‘I don’t need to describe him, Chief Inspector, because I know who he is although I doubt he’ll thank me for getting him involved in a murder investigation. It was Rhodes Lambert.’
‘The politician?’
‘Yes.’
‘What time was this, Mr Lombard?’ continued Fitzjohn.
‘It was a few minutes before eleven o’clock last night.’
‘I see. We understand Mr Fairchild had recently moved into The Claremont.’
‘Yes, he bought the apartment about nine months ago although he didn’t move in until the renovations were finished.’
‘And did you get to know him well in that space of time?’
‘We had the occasional game of chess, usually on a Sunday morning but unfortunately, that went by the wayside recently.’
‘Oh? Why was that?’
‘Crispin never said. I can only think it was because I declined to support him in regards to a matter relating to The Claremont.’ When Fitzjohn did not reply, Hector continued, ‘You see, he was bent on refurbishing the building starting with the foyer. In theory, I was in full agreement as the place does need updating. In reality, however, I felt it might put financial pressure on some of the other residents so I couldn’t offer my support. I suspect he took offence.’
‘So you told him your feelings on the matter,’ said Fitzjohn.
‘Yes, because I thought it was best to be open about it. After that, we rarely spoke. A shame really. I had enjoyed his company.’
‘When you were on congenial terms, did he ever mention that he had problems with anyone at all?’
‘No, he never spoke of anything personal. I always felt he was guarded in what he said to me. Not surprising really, I suppose, considering his celebrity.’
‘You live directly beneath Mr Fairchild’s apartment. Did you hear anything out of the ordinary last night after you’d returned from your walk?’
‘Only the sound of Crispin’s violin. He often played it late at night. I’m sorry I can’t be of any more help, Chief Inspector.’
‘There is one thing that might assist us,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘We understand you monitor the surveillance camera in the foyer.’
‘That, I do, yes.’
‘We’d like to see the footage for the last forty-eight hours. Is that possible?’
‘It certainly is although I can’t guarantee the quality of the film. It’s an old system and badly needs replacing. Strangely enough, it was an item at the top of Crispin’s list, along with a security locking system for the front door.’
****
Leaving Betts to obtain the surveillance footage, Fitzjohn left Hector Lombard’s apartment and retraced his steps to the foyer. As he did so, he glanced out of the glass doors to see a young woman carrying a violin case emerge from a taxi into the rain. After pushing her way through the waiting media, she approached the constable on duty at the base of the steps.
‘Please step back, miss,’ said the constable.
‘But I live here,’ Fitzjohn heard her reply.
‘In that case, can I have your name, please, miss?’
‘For goodness sake. I’m getting drenched and you want my name!’ she yelled. ‘It’s Eleanor Reed.’
With that, the constable lifted the tape and Eleanor ducked underneath and ran up the steps into the foyer.
‘Ms Reed?’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘Yes,’ she replied, brushing the rain from her jacket with her free hand.
‘I’m DCI Fitzjohn. I’m the investigating officer into the death of your neighbour, Crispin Fairchild. I take it you’re aware of the situation?’
‘I am,’ she replied, adjusting the handbag she had slung over her shoulder. ‘I heard about it on the news while I waited for my flight in Melbourne. They didn’t mention the police were involved though.’
‘That’s because Mr Fairchild died under suspicious circumstances, Ms Reed.’
‘I see. Well, I don’t know how much help I can be.’
‘Just background on Mr Fairchild will be helpful at this stage, Ms Reed.’
‘Very well, I’m sure I can do that. We can talk in my apartment if you like. It’s along here, Chief Inspector.’
Once inside, Eleanor led the way through to the living room where she placed her bag and violin case onto a chair in front of the rain-spattered window. ‘The weather only adds to this deplorable situation, doesn’t it?’ she said, shrugging out of her damp coat before they sat down. ‘I still can’t believe what’s happened to him.’
‘It is difficult to come to grips with this sort of situation when it happens to someone you know,’ said Fitzjohn as he settled himself onto the sofa. ‘I understand you’re a member of the orchestra that Crispin Fairchild conducted.’
‘Yes, I am. I’ve been with the symphony for the past four years although Crispin only took up his position as conductor fairly recently.’
‘So I understand. Six months ago, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Still, perhaps a reasonable amount of time for you to get to know him a little.’
‘Of course.’
‘Can you tell me when you last spoke to him?’
‘It would have been yesterday at rehearsals. We had a short meeting about today’s performance in Melbourne. Just a few members of the string section had an engagement at the Royal Theatre there,’ she replied, perching herself on the arm of the chair where her violin lay. ‘As first violinist, it was my responsibility to see that everything went well,’
‘And what about the other members of the orchestra?’
‘It was a rest day for them, and for Crispin also.’
‘I see. So, did you see or speak to Mr Fairchild again that day?’
‘No.’
‘Even though you both live here in the same apartment building?’
‘That’s right. I left the Opera House just before five o’clock, straight after rehearsals and came back here to attend a building meeting. Crispin didn’t attend. After that, I met some friends down at Circular Quay for a quiet drink but I didn’t stay late because of my early flight this morning. I guess I got back here at about ten thirty.’
‘I see. So you were here at The Claremont from approximately ten thirty onwards until you left this morning for Melbourne,’ continued Fitzjohn.
‘That’s right, yes.’
‘Did you leave your apartment at all during the night?’
‘No.’
‘As a member of his orchestra, Ms Reed, were you aware of anyone who might have wished him harm?’
‘Not offhand, no. He was a hard taskmaster and he did ruffle a few feathers when he became our conductor but I can’t imagine that would provoke anyone to want to kill him.’
‘So are you saying that generally there wasn’t any animosity within the orchestra which you’re aware of?’
‘Yes,’ replied Eleanor, nodding her head.
‘Very well, I think that covers everything I need to know for now,’ said Fitzjohn, rising from the sofa. ‘I won’t keep you any longer. I’ll be in touch if the need arises.’
****
Fitzjohn left Eleanor Reed’s apartment and returned to the foyer where he found Betts. ‘Were you able to get a copy of the surveillance footage?’ he asked.
‘Yes sir. I also viewed the footage for last night and as we suspected, the film is poor but it does show two people, a man and a woman, entering the building around the time of the murder.’
‘Together?’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘No. The woman entered at approximately midnight and the man just before twelve thirty.’
‘Well, that falls into line with what Elvira Travers said, doesn’t it? She claims she heard a knock on the victim’s door around midnight so it’s possible that the woman was here to call on the victim. And since none of the residents claim to have had a visitor that night, we can only assume, at this stage anyway, that the man in the footage was also calling on the victim.
‘And possibly his
killer,’ put in Betts.
‘Precisely. Oh, and before I forget, Eleanor Reed arrived home while you were with Mr Lombard so I’ve had a word with her.’ Fitzjohn recounted their conversation. ‘She doesn’t appear to be overly affected by what’s happened which surprises me somewhat. After all, Crispin Fairchild was not only her neighbour but, I assume, as first violinist in the orchestra, someone she would have worked closely with. Still, it might just be that the reality of the situation hasn’t hit her yet.’ Fitzjohn looked out through the glass doors to the waiting media, the wet pavement around them now glistening under the street lights. ‘I’ll make a statement to the press and then we’ll get back to the station and hold the management meeting.’
****
‘Apologies everyone for the late hour,’ said Fitzjohn as he stood in the incident room before his investigative team, a mix of uniformed and plain-clothes officers. ‘I know you’re all tired but circumstances dictated the day making it impossible to complete our interviews until this evening. As you are by now aware, our victim, Crispin Fairchild, a well-known figure having been the conductor of the Sydney Symphony Orchestra was bludgeoned to death in his Macquarie Street apartment at approximately twelve thirty last night. The postmortem has revealed that the cause of death was blunt force trauma to the back of the skull. He was also found to have a wire, thought to be a violin string, wrapped around his neck although it did not play a part in his demise. Its significance remains a mystery for now but will hopefully become clear as we progress with the investigation.’
Fitzjohn turned to the whiteboard. ‘As far as persons of interest in the case are concerned, firstly, we have two candidates, a woman and a man whose images were caught on the building’s surveillance camera around the time the murder took place. We also have a third individual seen speaking to the victim at approximately eleven o’clock last night outside The Claremont. He’s been identified by Hector Lombard, one of the residents, as Rhodes Lambert, a politician in the New South Wales State Parliament. Because of the quality of the surveillance footage, it’s yet to be determined whether Mr Lambert could be the man in the photograph you see here,’ continued Fitzjohn as he pointed to the image of the man wearing a trench coat with its collar upturned. ‘Other than that, there are five residents, all of whom have stated they were in their respective apartments last night and are seen to have had the opportunity and means to commit the crime. Background checks on each will hopefully reveal whether any one of them had a motive. That’s all for now, and again, sorry for the late hour.’
****
Betts suppressed a yawn as he and Fitzjohn followed the investigative team out of the incident room. ‘I know it’s past midnight, Betts, but I want to go through everything we have so far before we call it a night.’ Fitzjohn watched his young sergeant’s shoulders sink. ‘We can sit in the canteen if you like and have a cup of coffee. It might help to keep you awake.’
‘Are you buying, sir?’
‘Of course, since it’s my idea to stay back.’
‘That’s great because I’m famished.’ Betts smiled. ‘We did miss lunch and supper.’
‘True but I don’t think eating at this hour of the night will do my waistline any good but I will get something for you.’
Betts settled himself into a chair at one of the tables in the deserted canteen and took out his notebook before Fitzjohn arrived with a tray containing a hamburger with fries and two steaming mugs of coffee.
‘Here, this should make you feel more alive,’ he said, looking longingly at the hamburger as its aroma stirred his own appetite.
‘Are you sure you don’t want something to eat, sir. You could have eggs and bacon and call it an early breakfast. That would save you feeling guilty.’
‘No, I don’t think so. I’ll be strong and wait till dawn,’ replied Fitzjohn as he sat down. ‘Now, let’s get started. What do we have?’
Betts squinted at his notebook as he took his first bite. ‘Firstly, we have a violin string wrapped around the victim’s neck but the violin we’ve retrieved from the crime scene isn’t missing a string.’ Betts turned the page of his notebook while, at the same time, noticing his boss’s gaze had been inexorably drawn to the plate of fries. ‘I don’t mind sharing the odd fry with you, sir.’
‘Get on with it Betts. I don’t want to be here all night.’
‘Sorry, sir. Next, we have surveillance footage which shows a male and a female entering the building around the time of the victim’s death. We also have another male seen speaking to the victim moments before the victim entered the building where he was attacked. That person is identified as a known politician, Rhodes Lambert. Next, Elvia Travers says she heard someone knocking on the victim’s door around midnight. It could have been one of the persons in the two photographs.’
‘Which brings us to the residents,’ said Fitzjohn, all of whom admit to being in the building at the time of the murder and each of whom had means as well as opportunity to commit the crime.’
‘That’s right,’ replied Betts, sitting back with a satisfied look. ‘But what motive would any one of them have?’
‘Possibly financial hardship concerning the refurbishment costs,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘In the end, the worry got too much for one of them. Or, it could have been a group decision.’
‘What do you mean?’ That they all got together and conspired to kill Crispin Fairchild?’
‘I know it sounds bizarre but I think it’s something we need to keep in mind because as a collective, they all had one thing in common. They strongly opposed Crispin Fairchild’s refurbishment proposal.’
‘Except for Hector Lombard who opposed it because of his neighbour's angst, apparently,’ replied Betts.
‘That’s true. Which brings us to his claim that he saw the victim speaking to Rhodes Lambert outside the building just before eleven o’clock last night. We need to ascertain whether he was, in fact, the man caught on the surveillance footage. In the morning, why don’t you show Lombard the image again? You never know, since its enhancement he might be able to confirm or refute it. And it wouldn’t hurt to find out if the other residents recognise them either. While you’re doing that, I’ll speak to Lambert to see what he has to say.’ Fitzjohn looked at his watch. ‘We’d better make a move and get home before dawn breaks.’
‘Can I give you a lift, sir?’ said Betts as he closed his notebook.
‘Thanks, but I’ll get a taxi.’
****
As the taxi wended its way through the city streets, now deserted save for those charged with the task of preparing it for the day ahead, Fitzjohn settled back into his seat and looked forward to arriving home to his Birchgrove cottage. As he came through the front door, the clock on the mantelpiece in the living room struck four. Instead of climbing the stairs and crawling into bed, he rested his briefcase on the hall table, loosened his tie and walked through the house and into the back garden. The rain had long since stopped and a rich pungent smell of damp earth hung in the air as he strolled along the stone path and into the warm humid atmosphere of the greenhouse. At once, the orchid he had planned to bench at the North Shore Orchid Society competition during the coming days took his notice where it sat in pride of place on the shelf. ‘It looks like you’re going to have to wait a little longer for your glory,’ he said as he picked it up and placed it back amongst the other plants. ‘I have a murder case to solve.’
CHAPTER 7
Elvira left The Claremont in haste the next morning and headed along Macquarie Street towards the Mitchell Library’s café where she had arranged to meet her editor and friend, Moira Beeton. It was to have been a celebration of sorts as it was twenty years to the day that Moira had contacted Elvira to confirm that her first novel, The Spiral Staircase, had been accepted for publication. And what a day that had been! Her wish to become a published author had finally come true. But, unfortunately, with all that had happened in the past twenty-four hours, Elvira had lost her enthusiasm for celebrating. I
nstead, her mind was filled with the possibilities of who had killed Crispin. Was it one of the two strangers in the photographs the police sergeant had shown her the previous afternoon? Or, more chilling, was it one of her neighbours? The thought sent a shiver down Elvira’s spine even though she had to admit the possibility was real. After all, there was no denying the resentment they held for Crispin. With this thought in mind, she reached the café and saw Moira sitting near the window, dressed in her trademark corporate style, reading the morning newspaper.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ said Elvira as she pulled out a chair and sat down amid the swish of her brightly coloured caftan.
‘Don’t be,’ replied Moira, her face full of concern. ‘To be honest, I’m surprised you came at all. I thought you’d phone and cancel when I heard about the murder in your apartment building.’
‘You know about it then?' asked Elvira.
‘Of course. It’s all over the news. Look!’ Moira held up the front page of the paper showing the headline, “Death at The Claremont,” above an image of the building.
‘Oh, my. They make it sound so gruesome,’ said Elvira with a grimace. ‘But they’re right. It was ghastly.’
‘How do you know? Did you see the body?’ asked Moira as she folded the paper and pushed it aside.
‘I found the body,’ replied Elvira, rolling her eyes.
‘You’re kidding! Where? In the hallway?’
‘No. He was lying in a pool of blood on the living room floor in his apartment.’ The eyes of all those in the café turned as Elvira’s voice rose to a crescendo.
‘What were you doing in his apartment early in the morning?’ asked Moira, in a low whisper as she pulled her chair closer to the table.
‘Nothing to do with what I imagine you’re thinking,’ replied Elvira. ‘I was simply delivering the minutes of the committee’s meeting from the previous evening.’ Elvira recounted the scene but chose to omit her subsequent scream. After all, she did have her image as a crime writer to safeguard and screaming at the sight of a dead body could blow it completely.
The Fourth String Page 4