‘He is dead?’ Glaring at Fitzjohn, the woman crossed herself.
‘Are you a friend of Mr Alexander’s?’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘No. I am Elena Petkov. I clean his house.’
‘I see. Do you know if he has any relatives close by, Mrs Petkov?’
Harried, the woman thought for a moment. ‘There is a nephew. I do not know where he lives. All I know is that his name is Portland. I do not know his last name. If you come inside, I will try to help more.’ Elena waved the two officers into the lavish front hall, its black and white checked marble floor and chandelier giving a feeling of opulence. ‘This way,’ she commanded. They followed the woman through to a room that looked out over a garden. ‘This is Mr Alexander’s study,’ she said, standing on the threshold. ‘Mr Alexander spends much time in here working.’
Fitzjohn took in the room, its walls unadorned and the only pieces of furniture a desk in the centre of the room and a single bookcase along one wall, its shelves filled to capacity. The desk remained clear of any items except for two large computer monitors and a mobile phone. ‘See what you can find, Betts. Oh, and arrange for forensics to come in.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Fitzjohn turned to Elena. ‘Can I ask you a few more questions while my sergeant looks through the room, Mrs Petkov?’
‘Yes. I will answer if I can. Come this way,’ she commanded again.’
Fitzjohn followed Elena as she bustled away into the kitchen where she promptly sat down at the table.
‘Where are you from, Mrs Petkov?’ asked Fitzjohn, settling himself.
‘I am from Macedonia. Nine month I have been in Australia. I come with my son and his wife.’
‘And how long have you worked for Mr Alexander?’
‘Three month. I work every Monday and every Thursday but now...’ Elena took a tissue from her apron pocket and dabbed her nose. ‘He was good man, Mr Alexander. What happen to him?’
‘We believe he was attacked.’
‘Attacked!’ Elena gave a loud wail and crossed herself again. ‘Why would someone do such a thing?’
‘Did Mr Alexander ever receive visitors while you were here, Mrs Petkov?’
‘His nephew I see sometimes. That is all.’
‘I take it you let yourself into the house,’ continued Fitzjohn.
‘Yes. I have my own key because Mr Alexander is not always at home when I get here.’
‘And when did you last see him?’
‘Last Monday morning when I come to work.’
‘Can you tell me about that day?’
Elena dabbed the tears from her cheeks as she thought. ‘He said he would stay home that day and he asked me if I would make lunch for him. I am pleased to do so but after he answer the telephone, he went out. He was not happy.’
‘Do you remember what time he left the house?’
‘Elena thought again. ‘It was before I make the lunch. Eleven o’clock, perhaps.’
‘Did he return before you left for the day?’
‘No. I did not see him again and now... I never will.’
At that moment, Betts appeared in the doorway. ‘Any luck?’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘Yes, sir. I found Mr Alexander’s wallet in the desk drawer so it would seem that he did go for an evening stroll. I also found his nephew’s phone number in the mobile phone. I’ve spoken to his wife, Cynthia Moore. She’s given me details about her husband’s whereabouts.’
‘Good.’ Fitzjohn turned back to Elena. ‘Thank you for all your help, Mrs Petkov. I’m sorry that we’ve had to bring you this news.’
‘I am too. Mr Alexander was a good man. And now I have no job.’ Elena sank back in her chair.
Fitzjohn patted Elena’s hand. ‘We’ll arrange for a taxi to take you home.’
As Fitzjohn and Betts prepared to leave the house, a team of SOCOs arrived.
‘Cynthia Moore said that we can find her husband at the Adelphi Theatre on Petersham Street in the city, sir,’ said Betts as they made their way out to the car. ‘Apparently, he’s a member of a theatre group called the Mid-Town Players. They’re rehearsing for tomorrow’s matinee performance.’
‘Good. We’ll go there now,’ replied Fitzjohn.
Betts edged the car along the narrow, congested street before he pulled over to the curb in front of an old red brick building. In an obvious state of disrepair with its peeling paintwork and guttering hanging loose from above the front entrance, the only signs that it was not abandoned were the words painted above the guttering: “The Adelphi Theatre”, and a large coloured poster to the side of the entrance advertising the next day’s matinee performance.
‘It looks deserted,’ said Fitzjohn, observing its closed doors and no lights emanating from within.
‘Mrs Moore said that we have to enter by way of the stage door, sir.’ Betts pointed to the far corner before leading the way along a damp, rubbish-strewn laneway until they came upon a door painted bright blue. ‘This must be it,’ he said, pushing the door open.
‘Can I help you?’ a deep voice asked.
Betts turned and looked up into the face of a bald headed man of South Sea Island appearance with the words security guard stamped on a badge pinned to his crisp white shirt, the buttons of which strained against his muscular shape. His piercing blue eyes scrutinised the two officers.
‘Yes,’ said Betts, swallowing as he pulled out his warrant card. ‘We’re here to see Portland Moore.’
The security guard studied the card. ‘You’re from the police?’ he asked with an element of surprise.
‘That’s right,’ replied Betts.
‘And you’re after Portland?’ he asked again with an amused look.
‘In a manner of speaking, yes,’ replied Betts.
‘Well, I don’t like your chances because I think he’s on stage, but you can try his dressing room. It’s straight ahead, second door on the left. You can’t miss it. It’s the one with the big yellow star on the door.’ The security guard gave Betts a wide smile and handed back his warrant card.
The two officers continued on through the hubbub of costume-clad figures until they reached the star studded door whereupon Fitzjohn lifted his hand to knock. As he did so, the door flew open and a man in a top hat and tails appeared, his face covered in makeup.
‘Mr Moore?’ asked Fitzjohn wide-eyed.
‘Yes. I’m Portland Moore, and you must be Arthur, my new fan club manager. This is not a good time, Arthur. I’m about to go on stage.’
‘I’m not Arthur, Mr Moore,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘Nor am I or my Sergeant, your fans. We’re from the New South Wales Police Force.’ Fitzjohn held up his warrant card. ‘DCI Fitzjohn and DS Betts. May we speak to you, please? It’s in relation to your uncle, Preston Alexander.’
‘Preston? He hasn’t been done for speeding has he? I told him not to buy that sports car. I knew it’d provide too much temptation.’ Portland shook his head. ‘He just doesn’t seem to realise that he’s no longer a young man.’
‘May we speak to you inside, Mr Moore?’ asked Fitzjohn.
Exhibiting a certain amount of impatience, Portland backed into his dressing room and gestured to a couch along one wall, its surface strewn with clothing and magazines. ‘Please, have a seat,’ he said, before glancing at himself in a large mirror, its edges lit up with small light bulbs.
While Portland adjusted his top hat, Fitzjohn looked around the small space, its walls adorned with posters of past successes. He cleared a space on the couch and, followed by Betts, sat down.
Portland perched himself on a chair with his back to the mirror. ‘So, what’s happened?’ he asked. ‘It is speeding, isn’t it? It can’t be drink driving because Preston doesn’t drink alcohol.’ Portland stopped talking and stared at the two officers. ‘What is it?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Moore, but I’m afraid your uncle’s body was found early this morning in the Cremorne Reserve,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘I also have to inform you that we’re treating his dea
th as suspicious.’
Portland glowered at Fitzjohn. ‘You mean he’s been murdered?’ he shrieked, running a trembling hand through his hair. ‘I told him only last week that he shouldn’t go out walking alone at night. Especially in that reserve. Why didn’t his listen to me, for heaven’s sake?’
‘Please accept our condolences,’ said Fitzjohn.
After a few moments, Fitzjohn continued. ‘I appreciate that this is a shock, Mr Moore, but it would help us greatly if you could answer a few questions.’ Portland nodded. ‘Can you tell us when you last spoke to your uncle?’
‘It was last Monday night. He telephoned to tell me that one of his business associates, a dear friend of mine actually, had died that evening.’ Portland paused as if in reflection. ‘Her death hit Preston pretty hard. That’s why I thought he might have had been speeding because I’ve never seen him so upset.’ Portland looked at Fitzjohn. ‘My uncle wasn’t a demonstrative person, Chief Inspector. He didn’t show emotion as a rule. At least I’d never seen it.’
‘Who was his business associate, Mr Moore?’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘It was a woman by the name of Beatrice Maybrick. She was a member of our theatre group and wrote many of the plays we perform. She was also the owner and operator of the Maybrick Literary Agency. You might have heard of it. It’s in North Sydney. Being an actor, I’m one of the agency’s clients. Beatrice lived in an apartment above the office. She fell down a flight of stairs last Monday night. I understand that she clung to life as you would expect Beatrice to do, but died a few hours later in the hospital. Apparently, the fall broke her neck.’ Portland met Fitzjohn’s intense gaze. ‘A shock to say the least.’ Portland threw his hands up. ‘Her passing is why we’re here today as a matter of fact. The cast decided to put on one of her plays in her memory and invite her family, friends and colleagues. It seemed the least we could do since she and her late husband, Stan, had been founding members of our theatre company.’
‘Was your uncle involved in the theatre too?’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘No.’
‘Then can I ask what his business connection with Mrs Maybrick was?’
‘Preston was Beatrice’s financial backer,’ replied Portland. ‘As I mentioned earlier, she owned and operated a literary agency. Unfortunately, it got into difficulties during the financial crisis. I happened to mention it to Preston at the time and he offered to invest in the company to keep it viable. I made the introductions and they took it from there. I’m afraid that’s all I know of their arrangement. Preston was never one to divulge his business dealings.’
‘Do you know who’s in charge of the agency since Mrs Maybrick’s death?’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘I understand Alison, her step-daughter, has taken charge while Beatrice’s estate is in probate.’ Portland looked at his watch. ‘I don’t wish to be rude, Chief Inspector, but will there be anything else? The cast is waiting for me.’
‘Just a couple more questions,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘Can you think of anyone who would want to harm your uncle?’
‘No. I can’t say as I do. Preston was a quiet man. Not one to socialize much. He spent most of his time trading on the stock market, looking for properties to invest in and playing golf.’ Portland paused. ‘I’m sorry that I can’t be of more help, Chief Inspector.’
‘You’ve been a great help, Mr Moore. We just have one more question. We’d like to know your movements on Wednesday night between the hours of seven o’clock and mid-night.’
‘Why?’ Portland hesitated. ‘Wait a minute. You can’t think that I had anything to do with Preston’s death. That’s ludicrous.’
‘Nevertheless, I’m afraid that we have to ask where all who knew your uncle were at the time of his death. I’m sure you understand.’
‘Of course. Well, I left the bank - I work at the National Australia Bank in the city - at about six o’clock and came here to the theatre.’
‘Until what time, Mr Moore?’
‘I left somewhere around nine-thirty.’
‘So you would have arrived home at approximately...’
‘It was just after ten-thirty, I think.’ The traffic was a bit heavy that night.’
‘Whereabouts do you live?’
‘In Clontarf.’ Fitzjohn gave a questioning look. ‘I got held up crossing The Spit Bridge.’
‘I see,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘Very well. We’ll leave it there for now, although we do have one more request. Being that you are your uncle’s closest relative, we will need you to identify his body.’
‘Not now, surely? If so, that does present me with a problem because I can’t leave at the moment. I’m the lead, you see. I don’t suppose you’d care to wait until our rehearsal is finished. You’re more than welcome to sit in the theatre and watch the show. It won’t take long.’
‘Don’t you have an understudy who can take your place?’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘Of course. I have Raymond.’
‘Then, might I suggest you ask Raymond to take over for the time being.’ Portland gawped at Fitzjohn. ‘DS Betts and I will wait here for you.’ Fitzjohn gave a quick smile as Portland swept away.
Betts gave Fitzjohn a look. ‘He seems more concerned about the play than his uncle’s death. Or is he in denial, do you think?’
‘Everyone reacts differently in the face of tragedy, Betts. It takes some people a bit more time than others to take it in. I’d say that he’s suffering a degree of shock.’
Portland, his face ashen, looked around nervously as he followed Fitzjohn and Betts into the Parramatta morgue. Sensing his anxiety, Fitzjohn put his hand on Portland’s shoulder for reassurance. ‘This won’t take long, Mr Moore. DS Betts and I will accompany you.’ Portland nodded and, flanked by the two officers, they followed the attendant to a room at the end of the corridor where the shape of a body lay on a table beneath a white sheet. Portland stiffened and walked into the room.
When the victim’s face was revealed he wavered, his hand covering his mouth. ‘Yes, that’s my uncle,’ he whispered.
‘We’ll escort you back into the city and to the theatre, Mr Moore,’ said Fitzjohn as they left the room.
‘Thank you, but I’d sooner get a taxi,’ replied Portland in a hushed voice.
Fitzjohn looked on thoughtfully as the taxi carrying Portland left the curb. ‘I wish he’d have availed himself of our company because he doesn’t look at all well,’ he said.
‘One’s first visit to the morgue does that to a person, sir,’ replied Betts in reflection of his own experience as he led the way back inside and toward Charles Conroy’s office. ‘I can’t imagine what it must be like to have to identify a relative.’
‘That was quick,’ said Charles as Fitzjohn and Betts appeared in the doorway.
‘Mr Moore chose to take a taxi back into the city,’ replied Fitzjohn as he sat down in front of Conroy’s desk. ‘I felt for the man. He’s distraught. In hind sight, I should have suggested that he bring another family member along with him.’ Fitzjohn sighed. ‘Anyway, what were your findings, Charles?’
Conroy clasped his hands together. ‘Cause of death was blunt force trauma brought about when the victim’s head hit that rock outcrop. However, the blow didn’t kill him immediately. I’d say that he died five to ten minutes later from a massive haemorrhage, and as I said at the crime scene, there are signs on the body that he struggled with his attacker. Grazed knuckles on both hands, a torn fingernail as well as bruising to his upper torso and arms.’
‘Time of death?’ prompted Fitzjohn.
‘I’ve narrowed it down to between eight-thirty and ten-thirty last night. Sorry I can’t be more precise, Alistair.’
Conroy sat back and put both hands on his desk ready to stand up. ‘Well, now that we’ve got that out of the way, how about some afternoon tea, gentlemen? We have lamingtons.’
‘Lamingtons! How can he talk about lamingtons in the same breath as death?’ said Betts as he followed Fitzjohn out of the morgue.
‘He’s a pathologist. It’s all part of Conroy’s day.’ Fitzjohn opened the car door and climbed in. As he did so, his mobile phone rang.
‘Fitzjohn here. I see. Very well, we’ll carry on.’ Fitzjohn dropped his phone back into his pocket and looked to Betts. ‘That was North Sydney LAC. DCI Roberts has been diagnosed with viral pneumonia, poor chap. He’ll be away for at least the next couple of weeks. We’ve been asked to carry on with the case.’ Fitzjohn’s thoughts shifted to Grieg. No doubt his acceptance to carry on would fuel the Chief Superintendent’s already unfortunate disposition on the matter. ‘It’ll mean, of course, that your plans to host the Friday night dinner party are quashed, Betts.’
‘That’s all right, sir. I’ll ask Sophie if she wouldn’t mind taking my place this time around.’
‘You look somewhat relieved.’
‘I am, even though it’s delaying the inevitable. At least it gives me a bit more time to do my cooking class.’
‘You could always throw some steaks on the barbecue and serve them with a tossed green salad.’
‘I could but I’d probably never be invited back to another one of their dinners.’ Betts turned the ignition. ‘Where to now, sir?’
‘The station. I need to inform Chief Superintendent Grieg that we’ve been asked to stay on the case. While I do that, I want you to arrange to have the investigative team meet.’
An hour’s consultation with his superior on his continuance with the Preston Alexander case saw Grieg, among other things, threaten Fitzjohn with secondment to the farthest reaches of the State of New South Wales. Fitzjohn pushed the threat to the back of his mind and emerged from the Chief Superintendent’s office elated that he was to continue with the investigation, albeit under Grieg’s wrath.
The Incident Room buzzed with activity as Fitzjohn entered and made his way to the front before turning to face those gathered. A hush fell over the room as he did so.
‘Thank you, everyone for making yourselves available at such short notice,’ he said, adjusting his glasses. ‘By now you’ll all be aware that DCI Roberts of the North Shore LAC has been taken ill. Consequently, we’ve been asked to take on a case involving a man found earlier today in the Cremorne Reserve. He’s been identified as seventy-six year old Preston Alexander, a local resident.’ Fitzjohn lowered his glasses along the bridge of his nose and turned to the whiteboard where he pointed to several photographs of the victim. ‘Cause of death was blunt force trauma causing a massive haemorrhage. Physical evidence found at the scene, an envelope addressed to an accountancy firm in Northbridge and footprints of which a cast has been made. According to the autopsy report, time of death was between eight-thirty and ten-thirty last evening.’ Fitzjohn turned back to look into the mass of faces before him, pushing his glasses back over the bridge of his nose as he did so. ‘It’s thought that the victim may have been taking an evening stroll when the attack took place. However, at this stage, robbery is not thought to be the motive, the reason being that the victim was still wearing his Rolex watch.’
Deadly Investment (A Fitzjohn Mystery Book 5) Page 3