Deadly Investment (A Fitzjohn Mystery Book 5) Read online

  DEADLY INVESTMENT

  A Fitzjohn Mystery

  JILL PATERSON

  Deadly Investment

  Copyright © 2015 Jill Paterson

  Cover design by Renee Barratt http://www.thecovercounts.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright holder.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  eBook ISBN 978-0-9925840-2-3

  Book ISBN 978-0-9925840-1-6

  Publisher: J. Henderson, Canberra, Australia

  Publication Date: 4th December 2015

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

  Paterson, Jill, author

  Deadly Investment/Jill Paterson

  ISBN: 9780992584023 (ebook)

  Paterson, Jill. Fitzjohn mystery; 5.

  Detective and mystery stories.

  Australian fiction

  Sydney (N.S.W.)—Fiction.

  A823.4

  For my dear friend, Anna

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Deadly Investment

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Acknowledgements

  Cast of Characters

  Sydney Map

  About The Author

  Also by Jill Paterson

  Connect with me on-line

  Deadly Investment

  A Fitzjohn Mystery

  Featuring Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn, Deadly Investment, is the fifth book in the Fitzjohn Mystery Series.

  It was an accepted fact that Beatrice Maybrick, owner and operator of the Maybrick Literary Agency, accidentally fell to her death. Or did she? Esme Timmons thought not, her suspicions fuelled by a letter she received from Beatrice following the tragic incident. Faced with this dilemma, Esme takes steps to find the killer.

  Meanwhile, Detective Chief Inspector Alistair Fitzjohn commences his investigation into the suspicious death of entrepreneur, Preston Alexander. With robbery ruled out as the motive, Fitzjohn is drawn to Preston’s investment portfolio and the Maybrick Literary Agency.

  Finding an antiquated establishment where uncertainty prevails following the demise of its owner, Beatrice Maybrick, Fitzjohn asks himself two questions. Why did the high flying investor, Preston Alexander, invest in such a business, and did it lead to his death?

  CHAPTER 1

  The green cafe door squeaked on its hinges when Esme Timmons pushed it open and stepped inside. Amid the din, she spied Mildred sitting at their favourite table in the window recess, staring down at her hands. She looked up when Esme approached, her expression sombre. Without a word, Esme sat down, her gaze falling upon the empty chair between them.

  ‘I can’t believe Beatrice is gone,’ said Mildred, her voice quivering. ‘I wonder which one of us will be next.’

  Esme studied her friend’s face. She knew, of course, that Mildred had a tendency to be negative. That had been evident from the first day they met at teacher’s college all those years ago.

  ‘Don’t be morbid, Mildred. It doesn’t become you,’ she said, removing her straw sun hat and placing it with her handbag and walking cane on the window ledge next to her chair.

  Mildred bristled. ‘I’m not being morbid. I’m being realistic. At our age you can’t help but wonder, can you? After all, Beatrice and I were the same age, seventy-six, and you’re what; eighty-one? Heaven forbid!’ Mildred grabbed a tissue from her handbag and stemmed her tears.

  Esme patted her hand. ‘You must get a grip, my dear. You can’t sink into melancholia. Not now. There’s too much to be done.’

  ‘But that’s just it, Esme. There’s nothing that has to be done now except to attend Beatrice’s funeral and wait for our turn.’ Mildred took another tissue. ‘This whole thing has made me realise that I could drop dead at any time. We both could, for that matter, just like Beatrice. I’m seeing my solicitor this afternoon to put my affairs in order. I suggest you do the same. Just in case.’

  ‘I have a will,’ replied Esme. ‘I had it drawn up, years ago, after Thomas failed to return from the war in Korea.’ Esme took a moment to reflect on her handsome young fiancé. What would he think of me now, I wonder, with my wrinkles and arthritic hip? Esme sighed.

  ‘Have you ordered the tea, Mildred?’ she asked, pushing the thought away.

  ‘Yes and no. I ordered tea for you and a strong black coffee for me.’

  ‘But you don’t drink coffee.’

  ‘I do now. I need something to keep me going.’ Mildred looked wistfully out of the window. ‘Alison was there at the time Beatrice fell. She said that she hung onto life by a thread until the ambulance arrived. Her neck was broken. Apparently, it’s what killed her in the end.’ Mildred winced. ‘Doesn’t bear thinking about. What made it worse was that there wasn’t the slightest sign of emotion on Alison’s part when she told me.’

  ‘Alison isn’t an emotional person,’ replied Esme. ‘Or if she is, she doesn’t show it.’

  Mildred turned from the window. ‘Even so, Beatrice was her step-mother, so I thought that there might have been a hint of sorrow.’

  ‘You’d think so, but as we both know, Mildred, those two never did get on. Not from the day Alison’s father married Beatrice. Initially, I thought Alison’s aversion to Beatrice was a natural one for a young teenage girl who’s lost her mother. It can’t have been easy to watch her replaced by another woman in her father’s affections. Still, I did hope that she and Beatrice would eventually become friends once Alison grew up. Especially since they’ve both worked together for so many years at the agency. But it never happened.’

  ‘And now it’s too late.’ Mildred paused. ‘Has Alison been in touch with you about the funeral?’

  ‘No, but I’m sure she will.’

  ‘What did you mean earlier when you said that there’s too much to be done?’ When Esme did not respond, Mildred continued. ‘Esme?’

  Jarred from her thoughts, Esme looked at her friend. ‘What is it, dear?’

  ‘You said that there’s too much to be done,’ repeated Mildred with growing exasperation. ‘What’s to be done?’ Mildred narrowed her eyes at Esme. ‘Something’s going on. You have that look in your eye. I’ve seen it before. It means that you know something I don’t.’

  Esme took in Mildred’s countenance, now bright with anticipation. ‘It’s nothing. It’s just that I’ve been thinking about the way in which Beatrice died and...’

  ‘And what?’ Mildred adjusted her chair and leaned forward across the table. ‘Tell me,’ she hissed.

  ‘I’d rather not,’ replied Esme.

  ‘You don’t have to worry. I wouldn’t dream of repeating a word.’

  Esme pursed her lips and looked
into Mildred’s expectant face. ‘I know that, but I think it best to keep my thoughts to myself. At least for now.’

  ‘I don’t see why,’ said Mildred with growing indignation. ‘Unless, of course, you don’t value my opinion.’

  ‘Oh, but I do,’ replied Esme. ‘That’s not it at all, Mildred dear. It’s because I might be wrong.’ Esme met Mildred’s intense gaze and sighed. ‘Very well. I’ll tell you,’ she said, positioning her chair closer to the table. ‘It all started this morning when I received a letter in the post. It was from Beatrice.’

  ‘Oh, my heavens!’ Mildred sank back her eyes wide. ‘A letter from the grave.’

  ‘Not quite, but she did make rather an odd request.’ Esme clasped her hands together. ‘She said that if anything were to happen to her, I was to mail the letter she had enclosed to its addressee, Charles Stratton.’

  ‘And something has happened to her,’ replied Mildred in all but a whisper before she sat forward again. ‘Who’s Charles Stratton?’

  ‘I don’t know. Beatrice gave no indication in her letter and I probably wouldn’t have given it a passing thought except that it set me thinking.’

  ‘You’ve lost me, Esme. Thinking what?’

  ‘About whether Beatrice’s death was an accident. You see, the last time I saw her, was last Sunday, the day before she died. She appeared distressed. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen her in such a state. It worried me, Mildred. It really did.’ Esme paused in reflection.

  ‘And?’ prompted Mildred.

  ‘Oh, yes, well,’ said Esme brought back from her thoughts. ‘I asked her if everything was all right. She replied that all was fine, but I knew it wasn’t.’ Esme shook her head. ‘Still, you can’t pry so I satisfied myself that it was a private matter and left it at that. Now I wish I hadn’t.’

  ‘So, what you’re saying is that you believe Beatrice was murdered,’ said Mildred as she tried to match Esme’s stride when they emerged from the cafe in the direction of St Leonard’s train station.

  ‘Yes, I suppose I am. Although, it’s not just the letter and her distress that prompted me to think that. It’s the way in which she died. Falling down those stairs.’

  ‘That could have happened to anyone, Esme.’

  ‘That’s true enough, but we both know that once Beatrice had finished work for the day in the agency, she always went upstairs to her apartment and didn’t come back down unless she was going out for the evening. And we know she wasn’t going out because, according to Alison, she was wearing her dressing gown when she fell.’

  ‘That’s right, and she wouldn’t have gone downstairs in her dressing gown when her staff were still working late as they were that night,’ put in Mildred.

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘What about the letter? Have you posted it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you going to take it to the police and tell them of your suspicions?’

  ‘I can’t see that there’s any point,’ replied Esme as they crossed the road and walked into the station. ‘Not without concrete evidence that Beatrice’s death involved foul play, and I don’t have any. All I have is a niggling feeling fuelled, somewhat, by Beatrice’s distressed state the last time I spoke to her. And the stairs, of course.’

  Mildred followed Esme onto the escalator and they descended to the platform below. As they did so a blast of air rushed through the station ahead of the approaching train. Esme and Mildred joined the throng and boarded the train.

  ‘Perhaps I should just post the letter and put it out of my mind,’ continued Esme as they took their seats.

  ‘But suppose you’re right and Beatrice was murdered, Esme. If that’s the case, we can’t just let her killer get away with it. That letter might be our only lead. There must be something we can do.’

  Esme thought for a moment. ‘I could speak to Alison when she gets in touch with me about the funeral arrangements. After all, she was there that night. I wouldn’t have to tell her my suspicions, but I might be able to find out more detail about what happened. And she might also be able to tell us who Charles Stratton is.’

  They both fell into silence, lost in their own thoughts while swaying with the rhythm of the train.

  All at once, Esme stood up. ‘This is my stop. We’ll speak tomorrow.’

  ‘Ring me first thing in the morning,’ replied Mildred. ‘We owe it to Beatrice to find out whether her death was an accident or if something sinister happened to her. And, hopefully, before the funeral takes place.’ The woman sitting in front of Mildred turned, her expression agog.

  Mildred smiled back.

  CHAPTER 2

  Betts drummed his fingers on the steering wheel of the car as Detective Chief Inspector Alistair Fitzjohn opened the back door and placed his briefcase on the seat.

  ‘Morning,’ said Fitzjohn, aware of his young sergeant’s apparent impatience. ‘I’m sorry you had to be called in on your day off, but it couldn’t be helped. Both Williams and Carruthers are tied up this morning.’ Fitzjohn climbed in and pulled the seatbelt across his rotund shape. ‘Did you have anything special planned?’

  ‘Just a cooking class.’ Oblivious to Fitzjohn’s gaping expression, Betts pulled the car away from the curb. ‘Where to, sir?’

  ‘Cremorne. We’ve been asked to fill in for DCI Roberts and attend a suspected homicide. A man’s body was found early this morning in the Cremorne Point Reserve. That’s all the information I have.’

  ‘When you say “filling in”, sir, does that mean we’ve been seconded to the North Sydney Local Area Command?’

  ‘No. Roberts is just under the weather. No doubt he’ll be back on deck tomorrow.’

  They continued on in silence for a time while Betts merged into the traffic on the Harbour Bridge.

  ‘Did I hear you say you were taking a cooking class?’ asked Fitzjohn, unable to contain his curiosity any longer.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘That surprises me, Betts. I’d have thought you’d have mastered the art of cooking by now. After all, it’s been a number of years since you struck out on your own. How have you survived up until now?’

  ‘I eat out,’ replied Betts with a smile.

  ‘In that case, I hope you get a place in the next class. You can’t eat out all your life.’ Fitzjohn paused. ‘Why don’t you buy a cookbook for beginners like I did after Edith passed away?’

  ‘Because I only need to learn how to cook one meal, sir. That’s why I enrolled in this cordon bleu cooking school. It’s a one day course called “Chef in a Day”.’ Betts glanced at Fitzjohn and grinned. ‘They teach you how to make a magnificent three course dinner. At least that’s what it says in the brochure.’

  ‘I see. Then my next question is, who are you trying to impress? It wouldn’t be my niece, would it?’

  ‘Among others, yes. You see, Sophie introduced me to a few of her friends from university who take it in turn to make dinner on Friday evenings. Sumptuous culinary delights from around the world. It’s been fantastic for the past six weeks but now it’s my turn and...’

  ‘You don’t know the difference between a saucepan and an egg beater so you’re...’

  ‘Desperate, sir.’

  ‘When do you have to host this dinner party?’

  ‘Tomorrow night.’

  Fitzjohn’s midriff started to wobble and tears rimmed his eyelids as he endeavoured to suppress his laughter.

  Betts shot him a look. ‘It’s not funny. Time’s running out,’ he blurted as he turned onto Military Road.

  ‘I’m sorry, Betts.’ Fitzjohn took a handkerchief from his pocket, removed his wire framed glasses and wiped his eyes. ‘I might be able to help,’ he spluttered. ‘Sophie says I make a mean casserole. I can give you my recipe if you like.’ With tears rolling down his face, Fitzjohn looked out of the passenger window.

  ‘And have Sophie think that we swap recipes! Besides, this dinner has to not only demonstrate that I know my way around a kitchen, it has to be a tantalizing
fusion of taste.’ Betts shook his head. ‘You have no idea what I’m up against, sir. One fellow in the group was a chef in one of the hotels in town before he decided to go to university. You should have seen the dinner he put on last Friday night. Four courses plus different wines served with each course. I’m up against the best of culinary expertise.’

  ‘Mmm. I see what you mean,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘In that case, a casserole won’t go down well. I’ll try and think of something else along the lines of haute cuisine.’

  They continued on in silence, turning off the highway and making their way through the leafy suburb and down to where its point met the shore of the harbour. Betts pulled over to join the row of police and forensic vehicles at the curb. Met by a young constable, they showed their warrant cards.

  ‘You’ll find the victim in that direction, sir,’ he said, pointing to a path that wended its way through the trees and shrubbery.

  A chill filled the air and a fine mist hugged the ground as Fitzjohn and Betts walked on in silence, all too aware of the realities of life that they were about to witness. A few minutes later they emerged into a clearing to see the tall, slim, figure of the pathologist, Charles Conroy, standing outside a forensic tent talking to one of the SOCOs. He looked over as Fitzjohn and Betts neared.

  ‘Alistair,’ he said with a smile. ‘What brings you over to this side of town? You haven’t been seconded again, have you?’

  ‘No, we’re on short-term loan,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘We’ll be handing our findings over to North Sydney LAC in due course.’ While Betts spoke to the SOCOs. Fitzjohn followed Charles into the tent. ‘What do we have?’ he asked, his gaze lowered to the victim’s still form.

  ‘A male in his mid-seventies, I’d say,’ replied Conroy, kneeling down. ‘He’s suffered blunt force trauma to the back of his head. No doubt, sustained when it hit that stone outcrop.’ Fitzjohn bent over the body to examine the piece of rock that the victim’s head rested on. ‘The blow didn’t kill him immediately because, as you can see, there’s been quite a bit of bleeding.’