Deadly Investment (A Fitzjohn Mystery Book 5) (2 page)

CHAPTER 2

Betts drummed his fingers on the steering wheel of the car as Detective Chief Inspector Alistair Fitzjohn opened the back door and placed his briefcase on the seat.

‘Morning,’ said Fitzjohn, aware of his young sergeant’s apparent impatience. ‘I’m sorry you had to be called in on your day off, but it couldn’t be helped. Both Williams and Carruthers are tied up this morning.’ Fitzjohn climbed in and pulled the seatbelt across his rotund shape. ‘Did you have anything special planned?’

‘Just a cooking class.’ Oblivious to Fitzjohn’s gaping expression, Betts pulled the car away from the curb. ‘Where to, sir?’

‘Cremorne. We’ve been asked to fill in for DCI Roberts and attend a suspected homicide. A man’s body was found early this morning in the Cremorne Point Reserve. That’s all the information I have.’

‘When you say “filling in”, sir, does that mean we’ve been seconded to the North Sydney Local Area Command?’

‘No. Roberts is just under the weather. No doubt he’ll be back on deck tomorrow.’

They continued on in silence for a time while Betts merged into the traffic on the Harbour Bridge.

‘Did I hear you say you were taking a cooking class?’ asked Fitzjohn, unable to contain his curiosity any longer.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘That surprises me, Betts. I’d have thought you’d have mastered the art of cooking by now. After all, it’s been a number of years since you struck out on your own. How have you survived up until now?’

‘I eat out,’ replied Betts with a smile.

‘In that case, I hope you get a place in the next class. You can’t eat out all your life.’ Fitzjohn paused. ‘Why don’t you buy a cookbook for beginners like I did after Edith passed away?’

‘Because I only need to learn how to cook one meal, sir. That’s why I enrolled in this cordon bleu cooking school. It’s a one day course called “Chef in a Day”.’ Betts glanced at Fitzjohn and grinned. ‘They teach you how to make a magnificent three course dinner. At least that’s what it says in the brochure.’

‘I see. Then my next question is, who are you trying to impress? It wouldn’t be my niece, would it?’

‘Among others, yes. You see, Sophie introduced me to a few of her friends from university who take it in turn to make dinner on Friday evenings. Sumptuous culinary delights from around the world. It’s been fantastic for the past six weeks but now it’s my turn and...’

‘You don’t know the difference between a saucepan and an egg beater so you’re...’

‘Desperate, sir.’

‘When do you have to host this dinner party?’

‘Tomorrow night.’

Fitzjohn’s midriff started to wobble and tears rimmed his eyelids as he endeavoured to suppress his laughter.

Betts shot him a look. ‘It’s not funny. Time’s running out,’ he blurted as he turned onto Military Road.

‘I’m sorry, Betts.’ Fitzjohn took a handkerchief from his pocket, removed his wire framed glasses and wiped his eyes. ‘I might be able to help,’ he spluttered. ‘Sophie says I make a mean casserole. I can give you my recipe if you like.’ With tears rolling down his face, Fitzjohn looked out of the passenger window.

‘And have Sophie think that we swap recipes! Besides, this dinner has to not only demonstrate that I know my way around a kitchen, it has to be a tantalizing fusion of taste.’ Betts shook his head. ‘You have no idea what I’m up against, sir. One fellow in the group was a chef in one of the hotels in town before he decided to go to university. You should have seen the dinner he put on last Friday night. Four courses plus different wines served with each course. I’m up against the best of culinary expertise.’

‘Mmm. I see what you mean,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘In that case, a casserole won’t go down well. I’ll try and think of something else along the lines of haute cuisine.’

They continued on in silence, turning off the highway and making their way through the leafy suburb and down to where its point met the shore of the harbour. Betts pulled over to join the row of police and forensic vehicles at the curb. Met by a young constable, they showed their warrant cards.

‘You’ll find the victim in that direction, sir,’ he said, pointing to a path that wended its way through the trees and shrubbery.

A chill filled the air and a fine mist hugged the ground as Fitzjohn and Betts walked on in silence, all too aware of the realities of life that they were about to witness. A few minutes later they emerged into a clearing to see the tall, slim, figure of the pathologist, Charles Conroy, standing outside a forensic tent talking to one of the SOCOs. He looked over as Fitzjohn and Betts neared.

‘Alistair,’ he said with a smile. ‘What brings you over to this side of town? You haven’t been seconded again, have you?’

‘No, we’re on short-term loan,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘We’ll be handing our findings over to North Sydney LAC in due course.’ While Betts spoke to the SOCOs. Fitzjohn followed Charles into the tent. ‘What do we have?’ he asked, his gaze lowered to the victim’s still form.

‘A male in his mid-seventies, I’d say,’ replied Conroy, kneeling down. ‘He’s suffered blunt force trauma to the back of his head. No doubt, sustained when it hit that stone outcrop.’ Fitzjohn bent over the body to examine the piece of rock that the victim’s head rested on. ‘The blow didn’t kill him immediately because, as you can see, there’s been quite a bit of bleeding.’

Fitzjohn knelt down, his attention taken by the victim’s eyes, clouded and staring. A shiver went through him. ‘Do you think he could have suffered a heart attack and collapsed?’

Conroy thought for a moment. ‘At this stage, I’d say no because I don’t see any signs that he suffered a heart attack or a stroke for that matter. Of course, my opinion might change at the post mortem but I doubt it for a few reasons. Firstly, his hands show signs that he tried to fight off his attacker. See here? His knuckles are grazed and this index fingernail is ripped but not broken off completely. Of course, it could have happened when he fell but somehow, I don’t think so. Nevertheless, if I’m wrong, all will be revealed at the post mortem.’ Conroy got to his feet and they left the tent.

‘Does he have any ID? A wallet?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘No.’

‘Then robbery could be the motive for the attack.’

‘I thought that might be the case until I saw that he was still wearing his Rolex watch. What mugger would miss taking that? It must be worth a couple of thousand dollars at least.’

‘Good point,’ replied Fitzjohn, looking around the area. ‘Although it could have been a robbery that went wrong. The victim might have put up such a fight that he scared his attacker off.’

Conroy smiled. ‘I’ll leave that conundrum to you, Alistair. I’m not good at puzzles. What I can say is that he died somewhere between eight o’clock last night and mid-night. I’ll be able to be more precise after the post mortem.’

As Conroy disappeared back into the forensic tent, Fitzjohn went in search of Betts. With his mind already in investigative mode, and a growing sense of disappointment that this was not to be his case, he found his tall, ginger-haired, sergeant climbing out of one of the police cars alongside the curb.

‘How did you get on?’ he asked.

‘There’s no unaccompanied car in the vicinity, sir, so the victim could be a local. Having said that, however, I just spoke to the young couple who found the body while they were out walking their dog at around six this morning. They live in the area but they don’t know the victim. Does he have ID?’

‘No, but I doubt the motive for the attack was robbery because he was still wearing his watch. A Rolex. Hopefully its serial number will show us who he is. If you’re right and he is a local then he probably left his wallet at home when he went for a walk. No doubt his wallet will surface when we discover his identity and are able to speak to his next-of-kin.’

‘There is one other thing, sir,’ continued Betts. ‘The SOCOs found an envelope a couple of feet away from the body. It’s addressed to an accountant in Northbridge. The name of the addressee is smudged, however, and there’s no return address and nothing inside the envelope.’

‘Well, it’s something to look into,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘The accountant shouldn’t be too difficult to chase down. See what you can find out, but get through to Rolex first. I’d like to identify the victim before we hand the case over to DCI Roberts. Also, arrange a door knock of the area, Betts. See if anyone knows a man matching the victim’s description. Oh, and check with the Missing Persons Unit. Is there anything else?’

‘Yes, sir. The SOCOs also found a series of footprints around the body. One in particular left a clear indented pattern of the sole of the shoe in the soft ground. Also, they’ll be doing an analysis of the dust on the victim’s clothing at the lab. It’s time-consuming but could be helpful in the investigation.’

‘Excellent.’ Fitzjohn looked around and sighed. ‘Very well. I think that’s all we can do here for now. Let’s get back to the station.’

CHAPTER 3

Rattled to the core by the thought that Beatrice’s demise may not have been an accident, Esme made her way out of Waverton Station and into the blazing hot sun. As she did so, she spied the red letter box at the curb side and after a moment’s hesitation, rummaged in her handbag and brought out the letter. This may not be the wisest thing I’ve done in my life, she said to herself, but I’ve decided to honour your wish, Beatrice. With a last look at Charles Stratton’s name on the front of the envelope, she pushed it through the slit and into the letter box. There, it’s done. With a sigh, she continued on, taking her usual route along Crows Nest Road, oblivious to the scent of roses in the gardens that she passed. The parakeets that pranced in the branches of the trees above her head also missed her notice. Instead she walked as if in a trance, doubt hovering at the edge of her thinking. ‘I must be mistaken,’ she muttered. ‘After all, who would want to harm Beatrice? What reason could there be?’ When she reached her own front garden she paused, thankful to be home at last. Pushing the low wrought iron gate open with her walking cane, she made her way along the path to the house. It stood amongst mature trees and shrubs, exuding an elegant charm of a by-gone era, its grace and character holding Esme’s many memories.

A rush of cool air met her when she opened the front door and she sighed with relief. Placing her hand-bag and cane on the hall table, she removed her straw hat. It was then that she glanced in the mirror and grimaced. ‘Oh, you do look a fright, my girl.’ Pushing a few wavy grey wisps of hair back into place, she studied herself again. ‘That’s better.’

In the kitchen, she filled the kettle and put it on the hob, her actions instinctive. When it began to whistle, she poured the steaming water into a small stainless steel teapot and set it aside to brew. Her favourite Royal Doulton china cup, saucer and plate she took down from the cupboard. As she did so, she eyed the loaf of banana bread that sat on the counter. ‘Mmm. I think that’s just what I need right now,’ she said before cutting herself a small piece and spreading it liberally with butter. Lastly, with the tea now brewed, she filled her cup and placed it, along with the banana bread, onto a wooden tray, its surface a garden of pink roses. Grasping the tray, she marched back through the house to the living room. As she did so, the sound of the door chime echoed through the house. Unprepared, Esme faltered and struggled to regain her balance. With determination, she continued on into the living room and after putting the tray down on the side table next to her armchair, she went to open the front door. To her surprise, she found Alison Maybrick.

Looking the epitome of officialdom in a dark grey suit, Alison pursed her thin lips and said, ‘Miss Timmons. I’ve been trying to reach you all day.’ As she spoke, a strand of copper coloured hair escaped from its clasp at the nape of her neck. Alison shoved it back in place.

Esme ignored the impatient edge to Alison’s voice, all too aware of the woman’s haughty nature.

‘I’ve been out having lunch with Mildred Banks,’ she replied, stepping back from the doorway to allow Alison inside. ‘We’ve done so on the second Thursday of each month for years.’ Esme sighed and closed the door behind Alison. ‘But alas, this time it was a sad occasion. You see, it’s the first time there’s been just the two of us. Your step-mother never missed our little get-togethers. Her empty chair made her passing all the more poignant.’ Esme gave a warm smile and led the way into the living room.

‘I can imagine,’ replied Alison, hovering in the doorway.

‘Have a seat, dear,’ continued Esme, ignoring Alison’s condescending manner. ‘I’ve just made a pot of tea. Would you like to join me?’

‘No. I can’t stay. I just came to ask something of you.’

‘Well, if it’s about the funeral arrangements, I’m more than happy to help in any way I can. As is Mildred, of course.’

‘That won’t be necessary. All the preparations have been made. The service will be at ten-thirty next Monday morning in the South Chapel at the Northern Suburbs Memorial Gardens. What I would like you to do, Miss Timmons, is to say a few kind words about Beatrice. I think it would be appropriate being that you’ve probably known her the longest.’

‘That’s true. I have. Along with Mildred, of course. I think I can speak for her and say that we’ll both be more than pleased to speak at the service.’

‘Not both of you,’ replied Alison with a sharp edge to her voice. ‘There isn’t time for that. You’ll only have three minutes.’

‘Oh. That is a shame. Mildred will be disappointed. Nevertheless, I’ll do my best although to do so in three minutes won’t be an easy task when speaking about Beatrice. A woman who left such a huge imprint.’ Esme gave Alison a wry smile.

‘I’m sure you’ll manage. Just remember. Short and to the point,’ replied Alison, her cold grey eyes narrowing at Esme. ‘Now, I have to go. I’m late for an appointment.’ She turned to leave. ‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ she said, turning back. ‘I’ve been asked to pass some tickets on to you and Mildred.’ Alison burrowed into her handbag. ‘They’re from Portland Moore. You’ve probably heard Beatrice speak of him. They were members of the same theatre company.’

‘Yes, I have. She spoke of him often. In fact, I’ve met Portland on a number of occasions when Beatrice invited Mildred and me backstage after one of their performances,’ replied Esme, taking the tickets from Alison’s grasp.

‘Yes, well, apparently, the company is putting on a play in Beatrice’s memory. Portland described it as “a special occasion for her friends and colleagues”. The cast will be performing one of Beatrice’s own plays. In fact, her most recent work.’

‘Well, I think that’s a wonderful gesture, don’t you?’ replied Esme. ‘I’ve enjoyed all her work. She was such a talented playwright.’

Esme looked at Alison’s pinched expression and decided to launch into her investigation.

‘I can appreciate that it’s been a difficult time for you, Alison. Especially the night that Beatrice fell. I can’t imagine how traumatic that must have been. It was fortunate that you and the other members of staff were working back that night, wasn’t it? I don’t like to think what it would have been like for Beatrice if you all hadn’t been there.’ Esme paused. ‘Of course, that in itself does raise a question, doesn’t it?’

‘Question? What question?’ asked Alison narrowing her cold grey eyes at Esme.

‘The question of why Beatrice attempted to go downstairs in her dressing gown when her staff were still working. It seems to me to be totally out of character, don’t you think? Something dire must have happened to cause her to do that.’

‘I hadn’t thought about it. I guess we’ll never know.’

‘No, I don’t suppose we will. And I don’t suppose we’ll ever know who Charles Stratton is either.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ said Alison.

‘Charles Stratton. Beatrice asked me to post a letter to him if anything were to happen to her. A strange request, I thought. Almost as if she had a premonition that something would befall her. I don’t suppose you know the man, do you, Alison?’

‘No, I don’t.’ Alison hesitated. ‘What did you do with the letter, Miss Timmons?’

‘I posted it.’

‘You should have consulted me first.’ With that, Alison disappeared back into the hallway and seconds later the front door slammed.

Well, that hit a nerve, thought Esme. I’d say that you know very well who Charles Stratton is, Alison. But why hide it? Still clutching the theatre tickets, Esme sat down, the unsettling feeling she had about Beatrice’s death gnawing at her. I wonder what really happened to you, Beatrice, and why.