Deadly Investment (A Fitzjohn Mystery Book 5) (14 page)

‘I’m still waiting to hear back from Williams, sir, so in the meantime, I made a few enquiries about the victim’s nephew, Portland Moore.’

‘Oh? What prompted that?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘Well, it seemed to me that we’ve been concentrating all our efforts on Max Ziegler and Giles Enfield without knowing very much at all about Mr Moore’s background.’

‘So, what did you find?’

‘That he lives way above his means for someone on a bank teller’s salary,’ replied Betts.

‘In what way?’

‘Well, for starters, we know he lives in Clontarf, right enough, but it turns out that the house he lives in is in the upper price bracket. And that’s not the only thing. He drives the latest BMW sports car, holidays in Europe each year and his two sons attend Shore Grammar.’

‘It might be that he had a windfall somewhere along the way. Or perhaps his wife is independently wealthy,’ said Fitzjohn.

‘I checked and that’s not the case, sir, but I think I know how he’s managed it. Apparently, the five per cent dividend that the victim has earned from the investment in the agency since 2009, was deposited into the boys’ bank accounts and yet there’s no accumulation of funds in either account.’

‘Really? Interesting,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘It might be the reason why Preston Alexander decided to have a trust created for the boys? The solicitor did say that he’d asked it to be done just prior to his death.’

‘It would also explain why he omitted including his nephew in his new will,’ put in Fitzjohn. ‘Maybe he realised that he was being taken advantage of.’

‘It gives Portland Moore a strong motive to kill our victim.’

‘It does, Betts.’ Fitzjohn thought for a moment. ‘It seems strange that Moore hasn’t contested the will.’

‘He has, sir. Did so late yesterday afternoon, according to Geoffrey Cousins. After I heard about that, I decided to go back to the theatre to speak to the cast. Unfortunately, none of them were there, but the security guard was. He said he had a clear recollection of the night in question because it’s seldom he works on a Wednesday. He also said that during that evening Portland left the building around eight o’clock and got in his car that was parked in the lane way. He returned about an hour later around nine.’

‘And Charles Conroy said that the time of death was anywhere between eight-thirty and ten-thirty, didn’t he, so, Portland would have had enough time to drive to Cremorne and go for an evening walk with his uncle,’ said Fitzjohn.

‘He had a clear motive if his uncle had told him that he planned to withdraw his investment from the agency and set up a trust fund for the boys instead. Portland would know that he couldn’t touch the trust.’

‘Good work, Betts,’ said Fitzjohn, sitting back. ‘I think we’ll pay Mr Moore a call.’

CHAPTER 16

In the late afternoon, Fitzjohn and Betts left the station and as they made their way across the bridge to the north shore, Fitzjohn’s mind traversed the various details of their case so far with the occasional detour to his own situation with Grieg and the Police Integrity Board’s inquiry.

‘This is it, sir,’ he heard Betts say as they pulled up in front of a high stone retaining wall.

‘I take it Portland Moore’s home is hidden behind this wall,’ said Fitzjohn, looking out of the passenger window.

‘Yes, sir. On top of a hill. Quite a climb but with great views over Sydney Harbour.’

‘I don’t need views, Betts. I just need people who live on flat ground.’

Fitzjohn climbed out of the car and the two officers made their way along the footpath till they reached the property’s entrance. Once there, Fitzjohn stopped and his jaw dropped as he stared upward at a three storey structure wrapped in walls of glass. ‘Good heavens! You’re right,’ he said. ‘It looks like Mr Moore does live above a bank teller’s salary. His house looks more like a hotel.’ Fitzjohn glanced at Betts. ‘I doubt the climb is going to do much for your leg. We’ll take it slow.’ Continuing on, they reached the front door of the residence after walking along a wide cement path that crossed over an ornamental pool, its surface covered with water lilies. Betts rang the doorbell while Fitzjohn straightened his suit coat and adjusted his tie. As he did so, the front door opened to reveal a diminutive woman in her mid-forties of Asian appearance.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked in a soft voice.

‘We’d like to speak to Mr Moore, please,’ said Fitzjohn after he and Betts had introduced themselves.

With a slight smile and a nod, the woman ushered the two officers into a foyer before closing the door behind them. Moments later, they emerged on the threshold of a lush tropical garden to find the air filled with the sound of rippling water as it wended its way in a winding stream through the overhanging foliage before them. ‘I knew I should have joined the bank,’ said Betts under his breath as they continued to follow the housekeeper into the depths of the garden sanctuary. Presently, the canopy of tropical greenery fell away and they found themselves at the edge of a swimming pool where Portland Moore could be seen stretched out on a lounge chair. His eyes shot open when he sensed their presence and he jumped to his feet, wrapping a towel around himself. As he did so, his reading material fell to the ground and his drink upturned on the small table next to the lounge.

‘Chief Inspector. I didn’t expect you,’ he said, glaring at his housekeeper who scurried away. ‘Have you news?’

‘No, unfortunately. Not at this stage, Mr Moore. Consequently, we’d like to go over a few things with you if we may.’

‘Yes, all right,’ replied Portland, looking somewhat perplexed. ‘We can sit over there.’ Portland pointed to a cabana sheltering a large barbecue and a nest of garden furniture.

‘It’s a lovely place you have here,’ commented Fitzjohn, sitting down in one of the thickly padded chairs.

‘We like it,’ replied Portland, looking across the garden with pride. ‘My wife and I have tried to create a sanctuary away from the busyness of city life. I think we’ve been successful.’ He slipped on a T-shirt and settled himself into a chair. ‘Is there anything specific you want to ask me?’

‘Yes. We’d like to go over your whereabouts on the night that your uncle died.’

‘Okay. Well, as I told you the last time we spoke, I was at the Adelphi Theatre all evening participating in the first rehearsal for Beatrice’s play. I arrived just after six in the evening and left between nine-thirty and ten. Sorry I can’t be more precise with the time but you know how it is.’

‘Were you at the theatre the whole evening, Mr Moore?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you quite sure? It’s just that we’ve been told that you left for a period of approximately one hour?’

Portland met Fitzjohn’s intense gaze. ‘Who told you that?’

‘Is that true?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘No, it isn’t.’

‘Our information is from a reliable source,’ continued Fitzjohn. ‘Are you sure you’re telling us the truth?’ Portland did not reply. ‘Did you drive to Cremorne to take an evening walk with your uncle perhaps?’

‘You’re not suggesting that I killed Preston are you?’ Portland winced.

‘That depends on whether you can account for the time that you were away from the theatre that night. After all, you did have a strong motive to kill your uncle. By that I mean after he had set up the trust fund for your boys rather than the money from the agency investment going into their bank accounts, your funds would have eventually dried up. So would your apparent lifestyle.’ Fitzjohn looked around.

‘How do you know about my sons’ bank accounts?’ said Portland, indignantly. ‘How dare you delve into my private affairs?’

‘We dare because we’re conducting a murder investigation, Mr Moore. Now, are you going to tell us the truth or would you sooner come down to the station to do so?’

Portland swallowed hard, his fingers fidgeting with the ring on his right ring finger. ‘All right. I did leave the theatre that evening, but only for a short period of time, and it wasn’t to go to Cremorne.’

‘Where did you go?’ asked Fitzjohn.

Portland hesitated. ‘To the Star Casino. I play blackjack.’

‘Why did you go when you’re in the middle of a rehearsal?’ asked Fitzjohn. When Portland did not answer, Fitzjohn said, ‘Do they know you at the casino?’

‘Yes.’

‘Very well. We’ll speak to them.’

Fitzjohn and Betts left Portland in the midst of his tranquil Balinese garden and made their way back to their car.

‘The element of surprise, Betts. It does wonders catching people off guard, but I hope Mr Moore isn’t too unkind to his housekeeper. He doesn’t seem to me to be the most lenient of employers.’

Betts looked back at the house. ‘I can’t believe that place, sir. Impossible on a bank teller’s salary. He must do very well at the black jack table.’

‘In that regard, I want you to speak to the people at the casino, Betts, and find out if Mr Moore is a regular. If he is and if he was there on Wednesday night as he says, no doubt they’ll remember him.’

Fitzjohn unlocked the front door of his sandstone cottage, put his briefcase down with a sigh and smiled. You might not be three stories high and made of glass, but you’re home, he thought to himself.

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.’