Deadly Investment (A Fitzjohn Mystery Book 5)

by Jill Paterson

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Smoke!’ yelled Betts.

  Fitzjohn swung around, his briefcase falling to the pavement as he glowered in horror at Rhonda Butler’s house where a grey haze hovered above its roofline, fed by black smoke that billowed through its tiles while flames licked the eaves. Betts jumped out of the car, pulled out his mobile phone and dialled triple zero as he stumbled through the garden after his boss. Reaching the porch, Fitzjohn shrugged out of his suit coat, rolled it around his forearm and smashed the glass panel in the front door, turning away from the shards of glass that flew into the air. Fumbling for the lock, he pushed the door open and pressing his coat against his nose and mouth, dropped to his knees and crawled into the wall of black, acrid smoke, its pungent reek burning his nostrils. Surrounded by the sound of exploding glass, he felt his heart pump amid the groan of timber and the fire’s hiss as he dragged himself deeper into the inky darkness where a charcoal-like grit coated the inside of his mouth, its taste nauseating. With tears stinging the singed skin on his face, a surge of fear went through him. It was then, in this claustrophobic atmosphere, that he sensed Betts’s tall frame at his side and felt him tug at his arm, guiding his hand to a convulsing body just ahead. Blossom! As flames lapped from beneath closed doors, and a sense of disorientation started to take hold, the two men each took an arm and dragged the woman back along the hall, their exhaustion fuelling their desperation. It was then, in this turmoil that a dim light appeared ahead and the silhouette of a man’s form. Choking and gasping for air Fitzjohn felt his body being lifted before unconsciousness seized him.

  CHAPTER 12

  With a steady rain falling, Esme leaned on her walking cane with one hand, clutched her umbrella with the other, and felt her toes squelch in her rain soaked shoes while she stood at the curb and waited for the traffic to clear. She could see Mildred sitting in the window seat of The Green Door Cafe on the other side of the street. Warm and dry, she appeared to be in deep conversation with the waiter. At last, Esme decided to make a run for it and hopped off the curb, breaking into a trot across the street. As she did so a shooting pain went through her arthritic hip, a sharp reminder that she was eighty-one. Ignoring this fact, she burst through the cafe door to be met by the laughter and chatter of enthusiastic diners. Placing her dripping umbrella into a bucket at the door, she cast her gaze over the heads of those seated to where Mildred sat smiling upward at the dark haired, athletic-looking, young waiter. Oblivious to Esme’s presence, she jumped when Esme reached the table.

  ‘Esme, I didn’t see you come in and I’ve been keeping an eye on the door.’

  Esme sat down and placed her rain speckled handbag and cane on the window-sill next to her chair. ‘You haven’t been watching at all Mildred. I’ve been standing across the street for the past ten minutes trying to cross and I could see you speaking to that new waiter.’

  ‘He’s French,’ replied Mildred with a dreamy smile. ‘I was captivated by his accent. You look damp, Esme.’

  ‘I am but I’ll dry off soon enough in here although I doubt my shoes will.’ Esme wriggled her feet out of her wet shoes and looked around. ‘It’s a good thing you got here early, Mildred. Otherwise I doubt we’d have got a table.’

  ‘I expected it’d be busy on a rainy day so I caught an early train,’ replied Mildred. ‘I’ve placed our order. I hope you don’t mind, but with the place packed, I thought it best. I got your favourite. Quiche Lorraine with salad and English Breakfast tea.’

  ‘That’s splendid. Thank you,’ said Esme.

  ‘You said on the telephone that you have news. Have you heard from that Chief Inspector friend of yours about Beatrice’s death?’

  ‘No, and I don’t expect to for some time. I think his enquiries will be at a standstill for a while because he and his sergeant were involved in rescuing a woman from a house fire. Didn’t you see it on the news?’

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t realise it was the policemen that you know. You’ve never mentioned their names. They seem to be all right though. The news reporter said that they’d pulled a woman from the building and that all three were taken to St Vincent’s with smoke inhalation.’

  ‘Mmm. That’s what I heard too. I’d phone the hospital but I doubt they’d tell me anything with me not being a relative. Hopefully there’ll be an update on the evening news. And as far as our enquiries about Beatrice go, we’ll just have to be patient.’

  ‘So, what is your news, Esme?’ repeated Mildred.

  ‘I received a telephone call from Alison last night.’

  ‘Oh? Was it about your protracted eulogy at Beatrice’s memorial service?’

  ‘No. She rang to ask you and me if we’d both come to Beatrice’s apartment tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Did she say why?’ leaning forward in her chair.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I wonder if she’s found out that you’ve spoken to the police about Beatrice’s death.’

  ‘I doubt it. The Chief Inspector would never divulge his source.’ Esme sighed. ‘We’ll just have to wait until tomorrow to find out.’

  ‘I don’t suppose she said how she’s managing at the agency, did she?’ asked Mildred.

  ‘No, she didn’t. Not surprising though. I’m the last person that she’d confide in. Still, I did wonder because it can’t be easy with Max Ziegler being suspended. I do feel for her predicament.’

  ‘Well, I just hope that Olive isn’t hovering when we arrive there tomorrow. I couldn’t get rid of her off the telephone last night. She went on and on about how she has lost her closest friend in Beatrice’s passing.’

  ‘I didn’t think she and Beatrice were that close,’ said Esme.

  ‘They weren’t. She’s imagining it, Esme. We both know that Beatrice didn’t believe in fraternizing with her staff. She always said that in business, it was wise not to include your friends.’

  ‘That’s right, she did,’ replied Esme. ‘Still, I don’t suppose it matters if that’s how Olive wants to remember her.’

  Esme and Mildred arrived at the Maybrick Literary Agency the following afternoon and while Esme paid the taxi driver, Mildred made her way to the open wrought iron gates and stood in awe of the building’s gothic facade.

  ‘I remember the last time I was here,’ she said as Esme approached. ‘It was on a Sunday last autumn when Beatrice held that afternoon tea and all the cast from her latest play came along.’ Mildred sighed. ‘We did have some good times, didn’t we, Esme? It’s going to be sad going into her apartment now that she’s no longer with us.’ Mildred’s eyes came to rest on the gargoyles high above. ‘Oh, I do hate those things. I’d have had them removed if I was Beatrice.’

  ‘Come along, Mildred. No doubt Alison’s waiting for us. It wouldn’t do to be late.’

  As Esme expected, they found Alison standing in the vestibule, tapping her fingers on the marble table.

  ‘Good afternoon, ladies,’ she said in her usual officious manner.

  ‘I’m sorry we’re a bit late,’ said Esme. ‘Our taxi didn’t arrive on time.’ Esme studied Alison’s face. ‘Is something the matter, dear?’

  ‘Yes, but I’ll tell you upstairs.’

  With that, Alison turned and ascended the staircase somewhat majestically. Esme and Mildred dutifully followed, in Mildred’s case rather slowly, her eyes fixating on each step as she imagined Beatrice’s fall.

  ‘Are you all right, Mildred?’ asked Esme as she reached the landing and looked back. Mildred, her face drained of all colour, did not reply.

  Alison opened the apartment door and stepped inside. Esme followed while Mildred hovered on the threshold.

  ‘Come along, Mrs Banks,’ said Alison, impatiently. ‘I haven’t all day.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ replied Mildred. ‘You’ll have to forgive me. I find it difficult to be here now that Beatrice is gone.’

  ‘You said that there’s a problem, Alison,’ said Esme.

  ‘Yes, there is. It
’s to do with Beatrice’s jewellery and as you two ladies are her oldest friends, I thought you might be able to help. I’ve been going through it all and there’s a ring missing. It belonged to my mother.’

  ‘A family heirloom?’ asked Esme.

  ‘Yes, and as such, I can’t think why my father gave it to Beatrice, but that aside, it’s a gold ring with a small ruby encircled with diamonds. My question is, do you remember the last time you saw Beatrice wearing it?’

  ‘I do remember that ring, but I don’t recall Beatrice wearing it for quite some time,’ replied Esme. ‘And you say that it’s a Maybrick family heirloom.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It can’t be,’ blurted Mildred.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Banks?’ said Alison, glaring at Mildred.

  ‘I said...’

  ‘I heard what you said and you’re mistaken. Of course it’s a Maybrick family heirloom.’

  ‘I have to agree with Mildred,’ said Esme. ‘Beatrice used to wear that ring years before she met your father. In fact, the first time I saw her wearing it was the day we met. Almost fifty years ago at teacher’s college.’

  ‘That’s ludicrous. You’re mistaken, Miss Timmons.’

  ‘No she isn’t because I was there that day,’ said Mildred. ‘In fact, I remarked on the ring because it was such a beautiful setting. I remember Beatrice held up her hand, looked at it and smiled. She said that it was a very special ring even though the stones weren’t real.’

  ‘Well, I can see that I can’t rely on either of you to help,’ said Alison as her face reddened. ‘You both may as well leave.’

  ‘I’m sorry if we’ve upset you, Alison,’ said Esme. ‘It’s just that sometimes we don’t always remember things as they really were. It happens to us all.’

  Esme and Mildred made their way out of the agency to meet their taxi, Mildred with a determined stride. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as repugnant as that woman,’ she said, climbing into the waiting car and shuffling across the seat. ‘We came here in good faith and she insults us because she doesn’t like the truth.’

  ‘I doubt we could persuade her otherwise,’ said Esme as she climbed in after Mildred. ‘It’s probably best to leave her to believe what she wishes. After all, it doesn’t matter the slightest to us, and as far as the ring being missing, I daresay it’ll turn up when Alison’s had a chance to go through Beatrice’s things properly.’

  ‘That, I know, won’t happen,’ said Mildred.

  ‘How can you be so sure?’ asked Esme.

  ‘Because while she was telling us to leave, it suddenly occurred to me that I saw someone wearing Beatrice’s ring at the memorial service.’

  Esme stared at Mildred in disbelief. ‘Who?’

  ‘Olive Glossop.’ Esme slumped back in the seat. ‘It was when she got into the car to drive me to the reception after the service. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. All I could think about was Beatrice being dead.’

  ‘Are you sure about this, Mildred?’

  ‘Yes. I’m positive. Do you think we should tell the police?’

  ‘I’m not certain. To make such an accusation against Olive would be unforgivable if we’re wrong. Then again, the Chief Inspector is looking into Beatrice’s death, so perhaps we should at least mention it. You’ll have to speak to him though, Mildred. It’s no good me passing along what you’ve seen. But, we’ll have to wait until we know that both he and his sergeant are all right. I pray that that fire had no lasting effects on either of them.’

  CHAPTER 13

  Following a night in the hospital for smoke inhalation and observation, a cheer went up when Fitzjohn walked into Day Street Police Station two days later. Overwhelmed by the welcome his colleagues were bestowing upon him, he made his way to his office through the gauntlet of handshakes and pats on his back. Once inside he closed the door and paused for a moment to take in the familiar space, grateful to be alive. Slipping off his suit coat, he hung it on the back of his chair, sat down and rubbed his hands together with enthusiasm at the prospect of carrying on with his investigation into Preston Alexander’s death. His first task, however, was to see to Betts’s well-being so he picked up the telephone and rang the Duty Officer.

  ‘Has DS Betts arrived yet, Sergeant?’ he asked, feeling the scrape of his throat, still raw from the smoke that he had inhaled.

  ‘Not yet, sir.’

  ‘Ask him to come and see me when he does, please.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Fitzjohn put the phone down and sat back with a tinge of disquiet as he recalled Betts’s injured leg. Had things not gone well overnight and the powers that be had changed their minds about his release from the hospital? Would the injury affect his career?

  As these thoughts ran through his mind the door flew open and Chief Superintendent Grieg walked into the room. Inwardly Fitzjohn groaned.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said, getting to his feet. Grieg bristled. Had the Police Integrity Board come to their conclusion, thought Fitzjohn? Was Grieg here to gloat? After all, if the Wilson case had been his, he knew that not only was his career as a police officer over but, more importantly, he would have to live with the fact that he had sent the wrong man to prison. If only I could find more information on the case, he thought again. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ he continued.

  ‘No,’ spat Grieg. ‘Do you think I didn’t hear what you said about me at the inquiry the other day? How dare you imply that I had no basis for naming you as the investigating officer into the Wilson case? I’m here to tell you, Fitzjohn, that your days in this job are numbered. I know your little game, so if you think you’re going to squirm out of this one, you’re wrong. I’m going to watch you fry! No police force will employ you after the Police Integrity Board comes down with its findings. I’ll make sure of it.’

  ‘Ah! There you are, Betts,’ said Fitzjohn, looking past Grieg with a look of concern across his face. ‘Come in and sit down.’ Put off balance by this unexpected interruption, Grieg swung around to see Betts limp across the room. ‘I thought they might have decided to keep you in the hospital for another day or so,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘How’s your leg?’

  ‘It’s going to be fine, sir,’ replied Betts, acknowledging Grieg. ‘A minor burn on my calf when those flying cinders fell on me as we were being dragged out of the house.’

  ‘You may not be aware, Chief Superintendent, but this young man saved two lives during the fire. Mine and that of my neighbour, Adele Carter,’ continued Fitzjohn, as Betts settled himself into a chair ‘Without him we wouldn’t be here.’ With a look of indifference, Grieg started toward the door. ‘Oh. You’re on your way, sir,’ said Fitzjohn. Grieg hissed. As the door closed behind him, Fitzjohn turned back to Betts.

  ‘Sorry, for the interruption, sir. The Duty Officer told me to come and see you as soon as I arrived. I didn’t realise you were in a meeting with the Chief Superintendent.’

  ‘I’m glad you did, Betts. It was a meeting I didn’t need to have. Not this morning anyway.’

  ‘I take it the Chief didn’t like your responses at the inquiry the other day.’

  ‘No, he didn’t, but that was to be expected.’

  ‘Have you heard how Blossom is?’ Fitzjohn continued as he sat down again.

  ‘I went to visit her before I left the hospital, sir. They’re keeping her in for a few more days for observation, but I think she’s going to be fine. Her sister’s been contacted and she’s on her way home now to care for Blossom.’ Betts smiled. ‘It’s hard to believe that she’s Rhonda Butler’s sister. They’re very much alike in looks but that’s as far as it goes. Their personalities couldn’t be more different.’ Betts paused. ‘Have they any idea how the fire started?’

  ‘It’s thought that Blossom fell asleep while smoking.’ Fitzjohn’s thoughts went back to his first meeting with Blossom a few days earlier, and the questionable brand of cigarette she was smoking at the time.

  ‘What about the house? Were they abl
e to save it?’

  ‘The front half only suffered smoke and water damage, but the back, where the fire started, has all but been destroyed,’ replied Fitzjohn.

  ‘That’s the part that Rhonda had rebuilt after the tree fell through the roof a couple of years ago, isn’t it?’ asked Betts. Fitzjohn nodded. ‘I’d like to be a fly on the wall when she speaks to Blossom.’

  ‘Mmm. Rhonda’s wrath is probably the last thing Blossom needs right now, but better that than to perish in the fire. She has you to thank for that, Betts. I couldn’t have dragged her out on my own. No doubt we’d both have suffocated if that were the case.’

  ‘It was a team effort, sir. I’m only glad that we arrived when we did. Speaking of which, the forensic report is back on Beatrice Maybrick’s apartment.’ Betts held up the report before handing it to Fitzjohn. ‘They’ve found three different sets of fingerprints on a number of surfaces. Two sets belonging to Alison Maybrick and Olive Glossop and a third that they haven’t been able to match up as yet.’

  ‘Well, it’s probably not surprising to find Alison’s prints,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘After all, she was related to Beatrice, but why would Olive Glossop’s be in the apartment?’

  ‘Olive said she’d worked for Beatrice for the past twenty years. They might have become friends as well as employer and employee.’

  ‘True. Even so, we’ll speak to her again along with Alison but before we do, we need to pick up the threads from where we left off before the fire. As I remember, we’d planned to speak to both Giles Enfield and Max Ziegler.’

  ‘That’s right, sir, starting with Ziegler.’

  Fitzjohn and Betts arrived in Wollstonecraft in the day’s building heat. Are you sure you’re all right, Betts?’ asked Fitzjohn, noticing his young sergeant wince as he climbed out of the car.

  ‘I’ll be fine, sir. It’s best to keep moving.’

  ‘All right. If you’re sure.’ Fitzjohn took his suit coat out of the back seat of the car and shrugged it on and the two officers made their way to the front entrance of the apartment building. Fitzjohn started the climb to the third floor followed by Betts who made slower progress than his previous sprint. At Max Ziegler’s door, Fitzjohn rang the bell and both men stood back and waited. Presently, it opened and Ziegler appeared, a cigarette hovering on his lower lip.