Deadly Investment (A Fitzjohn Mystery Book 5)

by Jill Paterson

  ‘That’s all we have at this point in time, ladies and gentlemen. Our tasks now are to interview those who knew the victim, conduct alibi follow-ups and look at phone records. When this has been completed, we’ll analyse what we’ve gathered and see where it leads us.’

  As the investigative team filed out of the room Fitzjohn turned to Betts. ‘Just to let you know, Betts. Chief Superintendent Grieg isn’t in agreement with us being on this case. I daresay he’ll try to have us removed. Nevertheless, we’ll carry on and leave it for him to sort out with the North Shore LAC.’

  ‘Actually, it doesn’t surprise me, sir,’ replied Betts as they left the room. ‘It might not be my place to comment, but I think that the Chief Super might have a few issues with North Shore.’

  ‘That’s very perceptive of you, Betts, and you’re right. I think it stems from an old antagonism.’

  The two officers carried on to Fitzjohn’s office and as they did so, Fitzjohn’s thoughts went back to his conversation with Reginald Fellowes in which Fellowes, the retired Chief Superintendent, had disclosed the reason for Grieg’s secondment to Day Street all those years ago. An unsolved murder case that Grieg was involved in and North Shore’s manipulation to ensure that his secondment became permanent.

  Fitzjohn opened his office door. As he did so, the Police Integrity Board’s impending inquiry revisited his thoughts.

  ‘When did we start working together, Betts?’ he asked as he sat down behind his desk.

  Betts thought for a moment or two. ‘It was at the end of 2009, sir. Just after I was moved to Day Street.’

  ‘Ah, yes. And just before the Alex Wearing case started?’

  ‘That’s right. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because something’s come up. The Police Integrity Board is holding an inquiry into a case I investigated in 2007, so it’s before your time. It concerned a woman by the name of Patricia Wilson. The only problem is, I don’t remember it. Of course, that’s not to say I won’t when I read through my notes.’

  ‘What’s the reason for the inquiry, sir?’

  ‘Wrongful arrest!’

  Betts stared open mouthed at Fitzjohn.

  After the door closed behind Betts, Fitzjohn stood at the window, the inquiry into the case in question gnawing at the fringes of his thoughts. At last he turned, his gaze falling upon the grey metal filing cabinet on the opposite side of the room. It contained his files on all the cases he had investigated over the last twenty years. With a new sense of resolve, he crossed the room and opened the upper drawer to start his search.

  Hours later, Fitzjohn arrived home at his Birchgrove cottage with a sense of bafflement after his failure to find any reference to the Wilson case. Priding himself not only on his methodical ways but also his excellent memory, the fact that he had found no physical evidence of his involvement, set a new thought in train. Could it be that I’m being set up?

  Pushing the thought away, he walked through to the kitchen, shrugged out of his suit coat, loosened his tie, and stepped out onto the back porch. With the only light emanating from the kitchen window, the garden lay in near darkness, his Victorian greenhouse a mere silhouette against the night sky. Weary, he sat down on the top step, closed his eyes, and lulled by the sound of crickets singing in the grass around him, felt a sense of calm take hold. His respite was momentary, however, because another sound caught his notice. Soft music playing and the odd laugh. Surprisingly, it seemed to be coming from the direction of Rhonda Butler’s house. Baffled, Fitzjohn opened his eyes in disbelief and allowed his gaze to travel across the hedge into her garden. As he did so, the volume of the music increased and more laughter rang out. That’s odd. I’ve never known Rhonda to play music or laugh, he thought as he let his mind drift over their many battles. The hedge had been the latest, its planting not by choice, but to hopefully stop Rhonda’s tirade over his new greenhouse after her tree had destroyed the original. It hadn’t helped, of course, and Rhonda remained a neighbour to be wary of. Fitzjohn shook his head as the volume of music increased. I’d be a rich man if I knew what makes that woman tick. Shrugging, he got to his feet and made his way back inside.

  CHAPTER 5

  After tossing and turning throughout the night, Esme woke to the shrill ring of the telephone. With eyes half closed, she squinted at the digital clock on the bedside table. ‘Six-thirty? Who, on earth could be ringing at this hour?’ A twinge in her arthritic hip slowed her movement as she climbed out of bed and slipped her feet into a pair of fluffy pink slippers before she pulled on her dressing gown. Muttering to herself, she shuffled out of the bedroom and along the hall to the wall phone in the kitchen.

  ‘Hello?’ she said, picking up the receiver.

  ‘Esme, it’s me.’

  ‘Mildred? Is something the matter? Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine. I’m just phoning about the murder.’

  ‘What murder?’

  ‘You mean you haven’t heard?’ replied Mildred with a satisfied lilt in her voice. ‘I thought the first thing you did each morning was watch the news.’

  ‘I do, but last night I got very little sleep. I couldn’t get Beatrice out of my mind.’

  ‘In that case I doubt you’ll sleep much tonight either because it’s Preston Alexander who’s dead.’ A long silence followed. ‘Esme? Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes.’ Esme slid down into the chair beneath the wall phone.

  ‘You remember Preston, don’t you?’ continued Mildred. ‘We met him a few times at Beatrice’s literary luncheons. He was her financial backer when the agency got into difficulties a few years ago.’

  ‘Yes, I remember him. She said that he’d saved the agency from going under. And you say he’s been murdered?’

  ‘That’s right. Attacked while taking an evening stroll in the Cremorne Reserve.’

  ‘Oh, how ghastly. The poor man.’ Esme grimaced at the thought.

  ‘The police are asking for anyone who saw anything around the Milson Road area last night to come forward. It makes your suspicions about Beatrice’s death all the more poignant, doesn’t it, Esme? What I mean is, to have this happen two days after we lost Beatrice. It’s bizarre. I think you should take her letter to the police after all.’

  ‘I can’t. I posted it on my way home from the station yesterday.’

  ‘Oh, no. Now we’ll never know who Charles Stratton is.’

  ‘Not necessarily. Alison came to see me yesterday afternoon and if I’m not mistaken, she knows him. Or of him.’ Esme recounted her conversation with Alison.

  ‘So, when is this matinee performance in memory of Beatrice to be held?’ asked Mildred.

  ‘It’s at two o’clock this afternoon. I know it’s short notice, but can you come along, Mildred?’

  ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I think it’s a wonderful tribute.’

  ‘I agree, but there’s another reason that we need to attend,’ said Esme.

  ‘There is?’

  ‘Yes, Mildred. You see, if Beatrice’s death wasn’t an accident, I think that there’s every likelihood one of her staff is involved in her death.’

  ‘Oh, my heavens! Surely not. I can’t imagine any of them wishing her harm.’

  ‘Neither can I, but there is a possibility that one of them did, so it’ll be interesting to see who attends this afternoon’s performance.’

  At precisely one-thirty that day, Esme and Mildred walked into the lobby of the Adelphi Theatre to find it crammed with invited guests.

  ‘Well, it’s a fine turnout, isn’t it?’ said Mildred, pushing her wide brimmed black hat back in an effort to better see those around her. ‘I had no idea Beatrice’s popularity extended this far. I can see quite a few celebrities. I never realized that we had a friend who rubbed shoulders with the rich and famous.’

  ‘We shouldn’t be surprised,’ replied Esme. ‘After all, she was a charismatic personality. People couldn’t help but be drawn to her. More importantly, can you see any of her staff?�
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  Standing on tip-toe, Mildred scanned the sea of faces. ‘Fiona Worth is over there by the ticket office, but I don’t see any of the others except... Oh, no!’ Mildred lowered her hat again and half crouched.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ asked Esme with alarm.

  ‘It’s that Glossop woman. Or should I say Glossop the gossip. Oh, my heavens! We’ve caught her eye. She’s waving and heading this way.’ Mildred winced.

  ‘Her first name is Olive, isn’t it?’ said Esme as she watched the woman push her way through the crowd. ‘She might be just the person we need to talk to, Mildred, if she is as you say, a gossip.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll leave her in your capable hands. I’m going to find our seats.’ With her hat now falling down to eye level, Mildred felt her way through the crowd.

  ‘Hello,’ Olive sang out, her long pointed nose drooping over fleshy lips. ‘It’s Esme Timmons, isn’t it?’

  Esme nodded. ‘And I believe that you are Olive from the agency?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’ Olive looked around. ‘That’s odd, I could swear I saw Mildred Banks over here,’ she continued without taking a breath.

  ‘You did, Olive,’ replied Esme. ‘But she was called away.’

  ‘Oh. What a shame. I was looking forward to continuing the conversation we had at Beatrice’s last luncheon. It was all about my brother’s ex-wife. A dreadful woman. Oh, well, never mind. I’m sure I’ll be able to catch up with her in the interval.’

  ‘I’ll let her know,’ replied Esme. ‘She’ll be delighted. It must be the end of a difficult week, for you,’ said Esme after a lull in the conversation.

  ‘It hasn’t been easy.’

  ‘I can imagine. Alison did mention that you were among the staff who lent support the night that Beatrice fell. Are you all here this afternoon to watch the play?’ Esme did another look around the crowd.

  ‘No. There’s only me and Fiona Worth here. Alison had a prior engagement and Giles Enfield has gone away for a few days. The shock of that night. It got to him. Or so he said. I’d have liked a few days off myself, but with Max being suspended...’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ said Esme.

  ‘Oh, of course, you wouldn’t know about that would you?’ Olive moved closer to Esme in a conspiratorial fashion. ‘Beatrice suspended him on Monday for suspected embezzlement! I heard it all. The row, that is. My office is right next to Max’s. I thought they were going to come through the wall. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Beatrice in such a state as I did that day. Please don’t breathe a word to anyone, Esme. I wouldn’t like it to get back to Max that I told you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it, but I must say, I find it hard to believe that Max Ziegler would do such a thing. He’s been a trusted employee for years. Of course, being suspended doesn’t mean that he’s guilty, does it? There’ll have to be an audit, surely.’

  ‘To be quite honest, I don’t know what will happen,’ replied Olive, dabbing her nose with a tissue. ‘I really don’t. It’s all such a mess.’

  ‘Well, hopefully, everything will be sorted out very soon.’ As Esme spoke, the bell rang to call those assembled into the theatre. ‘Oh, we’d better move in. I might see you again at intermission.’

  ‘I take it you got caught by Olive,’ said Mildred with an amused look on her face as Esme took her seat.

  ‘I did and I’m glad of it. The woman’s a marvellous source of information.’

  ‘I told you she’s a gossip,’ replied Mildred. ‘What did you find out?’

  ‘She told me that on the day that Beatrice died, she had suspended Max Ziegler for suspected embezzlement.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It makes me wonder if that’s the reason she appeared so anxious when I last saw her,’ said Esme. ‘Perhaps she already suspected something was wrong with the accounts.’

  ‘And there’s something else, Esme. If your suspicions are right, and Beatrice was murdered, having been suspended, Max would have a strong motive to kill her.’

  ‘My thought exactly,’ replied Esme as the curtain went up.

  CHAPTER 6

  Balancing a cup of coffee in one hand, his briefcase under his arm and the morning newspaper caught beneath his chin, Fitzjohn managed to open the door to his office and reach his desk before disaster struck. Even so, his briefcase toppled to the floor. Placing the steaming cup on the desk, he removed the newspaper from under his chin and sat down with a sigh. Savouring the quietude, he spread the paper across his desk and settled himself. Ten minutes later, after completing the cryptic crossword in record time and with a stunning result, he folded the paper and put it aside with a smile. I hope the rest of the day turns out this well, he thought as his failure to find any reference to the Wilson case returned to his thoughts. Had he forgotten the case and if so, what was he going to say at the inquiry in his defence? After considering this for a moment or two, he opened his briefcase, removed the files from within and decided to start his investigation into Preston Alexander’s demise. By mid-morning, after much reading, he felt that he had a far greater understanding of the victim and finally sat back. When he did so, the office door opened and Betts walked into the room.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘Morning, Betts. Any news?’

  ‘I have a bit more information on our victim, sir.’

  ‘Good. We’ll go through that and everything else we’ve gathered so far.’

  Betts sat down in one of the chairs on the other side of Fitzjohn’s desk and took out his notebook. ‘From what I can gather, Mr Alexander was a reasonably wealthy man. I contacted the taxation office and they confirmed that during the 2014-15 financial year, he made approximately nine-point-five million dollars.’ Betts ran his hand over his chin. ‘I’d love to know how he got started.’

  ‘I can answer that,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘He sold his business when he retired and invested, wisely. But for many years before that, it seems he did the hard yards. After graduating with an architectural degree from the University of Sydney, he spent the next forty years working in the family firm, eventually taking over as Managing Director when his father retired. On his own retirement, not married and with no off-spring, he sold the business and became an entrepreneur.’

  ‘How did you find all that out?’ asked Betts, his brow furrowed.

  ‘”Who’s Who.”’ Fitzjohn tapped the thick volume on his desk. ‘I still prefer it to Wikipedia because there’s no possibility it’ll crash when you find who you’re looking for.’ Fitzjohn gave his computer a dismissive look. ‘I’d say our victim was a very astute man.’

  ‘No doubt about it with a portfolio like this,’ replied Betts, looking down at his notebook again. ‘It includes investments in seven commercial properties. Four here in Sydney’s CBD and three in Melbourne’s. He also owned innumerable houses that he rented out on Sydney’s north shore as well as his investment in the Maybrick Literary Agency.’ Betts scratched his head. ‘I find that investment a bit of an oddity, to tell you the truth.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Because the majority of his other investments are high-end commercial properties. Even the homes in his real estate portfolio are in the upper echelons of the market. The literary agency is his only “non-property” investment.’

  Fitzjohn thought for a moment. ‘It’s true what you say but he might have agreed to that investment as a favour to his nephew. Remember what Portland Moore said about Beatrice Maybrick’s being his agent. Anyway, if we can locate his accountant, I daresay that he’ll be able to shed some light on the victim’s reason for that particular investment. Have you made any headway in that direction?’

  ‘As a matter of fact I have, sir. After speaking to practically every accountant in Northbridge. His name’s Duncan Cameron. He works from home and says that he’s looked after Preston Alexander’s affairs for the past fifteen years.’

  ‘That’s good. We’ll speak to him, Betts. Make the arrangements, will you?’ />
  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The heavy oak door opened to reveal a man in his mid-sixties with a ruddy complexion and a shock of thick white hair.

  ‘Mr Cameron, I believe you’re expecting us,’ said Fitzjohn with a smile.

  ‘I am indeed,’ Cameron replied with a soft Scottish burr. ‘Chief Inspector Fitzjohn, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, and this is DS Betts.’ Fitzjohn turned slightly.

  ‘Of course. We spoke on the telephone earlier, Sergeant. Won’t you both come in?’

  The two officers stepped inside and followed Cameron through the house and into his office where a soft morning breeze flowed in through the French doors. Fitzjohn took in the montage of black and white photographs of the Scottish Highlands along with a clan crest wall plaque behind a large mahogany desk.

  Cameron gestured to two brown, tufted, leather chairs. ‘I understand you’re investigating Preston Alexander’s death,’ he said, taking his seat. ‘I still can’t quite believe he’s gone. I’ve known Preston for years. Other than being his accountant, we often played golf together.’