Deadly Investment (A Fitzjohn Mystery Book 5)

by Jill Paterson

  A few minutes later, now dressed in an old pair of trousers and a green T-shirt that had seen better days, he slipped his feet into his loafers, and with his glasses perched on top of his forehead, stepped out onto the back porch. While the soft evening breeze ruffled the few wisps of hair on his head, he took a moment to look across the garden, now in darkness, and savoured the fragrances that emanated from its many flowerbeds. As he did so, he stepped off the porch and strolled down the path to the greenhouse and into the tranquility that prevailed in its shadowy, humid, atmosphere, the quietude broken only by the muted sound of a ferry’s horn in the distance. The orchids, each one different and exotic in its complex beauty stood like guardians of their preserve. Fitzjohn inspected each one in turn, the day’s events falling away until the sound of his mobile phone broke the spell.

  ‘Fitzjohn, here.’

  ‘Alistair, it’s Meg. I’ve spent all afternoon thinking and I’ve decided to fly up to Sydney to look after you.’

  Fitzjohn hesitated for a second and gathered his thoughts. ‘I appreciate the thought Meg, but there’s no need. I’m fine. As I said the other night, once I’ve finished my investigation, I’ll come down to Melbourne to see you. By then I’ll need a break.’

  A long silence ensued before Meg replied in a heightened voice, ‘I can’t see that happening, can you, because let’s face it, Alistair, as soon as you’ve finished this case, you’ll start investigating another. All I can say is, you’d better start looking after yourself. Look at the terrible ordeal you’ve just been through with that fire. For goodness sake. You’re going along as if nothing has happened. If you won’t let me come up there then take some sick leave and have someone take over for you and come to Melbourne for a break.’

  Fitzjohn sensed his sister’s agitation. ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible, Meg, because it isn’t just the investigation that’s preventing me. You see, the Police Integrity Board is holding an inquiry into one of my past cases. I can’t leave town.’

  ‘Why are they doing that?’ asked Meg, her diatribe thrown off balance.

  ‘That I can’t go into, but what I can say is that it doesn’t look good. What makes it worse is the fact that I have no recollection of the case in question.’

  ‘I don’t believe that,’ replied Meg. ‘You have a memory like an elephant. Each and every case you’ve ever investigated is imprinted indelibly on your brain.’

  ‘I thought so too, but it seems not to be the case,’ replied Fitzjohn, absentmindedly continuing to inspect the next orchid in the row.

  ‘And you can’t tell me why they’re questioning the case?’

  ‘No. I’m sorry, Meg, I can’t. It’s confidential,’ replied Fitzjohn.

  ‘Then can you tell me when it was?’

  ‘Oh, it was years ago. In 2007. According to what records I could find, the investigation lasted from October through November of that year before it was solved. Or, as it now seems, not solved.’

  ‘You mean that no one was accused of the crime? In that case it can’t have been your investigation, Alistair, because I’ve followed your career closely and there’s one thing I know; you always get your man - or woman as the case might be.’

  ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, Meg, but I’m afraid it’s misplaced because apparently I did arrest someone - albeit an innocent person.’

  ‘I don’t believe it. That’s not possible, Alistair.’

  ‘It’s true, I’m afraid.’

  ‘When did you say this investigation took place?’

  ‘October through November, 2007.’

  A long silence followed.

  ‘Meg? Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes. I’m here. I’m just looking at my notice-board next to my wall phone. You know the one. I keep all my mementoes and messages pinned to it. They go back years. I never throw anything away and I’m sure it’s here somewhere.’

  ‘What is?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘The postcard you sent me.’ Another long silence followed. ‘Just bear with me for a minute. I’ll find it. Ah, yes, here it is. You sent it to me when you and Edith were in the UK. Shall I read it to you?’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘It’s nice that you kept it though.’

  ‘In this case I’m glad I did because I just unpinned it and on the back, it’s dated November 5, 2007.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just what I said. Why don’t you look at your passport, Alistair, because I have a feeling that you’ll find that you weren’t in Australia during the time you say this so called investigation of yours was in progress. You were twelve thousand miles away in York.’

  CHAPTER 17

  The following morning Fitzjohn arrived at the station later than usual, having gathered as much information about his whereabouts in the latter part of 2007 as he could. Now convinced that he was being set up, he dropped his briefcase on his desk and with a determined gait, made his way to Chief Superintendent Grieg’s office. He tapped on the door and walked in.

  He found Grieg sitting back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his head and his feet resting on the top of his desk while he listened to a voice on the telephone’s loudspeaker. His chair pitched forward with a thud when Fitzjohn appeared. Grieg grabbed the phone.

  ‘I’ll call you back.’

  ‘What the hell do you want?’ he screeched.

  ‘I’ve come to let you know that I’ll be speaking at the inquiry this morning. You might like to attend because I’m sure you’ll find what I have to say most interesting.’

  ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ replied Grieg with a sneer. ‘I’m going to enjoy watching you accused of incompetence. Do you realise that a man has spent the last eight years behind bars because of you?’

  ‘Not because of me, Chief Superintendent, and I can prove it.’ With that, Fitzjohn turned, and with a spring in his step, left the office.

  ‘Morning, Betts,’ Fitzjohn called out as he glimpsed his young sergeant at the end of the corridor. ‘Has anything come back from forensics about those shoe prints yet?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Chase it up will you?’ Betts nodded. ‘What about Charles Stratton? Any news there?’

  ‘Not yet, sir, but there is on Giles Enfield.’

  ‘Good, come into my office. You can tell me there.’

  Once inside, Fitzjohn took his briefcase from the top of his desk and placed it beside his chair before slipping out of his suit coat. Betts sat down and took out his notebook before he flipped through the pages.

  ‘What do we have?’ asked Fitzjohn, settling himself into his chair.

  ‘Firstly, Williams has spoken to Rosemary West, sir. She confirms that Enfield did arrive in Port Macquarie on Thursday morning and that they spent the following four days together.’

  ‘So, Giles was telling the truth.’

  ‘Looks that way,’ replied Betts.

  ‘It seems to me like we’re losing one of our main persons of interest, doesn’t it?’ said Fitzjohn with a sigh.

  ‘Not altogether, sir, because I decided to look a bit further into Enfield’s past, in particular, his education history. You’ll be interested to know that, as a young man, he studied accountancy at the University of Sydney. He graduated with a Bachelor of Business with Honours and was accredited by the Chartered Accountants Australia and New Zealand organisation. They go under the acronym of the CAANZ.’

  ‘Ah. Well, that is interesting.’ Fitzjohn gave a wry smile. ‘So, contrary to what he told us, he was more than capable of taking over the accountancy of the Maybrick Literary Agency.’

  ‘With, perhaps, a bit of embezzlement on the side,’ added Betts.

  ‘What about his financial affairs?’

  ‘Nothing substantial there,’ replied Betts, looking back at his notes. ‘He and his wife have one property that they live in. It has a hefty mortgage over it. Their bank accounts reflect two people who are both working to meet the monthly payments. They do have a ne
st egg, however. A term deposit in the amount of $50,000 that they’ve kept rolling over for the past two years. The interest of which they’ve put on their mortgage.’

  ‘In that case, it can’t have been gained from embezzlement of monies through the agency if he is, in fact, guilty of that. Enfield’s only been employed there for a year.’

  ‘No, sir, but he does have a safe deposit box. A perfect place to hide the spoils of embezzlement, I would think.’

  ‘Mmm. It would be, wouldn’t it?’ said Fitzjohn with a smile. ‘See the Magistrate about a search warrant for the box. When you have it, pay a call to Giles Enfield’s bank manager. I’d like to go along too, but I have to front up to the Police Integrity Board later this morning. I’ve no idea when I’ll be through - or they’ll be through with me - so you’re on your own.’ Betts got to his feet. ‘And Betts,’ continued Fitzjohn. ‘Good work.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. And good luck with the inquiry.’

  Fitzjohn entered Day Street Police Station with a bounce in his step. With the evidence that he had presented to the Board proving that he had not been in Australia at any time during the investigation into the Patricia Wilson case, he had been released from their grasp. The inquiry, now in a state of flux, adjourned its proceedings until further notice. Fitzjohn realised, however, that his elation would be short lived, the repercussions coming in the form of Chief Superintendent Grieg’s wrath. The reason behind Grieg’s conviction that this had been his case was another thought that nagged at the fringes of Fitzjohn’s mind. Was it possible that Grieg had known all along who had conducted the investigation? If that was the case, he would be in a precarious position when the Board recommenced its proceedings. Resigned to the fact that this matter had yet to meet its conclusion, Fitzjohn opened the door into his office.

  ‘Afternoon, sir.’

  Fitzjohn turned to see Betts behind him. ‘Ah, how did you get on?’ he asked.

  ‘Very well, sir.’ Betts recounted his meeting with Giles Enfield’s bank manager and the contents in the safe deposit box. ‘Consequently, I took the liberty of arranging for Mr Enfield to be brought in for questioning. He’s waiting in Interview Room 2.

  Fitzjohn and Betts walked into the interview room to see Enfield’s imposing frame at the table next to his solicitor, an attractive young woman of diminutive proportions. Giles glared at Fitzjohn.

  ‘And about time too!’ he barked in an authoritative voice. ‘How dare you subject me to this kind of treatment? Anyone would think I’m a common criminal.’

  ‘We apologise for keeping you waiting, Mr Enfield,’ replied Fitzjohn, sitting down and placing the plastic bags containing the contents of the safe deposit box on the table in front of him.

  Betts turned on the recording device and when introductions had been made, the interview began.

  ‘What’s all this?’ asked Enfield with a flick of his hand toward the bags.

  ‘It’s the contents of your safe deposit box,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘Just over two hundred thousand dollars when counted. Would you care to tell us how you came by such a large amount of money?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t,’ replied Giles, his eyes locked onto the bags of notes. ‘How dare you invade my deposit box?’

  ‘Where did you get the money, Mr Enfield?’ asked Fitzjohn again.

  ‘That’s none of your damned business.’

  ‘It is, and I seem to remember explaining why on a previous occasion. Would you like me to repeat myself?’

  ‘No. I would not.’

  ‘In that case, we’re waiting for an explanation. Is it the proceeds from your embezzlement at the Maybrick Literary Agency?’

  ‘Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. I told you before that I don’t have the skills needed to record business transactions let alone cook the books which is what you’re accusing me of.’

  ‘We’re not accusing you, Mr Enfield. We just want to know where you got this money because, contrary to what you just said, we know that you are more than capable of recording “business transactions”, as you put it. You did, after all, complete a Bachelor of Business with Honours at the University of Sydney before you started your working career. I’d say that you’re more than capable of embezzling agency funds. So, would you care to tell us about it?’

  ‘You’re wasting your time,’ replied Giles with a sneer. ‘I didn’t do it.’

  ‘Then why have your fingerprints and fibres from your clothing been found on and in the laptop used by the agency for the purpose of their accounting? I think there’s no question that you took on the bookkeeping task as Max Ziegler told us, and that you decided to take a little something for yourself along the way.’

  ‘Well, you’re wrong. I admit I have helped Max from time to time with the accounts because I’ve probably got far more knowledge about such things than he does, but I didn’t take them over completely. If there are discrepancies in the accounts, it’ll be Max Ziegler’s doing, not mine.’ Giles sat back in his chair with an air of arrogance. ‘That money you have there is mine. It has nothing to do with the agency.’

  ‘Then I suggest that you tell us how you came by it,’ replied Fitzjohn.

  ‘If you must know, it’s the proceeds from my father’s coin and stamp collections. He died a few months ago and left them to me in his will. I sold them to a man who deals in such things.’

  ‘Do you have a receipt?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘In that case, we’d like to see it,’ said Fitzjohn.

  ‘And I’ll be more than happy to show it to you just for the satisfaction of seeing the expression on your face.’

  Unmoved by Enfield’s utterances, Fitzjohn said, ‘Pardon my curiosity, Mr Enfield, but if, indeed, this money is the proceeds from your father’s collections, why didn’t you deposit it in your bank account where it would earn interest?’

  ‘Because, if you must know, I didn’t want my wife to know about it. It’s as simple as that.’ Giles looked at Fitzjohn and sighed. ‘Now I suppose you want to know why and if it’ll get you off my back once and for all, I’ll tell you. Rosemary West and I have put an offer in on a house in Port Macquarie. This money is my share toward its purchase.’

  ‘Ah! So, Ms West is more than a friend?’

  ‘All you need to know is that I didn’t kill Preston Alexander,’ replied Giles Enfield.

  Fitzjohn terminated the interview and followed by Betts, made his way back to his office where he slumped down into his chair.

  ‘I have a feeling that Enfield is telling the truth about the way in which he received that money, Betts.’

  ‘We’ll know for sure if he produces that receipt, sir. I’ll see to it now.’

  ‘Do that because if he’s not our man, we have precious time to waste.’

  As Betts left the room the door flew open again and Grieg burst in. Fitzjohn groaned.

  ‘What do you think you’re playing at, Fitzjohn,’ he screamed.

  Feeling unable to suffer another fool gladly, Fitzjohn got to his feet as Grieg positioned himself on the other side of the desk. ‘I’m not the one who’s playing games,’ he said. ‘We both know that. Don’t we, sir?’ Fitzjohn glared at Grieg whose eyes refused to meet his. ‘I don’t know why you hold a grudge against me, nor do I care, but I’ll tell you this, Chief Superintendent. Don’t ever set me up again because if you do, you’ll regret it.’

  ‘How dare you threaten me?’ hissed Grieg.

  ‘How dare you involve me in a bungled investigation that I had nothing to do with?’

  ‘That’s rubbish! I did no such thing. It was an honest mistake.’

  ‘We both know that’s not the case,’ replied Fitzjohn.

  The colour drained from Grieg’s face and he turned and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

  CHAPTER 18

  Fitzjohn sat alone in the Incident Room turning his pen end for end on the desk while he mulled over in his mind what was now, he believed, two murders. Of course, the question is, a
re they connected? As this thought came to mind, Betts walked into the room and placed a plastic sleeve on the table.

  ‘It’s Giles Enfield’s receipt for the money found in his safe deposit box, sir. It doesn’t look like he’s our man after all.’ Betts sat down heavily into a chair while Fitzjohn studied the receipt.

  ‘He still could be, but you’re right, it’s looking less likely,’ Fitzjohn replied. ‘I’ve just been sitting here asking myself whether our victim’s death is connected to Beatrice’s. It’s possible, considering the incident involving Max Ziegler and the agency’s accounts the day that Beatrice died.’

  ‘You mean Ziegler killed Beatrice in a fit of rage?’ said Betts.

  ‘I suppose I do. After all, the man had been on an emotional roller coaster for months. Being suspended for suspected embezzlement might have sent him over the edge.’

  ‘What if the deaths aren’t connected, sir. If not, I’d say that Alison Maybrick had the most to gain monetarily.’

  ‘True, but if that’s the case there’s also Olive Glossop to consider. She’s somewhat eccentric and possibly unpredictable. She might have approached Beatrice with the purpose of asking to be promoted to agent only to be refused. If that’s so, it may have been one disappointment too many after twenty years of loyal service. She might have taken matters into her own hands.’

  ‘Which leaves Giles Enfield and Fiona Worth,’ said Betts. ‘It can’t be Giles. He’s too wrapped up in his liaison with Rosemary West than he is in the workings of the agency. And it couldn’t be Fiona because she’s too...’

  ‘Beautiful?’ asked Fitzjohn with a smile. ‘We can’t let beauty influence our thoughts when it comes to solving a murder, Betts.’

  ‘No, sir.’ Betts paused. ‘On another note, I have one piece of positive detecting work to report. I made enquiries at the Family Court about Max Ziegler’s divorce settlement. Apparently, he chose to keep the family apartment rather than sell it. To do so, he had to pay his estranged wife half the market value which was $400,000.’