Deadly Investment (A Fitzjohn Mystery Book 5) (11 page)

CHAPTER 13

Following a night in the hospital for smoke inhalation and observation, a cheer went up when Fitzjohn walked into Day Street Police Station two days later. Overwhelmed by the welcome his colleagues were bestowing upon him, he made his way to his office through the gauntlet of handshakes and pats on his back. Once inside he closed the door and paused for a moment to take in the familiar space, grateful to be alive. Slipping off his suit coat, he hung it on the back of his chair, sat down and rubbed his hands together with enthusiasm at the prospect of carrying on with his investigation into Preston Alexander’s death. His first task, however, was to see to Betts’s well-being so he picked up the telephone and rang the Duty Officer.

‘Has DS Betts arrived yet, Sergeant?’ he asked, feeling the scrape of his throat, still raw from the smoke that he had inhaled.

‘Not yet, sir.’

‘Ask him to come and see me when he does, please.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Fitzjohn put the phone down and sat back with a tinge of disquiet as he recalled Betts’s injured leg. Had things not gone well overnight and the powers that be had changed their minds about his release from the hospital? Would the injury affect his career?

As these thoughts ran through his mind the door flew open and Chief Superintendent Grieg walked into the room. Inwardly Fitzjohn groaned.

‘Good morning, sir,’ he said, getting to his feet. Grieg bristled. Had the Police Integrity Board come to their conclusion, thought Fitzjohn? Was Grieg here to gloat? After all, if the Wilson case had been his, he knew that not only was his career as a police officer over but, more importantly, he would have to live with the fact that he had sent the wrong man to prison. If only I could find more information on the case, he thought again. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ he continued.

‘No,’ spat Grieg. ‘Do you think I didn’t hear what you said about me at the inquiry the other day? How dare you imply that I had no basis for naming you as the investigating officer into the Wilson case? I’m here to tell you, Fitzjohn, that your days in this job are numbered. I know your little game, so if you think you’re going to squirm out of this one, you’re wrong. I’m going to watch you
fry
! No police force will employ you after the Police Integrity Board comes down with its findings. I’ll make sure of it.’

‘Ah! There you are, Betts,’ said Fitzjohn, looking past Grieg with a look of concern across his face. ‘Come in and sit down.’ Put off balance by this unexpected interruption, Grieg swung around to see Betts limp across the room. ‘I thought they might have decided to keep you in the hospital for another day or so,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘How’s your leg?’

‘It’s going to be fine, sir,’ replied Betts, acknowledging Grieg. ‘A minor burn on my calf when those flying cinders fell on me as we were being dragged out of the house.’

‘You may not be aware, Chief Superintendent, but this young man saved two lives during the fire. Mine and that of my neighbour, Adele Carter,’ continued Fitzjohn, as Betts settled himself into a chair ‘Without him we wouldn’t be here.’ With a look of indifference, Grieg started toward the door. ‘Oh. You’re on your way, sir,’ said Fitzjohn. Grieg hissed. As the door closed behind him, Fitzjohn turned back to Betts.

‘Sorry, for the interruption, sir. The Duty Officer told me to come and see you as soon as I arrived. I didn’t realise you were in a meeting with the Chief Superintendent.’

‘I’m glad you did, Betts. It was a meeting I didn’t need to have. Not this morning anyway.’

‘I take it the Chief didn’t like your responses at the inquiry the other day.’

‘No, he didn’t, but that was to be expected.’

‘Have you heard how Blossom is?’ Fitzjohn continued as he sat down again.

‘I went to visit her before I left the hospital, sir. They’re keeping her in for a few more days for observation, but I think she’s going to be fine. Her sister’s been contacted and she’s on her way home now to care for Blossom.’ Betts smiled. ‘It’s hard to believe that she’s Rhonda Butler’s sister. They’re very much alike in looks but that’s as far as it goes. Their personalities couldn’t be more different.’ Betts paused. ‘Have they any idea how the fire started?’

‘It’s thought that Blossom fell asleep while smoking.’ Fitzjohn’s thoughts went back to his first meeting with Blossom a few days earlier, and the questionable brand of cigarette she was smoking at the time.

‘What about the house? Were they able to save it?’

‘The front half only suffered smoke and water damage, but the back, where the fire started, has all but been destroyed,’ replied Fitzjohn.

‘That’s the part that Rhonda had rebuilt after the tree fell through the roof a couple of years ago, isn’t it?’ asked Betts. Fitzjohn nodded. ‘I’d like to be a fly on the wall when she speaks to Blossom.’

‘Mmm. Rhonda’s wrath is probably the last thing Blossom needs right now, but better that than to perish in the fire. She has you to thank for that, Betts. I couldn’t have dragged her out on my own. No doubt we’d both have suffocated if that were the case.’

‘It was a team effort, sir. I’m only glad that we arrived when we did. Speaking of which, the forensic report is back on Beatrice Maybrick’s apartment.’ Betts held up the report before handing it to Fitzjohn. ‘They’ve found three different sets of fingerprints on a number of surfaces. Two sets belonging to Alison Maybrick and Olive Glossop and a third that they haven’t been able to match up as yet.’

‘Well, it’s probably not surprising to find Alison’s prints,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘After all, she was related to Beatrice, but why would Olive Glossop’s be in the apartment?’

‘Olive said she’d worked for Beatrice for the past twenty years. They might have become friends as well as employer and employee.’

‘True. Even so, we’ll speak to her again along with Alison but before we do, we need to pick up the threads from where we left off before the fire. As I remember, we’d planned to speak to both Giles Enfield and Max Ziegler.’

‘That’s right, sir, starting with Ziegler.’

Fitzjohn and Betts arrived in Wollstonecraft in the day’s building heat. Are you sure you’re all right, Betts?’ asked Fitzjohn, noticing his young sergeant wince as he climbed out of the car.

‘I’ll be fine, sir. It’s best to keep moving.’

‘All right. If you’re sure.’ Fitzjohn took his suit coat out of the back seat of the car and shrugged it on and the two officers made their way to the front entrance of the apartment building. Fitzjohn started the climb to the third floor followed by Betts who made slower progress than his previous sprint. At Max Ziegler’s door, Fitzjohn rang the bell and both men stood back and waited. Presently, it opened and Ziegler appeared, a cigarette hovering on his lower lip.

‘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.