***
As those attending the meeting gathered around Betts at the whiteboard, Fitzjohn joined Peta Ashby as she left the room.
‘It doesn’t sound like you have much to go on,’ she said.
‘We don’t, but hopefully when the background checks are complete, something will come to light.’ Fitzjohn paused as they reached Peta’s office doorway. ‘Earlier, it seemed that there was something you wanted to talk to me about.’
‘Ah, so there was. Just a slight problem but I resolved it,’ Peta replied with a quick smile. ‘Keep me up to date with your investigation as you go along, won’t you, Fitzjohn?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
CHAPTER 7
C onstance Parsons, with her diminutive frame enveloped in a dark blue winter coat, tightened her woollen scarf around her neck against the cold as she emerged from St Leonard’s train station. It was silly of me to stay at the bookshop so late on such a night, she thought as she descended the steps into a fine mist that hung low in the air. This thought grew in significance when she reached the empty taxi rank and looked around the street now almost deserted of pedestrians. What was I thinking? For a short time, she stood and waited for a cab but as the minutes ticked by and the dampness started to penetrate her coat, she gave a sigh, turned and started to walk away from the lights of the station and along the dimly lit footpath towards her home at the top of the rise. At least walking will be warmer than standing here any longer, she told herself.
Strangely enough, despite the cold night the scent of flowers wafted in the air from the gardens as she passed by. So absorbed was she in their diverse fragrances as well as the thought of the hot cocoa she planned to make when she arrived home, that she failed to notice the sound of footsteps that kept pace with her stride. Until, that is, she stopped to cross the road and became aware of an unexpected silence. Gingerly, she turned and peered along the darkened street. With no one in sight, she berated herself for letting her imagination run riot and continued on until she reached the familiar low iron gate that led into her front garden. The hinges squeaked as it swung open. Not bothering to close the gate behind her, she fumbled in her handbag for her door key and, on reaching the porch ran up the steps anxious to get into the warmth. As the door swung open, she stepped inside and gave a sigh, at the same time glancing over her shoulder, a sense of doubt at the fringes of her mind. Had there been someone there? Shaking off the thought, she went to close the door but as she did she gave an involuntary gasp when a shadowy figure near the gate moved. I was right, someone was following me, she thought as she slammed the door and turned the deadlock. Without switching on the hall light, she made her way through the darkened house to the kitchen where she threw her handbag onto the table and closed the blinds against the blackness on the other side of the glass. ‘Perhaps the cocoa will help calm me down,’ she mumbled as she switched on the light. ‘And some music wouldn’t go amiss.’ An old favourite melody calmed her as she stood at the kitchen counter stirring the steaming brew. As she did so, however, the music ceased, interrupted by breaking news. Even the clatter of the spoon when it hit the tiled floor did not take her attention away from the news reader’s steady voice as he told of Howard Greenwood’s murder.
‘Murdered!’ A cold shiver ran down her spine and the shadowy figure at the gate came back to mind. As she dwelt on this thought, her last hint of composure deserted her when the doorbell rang. With a degree of uncertainty, she left the kitchen and walked back along the unlit hallway to the front door. There, she hesitated and flinched when the bell rang again.
‘Constance, it’s Harriet,’ came a voice.
‘Harriet! Thank heavens.’ With a surge of relief, she released the deadlock and flung open the door to see Harriet’s, large frame all but hidden inside her winter coat against the cold.
‘All your lights are out so for a moment there I thought you weren’t home,’ she said as she bustled inside. ‘Had you forgotten I said I’d pick you up for our bridge evening at Pamela’s?’
‘No, I hadn’t forgotten,’ Constance lied, her eyes darting past her friend to the street beyond before she closed and locked the door. ‘I was a bit late getting home this evening, that’s all. Come through to the kitchen. I’ve just made some cocoa. Would you like a cup?’
‘That would be nice. It might warm me up a bit.’ In the kitchen, Harriet pulled out a chair and sat down at the large oak table in the centre of the room. ‘You must be upset about the state of your roses along your front fence.’
‘Upset? Why should I be upset?’ asked Constance as she brought two steaming cups of cocoa to the table.
‘Because it looks like someone’s taken the secateurs to them. Their blooms are all over the sidewalk. Didn’t you notice when you arrived home?’
‘No because they were all attached to the rose bushes when I got here.’ Constance pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘Did you see anyone outside,’ she asked.
‘No. I must have frightened whoever it was when I drove up. Why would someone do such a thing. A jealous neighbour?’
‘I can only think it was the person who followed me home from the station tonight,’ said Constance.
‘Followed you?’ screeched Harriet wide eyed.
‘Yes, although I didn’t realise it until I got here.'
‘Oh, Constance. That’s frightening. I thought you looked a bit on edge the minute you opened the front door.’
‘I doubt it’s the only reason. Just before you arrived, I heard on the radio that Howard Greenwood has been murdered.’
‘Murdered?’ Harriet’s eyes grew round. ‘But why? Was it a random attack?’
‘They gave very little detail, only that he was found earlier today at the theatre.’
‘Oh. I am sorry,’ said Harriet sitting back in her chair. ‘I never met the man, but I know you and he have been working closely together for months on his memoir. No wonder you look pale. Just as well it’s our bridge night. What I mean is, a bit of company at a time like this is what you need, Constance.’
‘I’m sorry, Harriet, but I can’t play bridge this evening because there’s something I need to do.’
‘Due to his death, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wouldn’t it be better to leave it till morning?’
‘No. You see, I need to talk to the police and the sooner I do so, the better.’
‘Do you think it’s wise to involve yourself, Constance?’ asked Harriet with a grimace. ‘After all, he has been murdered.’
‘I know but I’m sure the police will seek me out during the course of their investigation anyway, and besides, I owe it to Howard to tell them what I know whether it helps or not.’
‘What exactly do you know?’ asked Harriet, her inquisitive side piqued.
‘I’d rather not say,’ replied Constance, gathering the cups and placing them in the sink.
‘Is it because you know who murdered him?’ prompted Harriet.
‘Of course not, but whoever did, might…’
Harriet’s face paled. ‘Come after you next, you mean? Oh, Constance, it’s why you were followed this evening, isn’t it?’
‘Not necessarily.’
***
‘Have you ever been inside a police station before, Constance?’ asked Harriet as they arrived at the station and she pulled into the parking area.
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Neither have I but I’m more than happy to come in with you. After all, who knows what you might be exposed to in there at this time of night. Criminals no less.’
‘Thanks for offer, Harriet, but I’m sure I’ll be fine. It is a police station after all.’
While Harriet waited in the car, Constance walked inside and approached a counter situated behind a sheet of glass. Bullet proof no doubt, she thought as she waited for someone to materialise from the inner door. As that thought sprang to mind a tall uniformed officer came into view.
‘Good evening, madam, can I help you?�
��
‘Yes,’ replied Constance looking up at the towering, youthful, figure. ‘I know it’s late, but I’d like to speak to one of your detectives, if he’s still here, that is. I have his name written down,’ she continued, unfolding the piece of paper in her hand. ‘His name is Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn.’
‘Can I ask what it’s in relation to, madam?’
‘It’s about Howard Greenwood’s murder. I have information that I believe the Chief Inspector should be made aware of.’
‘Very well, if you’d care to take a seat, I’ll see if he’s still in the building.’
‘As the officer left, Constance turned and scrutinised the sparsely furnished reception area before she settled herself on one of the grey plastic chairs against the far wall. Moments later, a door into what she imagined was the inner sanctum opened and a man in his mid-fifties, impeccably dressed in a finely tailored dark grey suit and maroon tie, crossed the floor towards her with an air of friendly congeniality.
‘Ms Parsons,’ he said with a smile as he offered his hand. ‘I’m DCI Fitzjohn. I understand you wish to speak to me in relation to the Howard Greenwood case.’
‘Yes, I do, Chief Inspector,’ replied Constance, getting to her feet. ‘I don’t know if what I have to say will help in any way but, even so, I thought I should come to see you.’
‘And I appreciate it, especially considering the conditions outside. So if you’d care to come this way, we can talk in my office.’
Constance followed the chief inspector through the door from which he had emerged and into an atmosphere humming with activity, despite the hour. A place that never sleeps, she thought, her eyes darting around as she followed him into his office.
‘This is Detective Sergeant Betts, Ms Parsons,’ said the chief inspector. ‘He’ll be working closely with me on the case.’ The tall, ginger-haired young man the chief inspector was referring to scrambled to his feet and offered Constance a chair.
‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ she said as they each sat down. ‘As I told the Chief Inspector, I’m unsure whether what I have to say will be of any assistance to you, but I thought I should come in all the same. And I would have been here sooner, but I didn’t hear the news about Howard until this evening when I arrived home from work. It’s been such a shock,’ she continued as she removed her leather gloves.
‘Are you related to Mr Greenwood?’ asked the chief inspector.
‘No. I knew Howard only as the ghost writer of his memoir.’
‘Oh?’ The chief inspector sat forward in his chair, his interest piqued.
‘Yes. We’ve been working on the manuscript for the past six months. Of course, I have no idea whether it’ll help with your investigation but I thought it’s something you should know about. If you don’t already, that is.’
‘As a matter of fact, no one we’ve spoken to so far has mentioned it,’ said the chief inspector, ‘so I’m very pleased you’ve come in, Ms Parsons. As you’re no doubt aware, every piece of information we can gather will help our investigation in one way or another. Is the manuscript complete?’
‘It is but for the last chapter which we were to discuss tomorrow, as a matter of fact.’
‘I see. Did Mr Greenwood give you any hint as to what he planned for that last chapter?’
‘Yes, he did,’ replied Constance. ‘He said it would centre on his wife Marsha’s murder and although he didn’t plan on naming names, in the right hands, the book would guarantee her killer would be brought to justice.’
‘You say her murder and yet we’re led to believe that according to the coroner’s finding, his wife died accidentally when she fell down a flight of stairs at their home in Mosman.’
‘That’s right but it became clear to me during writing the manuscript that Howard didn’t agree with the coroner,’ said Constance.
‘Is that so?’ The chief inspector sat in thought for a moment before he said, ‘In his memoir, does Mr Greenwood give any indication why he felt as he did?’
‘There are a few obscure inferences but that’s about all. I believe he was keeping his more damning accusations for the end.’
‘Tell me, Ms Parsons. How much of this manuscript concerns his wife and her death?’
‘I’d say her story is woven throughout. It’s almost as though you’re reading Marsha’s biography. I did try on several occasions to steer him in the direction of his own life and achievements, but he wouldn’t have it. You see, he was fixated with finding her killer.’
‘Was it common knowledge he was writing a memoir? Amongst those he associated with, that is?’ asked the chief inspector.
‘I have a feeling his brother, Leo, might have known about it but I doubt he would have told anyone else, especially the folk at the theatre. After all, he believed one of them killed his wife. Having said that, however, since we usually held our meetings at the theatre where Howard spent most of his time. I’m sure my comings and goings caused a certain amount of curiosity amongst the cast and crew, so it’s possible the people there drew their own conclusions.’
Constance paused. ‘I feel rather foolish now because all along I thought his assumption about her death was driven by grief. With what’s happened to him, however, I’m beginning to wonder if he was right.’
‘In relation to the manuscript itself, Ms Parsons. How many copies are there?’
‘Ah. I thought you’d ask that, so I brought them with me,’ replied Constance. ‘A hard copy and an electronic copy.’ Constance opened her briefcase and took out a thick wad of paper held together by two rubber bands along with a USB flash drive which she placed on the chief inspector’s desk.
‘Did Mr Greenwood also keep a copy?’ asked the chief inspector as he picked up the manuscript.
‘No,’ replied Constance. ‘Our routine was that I gave him a chapter to read through and edit after which he returned it to me the next time we met. His instructions were always verbal although he may have made notes which, I suppose, raises the question. If the killer’s motive did concern the manuscript and he didn’t get what he wanted from Howard, am I the next target?’ The shadowy figure standing in her garden and the vandalised roses came into Constance’s mind.
‘I don’t wish to alarm you Ms Parsons, but it can’t be discounted,’ replied the chief inspector, his hand now resting on the manuscript. ‘You are privy to its content whether or not it’s in your possession. However, it is highly possible that the coroner’s finding is correct and Mr Greenwood’s murder was precipitated by something quite apart from his wife’s death.’ The chief inspector paused for a moment before he asked, ‘Even so, to be on the safe side, have you family or a friend you can stay with for the next few days? Just until we’ve determined the motive behind his killing.’
‘I do have a very dear friend I could stay with, but I can’t hide away, Chief Inspector. I have my business to consider and winter is my busiest time of year. I can’t afford to close, even for a day.’
‘What line of business are you in, Ms Parsons?’
‘I have a bookshop called “The Next Page Bookshop”, in Crows Nest. My foray into ghost writing is a new venture. It’s something I thought I might like to do full-time when I retire.’ Constance chuckled. ‘I shouldn’t laugh but it never dawned on me it could involve murder.’
***
Constance emerged from the police station and re-joined Harriet in the car. ‘I’m sorry I took so long,’ she said, settling herself into the passenger seat.
‘Were you able to speak to the detective in charge of the case?’ asked Harriet, her inquisitive nature stirred.
‘Yes. Detective Chief Inspector Alistair Fitzjohn is his name and, I must say, I was quite surprised.’
‘Pleasantly or otherwise?’ asked Harriet.
‘Pleasantly. For a start, he was particularly well groomed. Not something I expected in his line of work. He even wore a handkerchief in his breast pocket that matched his tie. You don’t often see that nowadays, do you, Harriet?
But perhaps more importantly, I think he’s probably an exceptional detective. At least that’s the impression I got.’
‘Did you tell him you were followed on your way home from the station this evening? And about your roses being decimated.’
‘No, I didn’t mention that.’
‘But why not?’ asked Harriet aghast.
‘I couldn’t see the point because I have no idea what the person looked like,’ replied Constance. ‘He was just a shadow in my garden. And besides, he probably had nothing to do with Howard’s murder.’
‘But what if he did and you there alone in the house tonight. I think you should come and stay at my place. Just until the police have caught the killer.’
‘I do appreciate the offer, Harriet, I really do, but there’s no point hiding myself away. After all, I spend my days in the bookshop where anyone can walk in off the street. And besides, I’m rarely there alone. There’s a constant stream of customers browsing through the books most of the day.’
‘That’s not the same as being at home alone in the middle of the night,’ replied Harriet. ‘In that situation you’d be defenceless. And as far as the bookshop is concerned, one of those customers could be Howard Greenwood’s killer. Don’t you think it might be wise to close the shop for the time being?’
‘I can’t do that. I have orders to fill not to mention a dozen or so searches I’m conducting for several customers who are waiting for rare and out-of-print books.’
‘That’s no excuse for putting yourself at risk,’ replied Harriet, shaking her head as she started the car and pulled away from the curb.
‘I know you mean well, Harriet, but I’ll be fine. Really I will.’
Rose Scented Murder Page 4
