Deadly Investment (A Fitzjohn Mystery Book 5) Read online

  Fitzjohn knelt down, his attention taken by the victim’s eyes, clouded and staring. A shiver went through him. ‘Do you think he could have suffered a heart attack and collapsed?’

  Conroy thought for a moment. ‘At this stage, I’d say no because I don’t see any signs that he suffered a heart attack or a stroke for that matter. Of course, my opinion might change at the post mortem but I doubt it for a few reasons. Firstly, his hands show signs that he tried to fight off his attacker. See here? His knuckles are grazed and this index fingernail is ripped but not broken off completely. Of course, it could have happened when he fell but somehow, I don’t think so. Nevertheless, if I’m wrong, all will be revealed at the post mortem.’ Conroy got to his feet and they left the tent.

  ‘Does he have any ID? A wallet?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then robbery could be the motive for the attack.’

  ‘I thought that might be the case until I saw that he was still wearing his Rolex watch. What mugger would miss taking that? It must be worth a couple of thousand dollars at least.’

  ‘Good point,’ replied Fitzjohn, looking around the area. ‘Although it could have been a robbery that went wrong. The victim might have put up such a fight that he scared his attacker off.’

  Conroy smiled. ‘I’ll leave that conundrum to you, Alistair. I’m not good at puzzles. What I can say is that he died somewhere between eight o’clock last night and mid-night. I’ll be able to be more precise after the post mortem.’

  As Conroy disappeared back into the forensic tent, Fitzjohn went in search of Betts. With his mind already in investigative mode, and a growing sense of disappointment that this was not to be his case, he found his tall, ginger-haired, sergeant climbing out of one of the police cars alongside the curb.

  ‘How did you get on?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s no unaccompanied car in the vicinity, sir, so the victim could be a local. Having said that, however, I just spoke to the young couple who found the body while they were out walking their dog at around six this morning. They live in the area but they don’t know the victim. Does he have ID?’

  ‘No, but I doubt the motive for the attack was robbery because he was still wearing his watch. A Rolex. Hopefully its serial number will show us who he is. If you’re right and he is a local then he probably left his wallet at home when he went for a walk. No doubt his wallet will surface when we discover his identity and are able to speak to his next-of-kin.’

  ‘There is one other thing, sir,’ continued Betts. ‘The SOCOs found an envelope a couple of feet away from the body. It’s addressed to an accountant in Northbridge. The name of the addressee is smudged, however, and there’s no return address and nothing inside the envelope.’

  ‘Well, it’s something to look into,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘The accountant shouldn’t be too difficult to chase down. See what you can find out, but get through to Rolex first. I’d like to identify the victim before we hand the case over to DCI Roberts. Also, arrange a door knock of the area, Betts. See if anyone knows a man matching the victim’s description. Oh, and check with the Missing Persons Unit. Is there anything else?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The SOCOs also found a series of footprints around the body. One in particular left a clear indented pattern of the sole of the shoe in the soft ground. Also, they’ll be doing an analysis of the dust on the victim’s clothing at the lab. It’s time-consuming but could be helpful in the investigation.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Fitzjohn looked around and sighed. ‘Very well. I think that’s all we can do here for now. Let’s get back to the station.’

  CHAPTER 3

  Rattled to the core by the thought that Beatrice’s demise may not have been an accident, Esme made her way out of Waverton Station and into the blazing hot sun. As she did so, she spied the red letter box at the curb side and after a moment’s hesitation, rummaged in her handbag and brought out the letter. This may not be the wisest thing I’ve done in my life, she said to herself, but I’ve decided to honour your wish, Beatrice. With a last look at Charles Stratton’s name on the front of the envelope, she pushed it through the slit and into the letter box. There, it’s done. With a sigh, she continued on, taking her usual route along Crows Nest Road, oblivious to the scent of roses in the gardens that she passed. The parakeets that pranced in the branches of the trees above her head also missed her notice. Instead she walked as if in a trance, doubt hovering at the edge of her thinking. ‘I must be mistaken,’ she muttered. ‘After all, who would want to harm Beatrice? What reason could there be?’ When she reached her own front garden she paused, thankful to be home at last. Pushing the low wrought iron gate open with her walking cane, she made her way along the path to the house. It stood amongst mature trees and shrubs, exuding an elegant charm of a by-gone era, its grace and character holding Esme’s many memories.

  A rush of cool air met her when she opened the front door and she sighed with relief. Placing her hand-bag and cane on the hall table, she removed her straw hat. It was then that she glanced in the mirror and grimaced. ‘Oh, you do look a fright, my girl.’ Pushing a few wavy grey wisps of hair back into place, she studied herself again. ‘That’s better.’

  In the kitchen, she filled the kettle and put it on the hob, her actions instinctive. When it began to whistle, she poured the steaming water into a small stainless steel teapot and set it aside to brew. Her favourite Royal Doulton china cup, saucer and plate she took down from the cupboard. As she did so, she eyed the loaf of banana bread that sat on the counter. ‘Mmm. I think that’s just what I need right now,’ she said before cutting herself a small piece and spreading it liberally with butter. Lastly, with the tea now brewed, she filled her cup and placed it, along with the banana bread, onto a wooden tray, its surface a garden of pink roses. Grasping the tray, she marched back through the house to the living room. As she did so, the sound of the door chime echoed through the house. Unprepared, Esme faltered and struggled to regain her balance. With determination, she continued on into the living room and after putting the tray down on the side table next to her armchair, she went to open the front door. To her surprise, she found Alison Maybrick.

  Looking the epitome of officialdom in a dark grey suit, Alison pursed her thin lips and said, ‘Miss Timmons. I’ve been trying to reach you all day.’ As she spoke, a strand of copper coloured hair escaped from its clasp at the nape of her neck. Alison shoved it back in place.

  Esme ignored the impatient edge to Alison’s voice, all too aware of the woman’s haughty nature.

  ‘I’ve been out having lunch with Mildred Banks,’ she replied, stepping back from the doorway to allow Alison inside. ‘We’ve done so on the second Thursday of each month for years.’ Esme sighed and closed the door behind Alison. ‘But alas, this time it was a sad occasion. You see, it’s the first time there’s been just the two of us. Your step-mother never missed our little get-togethers. Her empty chair made her passing all the more poignant.’ Esme gave a warm smile and led the way into the living room.

  ‘I can imagine,’ replied Alison, hovering in the doorway.

  ‘Have a seat, dear,’ continued Esme, ignoring Alison’s condescending manner. ‘I’ve just made a pot of tea. Would you like to join me?’

  ‘No. I can’t stay. I just came to ask something of you.’

  ‘Well, if it’s about the funeral arrangements, I’m more than happy to help in any way I can. As is Mildred, of course.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary. All the preparations have been made. The service will be at ten-thirty next Monday morning in the South Chapel at the Northern Suburbs Memorial Gardens. What I would like you to do, Miss Timmons, is to say a few kind words about Beatrice. I think it would be appropriate being that you’ve probably known her the longest.’

  ‘That’s true. I have. Along with Mildred, of course. I think I can speak for her and say that we’ll both be more than pleased to speak at the service.’

  ‘Not both of you,’ replied Alison wit
h a sharp edge to her voice. ‘There isn’t time for that. You’ll only have three minutes.’

  ‘Oh. That is a shame. Mildred will be disappointed. Nevertheless, I’ll do my best although to do so in three minutes won’t be an easy task when speaking about Beatrice. A woman who left such a huge imprint.’ Esme gave Alison a wry smile.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll manage. Just remember. Short and to the point,’ replied Alison, her cold grey eyes narrowing at Esme. ‘Now, I have to go. I’m late for an appointment.’ She turned to leave. ‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ she said, turning back. ‘I’ve been asked to pass some tickets on to you and Mildred.’ Alison burrowed into her handbag. ‘They’re from Portland Moore. You’ve probably heard Beatrice speak of him. They were members of the same theatre company.’

  ‘Yes, I have. She spoke of him often. In fact, I’ve met Portland on a number of occasions when Beatrice invited Mildred and me backstage after one of their performances,’ replied Esme, taking the tickets from Alison’s grasp.

  ‘Yes, well, apparently, the company is putting on a play in Beatrice’s memory. Portland described it as “a special occasion for her friends and colleagues”. The cast will be performing one of Beatrice’s own plays. In fact, her most recent work.’

  ‘Well, I think that’s a wonderful gesture, don’t you?’ replied Esme. ‘I’ve enjoyed all her work. She was such a talented playwright.’

  Esme looked at Alison’s pinched expression and decided to launch into her investigation.

  ‘I can appreciate that it’s been a difficult time for you, Alison. Especially the night that Beatrice fell. I can’t imagine how traumatic that must have been. It was fortunate that you and the other members of staff were working back that night, wasn’t it? I don’t like to think what it would have been like for Beatrice if you all hadn’t been there.’ Esme paused. ‘Of course, that in itself does raise a question, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Question? What question?’ asked Alison narrowing her cold grey eyes at Esme.

  ‘The question of why Beatrice attempted to go downstairs in her dressing gown when her staff were still working. It seems to me to be totally out of character, don’t you think? Something dire must have happened to cause her to do that.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought about it. I guess we’ll never know.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose we will. And I don’t suppose we’ll ever know who Charles Stratton is either.’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ said Alison.

  ‘Charles Stratton. Beatrice asked me to post a letter to him if anything were to happen to her. A strange request, I thought. Almost as if she had a premonition that something would befall her. I don’t suppose you know the man, do you, Alison?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’ Alison hesitated. ‘What did you do with the letter, Miss Timmons?’

  ‘I posted it.’

  ‘You should have consulted me first.’ With that, Alison disappeared back into the hallway and seconds later the front door slammed.

  Well, that hit a nerve, thought Esme. I’d say that you know very well who Charles Stratton is, Alison. But why hide it? Still clutching the theatre tickets, Esme sat down, the unsettling feeling she had about Beatrice’s death gnawing at her. I wonder what really happened to you, Beatrice, and why.

  CHAPTER 4

  Fitzjohn and Betts returned to the station and went their separate ways. As they did so, Chief Superintendent Grieg strode out of his office.

  ‘Fitzjohn,’ he bellowed along the corridor.

  Well aware of Grieg’s contempt for him, Fitzjohn anticipated trouble. ‘I take it you wish to speak to me, sir,’ he replied, conscious of the fact that his own calm exterior irritated Grieg.

  ‘Since when do you attend suspected homicides in North Sydney’s Local Area Command without a request from me that you do so?’

  ‘Since you were not available to ask, sir. They called early this morning because they found themselves short staffed. I had a bit of free time on my hands so I was happy to assist. I know how you feel about helping out in such situations.’ Fitzjohn turned and opened his office door. As he expected, Grieg followed him inside. With the contempt that he knew Grieg still held for North Sydney LAC after they had seconded him, some thirty-years ago, to Day Street Station with no intention of reclaiming him, Fitzjohn had anticipated Grieg’s anger.

  ‘It’s not your place to make such decisions,’ barked Grieg, his hands on his hips.

  ‘Nevertheless, I did. They needed an answer immediately. I’ll be handing my findings over first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Too right you will,’ said Grieg, his small beady brown eyes boring into Fitzjohn.

  Fitzjohn crossed the room, preparing himself for yet another onslaught from his superior. As he did so, he recalled one of Grieg’s more recent outbursts and removed Edith’s photograph from its perch on top of the filing cabinet. He placed it gently on his desk and sat down before staring back at the man whose goal he knew it was to destroy not only his reputation but also his career.

  Grieg remained standing, his heavy-set frame towering before Fitzjohn. Unaffected by the Chief Superintendent’s pugnacious nature, Fitzjohn waited for his diatribe to commence, at the same time pondering what it could be about this time. As he did so, their many altercations ran through his mind. Perhaps it would have been wise to put in for a transfer in the beginning, he thought, when it had become apparent that Grieg would never make his life easy. But he had come to love the city and his work in it. And besides, in some strange way, Grieg did provide another aspect to his position as a detective. A constant challenge to not let the man upset his equilibrium.

  ‘I thought I’d give you fair warning,’ started Grieg with a smirk across his pudgy face. ‘The Police Integrity Board is planning on holding an inquiry into one of your past cases.’

  ‘Oh? Which case would that be, sir?’ asked Fitzjohn, sitting straighter in his chair.

  ‘The Patricia Wilson case.’

  ‘Wilson?’ Fitzjohn’s brow furrowed. ‘I recall a George Wilson. Let’s see. He was found drown in his swimming pool back in April of 2004.’ Fitzjohn sighed. ‘I don’t remember a Patricia Wilson, however. When was this case investigated, sir?’

  ‘In 2007.’

  ‘Well, that’s odd because I’m usually pretty good at remembering my cases. Are you sure it was mine?’

  ‘Take it from me, Fitzjohn, it was. In due course, you’ll be informed when to appear.’ Grieg started toward the door.

  ‘Before you go, sir, can I ask what the nature of this inquiry is?’

  ‘Wrongful arrest,’ replied Grieg with a sneer. With that, he left the office, slamming the door behind him.

  Fitzjohn remained seated, the implications of what Grieg had told him running through his mind. Wrongful arrest? Surely not. With a sense of unease, he tried again to recall the case. It doesn’t ring a bell at all, he thought. Still, I suppose it’s possible that I could have forgotten or... Fitzjohn’s thoughts were interrupted when the office door opened and Betts walked in.

  ‘We’re in luck, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ve just spoken to the people at Rolex and they confirm that the serial number of the watch that the victim was wearing was registered in their database in May 2013. According to their records, it hasn’t been sold on and is still with the original owner, a Mr Preston Alexander. He gave an address in Cremorne.’

  ‘Ah! That’s good,’ said Fitzjohn, getting to his feet. ‘What about a missing persons report?’

  ‘Nothing there, sir.’

  ‘Okay. We’ll go to the victim’s home. Hopefully, we’ll be able to inform his next-of-kin of his death.’ Fitzjohn grabbed his suit coat and shrugged it on.

  As the car sped across the Harbour Bridge to the North Shore, Fitzjohn’s thoughts returned to the impending inquiry and its implications. If, in fact, the case in question had been his, wrongful arrest meant that an innocent person had spent an indeterminate amount of time behind bars. Fitzjohn sighed. Heaven forbid that I could be responsible
for such a travesty, he thought.

  ‘This is it, sir.’

  Jolted from his thoughts and unaware of their journey, Fitzjohn peered out of the passenger window of the car and beyond a decorative stone wall that bordered the property. In the grounds, surrounded by trees and flowering shrubbery, stood a turn of the century two storey residence, its steep gabled roof casting a long shadow across a manicured garden. All too aware of the difficult task ahead, he joined Betts on the sidewalk before they made their way along a circular drive to the front entrance.

  Betts rang the bell. While they waited, Fitzjohn straightened his tie and adjusted his wire-framed glasses. Presently, footsteps sounded from inside and the door opened to reveal a heavy-set woman in her mid-fifties, wearing an apron.

  ‘Yes?’ she asked in a heavy European accent.

  ‘Good morning, madam,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘We’re from the New South Wales Police Force.’ Fitzjohn presented his warrant card. The woman stiffened. ‘We’d like to speak to Mrs Alexander, if we may.’

  ‘There is no Mrs Alexander, just Mr Alexander and he is not at home.’ With that, the woman proceeded to close the door.

  ‘Are you a relative of Mr Alexander?’ continued Fitzjohn.

  ‘The woman eyes narrowed as she looked Fitzjohn up and down. ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Because we need to speak to a member of his family.’

  ‘There is no family here,’ replied the woman, suddenly alarmed. ‘Mr Alexander lives alone.’

  ‘In that case, can you tell us where we can find his nearest relative?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Why, has something happened to him?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘I’m afraid it has. Mr Alexander’s body was found early this morning in the Cremorne Reserve.’