The Fourth String

by Jill Paterson

  ‘Betts? He isn’t still your sergeant, is he?’ asked Meg as Fitzjohn started his ascent up the staircase. ‘I thought that after he and Sophie broke up you’d have had him replaced.’

  Fitzjohn stopped halfway up the stairs. ‘Why on earth would I do that?’

  ‘Loyalty to Sophie, of course. I should imagine the last thing she wants is to come face-to-face with her old boyfriend when she comes here to visit you.’

  ‘Meg, it has obviously passed your notice that it was Sophie who ended their relationship, not Betts. And that aside, he happens to be one of the most promising young officers on the force. Now, I must get on.’ With that, Fitzjohn disappeared up the staircase.

  He reappeared fifteen minutes later to find Sophie coming through the front door. Dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a bottle-green sweater, her shoulder-length auburn hair framing her smiling face, he thought back to when she had first arrived in Sydney as a teenager uncertain whether she had made the right move and unsure about her future. Now, nearing the end of her degree, she had matured into a confident young woman more than ready to take up her career in forensic science.

  ‘Uncle Alistair. My, you do look dashing.’

  ‘Thank you, my dear. I trust your mother has told you I won’t be dining with you this evening. And she’s not best pleased but it can’t be helped, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well, she will insist on making these impromptu visits so she shouldn’t be surprised that you had a previous engagement, should she? Don’t let it worry you, Uncle Alistair. You know what Mum’s like, she’ll have forgotten all about it by the morning.’ As Sophie spoke the doorbell sounded.

  ‘Oh, that’ll be Betts,’ said Fitzjohn.

  Moments later, the front door opened and Betts appeared, his tall shape enveloped in a tuxedo. A long moment of silence ensued until he smiled and said, ‘Hi Sophie.’

  CHAPTER 10

  Unable to sleep, Fitzjohn shrugged into his dressing gown and tiptoed past the guest room where Meg slept soundly, before he descended the staircase, careful to avoid the steps which squeaked. In the kitchen, he paused to gaze out through the window at the garden, where the trees and foliage cast shadows in the moonlight, the glass of the greenhouse clouded, a reminder of the warmth within. Could it be possible, he thought, that Rhonda had uncovered an error made in the original plans for Birchgrove all those years ago? If so, and with his garden narrowed, he would have to capitulate and remove the greenhouse. Of course, he knew if he was being honest with himself, the fate of the greenhouse was not the only reason for his sleepless night. In all honesty, it was Peta Ashby, the new acting chief superintendent whom he had not been able to get out of his mind. At least not since she had arrived at the farewell dinner the evening before, looking chic in a black cocktail dress, her eyes sparkling as she mingled with the other guests. Such a stark contrast, he thought, from the austere uniformed figure she presented at the station. Pushing the image away he sighed, and as the clock on the living room mantelpiece struck four o’clock, he opened the back door and stepped out onto the porch where he remained until the first vestiges of light appeared.

  ****

  ‘I didn’t hear you come in last night,’ yawned Meg as she appeared in the kitchen doorway, wearing her dressing gown.

  Fitzjohn, now dressed in a dark blue suit, crisp white shirt and maroon tie, adjusted the matching handkerchief in his breast pocket. ‘It turned into a late night,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘I’ve overslept, Alistair. You should have woken me because I wanted to talk to you about Sophie. She doesn’t agree with my graduation plans.’

  ‘You can tell me all about it tonight, Meg,’ replied Fitzjohn, grabbing his briefcase.

  ‘But…’

  ‘I have a taxi waiting. I’ll see you tonight. We can talk then.’ Fitzjohn gave his sister a peck on the cheek and hurried down the hallway and out of the front door.

  ****

  Neither the prospect of Meg’s grievances regarding Sophie later that day, nor Rhonda Butler’s latest threat to his greenhouse, lessened Fitzjohn’s sense of exhilaration as he entered Day Street Police Station, and with a spring in his step, walked through the inner sanctum to his office. Placing his cup of coffee on the desk and spreading out the morning newspaper, he settled himself into his chair, however, as he did so, a knock sounded on the door and Peta Ashby appeared, this time in full uniform. Fitzjohn’s image of her in the cocktail dress faded and his mood flattened.

  ‘Morning, ma’am,’ he said, scrambling to his feet while the coffee slopped onto the newspaper.

  ‘Good morning, Fitzjohn. I’m sorry. It seems I startled you,’ she said, her eyes darting to the sodden morning paper. ‘I just wanted to thank you for inviting me to the farewell dinner last night. I know my association with Miles Benson was brief but I did appreciate being included in his farewell.’

  ‘We enjoyed having you there, ma’am.’

  ‘Thank you. Well… I’d better get on,’ she replied with a quick smile. ‘I thought perhaps we could discuss your investigation this morning. Shall we say in half an hour?’ Fitzjohn nodded and Peta Ashby turned to leave, passing Betts in the doorway. ‘Morning, Sergeant,’ she said, adjusting her uniform jacket.

  ‘Morning, ma’am.’ As she disappeared through the doorway Betts turned to Fitzjohn, a sly smile on his face. ‘Cinderella’s back. She must have lost her glass slipper.’

  Fitzjohn ignored the comment. ‘You’re early,’ he said, stirring from his fixed position behind his desk to attempt to dab the coffee up with his handkerchief.

  ‘Bit of an accident, sir?’ Betts asked as Fitzjohn gathered the sodden newspaper and deposited it into the waste paper bin.

  ‘Slight mishap, that’s all,’ replied Fitzjohn as he sat back down and gestured to the chair in front of his desk. ‘Any news?’

  ‘A couple of things, sir. I got a call from Elvira Travers after you left last night to say that the man in the photograph had approached her late that afternoon outside the building. I decided to call in to see her so I could get a few more details.’ Betts sat down and recounted his discussion with Elvira.

  ‘So he said he wanted to retrieve some documents he’d left with the victim?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘And he knew Ms Travers’s name,’ continued Fitzjohn. ‘That must have frightened the living daylights out of her.’

  ‘She was a little uneasy but I think she’s made of sterner stuff than we give her credit for. When I arrived, she was on the web trying to see if she could find him on social media even though she doubted he’d given her his real name. She also showed me where he’d waited for her outside the building before he approached and I was able to recover two cigarette butts she believes he’d thrown down. ‘I’m having them analysed.’

  ‘Well, there’s not a lot to go on but it’s a start,’ said Fitzjohn, ‘plus the fact that if he is the man in the photograph, he’s admitted to knowing the victim. I know it’s a long shot but I take it you looked through the victim’s apartment to see if you could find these documents he was referring to?’

  ‘I did, sir, but not knowing what I was looking for… I could have missed whatever it is.’

  ‘That’s true and it’s why I want every scrap of paper in that apartment looked at. If this man is our killer, it sounds like these documents could be the motive for Crispin Fairchild’s murder. Anything else as yet on Rhodes Lambert’s alibi?’

  ‘Not yet, sir. Apparently, the barman on duty that night has moved on. He was from Europe on a temporary work visa. I have Williams working on it.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope he’s able to locate him soon. What was the other matter you mentioned?’

  ‘That concerns Morris Elliott, sir. Apparently, not all was well between him and the victim. In fact, Crispin Fairchild had instigated legal proceedings to have Mr Elliott evicted from the building.’

  ‘That sounds drastic. What prompted him to do that?’

  ‘It was to do wit
h Elliott’s work, sir. As a sculptor, his activities aren’t always quiet and living below him had become problematic for Fairchild, especially since Elliott tended to work throughout the night. And that was what his lawsuit was all about. He’d found it difficult to get a good night’s sleep and claimed Elliott’s actions interfered with his livelihood.’

  ‘Are you suggesting the victim’s lawsuit was a motive for murder?’

  ‘I think it’s possible, sir, because when you come to think of it, if Fairchild had been successful in his suit, and Elliott had been forced to move out, it’s likely he’d have found it difficult if not impossible to find another apartment which would allow him to work at home.’

  ‘You might be right,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘I daresay, with the passage of time, regulations in apartment buildings have changed and no doubt it would have been a challenge to find something.’ Fitzjohn paused as he considered his own predicament with his problematic neighbour who never ceased to make life difficult for him. ‘Any other developments?’

  ‘Just one, sir. Williams and I spent some time speaking to members of the orchestra about the victim. They pretty much reiterated what Eleanor Reed told us, that the changes Crispin Fairchild made were done without warning or consultation, except for one member.’

  ‘And who was that?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘A young man in the first violin section claimed he had been approached by Crispin Fairchild and offered the position as the first violinist the day before Crispin was murdered.’

  ‘Did he say whether Eleanor Reed knew about this offer?’ asked Fitzjohn, bringing his chair forward.

  ‘He said she did, sir, because he’d spoken to her about it.’

  ‘Did you ask what her reaction to that news was?’

  ‘He said she didn’t appear surprised. He also said that there had been friction between Ms Reed and the victim from the first day he’d taken over as conductor but things had become worse a couple of days before his death. He thought perhaps that was when she’d been told she was to lose her position.’

  ‘It sounds as though she lied to us,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘Not surprising, I suppose, because under the circumstances she’d no doubt be aware our attention would be turned her way.’

  ‘Shall we speak to her again, sir?’

  ‘No, we’ll monitor her for now.’ Fitzjohn looked at his watch and got to his feet. ‘Right now I have a meeting with Cinderella,’ he said with a wink. ‘While I’m doing that I’d like you to find out what provision, if any, the victim made in regards to his estate.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ****

  Fitzjohn made his way to Peta Ashby’s office to find her in the doorway looking back into the room. ‘Ah, Fitzjohn, there you are. I’m just surveying the changes I’ve made to the placement of the furniture.’

  Fitzjohn looked inside and smiled. ‘It looks much bigger, ma’am.’

  ‘That’s because I’ve had some of the cupboards Chief Superintendent Grieg had in here put into storage along with their contents. Less clutter works for me,’ she said, closing the door behind them as they walked into the room and sat down. ‘I’ll make sure it’s all returned when I leave,’ she added with a smile.

  ‘Now, I realise you’re here to discuss your investigation but there’s another matter which, after consideration, I think you should be aware of because in a way you are, or at least you were, involved. It concerns Chief Superintendent Grieg.’

  ‘His condition hasn’t worsened has it, ma’am?’ asked Fitzjohn, still puzzled as to why the chief had called at the station the previous day.

  ‘If you’re referring to his bout of shingles, no they aren’t worse, in fact, he doesn’t have shingles. That was the story put out to explain his absence and will remain the reason as far as anyone else is concerned. But the real reason for his absence is that he’s on, shall we say, gardening leave.’

  ‘Gardening leave? Can I ask why?’

  ‘He’s been suspended from duty pending an inquiry by internal affairs in relation to a past case involving a man who was incarcerated but was later found to be innocent.’

  ‘You mean the Patricia Wilson case,’ said Fitzjohn, sitting back in his chair.

  ‘Yes. I understand you were involved in that inquiry last year.’

  ‘I was,’ Fitzjohn replied, his mind going back over the months he had agonised over a case he was purported to have been the investigating officer, yet a case he had no recollection of. After much self-doubt, however, Meg had saved him from a sticky fate when, with her propensity for keeping track of his life, she had told him he had been out of the country at the time the case was investigated.

  ‘And wrongly accused of being the investigating officer in that case, I understand,’ said Peta Ashby.

  ‘These things happen,’ said Fitzjohn, his thoughts going to Grieg who had, for want of a better word, set him up. ‘But it’s all in the past now.’

  ‘Yes, it is, and you were cleared of any involvement. Nonetheless, Fitzjohn, I’ve been advised to tell you that there is a possibility you’ll be asked to appear before the inquiry again at some stage. This time concerning Chief Superintendent Grieg.’

  ‘Thank you for letting me know, ma’am.’

  ****

  Well, the wheels of justice turn slowly, thought Fitzjohn as he left Peta Ashby’s office, but they do turn. I wonder if Grieg will weasel out of this one.

  CHAPTER 11

  Elvira’s encounter with the man in the photograph late the previous afternoon played on her mind throughout the night, and made her realise that a security system for the building’s front entrance was of vital importance. And that was why she planned to organise an extraordinary general meeting on the subject; to stress that, despite the cost, something had to be done immediately. Even the arrival of Sergeant Betts soon after the event with his assurance that Edwards would soon be apprehended, did not allay her concern. She was, however, pleased that he had taken her assumption that the cigarette butts on the pavement near the curb, could be those of Edwards and he had taken them away, she presumed, for DNA analysis.

  With a sigh, she looked at the clock on the bedside table and resolved to get the meeting organised before the rest of the day got underway. As with her luncheon with Moira, it was a day she had initially looked forward to with enthusiasm, a book-signing occasion at one of the bookshops in the centre of the city. However, following all that had happened in the last forty-eight hours, her enthusiasm had diminished somewhat. Nevertheless, she could not disappoint her readers, as well as Moira who had worked so hard with the arrangements.

  ****

  With all her neighbours in agreement about the forthcoming meeting, Elvira emerged from the building and took a moment to breathe in the fresh morning air before she looked up into the clear blue sky. It was something she had prayed for. After all, if the rain of the previous few days had continued, those who had planned to attend her book signing might have thought twice before venturing out. Therefore, with an air of optimism, she went to descend the steps, but as she did so, her eye caught sight of a piece of paper wedged into the slot of her mailbox beside the front door. That’s odd, she thought. I know I cleared my box last night. Elvira pulled the notepaper out, unfolded it and stared at its message.

  Ms Travers,

  Since you have refused my offer of lucrative remuneration in return for your assistance to help me retrieve the documents I require, you’ve left me no other alternative but to resort to a less pleasant method of persuasion. A shame really. Of course, you can always change your mind.

  Raymond Edwards

  A chill went down Elvira’s spine as she gaped at the scrawled writing. What method of persuasion is he talking about? she asked herself as she looked along Macquarie Street at the many pedestrians hurrying past on their way to work. Is he somewhere out there now watching me? Well whether he is or not, I can’t stand here all day. Clenching the note in her fist, Elvira, somewhat reluctantly, hurried down the steps and
joined the throng, her eyes darting at the mass of faces around her as she made her way through the city streets. Only when she neared the bookshop did her pace slow, and a warm glow took hold when she spied a line of people outside the shop awaiting her presence. At that same moment, she glimpsed Moira through the glass door which opened as she approached.

  ‘Elvira, you’re late. We agreed we’d get here half an hour before the bookshop opened. Not three minutes before.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I got held up,’ Elvira replied as she stepped over the threshold and followed Moira past the many shelves bursting with endless volumes, to a desk which had been set up for her signing and stacked high with her latest novel.

  ‘What held you up?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when we have a break.’ Elvira unwrapped the scarf from her neck and shrugged out of her coat, handing them to Moira. As she did so, the first reader approached the desk. Elvira sat down and with a wide smile said, ‘Good morning. Thank you so much for coming in today.’

  ‘The pleasure’s all mine, I assure you,’ said the woman, her bright blue eyes sparkling. ‘I’ve read and enjoyed all your books, Ms Travers. Nothing like a good murder mystery, is there?’

  ‘I agree, Mrs…’

  ‘It’s Ms actually. Ms Esme Timmons but could you sign my book, “To Esme,” please.’

  Elvira opened the book to its title page and in her finest penmanship signed the book. ‘Thank you again for coming in Ms Timmons.’

  ****

  By late morning with a lull in the initial stampede for signings, Moira appeared. ‘It’s going so well, Elvira, but I think we should take advantage of this lull and have a cup of coffee before the lunch crowd arrives. You look like you could do with a little sustenance.’