The Fourth String

by Jill Paterson

  ‘I didn’t know that. Is that what she told you?’ asked Pearl, her brow furrowed.

  ‘Not in so many words but she certainly inferred it. In her actions, that is. It surprised me in a way because being the orchestra’s first violinist you’d think she and Crispin would have had at least some conversation and yet I never heard them speak to each other even at our building’s executive committee meetings.’

  ‘You know, you’re right, come to think of it, but I still can’t see Eleanor being a murderess.’

  ‘So, that leaves Hector,’ said Elvira. ‘But what motive would he have? I’m sure he’d have welcomed the refurbishment of the foyer. Unlike the rest of us, I think he’s rather prosperous so it wouldn’t have presented him with a problem. And he and Crispin did appear to get on rather well.’

  ‘Not recently,’ said Pearl. ‘Haven’t you noticed? There was a distinct change in their relationship of late.’

  Elvira thought for a moment. ‘Now you come to mention it, Hector always called on Crispin on a Sunday afternoon for their regular chess game but that hasn’t happened for a while now.’

  ‘Exactly. One can only speculate what triggered that change,’ said Pearl with a conspiratorial look.

  ‘Well, whether or not Crispin was murdered by someone living in the building, the fact remains we’re all suspects in the police murder investigation. At least those of us who were in the building at the time, that is.’

  ‘I daresay we were all here. I know I was, and alone so I have no alibi,’ said Pearl, her voice quivering.

  ‘I wouldn’t worry yourself too much over it, Pearl,’ replied Elvira, sensing the other woman’s disquiet. ‘It’s a matter of police procedure.’

  ‘I hope you’re right but even so, Crispin did want me out of the building. Surely you were aware of that, Elvira.’

  ‘He wanted you to find a new venue to conduct your business. Not for you to move out altogether, Pearl.’

  ‘That’s what he wanted everyone to believe but privately, he told me he’d see me out of the building altogether.’

  CHAPTER 5

  Fitzjohn and Betts left the shelter of The Claremont and crossed the rain-swept street to their car.

  ‘I had such plans for this week,’ said Fitzjohn as he slid into the passenger seat, droplets of rain resting on the lenses of his glasses. ‘Tending my orchids and flowerbeds, making a few adjustments to the greenhouse and benching my prize orchid at this month's North Shore Orchid Society competition. Not to mention relaxing in my favourite garden chair reading the book I was about to loan from my local library.’

  ‘But instead you have the pleasure not only of my company, sir, but my expertise in helping you solve a murder,’ replied Betts with a smile as they sped off in the direction of the harbour bridge. ‘And you have to admit, it’s an interesting case in the fact that the killer has made an emblematic gesture by wrapping a violin string around the victim’s neck. There has to be a reason for that. And then there are his neighbours, all eccentrics as far as I can see who voted against his refurbishment proposal and as such, they’re all persons of interest.’

  ‘You’re right, it does look to be an interesting case plus the fact that the weather took a turn for the worse this morning so that would have put paid to most of my planned activities.’ Fitzjohn took a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the rain from his glasses. ‘I should thank you, Betts, for making me realise how lucky I am not to be on leave right now.’

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ replied Betts as they left the clamour of the city behind, and headed north along Pittwater Road. ‘It’ll be interesting to hear what the antique dealer and the violinist have to say later today,’ he continued. ‘Particularly Eleanor Reed since she’s also a violinist and is more than likely to keep a supply of strings.’

  ‘That’s a good point,’ said Fitzjohn somewhat preoccupied with his next task; advising Edmund Fairchild of his brother’

  s death. A part of his job he always found difficult.

  The two men continued on in silence as they drove through the suburb of Mona Vale before turning into Fairchild Boat Building Ltd at Newport. ‘This is it, sir,’ said Betts, bringing the car to a standstill.

  ‘It looks to be a thriving operation, doesn’t it?’ said Fitzjohn, peering out through the rain splattered window at the boats moored at a slipway which descended into the choppy waters of Pittwater estuary. ‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone about though.’ As the words left his lips, however, the sound of machinery coming from a long rectangular shed broke the silence.

  Crossing the yard, they entered the building to find a heavyset man working on a lathe. He looked up when they came into view, and after turning off the machine, he removed his safety glasses to reveal an unshaven face with a ruddy complexion, his sandy coloured hair greying at the temples.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘We’re looking for Edmund Fairchild,’ replied Fitzjohn brushing the rain from his suit coat.

  ‘That’s me. And you are?’

  ‘DCI Fitzjohn and this is DS Betts.’ Fitzjohn held up his warrant card.

  ‘I’m not violating any by-laws by parking those vehicles outside my fence am I?’

  ‘Not at all, sir. We’re here about another matter concerning your brother, Crispin.’

  Edmund moved away from the lathe. ‘Has something happened to him?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘His body was found early this morning...’

  ‘His body? You mean he’s… dead?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Fairchild.’

  ‘But I spoke to him on the telephone just yesterday. He seemed fine. Was it his heart? I know he had angina. He took medication for it.’

  ‘All we can say at this stage is that we’re treating his death as suspicious,’ replied Fitzjohn.

  The colour drained from Edmund Fairchild’s face. ‘By suspicious you mean he was murdered?’

  ‘We have reason to believe he didn’t die from natural causes, Mr Fairchild, and as such, we’ll be conducting an investigation.’ Edmund ran his hand through his hair, a look of bewilderment on his face. ‘I’m sorry we’ve had to bring you this news, Mr Fairchild. I really am.’

  ‘It’s not something you can be prepared for, is it, Chief Inspector. We lost our mother not long ago as well. Perhaps it’s a blessing she isn’t here. I doubt she would have coped.’ Edmund took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. ‘What do I do now? What I mean is, given the circumstances… You see, I’m Crispin’s only family. He and his wife were separated.’

  ‘I see. Well, in that case, you’ll be notified when your brother’s body is to be released to the funeral home. I’ll have one of my officer’s contact you so that you’re aware of the procedure. I think you should also be aware that, considering your brother’s celebrity, you may find journalists seeking you out.’

  ‘Oh. Thanks for the warning.’

  ‘I know this is a difficult time, Mr Fairchild,’ continued Fitzjohn as he looked into Edmund’s pale face, ‘but you mentioned that you spoke to your brother last night on the telephone. Can you tell us what time that was?’

  ‘He called around eight o’clock.

  ‘And what was the reason for his call?’

  ‘It was about our mother’s home. Crispin wanted to discuss listing it for sale so we arranged to meet next Saturday in the city because I couldn’t get away from here any sooner. I have too much work on at the moment.’

  ‘Have you been in the business a long time?’ asked Fitzjohn in an effort to find out a bit of background on Edmund.

  ‘Every since I left school. Our father started the business in the nineteen fifties. He passed away some years ago. His dream was that Crispin and I would join him but my brother’s talents took him in an entirely different direction as you probably know.’

  ‘Your brother was a celebrated man, Mr Fairchild. He’ll be greatly missed in the music world. You have our condolences.’

  ‘Thank you
.’

  ‘Do you know anyone who would wish him harm?’

  ‘No. As I said, Crispin and I weren’t close. He lived in Europe for years until recently and even after his return, the only occasion we’ve seen each other was at our mother’s funeral last month. If he did have enemies, he never said.’

  ‘You mentioned he was separated from his wife. Did that occur recently?’

  ‘Yes, in the last eighteen months, I believe.’ Edmund paused. ‘I’ll call her and tell her what’s happened because even though they were estranged, I’m sure she’ll want to know.’ Edmund fumbled with his safety glasses and glanced back at the lathe.

  ‘Just one more question that I have to ask, Mr Fairchild. Can you tell us where you were between the hours of eleven and two o’clock last night?’

  ‘Surely you don’t think I’d kill my own brother,’ said Edmund with a sense of indignation.

  ‘As I said, it’s a question we have to ask,’ replied Fitzjohn.

  ‘Mmm. I suppose you do. I was here working until around ten thirty before I went home. I live in Mona Vale. A few minutes up the road. And there’s no one to confirm this because both of my employees left for the day around six and I live alone.’

  ****

  With the sound of the lathe humming in the background, Fitzjohn and Betts left the boat shed and crossed the yard to their car.

  ‘Even though we never met Crispin Fairchild, so to speak,’ said Fitzjohn, settling himself into the passenger seat, ‘I’d say two brothers couldn’t have led more different lives. And I did detect a hint of bitterness in Edmund.’

  ‘He might have felt deserted by his brother,’ said Betts as he slid in behind the wheel. ‘Left to carry on the family business and care for their mother after she was widowed.’

  ‘But would that give him a motive for murder?’

  ‘He did say the victim wanted to discuss their mother’s property. Maybe Edmund resented that because, other than at her funeral, it seems his brother had never made contact.’

  ‘Mmm. There might be something in it, Betts. Do a background check and see what comes up, if anything. But for now, as we’re unable to speak to the other two residents until later in the day, we’ll go to the station. It’ll give me a chance to make the acquaintance of our acting chief superintendent.’

  ****

  Followed by Betts, Fitzjohn walked into the inner sanctum of the station to be met by the duty sergeant, his face beaming.

  ‘I trust you had a good vacation, sir.’

  ‘That comment doesn’t deserve a reply, Sergeant,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘Is the acting chief superintendent available?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Good. I’ll go straight in.’

  ‘Before you do, sir,’ said Betts. ‘There’s something…’

  ‘Not now, Betts. Just have a word with the investigative team and let them know we’ll hold the management meeting this evening after you and I have completed our interviews with the remainder of Crispin Fairchild’s neighbours.’

  ‘Yes, sir, but…’

  ****

  Waving his hand at Betts’s rejoinder, Fitzjohn continued along the corridor with a determined gait until he reached Grieg’s office which now housed the acting chief superintendent. At the open doorway, he lifted his hand to knock but there it remained, in mid-air.

  ‘Good morning. You must be DCI Fitzjohn.’ The uniformed woman seated behind Grieg’s desk smiled and got to her feet.

  ‘I am, ma’am,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘I… that is, I…’

  ‘Wasn’t expecting a woman?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘Don’t worry. You’re not the first and you won’t be the last,’ she continued, her blue eyes sparkling as she extended her hand. ‘I’m Peta Ashby and I’m very pleased to meet you, Chief Inspector. Your reputation has preceded you and it’s why I recalled you from leave. I take it you’ve attended the crime scene on Macquarie Street and are aware of who the victim is,’ she continued as they sat down.

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘In that case, you’ll be aware of the media attention Crispin Fairchild’s death will attract and especially under the circumstances in which he died. He was, after all, not only a man of some renown but also a somewhat controversial figure with his tendency to make his views known on a number of rather sensitive global matters. I expect there are those who will want to drag up all manner of issues which could, potentially, hurt innocent people. One of the reasons I recalled you from leave was because I know you’ll be tactful while conducting your investigation and when speaking to the media. We don’t want to fuel speculation, do we?’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ replied Fitzjohn.

  ****

  Fitzjohn emerged from Peta Ashby’s office to find Betts and the duty sergeant standing at the water cooler in hushed conversation. They both turned when Fitzjohn approached.

  ‘I walked right into that one,’ said Fitzjohn.

  ‘I did try to tell you, sir.’

  ‘So you did, Betts. So you did.’

  ‘Actually, she comes across as being fairly nice. For a chief superintendent, that is,’ continued Betts.

  ‘And a heck of a lot more pleasing to the eye than Chief Superintendent Grieg,’ put in the duty sergeant, with a wide grin.

  Fitzjohn rolled his eyes. ‘Time to go to the morgue, Betts. I want to see how Charles Conroy is getting along concerning our victim.’

  ****

  Once inside the morgue with its lingering antiseptic odour, the two officers followed the mortuary assistant to a long room lined with a number of stainless steel tables. Charles Conroy and his technician could be seen at the far end standing on either side of one of the tables where a body laid.

  ‘Ah, Alistair. Well timed. We’re just finishing up.’ While Betts remained in the doorway, Fitzjohn walked into the room. ‘It’s as I suspected,’ continued Charles. ‘The victim died from blunt force trauma to the back of the skull. The wire placed around his neck, however, played no part in his death. Even so, I’m sure it will play a part in your investigation. I have it here.’ Conroy handed Fitzjohn a plastic bag containing the wire. ‘It looks to have been crudely cut from whatever instrument it belonged to. The other thing you might be interested in is that there are no signs of a struggle.’

  ‘It did appear at the scene that he’d turned his back on his killer.’

  ‘I’d say that’s exactly what happened,’ said Charles.

  ‘So, we agree that it’s more than likely he knew his assailant.’

  ‘I’d say so. He simply didn’t know the blow was coming.’

  ‘Can you be more precise about the time of death?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘More so than at the crime scene. It would have been midnight, give or take half an hour.’

  ****

  Fitzjohn emerged from the morgue to find Betts on the phone. ‘That was Hector Lombard, sir,’ he said as he hung up. ‘He’s heard about what’s happened at The Claremont and is on his way home now.’

  ‘Excellent, we’ll go straight there.

  CHAPTER 6

  Later that afternoon and under a slate grey sky, Fitzjohn and Betts arrived back at The Claremont to complete their interviews with the residents.

  ‘It looks like the media are here in force,’ said Fitzjohn as they made a quick exit from the car and hurried through the crowd at the curb and into the building. ‘We’ll speak to them after we’ve had a word with Mr Lombard,’ he continued as they crossed the foyer and walked along the hallway to Hector Lombard’s apartment. Betts knocked on the door and the two men waited expectantly. When it opened, a grey-haired man of medium height and build, dressed in a dark blue suit with a red bow tie, appeared.

  ‘Mr Lombard,’ said Fitzjohn.

  ‘Yes. Hector Lombard. I take it you’re the police?’

  ‘Yes.’ Fitzjohn showed his warrant card. ‘DCI Fitzjohn and DS Betts.’

  ‘Come in, won’t you,’ replied Hector, moving back from
the doorway. ‘I apologise for not being here sooner,’ he continued as he led the way through the apartment. ‘I went over to Watson’s Bay early this morning to attend an auction and got caught up with a few colleagues, as one does. It wasn’t until I got back that I heard what had happened to Crispin. It’s shocking, it really is,’ he continued as they entered the living room. ‘Please, have a seat, gentlemen.’ The size of the living area and the long casement windows were identical to the living rooms of the other apartments in the building but this particular room took on a character of its own with its many antiques which exuded an ambience of times long since past.

  ‘You have some beautiful collections,’ said Fitzjohn, looking at the various glass cabinets filled with an abundance of figurines, vases, and plates.

  ‘My collections are my passion, Chief Inspector,’ replied Hector with a sense of pride as he followed Fitzjohn’s gaze. ‘And as an antique dealer, I’m more fortunate than most in that opportunity to acquire beautiful pieces, presents itself quite often.’ Hector gestured to two wing backed chairs as he settled himself onto a tufted leather chesterfield. ‘Of course now, with what’s happened to Crispin, it all seems so trivial. Why would someone do such a thing? It’s unnerving, it really is.’

  ‘When did you last see or speak to Mr Fairchild?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘I saw him last night when I returned from my evening walk. He and another man were outside the building at the base of the steps talking.’

  ‘Did you speak to them?’

  ‘No. Actually, I chose not to because the man Crispin was speaking to seemed a bit agitated. Now, of course, it makes me wonder whether it had anything to do with Crispin’s death.’

  ‘Can you describe the man he was speaking to?’ asked Fitzjohn, his interest piqued.