The Fourth String

by Jill Paterson

  ‘It says here that he was the conductor of the Sydney Symphony. Isn’t he the man in your building that you told me you didn’t like?’ asked Moira.

  ‘Yes, but please don’t tell anyone. After all, he didn’t die from natural causes. I wouldn’t want people to get the wrong idea.’

  ‘I won’t breathe a word, I promise.’ Moira hesitated. ‘You didn’t though, did you?’

  ‘Moira! How could you think such a thing?’ Again, the sound of Elvira’s voice and perhaps the subject matter grabbed the attention of those around her.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I had to ask. After all, you have mentioned on a few occasions that you’d do anything to get rid of one particular resident although you never said who it was.’

  ‘But I didn’t mean I wanted to murder him. Not literally anyway.’

  ‘So, what exactly did you mean?’ asked Moira. Ignoring the question, Elvira reached for the menu. ‘Come on, Elvira, it has to be something. What is it, Elvira?’

  Elvira put the menu back down on the table and gave a long sigh. ‘If you must know, I killed him off in the manuscript I’m writing at the moment. That is, the character that I’ve based on Crispin Fairchild’s unfortunate personality, shall we say.’

  ‘And now he’s really dead,’ said Moira.

  ‘Mmm. I suppose, under the circumstances, I should do a bit of rewriting, shouldn’t I? It’s a shame really because it’s all rather good.’

  ‘Even so, I think it might be wise to make a few changes? After all, I wouldn’t like to see you at the centre of the police investigation even though it would do wonders for your book sales.’

  ‘You’re joking, of course?’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Moira, sitting back in her chair with a smirk. ‘I’m also glad to see that finding the body hasn’t left you scarred for life,’

  ‘I think at this point I’m more concerned about whether one of my neighbours is a murderer because, let’s face it, I wasn’t the only one who didn’t like Crispin.’

  ‘That’s a good point. Don’t they say that you usually know your killer?’ asked Moira.

  ‘More often than not, yes,’ replied Elvira.

  ‘So who do you think it could be?’ asked Moira. ‘What I mean to say is, you’re always solving crimes on paper so you must have some ideas.’

  ‘I’ve thought of little else and I’d say any one of them could have done it,’ replied Elvira, although there were two strangers in the building that night. They were caught on the surveillance camera so I’m hoping it wasn’t one of the residents because the ones who are left, I quite like.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know how you can be so calm about this, Elvira. After all, you were not only in the building when the murder took place but on the same floor.’

  ‘I admit, it isn’t a comforting thought but you never know, it might help me in my writing of such situations in the future. I’ll now know how my characters feel when they find themselves in the same situation,’ replied Elvira with more bravado than she felt.

  ‘Speaking of which,’ said Moira, ‘I think you should be prepared for somewhat of a, shall we say, burst of attention at your book signing on Friday.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because your name is mentioned in this newspaper article concerning the murder.’

  ‘What?

  Moira picked up the newspaper again. ‘It says here that the celebrated novelist, Elvira Travers, is a resident of The Claremont,’ read Moira. ‘Journalists love that sort of thing. It pulls readers in. And if they also find out that you found the body… well...!’

  ‘But how do they know I live there?’

  ‘Because you’re a well-known writer although you seem to be the only one who doesn’t know it,’ replied Moira. ‘Anyway, all I’m saying is, be prepared for a little more attention than usual, that’s all.’

  ****

  In the fading afternoon light, Elvira walked home, her mood somewhat lightened since her luncheon with Moira when they had reminisced about the years since they first met. They were good years, she thought, her success as a novelist being far greater than she could have ever imagined. But, of course, a lot of that success she owed to Moira who worked tirelessly to promote her work. While lost in these thoughts, she approached the front steps of The Claremont, but as she reached for the brass handrail, she gasped when a tall young man dressed in a dark business suit, stepped out from the shadows in front of her.

  ‘Ms Travers,’ he said, throwing his cigarette butt to the ground. ‘My name’s Raymond Edwards. I wonder if I might have a moment of your time.’

  ‘How do you know who I am?’ asked Elvira with a degree of suspicion as she noted his name did not match his slight European accent. What was it anyway? she asked herself. Definitely not French. Could it be Greek or perhaps Italian?

  ‘Crispin Fairchild pointed you out to me when we last met,’ he continued. ‘At the time, he said you were his closest neighbour so I’m hoping you can assist me.’

  ‘In what way?’ asked Elvira guardedly, aware it was highly unlikely that Crispin would point her out to one of his colleagues.

  ‘I need access to his apartment.’

  ‘That’s not possible, Mr Edwards. Crispin’s apartment has been sealed off by the police.’ Elvira hesitated. ‘You do know what’s happened to him, don’t you?’ she added, her brow furrowing.

  ‘Yes, I heard about his death on the news and I know this sounds crass but it’s left me in an awkward position. You see, I had given him some documents to read through. Documents I now need so that I can close the business deal we were working on together.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Well, all I can suggest is that you speak to the police officer who is in charge of the investigation. I can give you his name. I’m sure he’ll be more than willing to help you.’

  ‘I don’t have time to go through such formalities,’ replied Edwards. ‘It’ll only take a moment for me to find the documents. Five minutes, at the most. I can make it well worth your while,’ he added with a smarmy smile.

  ‘You’re wasting your time,’ replied Elvira, feeling a surge of hutzpah flood over her. ‘The apartment is locked and even if it wasn’t, all the tea in China wouldn’t change my mind. Now, if you don’t mind, you’re blocking my way.’ With that, Elvira dodged past Edwards and ran up the front steps and into the foyer, the image of the man’s face in her mind’s eye. I’ve seen that face before, she thought as she stumbled through the door. I know I have, but where? At that moment, Pearl emerged from the elevator. ‘That’s it,’ said Elvira, looking back through the glass panel in the door to Edwards who lingered at the base of the steps. ‘It’s him.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Pearl following Elvira’s gaze.

  ‘The man the police sergeant said was caught on the surveillance camera the night Crispin died. I’m sure of it.’

  CHAPTER 8

  Despite the previous late night, Fitzjohn arrived at the station early the following morning relishing the prospect of an hour to ponder the interesting mix of possibilities which the Fairchild case presented. Carrying his briefcase with the morning newspaper tucked under one arm, his other hand gripping a cup of steaming coffee, he nudged the door handle to his office with his elbow, and lurched to his desk. Once settled and poised to tackle the first clue in the morning’s cryptic crossword puzzle, a tap sounded on the door. He looked up to see the Acting Chief Superintendent, Peta Ashby. Dressed in full uniform, her fair hair pulled back in a bun at the nape of her neck, she presented the epitome of a highly successful female police officer with a record of service to prove it, if the grapevine was to be believed. Nevertheless, as the duty sergeant had commented the previous afternoon, this austere countenance was far more pleasing to the eye than Grieg. On the other hand, appearance isn’t everything, thought Fitzjohn. At least with Grieg, I know what I’m up against whereas Peta Ashby is an unknown quantity. Fitzjohn got to his feet attempting to conceal his frustration at the interruption.

  ‘Good morning,
ma’am. I trust you’ve settled in.’

  ‘I have, thank you, Fitzjohn. I just thought I’d drop by to find out how your investigation is going before we both become occupied with other matters.’

  ‘Actually, there’s not a lot to report as yet other than the fact there’s no lack of persons of interest,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘All five remaining residents admit to being in the building at the time of the murder.’

  ‘So, you think it might be an inside job, so to speak,’ said Ashby.

  ‘Not necessarily, ma’am, because we also have two unidentified persons caught on the surveillance camera who could have committed the crime. I should have more for you after we’ve finished working through our background checks.’

  ‘Good. I look forward to it.’ As she spoke, Betts appeared in the doorway. ‘Morning, Sergeant,’ she said as she left the room.

  Betts beamed, a stunned look across his face. ‘She said good morning to me. I’ve never known a chief superintendent to acknowledge I’m alive.’

  ‘I suspect that’s because you’ve only dealt with Chief Superintendent Ashby’s predecessor,’ said Fitzjohn with a quick smile. ‘But that aside, how are the background checks coming along?’

  ‘Slowly, sir, although I do have a few details on Morris Elliott and Pearl Ambrose,’ replied Betts, pulling out his notebook as he settled himself into one of the chairs in front of Fitzjohn’s desk. ‘Firstly, Pearl Ambrose is an accredited teacher of classical voice and conducts singing lessons for beginners to pre-professional students. She conducts these lessons in her apartment which she purchased in 2002 after the death of her husband, Reginald Ambrose. He passed away after suffering a stroke.’

  ‘Tragic,’ said Fitzjohn.

  ‘Even more tragic is the fact that he suffered the stroke shortly after their son, who was twelve at the time, died in a motor vehicle accident.’

  ‘So, Mrs Ambrose has been left alone in the world. When I went into her apartment, I did see a photograph of what must be the three of them together. Since she lives alone I did wonder, at the time, what had happened.’ Fitzjohn paused. ‘What about Elliott?’

  ‘He moved into the building in 2003, sir, but more interestingly from our perspective, he’s had a couple of drink driving charges laid against him, one of which resulted in the loss of his licence for a period of three months. That, however, was a number of years ago as was an Apprehended Violence Order taken out against him by his then partner, Geraldine Baxter. It resulted in their separation and to his subsequent move into The Claremont.’

  ‘So there’s a history of violence where Mr Elliott is concerned,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘Best have a word with Ms Baxter in that case, just to clarify the situation. What about the surveillance camera photographs? Did any of the residents recognise the man or the woman?’

  ‘No, sir, and Hector Lombard was unable to confirm that the man in the photograph was Rhodes Lambert because he couldn’t remember whether Mr Lambert was wearing a trench coat when he saw him speaking to the victim.’ Betts got up to leave. ‘I’ll go see about contacting Geraldine Baxter, sir.’

  ‘Good. While you do that, I’ll have DSC Williams drive me out to Rhodes Lambert’s electorate office to have a word with him. With any luck, I’ll be able to sense not only what transpired between him and the victim that night but also if he is the man in the photograph. Either way, it might propel us forward.’

  ****

  Fitzjohn could see Rhodes Lambert enter his electoral office as Williams pulled over to the curb. ‘Good timing, Williams,’ he said as he unbuckled his seatbelt. Leaving the car, he crossed the street, dodging the oncoming traffic as he went. On entering the building moments later, he was met by a young woman sitting behind a reception desk.

  ‘Good morning, can I help you?’ she asked with a smile.

  Fitzjohn introduced himself and held up his warrant card. ‘I’d like to speak to Rhodes Lambert, if I may.’

  ‘I’m afraid Mr Lambert isn’t in the office this morning, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘Are you sure? It’s just that I could swear I saw him arrive a few minutes ago. Or has he ducked out the back door?’

  ‘We don’t have a back door.’

  ‘Then perhaps you can show me to his office, miss.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘No time like the present,’ replied Fitzjohn with a smile.

  ‘But… That is, he gave me explicit instructions he’s not to be disturbed.’

  ‘He won’t mind seeing me,’ said Fitzjohn.

  ‘Well, I hope you’re right because if you’re not, I’ll be unemployed by lunchtime,’ mumbled the receptionist as she led Fitzjohn down a short hallway to a door at the end.

  ‘I’ll take it from here, thank you miss,’ said Fitzjohn before she had time to knock. As she scuttled away, Fitzjohn tapped and opened the door.

  Somewhat surprised by the swift appearance of his visitor, Rhodes’s chair bolted forward with a jolt as he scrambled to his feet.

  ‘Who the hell are you and what do you think you’re doing barging into my office?’ he yelled, his eyes flashing.

  ‘I’m DCI Fitzjohn and I’m here to ask you a few questions in relation to my investigation into the death of a man called, Crispin Fairchild. May I?’ Fitzjohn continued, gesturing to a leather-bound chair in front of Lambert’s desk.

  ‘Be my guest, since it doesn’t look like I have much choice in the matter,’ replied Lambert, slumping back down into his chair. ‘What makes you think I can help with your investigation anyway? All I know is what I’ve heard on the news, like anyone else. Granted, I’ve met the man but only on one occasion at an Opera House function, and even then we barely spoke.’

  ‘But I’m led to believe you spoke to him at length the night he died?’

  Lambert glared at Fitzjohn before he gulped. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say, Mr Lambert,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘My understanding is that you met at around eleven that evening outside Crispin Fairchild’s residence. Is that correct?’

  ‘All right, I spoke to him on two occasions rather than one,’ Lambert replied, throwing his hands up in the air.

  ‘Can you tell me what your meeting was about?’ Fitzjohn waited and watched Rhodes Lambert line up the pens on his desk.

  ‘It was a delicate matter. Personal actually, and nothing to do with Mr Fairchild’s death I assure you and as such, I’d sooner not go into it.’

  ‘In that case, I feel duty-bound to inform you that, while you’re under no obligation to answer my questions, your failure to do so may be viewed as an admission not entirely favourable to you,’ replied Fitzjohn.

  Lambert hesitated for a long moment and with a sigh said, ‘Very well, if you insist but I don’t want what I’m about to tell you to go any further than this room because as I said, it’s highly personal and after all, I am a member of parliament. It could ruin my career.’

  ‘I’ll endeavour to keep your confidence,’ replied Fitzjohn, ‘but there are no guarantees.’

  ‘Okay, but I’ll tell you this, Chief Inspector. I’ll be making an official complaint about you and your appalling methods of conducting an investigation.’ Lambert paused to take a breath. ‘Recently, I found out that my wife, Rosemary and Crispin Fairchild were involved.’

  ‘In what way?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘For god’s sake man, do I have to spell it out?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Fitzjohn.

  ‘They were having an affair. Is that plain enough for you? I went to warn Crispin off.’ Lambert paused. ‘I know what it looks like considering what’s happened to him. It gives me a strong motive to kill the man but I assure you, I did no such thing.’

  ‘What were you wearing that night?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Wearing? A suit, of course. What else? I’d just come from Parliament House.’

  ‘Well, it had rained for most of the day. Were you wearing a raincoat as well, perhaps?’

  ‘I can’t remember. I might hav
e been. What does it matter?’

  Ignoring Lambert’s response, Fitzjohn asked, ‘Where did you go after you’d spoken to Mr Fairchild that night?’

  ‘I walked down to Circular Quay and found a bar,’ replied Lambert with a shrug. I didn’t want to go home.’ Lambert threw the pen he had been holding onto the desk.

  ‘So you didn’t follow Crispin Fairchild into the building.’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘And how long were you at the bar?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Very well. I’ll need the name of the establishment and I also need to speak to your wife.’

  Lambert put his head in his hands.

  ****

  Fitzjohn left Rhodes Lambert’s electorate office and returned to his waiting car, at the same time, reflecting on their conversation. Could Lambert be Crispin Fairchild’s killer? His belief that his wife had been conducting an affair with the victim certainly gave him a motive, and a strong one at that. And his vagueness in regards to whether or not he was wearing a trench coat on the night in question gave further weight to this theory. Still, Fitzjohn found himself feeling a certain amount of sympathy for Lambert and his predicament, if he was indeed telling the truth.

  Once back at the station, he went in search of Betts who he found at his desk in the main office. ‘Were you able to make contact with Geraldine Baxter?’ he asked, sitting down on the chair next to Betts’s desk.

  ‘Yes sir, but only by telephone because she now lives in Brisbane.’ Betts leaned back in his chair. ‘She said that Elliott invariably turned violent after consuming alcohol. It’s why she broke off their relationship. He didn’t take that well, apparently, and it’s why she took out the AVO and eventually moved to another state. She hasn’t seen nor heard from him since 2005.’

  ‘Well, knowing he’s capable of violence doesn’t give him a motive for murder. I think we would be wise to spend some time looking into his relationship with the victim, don’t you?’