Murder at the Rocks by Jill Paterson Read Free Book Online

leaving for the bank.  I’m sorry.  With all that’s happened, it completely slipped my mind.’
    ‘Do you know where we can contact him?’
    ‘Possibly at his father’s home in Mosman.’
    ‘Then perhaps you can include that address too.’  Fitzjohn paused for a moment.  ‘Was Laurence Harford married, Mr Parish?’
    ‘Yes, to Julia Harford.’  Howard’s hand went to his mouth.  ‘Goodness.  She’ll have to be told what’s happened, poor woman.’
    ‘We’ll see to that, Mr Parish,’ said Fitzjohn as Parish handed a sheet of paper with the addresses on it to Betts.
    ‘I just have one more question, Mr Parish.  Where were you between the hours of seven and midnight yesterday?’
    Parish pursed his lips.  ‘I was at home, Inspector.’
    ‘All evening?’
    ‘Until I came in this morning, yes.’
    ‘Were you alone all evening?’
    ‘Yes.  I live alone.  My wife died last year.’
    ‘I see.  Very well, Mr Parish, I think that will be all for the moment.’
     
    Moments later, Fitzjohn and Betts descended the back staircase and emerged out into the lane now devoid of the victim and Charles Conroy.  ‘Whereabouts does Mrs Harford live, Betts?’
    ‘Watson’s Bay, sir.’
    ‘Right.  We’ll go there first, after which, I want to speak to a man by the name of Andrew Pemlett.  He’s a solicitor.  I’ll fill you in while we drive.’
     

CHAPTER 6
     
     
    Betts pulled over to the curb as they arrived at the Hartford residence on Pacific Street in Watson’s Bay.  ‘This is it, sir.’
    Fitzjohn looked out of the car window at the imposing white house just visible through an abundance of shrubbery.  ‘Right,’ he said, opening the car door.  ‘Now to perform one of our most difficult tasks, Betts.  Telling a victim’s spouse that her loved one won’t be coming home.’  He climbed out of the car and straightened his suit coat before pressing the intercom button on the wrought iron gate.  Moments later, a man’s voice could be heard.
    ‘Can I help you?’
    ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn from the New South Wales Police.  I’d like to speak to Mrs Julia Harford, please.’  A moment of silence followed before the gate clicked open.
    Moments later, Fitzjohn and Betts looked into the face of a lean, wiry man in the front doorway.  Dressed in a dark blue suit, his brown wavy hair combed back from an austere face, he studied their warrant cards.  ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn.’  Fitzjohn half turned toward Betts.  ‘This is Detective Sergeant Betts.’ 
    Unsmiling, the man moved back from the doorway to allow Fitzjohn and Betts to step inside.  ‘If you’d care to wait here, gentlemen, I’ll see if Madam is at home.’
    When the butler left, Fitzjohn turned to Betts and lifted his eyebrows before taking in the entrance hall, its marble floor and lavish furnishings lending an air of opulence.  As the minutes ticked by, his eyes came to rest on a series of paintings on the wall facing the front door.  Alistair Fitzjohn, having a keen interest in art, removed his glasses and took a closer look.  He noted immediately the artist’s name “Martin Greenwood” and realised the wealth that must be in the Hartford family.  As he admired the paintings, footsteps sounded again and the butler reappeared.
    ‘Madam will see you now.  If you’ll come this way.’  They followed the butler along a wide hallway until he stopped at a set of double doors on the left and tapped gently.  A voice sounded from within and he turned the brass knob.  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn and Detective Sergeant Betts, Madam.’
    ‘Thank you, Mapsom.’
    As Fitzjohn and Betts entered the room, the butler left, closing the door as he did so.  Fitzjohn and Betts looked across to a woman in her mid-forties, her brunette hair swept back from her face in a chignon, an aura of gentility evident at first glance.  She sat on a sofa next to a large white, stone