Deadly Investment (A Fitzjohn Mystery Book 5)

by Jill Paterson

  ‘Good morning, Mr Ziegler,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘We’d like to go over what we discussed when we last spoke. May we come in?’

  Ziegler took the cigarette from his mouth. ‘I can’t think of anything else that I can add to what I’ve already told you, Chief Inspector, but come through anyway.’ With an awkward gait, Ziegler shuffled along the hallway and into the kitchen, its table still covered with dishes and cutlery from past meals. He gestured to the chairs and sat down himself before putting his cigarette back into his mouth and lighting it up.

  ‘I’ll get straight to the point,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘You told us that on the evening of Preston Alexander’s death, you were out having dinner in Neutral Bay.’

  ‘That’s right. With members of my chess club. We dined at the “Tuscany” restaurant.’ Ziegler exhaled, blowing smoke up toward the ceiling.

  ‘You also said that the last time you spoke to Preston was on the Monday when he came into the Maybrick Literary Agency.’

  ‘Right again.’

  ‘And yet, according to Preston Alexander’s telephone records, you spoke to him on Wednesday night. The night of the dinner and the night that he died. Your conversation lasted for approximately eleven minutes.’ Ziegler stiffened. ‘It doesn’t do to lie to the police, Mr Ziegler, because we always find out the truth in the end. Now, what we want to know is, why you called him? Was it to arrange to meet him later that evening, after the dinner?’

  ‘No. I didn’t see Preston that night. I swear.’

  ‘Then what was the reason for your call?’

  Ziegler blustered. ‘I wanted to explain to him again that it was Giles who’d been doing the accounts. That if there were discrepancies then he was responsible.’ Ziegler paused and looked around the kitchen, his eyes glistening with tears. ‘I’m desperate to clear my name, Chief Inspector,’ he said at last, looking back at Fitzjohn. ‘You can’t imagine what it’s been like to be accused of embezzlement. How will I ever be able to get another job? Speaking to Preston was all I could think of to do now that Beatrice is gone.’ With his hand shaking, Ziegler put his cigarette back between his lips.

  ‘You can’t help but feel sorry for the man,’ said Betts as they left Ziegler’s apartment. ‘He’s lost his family, likely his job and now he’s being questioned by the police in regards to a murder investigation. He looks to me as though he’s on the verge of a breakdown.’

  ‘He does look to be in a bad way, but, even so, we have to try and keep everything in perspective, Betts, because Mr Ziegler’s anxious composure might be exacerbated by the fact that he’s involved in that murder.’ Fitzjohn opened the car door and climbed in as did Betts. ‘I applaud your empathy and I know it’s difficult watching what people go through but I’m afraid it comes with the job.’ Fitzjohn gave a quick smile.

  ‘Now, moving on,’ he continued. ‘Have you been able to locate the victim’s solicitor because I’d like to know who’ll benefit from his death?’

  ‘I have, sir. His name is Geoffrey Cousins. He has offices on Phillip Street in the city.’

  Their car made slow progress through the congested streets of the city before Betts turned into Phillip Street and pulled over to the curb. ‘I doubt we’ll get a park much closer to the building, sir,’ he said, peering out through the rain splattered windscreen. ‘We’ll have to walk.’ The two men climbed out and joined the many pedestrians who rushed, huddled under their umbrellas, along the wet pavement. Fitzjohn brushed his suit coat off as they entered the building and made their way to the elevator. Moments later, they emerged onto the seventh floor to see a glass fronted office bearing the name Geoffrey Cousins & Wendell Parker, Barristers & Solicitors. They entered the reception area to find the front desk unattended. Presently, a woman in her late fifties with straight salt and pepper hair cut into a short bob, emerged from the hallway.

  She looked at the two men speculatively and asked, ‘Can I help you?’ Fitzjohn and Betts introduced themselves. ‘Ah! Yes. Mr Cousins is waiting for you, Chief Inspector. This way, please.’ With a certain amount of swiftness, she turned back in the direction from which she had come and led the way to a door at the far end of the hall. After a quick tap she opened it and stood aside. ‘The police are here, Mr Cousins,’ she said to the grey haired man sitting behind a desk in front of the window. Geoffrey Cousins closed the file in front of him and got to his feet.

  ‘DCI Fitzjohn is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, and DS Betts,’ replied Fitzjohn.

  After hand-shakes the three men sat down.

  ‘I understand that you’re here concerning a client of mine by the name of Preston Alexander.’

  ‘That’s right, Mr Cousins,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘Because he died under suspicious circumstances, we’ve launched an investigation into his death.’

  ‘Mmm. I heard about it last week on the news. It saddens me that he’s gone, and in such a violent manner. He’d been a client of mine for many years. What information are you looking for, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘We understand that you hold his will,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘We’d like to know whether it’s been read.’

  ‘It has. This morning, as a matter of fact. I have it here.’ Preston reached for a file that sat to the side of his desk in a tray. ‘Preston’s nephew, Portland Moore contacted me last Thursday to make the appointment. He brought his mother, Evelyn Moore, with him.’

  ‘Can you tell us who the beneficiaries are?’

  ‘Yes. They are Evelyn Moore, who was Mr Alexander’s sister, and his great-nephews, Simon and Graeme Moore.’

  ‘Portland Moore’s sons?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘That’s correct. In their case, as they’re minors, a trust is to be set up. They’ll be able to access it when they reach the age of thirty, respectively.’

  ‘And Portland Moore?’

  ‘He wasn’t named in this will, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘I take it that he was a beneficiary in a previous one,’ said Fitzjohn.

  ‘Yes. However, for whatever reason, Mr Alexander chose to have a new will drawn up. Two weeks ago, to be precise.’

  ‘And what were the changes?’ asked Fitzjohn, sitting forward in his chair, his interest triggered.

  ‘Firstly, the omission of Portland Moore as a beneficiary and secondly, a trust to be set up for the great-nephews. Before that, the estate went to Evelyn and Portland Moore in its entirety. The largest share going to Portland.’

  ‘Significant changes, it would seem, as far as Mr Moore is concerned,’ said Fitzjohn.

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘This case becomes more intriguing by the day, Betts,’ said Fitzjohn as the two men left the solicitor’s office and made their way down in the elevator to the foyer below. ‘I can’t help but think that Preston Alexander must have had a good reason to eliminate his nephew from his will altogether because I wouldn’t think that you’d make a decision like that lightly.’ They stood for a moment or two at the building’s entrance before descending the steps and sprinting through the rain back to their car. Once inside, Fitzjohn removed his glasses and wiped the rain spots from them with his breast-pocket handkerchief. ‘We have to find out what prompted our victim to do that.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can find out,’ replied Betts, turning on the windshield wipers and pulling away from the curb.’

  The smell of stale smoke hung in the air when Fitzjohn arrived home that evening, the blackened charred remains of Rhonda Butler’s house a dark edifice against the night sky. Despite the warm night air, an involuntary shiver went through him and he stiffened as the horror of the fire flashed through his mind. Taking a breath, he stopped at the front gate and cleared the letter box, not noticing the hint of light shining through the stained glass in the centre of the front door. Fitzjohn fumbled for his door key but as he did so, he saw that the door was ajar. Pushing it open, the aroma of food filled his nostrils and at once his sister, Meg, sprang to mind. Obviously she had heard about the fire on the news the previous day and deci
ded to fly up from Melbourne.

  ‘Meg, is that you?’ he called out as he placed his briefcase and the mail on the hall table.

  ‘No, Uncle Alistair. It’s me,’ came Sophie’s voice. ‘I’ve brought you a casserole for dinner. It’s in the oven to keep warm. I was just writing you a note.’ Sophie’s tall slim frame materialised in the kitchen doorway, her dark shoulder-length hair framing deep blue eyes and a wide smile. In that instant, he remembered his niece as she was when she had first arrived from Melbourne to study at Sydney University two years earlier. Somewhat immature, not knowing quite what she wanted other than the fact that she was desperate to escape her mother’s clutches. They had had their moments, of course. Her arrest for participating in a rally at the university for one, but then there was the love and support she always gave in times of trouble. Such as when the greenhouse was destroyed and now with the fire. Fitzjohn smiled with pride at his young niece.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Sophie, thank you, but shouldn’t you be caring for Betts. He’s not saying very much but I suspect his leg is more painful than he’s letting on.’

  ‘I’m about to go and see him now and make dinner for him. I just wanted to make sure that you’re all right before I do. I also wanted to warn you that Mum will be telephoning this evening.’

  ‘Oh.’ Fitzjohn took off his suit coat and sank down onto a kitchen chair. Did he feel up to dealing with his much loved but overbearing sister this evening? He thought not.

  ‘Thanks for letting me know, Sophie,’ he said at last. ‘Now off you go and look after Betts. If it wasn’t for him, neither Blossom nor I would be alive.’ As Fitzjohn spoke, the telephone rang. ‘No doubt that’ll be your mother.’

  As Sophie left, Fitzjohn braced himself.

  CHAPTER 14

  The following morning, Fitzjohn climbed into his taxi and settled back for the drive into the CBD, his mind meandering through an array of thoughts as the driver wended his way through the congested streets. He appreciated Meg’s suggestion the previous evening that she come to take care of him in, what she called, his hour of need, but in his preoccupation with the Police Integrity Board’s inquiry as well as his present case, he dreaded the prospect. Hopefully, his suggestion that he would take leave to visit her in Melbourne after his present investigation was complete, had been enough to quell her enthusiasm for his company. Of course, considering her compulsive nature, it would not surprise him at all if she still turned up on his doorstep unannounced.

  He reached his office to find Carruthers loitering at the water cooler. ‘Morning, Carruthers. Are you waiting for me?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Carruthers followed Fitzjohn into the office, his youthful exuberance filling the air. ‘I’ve been to Port Stephens to check out Giles Enfield’s alibi, sir, with an interesting result.’ Fitzjohn gestured to one of the chairs in front of his desk as he sat down himself. ‘Mr Enfield’s immediate neighbours say that the last time they remember seeing him was a couple of months ago. It was the same story at the golf club. The last time he booked a tee off time was approximately eight weeks ago.’

  ‘That is interesting,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘I suppose it’s possible, that his neighbours might miss seeing him coming and going while he’s staying there, but you can’t play golf without booking a tee off time, can you?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. I’ve never played golf.’

  ‘It wasn’t a question, Carruthers. Believe me, you can’t, but that aside, you’ve done well. You can accompany Betts and me when we speak to Mr Enfield. After all, this has been your particular inquiry.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Carruthers left the room with a wide grin across his face.

  Betts pulled over in front of the Maybrick Literary Agency and the three officers climbed out of the car. Fitzjohn straightened his suit coat, adjusted his glasses and, shadowed by Betts and Carruthers, they made his way through the open gateway and along the gravel drive to the house. As they went, Carruthers stopped and squinted with the sun light as he peered upward at the gargoyles leering from high above.

  ‘Look at this place. It’s just like a house in a horror movie I once saw. Hundreds of bats flew out from under the eaves and went on the attack.’

  ‘In that case, you’d better keep an eye out. I think I saw a bat the last time we were here.’ Carruthers gave Fitzjohn a wry smile.

  They reached the open front doorway and stepped into the vestibule to see Giles Enfield leaving Fiona Worth’s side and making his way along the hall toward them.

  ‘Mr Enfield,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘We’d like a further word with you if we may.’

  ‘I can’t right now, Chief Inspector,’ replied Giles in his predictable commanding manner. ‘I’m with a client.’

  ‘We’ll wait,’ said Fitzjohn, now attuned to Enfield’s arrogance.

  ‘Chief Inspector, do you have news?’

  Fitzjohn turned to see Alison Maybrick coming through the front entrance behind them.

  ‘No, Ms Maybrick. We’re here to speak to Mr Enfield but it seems that he’s otherwise engaged.’

  ‘Oh. I could speak to him if you like. It’ll save you waiting around. Unless I can help, of course.’

  ‘Not with this particular matter, but you might be able to answer a few questions we have regarding your step-mother.’

  Alison gave Fitzjohn a quizzical look. ‘I thought we’d already discussed that, but come through.’ The three officers followed Alison into her office. ‘What more do you want to know?’ she continued, watching the three men take their seats.

  ‘The last time we were here, we took the liberty of looking through the apartment upstairs,’ said Fitzjohn.

  ‘Ah, yes. Olive told me. She also said that a team of forensic people spent some time up there. I can’t imagine they’d find anything to help your case. To my knowledge, Preston never went upstairs.’

  ‘Do you know who Beatrice did entertain up there, Ms Maybrick?’

  ‘Her friends on occasion, that’s all.’

  ‘Never any of the staff?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge. Other than myself, of course, and that was only if I had to speak to her about something in particular.’ Alison’s eyes locked onto Fitzjohn’s. ‘We had little or nothing in common, you see.’

  ‘Have you been upstairs since your step-mother’s death?’

  ‘Yes, of course I have,’ replied Alison with an increasingly prickly air. ‘I went up on Tuesday afternoon. I had to choose something for Beatrice to wear... To be buried in,’ she continued haltingly. ‘I found it difficult to tell you the truth.’

  ‘Indeed. It’s not easy,’ replied Fitzjohn as he remembered the same task after Edith had passed away.

  ‘Mmm. Well, anyway, after that, I did a bit of tidying up.’

  ‘In what way?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘I cleared away the dishes that were on the kitchen table. Some cups and the cream and sugar bowl. I put the sugar on the counter and washed the rest up. The milk had gone off with the heat throughout the day.’

  ‘How many cups were there?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘That’s a funny question to ask. There were two. Why?’

  ‘Because it suggests that Beatrice had company during the day or evening that she died.’

  Alison frowned. ‘Oh. I hadn’t thought of that, but I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘I take it it wasn’t you, Ms Maybrick?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you have any idea who it might have been? A friend, or one of the staff, perhaps?’

  Alison thought for a moment. ‘It wouldn’t be a friend. Not on a week day when she was working. And I very much doubt she’d have invited anyone over that evening.’

  ‘What about a member of the staff?’

  ‘Absolutely not. She didn’t fraternised.’ Alison fell quiet for a moment or two. ‘All these questions, Chief Inspector, and that forensic team going through the apartment. What’s going on, exactly? You don’t suspect that Beatrice’s d
eath wasn’t an accident, do you?’

  ‘That question has been raised,’ Ms Maybrick.

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.’ Fitzjohn paused. ‘Did you do anything else before you left the apartment on Tuesday?’

  Alison bristled. ‘If you must know, I looked for Beatrice’s will. I needed to know if she’d named me as her executrix because if she had, there were duties that would have to be performed.’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘Did you find the will?’

  ‘I found a copy of it tucked away in her bedroom dresser.’

  ‘And are you the Executrix?’

  ‘No. As it happens, she named the Public Trustee.’ Alison pursed her lips with a disappointed air. ‘After that, I came back downstairs.’

  ‘And have you been into the apartment since?’

  Alison hesitated before she said, ‘I have as a matter of fact. I went up to start going through Beatrice’s things. It has to be done so I thought the sooner the better.’ Alison adjusted the decorative scarf she wore around her neck and looked at her watch. ‘Will there be anything else, Chief Inspector? It’s just that I have a client arriving in a few minutes.’

  ‘Just one thing, Ms Maybrick. A minor detail, but I like to get things right in my mind. We were led to believe that Olive Glossop is an agent’s assistant but when we spoke to her the other day, she introduced herself as one of the company’s agents.’ Fitzjohn gave a quick smile.

  ‘That’s because Beatrice asked her to take on some of her clients for the time being. Apparently she told Olive that she was feeling a little overwhelmed with Max’s suspension.’