‘I’m worried.’
‘When did you last speak to her, Mr Carmichael?’ asked the Chief Inspector, sitting forward.
‘One day last week. From Cairo.’
‘And was everything all right between you at the time?’
Ben hesitated. ‘Well, she did ask me to come home earlier than I’d planned and I told her that wasn’t possible, but there was no reason to think she was going to leave me,’ replied Ben, with indignation.
‘Are any of her belongings missing from the house?’
‘Not that I’ve noticed. Everything seems to be as it should be except her car is gone, and her handbag, of course.’
‘Have you spoken to her family?’
‘Not yet. There’s just her father. He lives in New Zealand. He’s recuperating from an operation at the moment, so I didn’t want to worry him unnecessarily.’
‘I take it then that Emma has a passport. Is it still here?’
‘Oh. I didn’t think to look.’ Ben jumped up from his chair and lurched across the room to the small antique bureau in the corner. He pulled out the top drawer and sighed. ‘It’s still here.’
The Chief Inspector thought for a moment. ‘Very well. In that case, I suggest we have Emma listed as a missing person.’ Fitzjohn looked to his Sergeant. ‘Betts, can you get the wheels in motion while I speak to Mr Carmichael about the other matter?’
‘Yes, sir.’
As the sergeant left the room, the Chief Inspector turned back to Ben. ‘The Missing Persons Unit will make routine checks of your fiancée’s bank accounts and credit cards to see if any withdrawals have been made since Thursday night. They’ll also check her telephone’s activity since that time.’
‘I feel so helpless.’ Ben sat down again and wiped his face with his hands.
‘We’ll do all we can to find her, Mr Carmichael.’
‘Thank you. I appreciate it.’ Ben paused before he continued. ‘I take i
t you’re here to talk to me about my father. My sister, Joanna, told me that he’s a suspect in your investigation. Can I ask why?’
‘Your father is a person of interest, Mr Carmichael, as is everyone who attended the cocktail party at the Observatory, but your father is of particular interest to us because he was seen arguing with the deceased during the course of the evening.’
Ben grimaced. ‘Who told you that?’
‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.’
‘So what is it you want to ask me? Obviously you know I wasn’t there.’
‘Yes. We’re aware of that. Even so, I’d like to know whether you knew the victim, Peter Van Goren. Apparently, he was a foreign gentleman. Spoke with a European accent. He also used a walking cane.’ Once again, Ben trembled at the mention of the cane. ‘The reason I ask is because when he arrived at the function, he asked after you.’
‘Mmm. So my sister said, but I can assure you, I didn’t know the man.’
‘I see. Well, in that case, I must ask you to accompany DS Betts and myself to the morgue in Parramatta, to make a visual identification of the body.’
‘Is that altogether necessary?’
‘Under the circumstances, I’m afraid it is,’ replied the Chief Inspector.
CHAPTER 6
‘From the look on Ben Carmichael’s face when I pulled back the sheet covering Peter Van Goren’s body, I’d say he knew the victim.’ Betts pushed himself from the filing cabinet and sat down in front of Fitzjohn’s desk.
Fitzjohn took his glasses off and placed them down in front of him before he rocked back in his chair. ‘Mmm. There was definitely a reaction there, but it might simply have been the sight of the corpse. After all, it’s not an easy sight for you and me, Betts, let alone the uninitiated.’
‘But is he uninitiated, sir? I’ve read up on Ben Carmichael and seen some of his work. He’s one of the best known photojournalists in the world. He’s covered the Iraq war, Afghanistan, in fact, the worst trouble spots there are. You’d think he’d have seen a lot of violence and death.’
‘No doubt he has,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘But does one ever get to the point where being confronted with death isn’t a shock to the system?’ Fitzjohn looked at his young sergeant before he continued. ‘Okay. Let’s take Ben Carmichael’s apparent shock at seeing the corpse as a sign that he did know the victim. It would explain the reason he’s our victim’s beneficiary and why Van Goren asked after him at the cocktail party last Friday evening. But…’ Fitzjohn held up his right index finger. ‘On the other hand, if Ben Carmichael is telling the truth, and he didn’t know Peter Van Goren, then there has to be a connection of some kind that hasn’t surfaced yet. In other words, a reason why Van Goren left Ben Carmichael his entire estate.’
‘We just have to find out what it is,’ added Betts.
‘Yes, and that’s why we need as much information as possible on Van Goren.’
‘I’ve got Williams working on that, sir.’
‘Williams?’ Fitzjohn shot a look at Betts. ‘I thought he’d been moved permanently to Kings Cross Local Area Command.’
‘He had, but Chief Superintendent Grieg requested he be transferred back here to Day Street, sir.’
‘How does Williams feel about that?’
‘He seems okay with it,’ replied Betts with a shrug.
Fitzjohn’s thoughts went back to his own secondment to Kings Cross Police Station the previous autumn where he had met up with Detective Senior Constable Williams. At the time, Williams’s transfer appeared to have transformed him from a man of sullen disposition, into an ebullient character. Not only had he received a promotion to Senior Constable, he told Fitzjohn, but he had also been released from Day Street Station and the oppressive Chief Superintendent Grieg. Was it all a sham? Had Williams been the mole that Fitzjohn suspected Grieg had planted at Kings Cross at that time? If so, his problems with Grieg could only get worse with Williams now back at Day Street.
Pushing the thought aside, Fitzjohn rose from his chair and started to pace the floor. ‘Let’s go through everything we have so far, Betts. We need to plan where we go from here.’
Betts took his notebook from his inside coat pocket and studied it. ‘Well, firstly, the hosts of last Friday night’s cocktail party, the Carmichael’s and the Hunt’s, as well as all the guests, deny knowing the victim, Peter Van Goren. Probably not surprising since Van Goren didn’t appear on the guest list. Secondly, it was recorded that a number of the guests witnessed Richard Carmichael arguing with the victim during the course of the evening.’
‘And then there’s the fact that those we have spoken to who did know the victim, such as Van Goren’s housekeeper, Ida Clegg, and his solicitor, Raymond West, have only known Van Goren since the early 1980s,’ put in Fitzjohn. ‘Why is that, do you think?’
‘Perhaps previous to that Peter Van Goren lived overseas,’ offered Betts. ‘After all, to me, the name Van Goren sounds Dutch. Maybe he migrated to Australia in the 1980s.’
‘Mmm. It’s certainly a possibility.’ Fitzjohn stopped pacing. ‘What else do we have?’
‘That’s it, sir. We’re back to why Peter Van Goren left his entire estate to Ben Carmichael.’
‘So, our questions are what, Betts?’
Betts sat back. ‘One, who at that cocktail party is lying about not knowing Peter Van Goren? Two, what was Richard Carmichael’s argument with Van Goren about? And, three, what connection did the victim have with Ben Carmichael?’
‘And why does Van Goren only appear in people’s lives from the early 1980s,’ added Fitzjohn, sitting down again. ‘What did you find out about our tennis player, Theodora Hunt?’
Betts turned to the next page of his notebook. ‘She has her own business, sir.’
‘She does?’
‘Yes. A shop in Willoughby called. Fabrique en France, meaning “Made in France”. Ou vous trouver inspiration francaise articles ménages adaptes a chaque maison, meaning, “Where you can find French inspired homewares to suit every home.”’
‘I’m impressed, Betts. I didn’t realise that you’re bilingual.’
‘School boy French, sir. You never know when it can be useful.’ Betts gave a quick smile and looked back at his notebook. ‘By all accounts, the business is very successful. It has a yearly turn-over of just over one million dollars.’ Betts paused. ‘I’m surprised to be honest. That she’s in business, I mean, because to me she didn’t come across as the brightest candle in the shop.’
‘You mean you wouldn’t have thought she’d have the acumen to run a business, let alone a highly successful one?’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘I suppose that’s a more polite way of putting it. Of course, it could be what she wants us to think.’
‘It can’t be discounted,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘Guilt can produce all sorts of odd behaviour. We’ll speak to her again, Betts. This time without her husband present. We might learn something.’
As Betts left the office, the Duty Sergeant appeared. ‘There’s someone to see you, Chief Inspector. Your niece, I believe.’
‘Sophie? Show her in, Sergeant.’ Fitzjohn got to his feet as Sophie walked into the room, her usual cheery smile absent.
‘Hello, Uncle Alistair.’
‘Sophie dear, I’m glad you’re here. You’ve come about your mother, haven’t you?’
‘Yes. She rang first thing this morning when I was on my way to my first lecture.’ Sophie slumped down into a chair. ‘She’s demanding that I return to Melbourne with her.’
‘I know. She told me last night when I arrived home. I’m sorry, Sophie. I probably should have let you know but to tell you the truth, I didn’t want to interfere. I think the time has come for you to stand up to your mother.’
‘That’s easier said than done.’
‘I know it is, but it’s the only way, I’m afraid. Unless you want this kind of thing to continue.’
Sophie sighed. ‘You’re right. I know you are. It’s just that when Mu
m goes on about what I should be doing... well... my confidence just flies out the window.’ Sophie shrugged. ‘But, I’ll give it a try this evening. I have lectures all afternoon.’ She looked at the plastic bag on her lap. ‘Oh, there’s one more thing. Is Martin around?’
‘No. He’s out doing detective work for me. Why?’
‘Because I wanted to thank him and return this. It’s his sweater.’
Fitzjohn’s browed wrinkled. ‘What are you doing with my sergeant’s sweater?’
‘He left it behind the other night when he was helping us move.’
‘He did, did he?’
CHAPTER 7
The door creaked and a bell sounded as Fitzjohn and Betts walked into the old Federation style building that housed Fabrique en France. With its high patterned ceilings and leadlight windows, the walls covered in tapestries and old photographic prints of Paris, its interior exuded an atmosphere of times past. The two officers walked amongst the soft furnishing and tables filled with bric-a-brac to where Theodora Hunt could be seen at the far end of the shop, talking to a customer. Wearing a tight floral dress over her buxom frame, her blonde locks tied up in a matching scarf, she excused herself and bustled over to where they waited.
‘Good morning, Chief Inspector.’
‘Morning, Mrs Hunt,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘We’d like to speak to you again if we may.’
‘Of course, although I doubt I can add anything to what Emerson and I have already told you.’
‘Be that as it may, Mrs Hunt, we wondered whether you might have recalled something else relating to Richard Carmichael’s argument with Peter Van Goren. For instance, did you get a sense that they knew each other?’
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