Deadly Investment (A Fitzjohn Mystery Book 5) (3 page)

CHAPTER 4

Fitzjohn and Betts returned to the station and went their separate ways. As they did so, Chief Superintendent Grieg strode out of his office.

‘
Fitzjohn,
’ he bellowed along the corridor.

Well aware of Grieg’s contempt for him, Fitzjohn anticipated trouble. ‘I take it you wish to speak to me, sir,’ he replied, conscious of the fact that his own calm exterior irritated Grieg.

‘Since when do you attend suspected homicides in North Sydney’s Local Area Command without a request from me that you do so?’

‘Since you were not available to ask, sir. They called early this morning because they found themselves short staffed. I had a bit of free time on my hands so I was happy to assist. I know how you feel about helping out in such situations.’ Fitzjohn turned and opened his office door. As he expected, Grieg followed him inside. With the contempt that he knew Grieg still held for North Sydney LAC after they had seconded him, some thirty-years ago, to Day Street Station with no intention of reclaiming him, Fitzjohn had anticipated Grieg’s anger.

‘It’s not your place to make such decisions,’ barked Grieg, his hands on his hips.

‘Nevertheless, I did. They needed an answer immediately. I’ll be handing my findings over first thing in the morning.’

‘Too right you will,’ said Grieg, his small beady brown eyes boring into Fitzjohn.

Fitzjohn crossed the room, preparing himself for yet another onslaught from his superior. As he did so, he recalled one of Grieg’s more recent outbursts and removed Edith’s photograph from its perch on top of the filing cabinet. He placed it gently on his desk and sat down before staring back at the man whose goal he knew it was to destroy not only his reputation but also his career.

Grieg remained standing, his heavy-set frame towering before Fitzjohn. Unaffected by the Chief Superintendent’s pugnacious nature, Fitzjohn waited for his diatribe to commence, at the same time pondering what it could be about this time. As he did so, their many altercations ran through his mind. Perhaps it would have been wise to put in for a transfer in the beginning, he thought, when it had become apparent that Grieg would never make his life easy. But he had come to love the city and his work in it. And besides, in some strange way, Grieg did provide another aspect to his position as a detective. A constant challenge to not let the man upset his equilibrium.

‘I thought I’d give you fair warning,’ started Grieg with a smirk across his pudgy face. ‘The Police Integrity Board is planning on holding an inquiry into one of your past cases.’

‘Oh? Which case would that be, sir?’ asked Fitzjohn, sitting straighter in his chair.

‘The Patricia Wilson case.’

‘Wilson?’ Fitzjohn’s brow furrowed. ‘I recall a George Wilson. Let’s see. He was found drown in his swimming pool back in April of 2004.’ Fitzjohn sighed. ‘I don’t remember a Patricia Wilson, however. When was this case investigated, sir?’

‘In 2007.’

‘Well, that’s odd because I’m usually pretty good at remembering my cases. Are you sure it was mine?’

‘Take it from me, Fitzjohn, it was. In due course, you’ll be informed when to appear.’ Grieg started toward the door.

‘Before you go, sir, can I ask what the nature of this inquiry is?’

‘Wrongful arrest,’ replied Grieg with a sneer. With that, he left the office, slamming the door behind him.

Fitzjohn remained seated, the implications of what Grieg had told him running through his mind. Wrongful arrest? Surely not. With a sense of unease, he tried again to recall the case. It doesn’t ring a bell at all, he thought. Still, I suppose it’s possible that I could have forgotten or... Fitzjohn’s thoughts were interrupted when the office door opened and Betts walked in.

‘We’re in luck, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ve just spoken to the people at Rolex and they confirm that the serial number of the watch that the victim was wearing was registered in their database in May 2013. According to their records, it hasn’t been sold on and is still with the original owner, a Mr Preston Alexander. He gave an address in Cremorne.’

‘Ah! That’s good,’ said Fitzjohn, getting to his feet. ‘What about a missing persons report?’

‘Nothing there, sir.’

‘Okay. We’ll go to the victim’s home. Hopefully, we’ll be able to inform his next-of-kin of his death.’ Fitzjohn grabbed his suit coat and shrugged it on.

As the car sped across the Harbour Bridge to the North Shore, Fitzjohn’s thoughts returned to the impending inquiry and its implications. If, in fact, the case in question had been his, wrongful arrest meant that an innocent person had spent an indeterminate amount of time behind bars. Fitzjohn sighed. Heaven forbid that I could be responsible for such a travesty, he thought.

‘This is it, sir.’

Jolted from his thoughts and unaware of their journey, Fitzjohn peered out of the passenger window of the car and beyond a decorative stone wall that bordered the property. In the grounds, surrounded by trees and flowering shrubbery, stood a turn of the century two storey residence, its steep gabled roof casting a long shadow across a manicured garden. All too aware of the difficult task ahead, he joined Betts on the sidewalk before they made their way along a circular drive to the front entrance.

Betts rang the bell. While they waited, Fitzjohn straightened his tie and adjusted his wire-framed glasses. Presently, footsteps sounded from inside and the door opened to reveal a heavy-set woman in her mid-fifties, wearing an apron.

‘Yes?’ she asked in a heavy European accent.

‘Good morning, madam,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘We’re from the New South Wales Police Force.’ Fitzjohn presented his warrant card. The woman stiffened. ‘We’d like to speak to Mrs Alexander, if we may.’

‘There is no Mrs Alexander, just Mr Alexander and he is not at home.’ With that, the woman proceeded to close the door.

‘Are you a relative of Mr Alexander?’ continued Fitzjohn.

‘The woman eyes narrowed as she looked Fitzjohn up and down. ‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Because we need to speak to a member of his family.’

‘There is no family here,’ replied the woman, suddenly alarmed. ‘Mr Alexander lives alone.’

‘In that case, can you tell us where we can find his nearest relative?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘Why, has something happened to him?’

‘Yes,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘I’m afraid it has. Mr Alexander’s body was found early this morning in the Cremorne Reserve.’

‘He is
dead
?’ Glaring at Fitzjohn, the woman crossed herself.

‘Are you a friend of Mr Alexander’s?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘No. I am Elena Petkov. I clean his house.’

‘I see. Do you know if he has any relatives close by, Mrs Petkov?’

Harried, the woman thought for a moment. ‘There is a nephew. I do not know where he lives. All I know is that his name is Portland. I do not know his last name. If you come inside, I will try to help more.’ Elena waved the two officers into the lavish front hall, its black and white checked marble floor and chandelier giving a feeling of opulence. ‘This way,’ she commanded. They followed the woman through to a room that looked out over a garden. ‘This is Mr Alexander’s study,’ she said, standing on the threshold. ‘Mr Alexander spends much time in here working.’

Fitzjohn took in the room, its walls unadorned and the only pieces of furniture a desk in the centre of the room and a single bookcase along one wall, its shelves filled to capacity. The desk remained clear of any items except for two large computer monitors and a mobile phone. ‘See what you can find, Betts. Oh, and arrange for forensics to come in.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Fitzjohn turned to Elena. ‘Can I ask you a few more questions while my sergeant looks through the room, Mrs Petkov?’

‘Yes. I will answer if I can. Come this way,’ she commanded again.’

Fitzjohn followed Elena as she bustled away into the kitchen where she promptly sat down at the table.

‘Where are you from, Mrs Petkov?’ asked Fitzjohn, settling himself.

‘I am from Macedonia. Nine month I have been in Australia. I come with my son and his wife.’

‘And how long have you worked for Mr Alexander?’

‘Three month. I work every Monday and every Thursday but now...’ Elena took a tissue from her apron pocket and dabbed her nose. ‘He was good man, Mr Alexander. What happen to him?’

‘We believe he was attacked.’

‘
Attacked!
’ Elena gave a loud wail and crossed herself again. ‘Why would someone do such a thing?’

‘Did Mr Alexander ever receive visitors while you were here, Mrs Petkov?’

‘His nephew I see sometimes. That is all.’

‘I take it you let yourself into the house,’ continued Fitzjohn.

‘Yes. I have my own key because Mr Alexander is not always at home when I get here.’

‘And when did you last see him?’

‘Last Monday morning when I come to work.’

‘Can you tell me about that day?’

Elena dabbed the tears from her cheeks as she thought. ‘He said he would stay home that day and he asked me if I would make lunch for him. I am pleased to do so but after he answer the telephone, he went out. He was not happy.’

‘Do you remember what time he left the house?’

‘Elena thought again. ‘It was before I make the lunch. Eleven o’clock, perhaps.’

‘Did he return before you left for the day?’

‘No. I did not see him again and now... I never will.’

At that moment, Betts appeared in the doorway. ‘Any luck?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘Yes, sir. I found Mr Alexander’s wallet in the desk drawer so it would seem that he did go for an evening stroll. I also found his nephew’s phone number in the mobile phone. I’ve spoken to his wife, Cynthia Moore. She’s given me details about her husband’s whereabouts.’

‘Good.’ Fitzjohn turned back to Elena. ‘Thank you for all your help, Mrs Petkov. I’m sorry that we’ve had to bring you this news.’

‘I am too. Mr Alexander was a good man. And now I have no job.’ Elena sank back in her chair.

Fitzjohn patted Elena’s hand. ‘We’ll arrange for a taxi to take you home.’

As Fitzjohn and Betts prepared to leave the house, a team of SOCOs arrived.

‘Cynthia Moore said that we can find her husband at the Adelphi Theatre on Petersham Street in the city, sir,’ said Betts as they made their way out to the car. ‘Apparently, he’s a member of a theatre group called the Mid-Town Players. They’re rehearsing for tomorrow’s matinee performance.’

‘Good. We’ll go there now,’ replied Fitzjohn.

Betts edged the car along the narrow, congested street before he pulled over to the curb in front of an old red brick building. In an obvious state of disrepair with its peeling paintwork and guttering hanging loose from above the front entrance, the only signs that it was not abandoned were the words painted above the guttering:
“The Adelphi Theatre”
,
and a large coloured poster to the side of the entrance advertising the next day’s matinee performance.

‘It looks deserted,’ said Fitzjohn, observing its closed doors and no lights emanating from within.

‘Mrs Moore said that we have to enter by way of the stage door, sir.’ Betts pointed to the far corner before leading the way along a damp, rubbish-strewn laneway until they came upon a door painted bright blue. ‘This must be it,’ he said, pushing the door open.

‘Can I help you?’ a deep voice asked.

Betts turned and looked up into the face of a bald headed man of South Sea Island appearance with the words security guard stamped on a badge pinned to his crisp white shirt, the buttons of which strained against his muscular shape. His piercing blue eyes scrutinised the two officers.

‘Yes,’ said Betts, swallowing as he pulled out his warrant card. ‘We’re here to see Portland Moore.’

The security guard studied the card. ‘You’re from the police?’ he asked with an element of surprise.

‘That’s right,’ replied Betts.

‘And you’re after Portland?’ he asked again with an amused look.

‘In a manner of speaking, yes,’ replied Betts.

‘Well, I don’t like your chances because I think he’s on stage, but you can try his dressing room. It’s straight ahead, second door on the left. You can’t miss it. It’s the one with the big yellow star on the door.’ The security guard gave Betts a wide smile and handed back his warrant card.

The two officers continued on through the hubbub of costume-clad figures until they reached the star studded door whereupon Fitzjohn lifted his hand to knock. As he did so, the door flew open and a man in a top hat and tails appeared, his face covered in makeup.

‘Mr Moore?’ asked Fitzjohn wide-eyed.

‘Yes. I’m Portland Moore, and you must be Arthur, my new fan club manager. This is not a good time, Arthur. I’m about to go on stage.’