Deadly Investment (A Fitzjohn Mystery Book 5)

by Jill Paterson

  ‘You were friends?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘More like acquaintances really. Preston wasn’t one to socialise very much. Still, I’m sure he’ll be sorely missed amongst those who knew him.’

  ‘Sergeant Betts mentioned that you’re interested in his financial affairs. Can I ask why?’

  ‘Because we’re led to believe that his investment portfolio was one of his main activities and we’re hoping that it’ll help to build a picture, if you like, about who he came into contact with on a regular basis. Having said that, we’re primarily interested in his investment concerning the Maybrick Literary Agency.’

  ‘Ah, well, that might pose a problem because I had no involvement in that particular venture.’ Cameron brought his chair forward. ‘You see, Preston took it on and managed it himself. I’m afraid all I can give you are the barest details. Just a few notes I made even though I thought the whole thing was a waste of time and money.’

  ‘Anything you can tell us will be appreciated, Mr Cameron,’ replied Fitzjohn.

  ‘Very well.’ Cameron opened a thick file that sat on the desk in front of him. ‘This is Preston’s portfolio. It contains information on all his investments including my notes on the agency venture.’ Cameron commenced to rummage through the file. ‘Now, let me see. Ah, yes. Here it is.’ Cameron brought out a single sheet of paper. ‘Maybrick Literary Agency, Millers Road, North Sydney. That the one?’ he asked looking up at Fitzjohn for confirmation from underneath his dark bushy eyebrows. Fitzjohn nodded. ‘Well, it’s as I said. All I have noted here are a few facts. In September 2008 one million dollars was invested in the Maybrick Literary Agency by Preston. Also noted is that at the end of each financial year, he would receive five per cent of the agency’s yearly profit. I’m afraid that’s all there is, Chief Inspector.’ Cameron closed the file and looked up. ‘It’s a shame. It really is. He could have done so much better elsewhere and it’s not as if he didn’t know that.’

  ‘Did he ever explain why he made the investment, Mr Cameron?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘No. He never brought the subject up. At least not until two days ago.’

  ‘The day he died,’ said Fitzjohn.

  ‘Yes. He rang early on Wednesday morning and asked if he could come in to see me immediately. I had to say no. I was fully booked. I persuaded him to make the appointment for this morning. Something I shall always regret.’

  ‘Did he give any indication of why he wanted to see you so urgently?’

  ‘Only that he wanted to discuss taking his money out of the agency.’

  Betts led the way back out to the car. ‘I don’t think we know much more than we did before we spoke to Mr Cameron, other than how much the victim invested and what his yearly return was on that investment, sir.’

  ‘There is the fact that he wanted to withdraw the investment and as a matter of urgency so it seems,’ replied Fitzjohn as they climbed into the car. ‘It’s a clue as to whatever was going on was causing him a certain amount of anxiety. We need to find out what it was and I think the best place to do that is at the agency itself. We’ll pay them a call, Betts.’

  CHAPTER 7

  ‘It’s number 501, Betts, so just a bit further along on this side of the road,’ said Fitzjohn, looking intently out of the car window. ‘There it is. The place with the red brick wall around it.’

  Betts pulled over to the curb and both men climbed out. When they reached the entrance to the property, Fitzjohn stopped to examine the brass plaque embedded in the wall with the words “Maybrick Literary Agency” inscribed on it.

  ‘Let’s hope this gives us a window into what our victim was concerned about,’ said Fitzjohn, as they walked through the open wrought iron gates and along the gravel driveway.

  As they did so, Betts looked up and his mouth dropped open. Ahead lay a century old, two storey, residence, its gargoyles, with wings menacingly spread, crouched and leering from vantage points high above. ‘This place reminds me of that Sherlock Holmes book, Baskerville Hall,’ he said. ‘All we need now is the howl of a giant spectral hound.’

  With thunder rumbling in the distance adding to this prospect, and the crunch of gravel under-foot, they continued on to the front entrance of the house, a set of open black painted double doors. Inside, they found an imposing vestibule, with a high patterned ceiling and chandelier, complimented by walls covered in dark red velvet wallpaper that emitted an atmosphere of an opulent past. In the centre of the space stood a round, marble-topped, table decorated with a spray of tall flowers held in a crystal vase.

  ‘Can I help you?’ came a soft female voice. Fitzjohn turned to see a young woman with bright blue eyes and an engaging smile, her shoulder length fair hair in contrast to the slim-fitting turquoise dress she wore.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied with a smile. ‘I’m DCI Fitzjohn and this is DS Betts. We’re from the New South Wales Police.’ Fitzjohn held up his warrant card. ‘We’d like to speak to whoever is in charge, please, Ms...’

  ‘I’m Fiona Worth. The agency’s Office Manager. The person you want to speak to is Alison Maybrick. If you’d care to wait, I’ll tell her you’re here, Chief Inspector.’ The young woman gave a quick smile and left, glancing back over her shoulder at the two officers as she disappeared deeper into the house.

  ‘Good morning.’ Fitzjohn and Betts swung around to be met by a woman of medium height, her willowy figure dressed in a dated, grey flannel suit, her feet encased in a pair of flat black shoes. ‘I’m Alison Maybrick. I’m told you wish to speak to me,’ she said, pushing her copper-coloured hair back from her pinched face.

  ‘We do, Ms Maybrick,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘We’re investigating the death of a man by the name of Preston Alexander. We understand that he had a financial connection with this agency.’

  ‘Yes, he did.’ Alison hesitated. ‘We’d better speak in my office. Come this way.’

  Bemused by the woman’s lordly manner, Fitzjohn glanced at Betts as they both fell into step behind her. His glance at the name plate on the office door as he entered the room did not pass Alison’s notice.

  ‘This was my step-mother’s office. She passed away earlier in the week.’ Alison picked up a few sheets of paper from the desk and let them float back down. ‘As you can see, her passing has left a lot of work unfinished. That’s why you find me in such disarray. As well as this, I’m also in the midst of finalising her funeral arrangements.’

  ‘Our condolences,’ said Fitzjohn, taking his seat. ‘We’ll try to be brief. As I said before, we’re investigating Preston Alexander’s death and we understand that he had dealings with your agency.’

  ‘That’s true, he did. In fact, we probably wouldn’t be here, today, if it wasn’t for Preston’s investment.’

  ‘Can you tell us about that financial involvement, Ms Maybrick?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  Alison shrugged. ‘The little I know wouldn’t be of much help to you, Chief Inspector. My step-mother wasn’t one for sharing confidences about the running of the company. At least not with me. Of course, it makes things rather difficult now that she’s gone.’ Alison looked across the desk and sighed before she returned Fitzjohn gaze. ‘The best person to speak to would have been Max Ziegler because he’s acted as our accountant for some years, but now I’m not sure if that would be appropriate.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Because he’s been suspended from duties.’ Alison paused. ‘It’s an internal matter.’

  ‘Even so, as we’re here about Mr Alexander’s financial involvement, we will need to speak to Mr Ziegler and it’ll help if we’re aware of the circumstances surrounding his suspension. I’m sure you can appreciate that.’

  ‘All right, since you put it that way.’ Alison pushed a wisp of hair back from her face. ‘It all happened last Monday, the day that Beatrice died. For whatever reason, she’d spent the weekend going through the agency’s accounts. I don’t know why. Perhaps she suspected something was wrong. As I said earlier, she didn’t confide in me
. Anyway, apparently she found discrepancies and on the Monday morning, she confronted Max. At least that’s what I’m told by the staff. I came in late that morning so I missed the hullabaloo.’

  ‘Other than Mr Ziegler’s suspension, was there any other action she took?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Yes. She asked Giles Enfield to take over the books.’ Alison threw her hands up. ‘I’m sorry, Chief Inspector, that’s all I know.’

  ‘In that case, it might help if we can speak to Mr Enfield.’

  ‘That’s not possible, I’m afraid, because he’s not here. He rang in early yesterday morning to say that he was taking a few days leave to spend some time at his cottage in Port Stephens. He said he was feeling low. Delayed shock, he called it, caused by Beatrice’s death.’ Alison caught Fitzjohn’s questioning look. ‘Giles was here working back the night that my step-mother fell down the stairs.’

  ‘I see. We weren’t aware of the way in which she died, Ms Maybrick. It’s unfortunate that we’ve had to concern you with matters of our investigation at such a time. Under the circumstances, I think we’ll be best placed to speak to Mr Ziegler until Mr Enfield returns. When will that be, by the way?’

  ‘Monday. He said he’d be back in time for Beatrice’s memorial service. This is Max’s home address and telephone number.’ Alison wrote on a card and handed it to Fitzjohn. ‘Whether you’ll find him there, I can’t say. I haven’t been in contact with him since his suspension because I’ve been trying to decide which course of action Beatrice would have taken next. An audit I suppose.’ Alison gave a harried look.

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Fitzjohn, taking the card and handing it to Betts. ‘We’ll have a word with him but before we do, perhaps you can tell us what you know about Preston Alexander.’

  ‘Actually, I know very little other than the fact that he was the uncle of Portland Moore, one of Beatrice’s clients. If I’m not mistaken, that’s how he became involved with us.’

  ‘So, was his only participation in the agency financial?’

  ‘Yes. Other than attending some of the functions we hold throughout the year. Literary luncheons, the Christmas party. That sort of thing. And he did drop in to see Beatrice from time to time. But I don’t believe he had anything to do with anyone else, other than Max, of course.’

  ‘When was the last time he came in, Ms Maybrick?’

  ‘It would have been last Monday, around noon. I can’t help but think that Beatrice had asked him to come in so that she could tell him about the discrepancies in the accounts.’

  ‘Do you know what happened while he was here?’

  ‘Only that he and Beatrice spoke in her office for about half an hour before he went off to speak to Max. Obviously, he’d have been worried about his investment.’ Alison paused to flick a piece of lint from her sleeve. “I’m sorry that I can’t be of more help to you, Chief Inspector, but as I wasn’t here at the time...’

  ‘Perhaps the members of staff who were here can add to what you’ve told us, Ms Maybrick. How many are there, by the way?’

  ‘With Beatrice gone, we have five. Three agents, Giles, Max and myself. Our Office Manager, Fiona Worth, whom you’ve met, and Olive Glossop, our agent’s assistant. Unfortunately, there’s only Fiona in at the moment. Would you like to speak to her? I can take you along to her office.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Fitzjohn.

  With the old oak floorboards creaking under their weight, Fitzjohn and Betts followed Alison deeper into the house until she stopped in an open doorway at the far end of the hall. In contrast to the other rooms in the house, Fiona Worth’s office was devoid of the heavy dark red velvet wallpaper, instead its walls were painted an off white that reflected the natural light coming in through a large plate glass window. She looked up and smiled when the Fitzjohn and Betts appeared next to Alison.

  ‘Fiona, these police officers would like to ask you a few questions. Would you mind?’

  ‘No, not at all. Please, come in.’

  As Fitzjohn and Betts walked into the room and sat down, Alison disappeared while Fiona sat back in her chair, her eyes darting between Fitzjohn and Betts.

  ‘We understand that you’re the agency’s office manager, Ms Worth,’ said Fitzjohn, settling himself.

  ‘That’s right. I’ve been here almost three months now. Before that, I worked for another agency in Chatswood.’

  ‘And how do you find your new position?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Everything was going along fine until last Monday when Max Ziegler was suspended and Beatrice passed away. And now, I understand that Preston Alexander has been… murdered.’ Fiona hesitated. ‘To tell you the truth, Chief Inspector, I’m feeling rather low at the moment.’

  ‘That’s not surprising, Ms Worth. It’s a lot to cope with. Can I ask whether you plan to remain at the agency?’

  ‘That depends. Now that Beatrice and Preston are both gone, the business could fold altogether. You know that Preston was the agency’s financial backer, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, and because we’re investigating his death, we’re here to try to find out how involved he was in the business.’

  ‘Well, I doubt I can help you much with that. Being the office manager our paths didn’t cross often but I did see him from time to time when he came in to see Beatrice. They seemed to get along very well.’

  ‘Do you have any idea how the rest of the staff viewed him?’ continued Fitzjohn.

  ‘Well, I think. At least I never heard anything untoward said about him. Until last Monday, that is.’

  ‘The day that Max Ziegler was suspended?’ said Fitzjohn. Fiona nodded. ‘I take it you were in the office at the time?’

  ‘Yes, I was.’

  ‘And who did you hear speak ill of Mr Alexander?’

  ‘It was Max Ziegler. Of course, at the time, he was upset. Not surprisingly because it had been an unsettling day. First with Beatrice’s argument with him and then Preston’s. Not that I saw them arguing, but I could hear them shouting in Max’s office.’ And then, of course, Beatrice died that evening.’ Fiona threw her hands up in the air.

  ‘Do you remember who else was in the office that morning?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  Fiona thought for a moment. ‘Giles Enfield was in. He’s one of our agents. I noticed that he came out of his office into the hall when Beatrice was having words with Max. Oh, and Olive Glossop was here too. She assists the agents.’ Fiona paused. ‘That’s about all I can tell you, Chief Inspector.’

  Fitzjohn and Betts walked back through the vestibule and out along the gravel driveway.

  ‘From what Fiona Worth says, there doesn’t seem to be much transparency as to what might happen to the agency,’ said Betts. ‘I can see why she’s feeling as she does. She probably feels like she could lose her job at any time.’

  ‘Mmm. It’s an unnerving situation, but it seems to me that Alison Maybrick’s hands are tied with the embezzlement issue not to mention her step-mother’s death. No doubt the probate of her estate will hold some weight in determining what happens to the business. To tell you the truth, Betts, I don’t think she knows which way to turn.’

  ‘She’s certainly been thrown in at the deep end, and Mr Enfield’s absence can’t be helping. You’d think he’d have stuck around; at least until after the funeral.’

  ‘Mmm. It’s unfortunate that he didn’t, but it might be as Ms Maybrick said, that he was deeply affected by her step-mother’s death and needed to get away. After all, it would have been a distressing thing to see.’ Fitzjohn climbed into the car and pulled his seat belt on.

  ‘We could drive up to Port Stephens to speak to him, sir.’

  ‘No. It’s two hours away, Betts. I think our time is better spent here even though I’d liked to have spoken to all the staff before we talk to Max Ziegler. Anyway, we’ll content ourselves with Ziegler’s side of things for now. He lives in Wollstonecraft, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  A short silence followed as Betts pull
ed away from the curb to merge into the oncoming traffic, leaving behind the agency’s gothic facade and gargoyles, now merely a silhouette against a menacing, slate grey, sky.

  ‘What time did Alison Maybrick say her step-mother’s funeral is on Monday?’ asked Fitzjohn at last.

  ‘Ten o’clock, sir.’

  ‘Good. We’ll make a point of being there,’ Fitzjohn replied.

  When they arrived in Wollstonecraft, Betts pulled up in front of a three story apartment building, its leafy grounds bordered by a low brick wall. Together the two officers made their way to the front entrance and pulled the glass door open. Inside, they found a small foyer with a notice board at the base of a set of stairs.

  ‘Which floor is Mr Ziegler’s apartment on?’ asked Fitzjohn as he peered up the stairwell.

  ‘The third, sir.’

  Fitzjohn groaned and watched Betts sprint ahead. ‘I hope you realise that I could have done that twenty years ago,’ he mumbled as he started his climb.

  ‘It’s the first door on the right,’ said Betts as Fitzjohn reached the landing.

  Moments later, Ziegler’s apartment door opened slightly to reveal the head of an unshaven man who looked at the two officers through bleary eyes. ‘Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying,’ he barked. With that, the door began to close.

  ‘We’re not selling anything, Mr Ziegler,’ replied Fitzjohn, stepping forward holding up his warrant card and introducing himself. ‘We’re investigating the death of a man by the name of Preston Alexander.’

  Ziegler stared at Fitzjohn in silence before he opened the door fully to reveal his dishevelled appearance.

  ‘I heard about Preston’s death on the news. It’s terrible.’

  ‘We understand that you were acquainted with him,’ said Fitzjohn.

  ‘Yes, I was, through my work at the Maybrick Literary Agency.’