The Fourth String

by Jill Paterson

  ‘I didn’t realise until now just how awful this whole situation must have been for you, Elvira, with that as a daily reminder,’ she said, pointing to the tape.

  ‘I do my best to ignore it. Come in, Moira.’ Elvira led the way into the living room mentally preparing for her fate.

  ‘Have you had any further problem with the man who’s stalking you since we last spoke?’ continued Moira as she sat down.

  ‘No and I don’t expect to now because he’s been caught. The police called a little earlier to tell me.’

  ‘Oh, thank heavens,’ replied Moira sitting back in her chair. ‘You must be so relieved.’

  ‘I am. I don’t know what I would have done if it’d gone on much longer.’ Elvira settled herself into a chair. ‘Anyway, Moira, I’ve been wondering what you wanted to speak to me about so urgently. If it’s because I missed my deadline, I do apologise.’

  ‘I wish it was that simple,’ replied Moira. ‘The truth of the matter is, Lockley’s Publishing is closing its doors at the end of the month.’ Elvira stared at Moira, her mouth open. ‘I’m so sorry to bring this news to you after all you’ve been through lately, Elvira. I realise it’s the last thing you need to hear.’

  ‘Well, they say that things happen in threes, don’t they? So far there’s been Crispin’s murder and Raymond Edwards stalking me so this is number three. But I can’t hide the fact that I’m shocked. I thought Lockley’s Publishing was doing well. What happened?’

  ‘Basically, I think they’re a casualty of the huge changes that the publishing industry has been going through over the past few years. The reason I didn’t tell you immediately is that I’ve been trying to find you another publisher. In fact, I’ve already had a couple of calls from interested parties.’

  ‘I’m grateful for that, Moira, but what about you? You’ve been with Lockley’s for years.’

  ‘Thirty-two to be precise,’ replied Moira with a sign.

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet. I think I’m feeling like you at the moment – in shock.’ Moira paused. ‘There is one bit of good news, however. Lockley’s will meet the terms of your contract concerning the manuscript you’re working on at the moment even though…’

  ‘I’ve missed my deadline. Well, I’m thankful for that and I’m sure you were the driving force behind that decision.’

  ‘It’s the least I could do, Elvira.’ Moira got to her feet. ‘I’ll be in touch soon, I hope, with some good news about a publisher.’

  ****

  Elvira stood at the window looking out over the city, Moira’s words reverberating in her mind. With all that had happened over the past week the last thing she would have thought could happen, had. She had lost her publisher as well as Moira who had been at her side from the beginning. She would miss their partnership. It was the sudden ringing of the doorbell which jolted her from these thoughts. I hope that isn’t the police come to tell me they’ve had to release Edwards due to lack of evidence, she thought as she made her way along the hallway. When she opened it, however, she found Pearl Ambrose, tears streaming down her face.

  ‘Pearl, what on earth is the matter?’ she asked, ushering the woman inside and through to the living room. ‘What’s happened to upset you so much?’ she asked as they sat down.

  ‘I didn’t know who to turn to, Elvira. It’s the police. They came to question me again about Crispin’s death. They think I killed him.’

  ‘Is that what they told you?’ asked Elvira.

  ‘Not specifically, but I know that’s what they think by the questions they asked. And I have no defence because it would look to anyone like I had a reason to kill Crispin.’

  ‘Do you mean because Crispin was pressuring you to leave The Claremont?’ asked Elvira.

  ‘That wasn’t what they questioned me about this time. It was about the death of my son, Robert.’

  ‘Oh.’ Elvira hesitated. ‘I’m sorry, Pearl, I had no idea you had a child.’

  ‘There was no reason for you to think I did,’ replied Pearl. ‘It isn’t something I talk about but somehow, the police have found out.’ Elvira listened as Pearl related the circumstances of her child’s death. ‘What I didn’t admit to the police when they were here was that the driver of that car was Crispin Fairchild.’ Taken aback, Elvira gasped. ‘If I had, I’m sure they’d have arrested me there and then for his murder. Now I’m wondering how long it’ll be before they find out anyway.’

  ‘Oh, Pearl, I’m so sorry. To have had to live with this burden for so long. It’s unimaginable. And then to have Crispin move into this building...it begs belief.’

  ‘I couldn’t believe it when he moved in. I thought I was going to go crazy.’

  ‘Did Crispin know who you were?’

  ‘Of course. After his death, my son’s name appeared on the news during the time the police searched for the person who’d run him down. Crispin knew exactly who I was but he didn’t say anything. Why would he? It would have been an admission of guilt. Instead, he tried to get me to leave the building. I know it sounds dreadful but I have to admit that the morning you found him dead I was ecstatic. It felt such a relief. That’s why I asked Morris to bring you back here to your apartment. I know it sounds grotesque of me but I wanted to savour the moment.’

  ‘Under the circumstances, I can’t say I blame you,’ said Elvira. ‘But look, you mustn’t worry. The police can’t accuse you of a crime you didn’t commit. What evidence would they have?’

  ‘I think the fact my son died on June 20, the same date as Crispin, would be enough.’ Elvira gasped again. ‘I’m sure it’s that fact which led them to question me again. I mean, it is damning, isn’t it?’ Pearl’s shoulders slumped.

  CHAPTER 19

  With the morning newspaper tucked under his arm and feeling an unfamiliar pang of gloom since he had heard that Peta Ashby would soon be gone, Fitzjohn left his cottage the next morning and walked the short distance to the Charlotte Café where he had arranged to meet Betts. He found his young sergeant at the counter ordering a cup of coffee.

  ‘Aren’t you ordering your usual pancake breakfast?’ he asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

  ‘No sir. I’m in training.’

  ‘For what?’ asked Fitzjohn as he looked up at the menu on the wall with disinterest.

  ‘Oh, nothing in particular, sir. I just decided to get fit.’

  ‘I see,’ replied Fitzjohn, his thoughts going to the flurry of dates Betts had been on in the past week. A woman could be the only explanation for such drastic action, he thought.

  ‘Are you on a health kick too, sir?’ asked Betts as Fitzjohn ordered black coffee. ‘No croissant with jam and cream this morning?’

  ‘I don’t have much of an appetite,’ replied Fitzjohn as he led the way to his favourite table carrying his coffee. ‘Too much on my mind, probably,’ he added.

  ‘The case, sir?’

  ‘No. It’s something I heard about yesterday,’ replied Fitzjohn as they sat down. ‘Don’t repeat what I’m about to say but there’s a possibility that Chief Superintendent Grieg will be returning shortly.’ Fitzjohn sensed Betts’s disappointment.

  ‘I was under the impression he’d be on sick leave for the next few months,’ said Betts before taking a sip of his coffee.

  ‘So were we all,’ replied Fitzjohn, not in a position to tell Betts the real reason for Grieg’s absence was not shingles but the internal inquiry.

  ‘And Chief Superintendent Ashby?’

  ‘She’ll be returning to the Central Coast.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a shame. Everyone at the station will really miss her, sir.’

  ‘I agree,’ replied Fitzjohn, trying to mask his own disappointment. ‘Anyway, we have a murder to solve and solve it we will. Has there been anything further come through on Bonato?’

  ‘Not yet, sir.’

  ‘That’s frustrating.’ Fitzjohn thought for a moment. ‘Well, all we can do is interview him again and try to get
more out of him, but this time we’ll come from a different angle.’ Betts gave Fitzjohn a questioning look. ‘It’s just a hunch I have so it may not work, but bear with me.’

  ****

  Pushing his disappointment at Peta Ashby’s imminent departure, together with his apprehension at Grieg’s, no doubt vengeful return to work, to the back of his mind, Fitzjohn led the way through the station and into the interview room where Antonio Bonato waited.

  At once he sensed that Bonato’s self-assuredness had become somewhat dented since their last meeting, his meticulous attention to his appearance being a telling factor. Instead, of the suave image he had presented on previous occasions, he now sat slouched in his chair, unshaven, his eyes riveted to the table in front of him. Perhaps, at last, he realised the predicament he was in.

  ‘Rather than rehash what we have already spoken about,’ said Fitzjohn as the interview got underway, ‘I’d like to touch on your criminal activities in Italy.’ Taken unawares by this change in subject, Bonato shot a look at Fitzjohn. ‘It involves the illegal trafficking of prohibited items and artifacts.’

  ‘What? That’s ridiculous. I know nothing about such matters,’ replied Bonato, sitting back in his chair, his air of bravado returning.

  ‘We believe you do,’ said Fitzjohn ‘Why else would you be subpoenaed to appear in an Italian court over such a matter if the authorities didn’t believe you had something to contribute to their investigation?’ Fitzjohn glared at Bonato. ‘And what’s more, we think Crispin Fairchild was involved along with you.’

  ‘You’re mistaken, Chief Inspector,’ replied Bonato with a chuckle. ‘Crispin wasn’t involved.’

  ‘In that case, why did you kill him? Did he know too much?’

  ‘I’ve already told you,’ said Bonato, throwing his hands in the air. ‘I didn’t kill him.’

  ‘Well, we believe you did. Fibres from the rug in front of the fireplace where he died, and traces of his blood have been found on your trench coat. Charge him, Betts.’ Fitzjohn got up to leave.

  ‘Hey, wait a minute. I didn’t kill Crispin, I tell you. You’ve got it all wrong,’ shouted Bonato.

  Fitzjohn hesitated. ‘Okay, you have two minutes to convince me,’ said Fitzjohn, turning back. ‘And it’d better be good because otherwise, you’ll be charged with Crispin Fairchild’s murder.’

  ‘Why would I kill Crispin? Without him, my whole operation would have failed.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I needed a storage facility and Crispin provided that. Most of what you see in his apartment isn’t his. He received the goods and kept them until I arranged to have them moved on to other countries.’ Bonato shrugged. ‘It’s like money laundering in a way.’

  ‘So are you saying that Crispin Fairchild was your accomplice?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of it that way but I suppose he was,’ replied Bonato.

  ‘And did he do this willingly?

  ‘Of course not but he knew he didn’t have a choice.’

  ‘In that case, how did you force him to help you?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘That was easy. I know something about Crispin that he would never want told. Even now that he’s dead. So, he did whatever I said. The last thing I wanted was Crispin dead. It’s ruined everything for me.’

  ‘What did you threaten him with?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘He killed a child.’ Fitzjohn shot a look at Betts. ‘It’s true. It was when he and my sister were still happy together. I’d accompanied Crispin on one of his overseas tours. Australia as it happens. One afternoon, he returned to the hotel and walked into the room while I was watching a news item about a child who’d been run down and the driver hadn’t stopped. Crispin became angry for no apparent reason and turned off the television. I asked him what was wrong and he said he was cancelling the tour and we were returning to Italy that night.’

  ‘Did he explain why?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you connect him to the hit-and-run right away?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Not at the time, no. It was when we left for the airport that my suspicion was aroused. I noticed there were a few scratches on the front bumper of our rental car. Plus the fact that it was a white car, the same colour as the vehicle involved in the accident, according to the news item.’

  ‘Did you ask Crispin about the scratches?’

  ‘Yes, but he said they were there when he’d picked the car up. I believed him but the thought never left my mind completely. I always wondered why we’d left the country so urgently.’

  ‘So when did you finally find out that Crispin had been the driver who had knocked the child down?’

  ‘That came much later after he and my sister had separated and when he was offered the conductorship of the Sydney Symphony. I knew he wanted to accept the post but he told me he was going to turn it down. We talked about his reasons and as we did so, I realised that he hadn’t been back to Australia since the time of that boy’s death. That’s when things started to fall into place. The fact that he drove a white car while we were here, our sudden departure which he never fully explained, and his uncharacteristic panic at the time.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘I asked him whether he was the driver. He denied it, of course, but I could tell that I’d hit a nerve. From there, it all fell into place. I needed a storage facility and you know the rest.’

  ‘You know that eventually you’ll be extradited back to Italy,’ said Fitzjohn.

  ‘It’s better than being charged with murder, Chief Inspector.’

  ****

  ‘So, it seems that Crispin Fairchild was forced into his criminal activity and most of what is in his apartment are stolen goods,’ said Fitzjohn as the two officers left the interview room with a sense of urgency. ‘We have to stop that auction, Betts, before everything is sold off.’

  ‘I’ll see to it, sir. What about Bonato?’

  ‘I can’t see that he had a motive to kill the victim. After all, without him, the link in the chain would be broken. So, in spite of the fact that he did interfere with the body and stalked and harassed Elvira Travers, I think it’s best that we make the Italian authorities aware of what he has admitted to concerning the trafficking of contraband and arrange for his extradition.’

  ‘Which means we’re back at the beginning with the two remaining persons on our list, Eleanor Reed and Pearl Ambrose, sir.’

  ‘Either one could have killed Crispin Fairchild,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘Ms Reed with her fingerprints on the murder weapon and Mrs Ambrose whose son was run down by Fairchild. And let’s not forget that in Pearl Ambrose’s case, she was at the crime scene alone shortly after the body was discovered and had ample time to wipe down any surfaces she may have touched, including that murder weapon. We’ll question her again Betts, but this time, inside Fairchild’s apartment. It might add pressure if she is the killer.’

  ****

  Fitzjohn paced the floor in Crispin Fairchild’s living room while he waited for Betts to arrive with Pearl Ambrose. When she finally followed him into the room, Fitzjohn sensed her disquiet and noted the paleness of her face. The woman was obviously under an immense strain and probably had been for years, not only through grief but also guilt that she had not been there when her child needed her. Had she avenged his death and killed Crispin Fairchild? If that was so, revisiting the scene of the crime might expose that fact.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Ambrose.’

  ‘Why have I been brought here?’ Pearl asked wearily as they sat down.

  ‘We’d like you to go over your account of what happened the morning Elvira Travers found Crispin’s Fairchild’s body.’

  ‘I can’t see the point of repeating myself, and why here in Crispin’s apartment?’

  ‘Because there is always the possibility that when we find ourselves in the same surroundings, we’re apt to recall details which you might previously have overlooked. I know it isn’t pleasant, Mrs Ambrose, and I do apologise.’


  Pearl looked over to the blood-stained rug and winced before she recounted the moments after she had heard Elvira scream.

  ‘And how long were you here alone after Morris Elliott and Elvira Travers left?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Only a moment or two. As I said, I wanted to see whether Crispin was still alive,’ replied Pearl, glancing back at the place where the body had lain. ‘I checked for a pulse. There was none so I left the room and rang triple zero.’ Pearl met Fitzjohn’s intense gaze. ‘I didn’t kill Crispin if that’s what you’re thinking, Chief Inspector, but if I’m being honest, I’m glad someone did.’

  Fitzjohn waited a moment and then said, ‘Thank you for coming down to talk to me, Mrs Ambrose. Sergeant Betts will escort you back upstairs.’

  As Betts left with Pearl, Fitzjohn circled the room taking in the paintings and collections of porcelain and china he now knew to be stolen.

  ‘Do you think she killed him, sir?’ asked Betts when he returned.

  ‘Do you, Betts?’

  ‘Well, there is the possibility that she finished him off when Morris Elliott and Mrs Travers left the room, sir. Or alternatively, she let him die even though she thought there might have been some hope. After all, she did say she had trained as a nurse in her younger days.’

  ‘Mmm. Everything you say is conceivable but hard to prove none the less. And to answer your question as to my opinion on the matter, I think she has the strongest motive out of all our persons of interest so it’s likely she is our killer.’

  ****