Fatal Legacy (22 page)

As soon as he was sure the policemen had left his office, James FitzGerald picked up his phone and pressed a pre-set number.

‘It’s me. We need to meet. No, not here. The club … No, right away. We have a problem.’

‘He was lying!’

Back at the station, Fenwick and Cooper were reviewing their day before going to the evening briefing. Cooper was astonished at how relaxed the Chief Inspector appeared to be about their meeting with FitzGerald.

‘Of course he was. What’s interesting is why. What makes a man like FitzGerald risk lying to the police? Did you see his phone? He had Kemp’s number on automatic dial, and Wainwright’s. And that story about his first wife!’

‘I don’t understand why you’re so calm.’

‘It’s our first real break in this case. He’s lying, which means there’s something he thinks is worth lying about. I want you to run a full background check on him. Also, we need to interview Mrs Kemp again and find out more about her husband. Wainwright’s is watertight so far; we need to find weak links outside. We need a tight team working these connections – you and one other officer.’

‘Who’ll I get to do all this? You’ve assigned everyone that came free on to the Graham Wainwright case. I’ve got no oppos left.’

‘Talk to the admin manager.’

The briefing was a short one. Blite had traced Graham’s private investigator but had found out very little more. The man’s inquiries into Sally Wainwright-Smith’s background had 
revealed nothing other than the fact that she had changed her name at some point, and before he could do more work on her, Graham had told him to focus on Wainwright Enterprises. He had done a little digging, found out the names behind the shareholding trusts and was then paid off. The post-mortem report on Graham had still not arrived, but Fenwick had obtained a search warrant for Wainwright Hall and grounds. Now that Fenwick’s name was firmly on the warrant application, Blite had no hesitation in taking back the responsibility for the search.

‘Have you made any progress with stress-testing hanging as a possible method of killing?’

Fenwick was keen to make sure that they would be able to defend such an unusual approach when the case came to court.

‘Sure, it could be done.’ Blite sounded dismissive, as if the answer should have been obvious after all, despite his previous scepticism. ‘And there’s a case on HOLMES looks very similar.’

‘Good. That’s a relief.’

Fenwick asked Blite to chase up the post-mortem – it was vital to the investigation and would slow it down if it were further delayed.

Later that evening, he was attempting to bring order to his desk when the phone rang. It was Superintendent Quinlan asking him to stop by his office.

‘Ah, Chief Inspector. I was just talking about you.’
Superintendent
Quinlan peered at Fenwick over the top of his half-moon glasses. ‘The ACC’s becoming anxious again. Apparently some of your team have been turning up at local clubs and asking the wrong sort of questions regarding certain members. Messrs Kemp, FitzGerald and Wainwright-Smith to be precise.’

‘Good. It’s about time.’

‘Not good. The ACC also happens to be a member of some of these clubs, and he’s been receiving complaints. He has also had fresh doubts raised in his mind by somebody, and I don’t know who, about the nature of your central theory that Wainwright’s and the Wainwright family lie at the heart of it all. He is not a happy man.’

Fenwick brought Superintendent Quinlan up to date with the
day’s developments and confirmed that he still believed the cases to be connected. Quinlan listened thoughtfully and didn’t contradict Fenwick, but he was clearly concerned.

‘It’s all very tenuous. It would be far simpler to close the Fish case now that the killer is dead. Forensics have proven that his flick knife is the murder weapon, and you have had witness after witness confirm that he was the man they saw on the train.’

‘But why did he murder Fish after following him from Harlden to Brighton and back?’

‘A man like that, dealing in drugs, mixing with violent associates, it’s hardly a surprising crime.’

‘Perhaps not, yet there are several reports of him flashing wads of cash around on the night before he died, which is completely consistent with my theory that he was paid to kill Fish.’

‘I’ll give you one more week with the full team, but after that, if you have nothing more, you’ll have to leave Fielding’s death to Brighton and simply focus on Graham Wainwright. Don’t argue, Chief Inspector, just one more week.’

If the Superintendent was being this direct so early in the Graham Wainwright case, then he must be under intense pressure. Fenwick sighed and shrugged his understanding if not his agreement.

‘We will focus, sir, but
please
allow me the freedom to continue to ask questions, even if it is in the wrong places.’

Quinlan looked worried. ‘This is a sensitive time. The Police Authority meets on the ninth. I’ll do what I can. In the
meantime
, you need to keep both me and Harper-Brown fully briefed.’

Fenwick had returned briefly to his desk to collect some papers he was going to take home to study when the phone rang. It was seven o’clock, and he had already told the children that he would be home by half past.

‘Yes?’

‘Duty sergeant, sir. Sorry to trouble you, but I’ve got a Miss Wilson down here wanting to make a statement in connection with Fish’s murder.’

‘Have someone from the incident room take it, then.’

‘There’s no one there, sir. Sergeants Cooper and Gould are out, and DS Rike went home ill a short while ago.’

DS Rike was the office manager, responsible for the running of the incident room. Fenwick’s rare temper exploded.

‘What is the point of having an incident room if it’s not manned, Sergeant? There’s no excuse; it’s here in the bloody station, for … heaven’s sake. Call Adams and have him send someone there right now. And put this woman in an interview room. I’ll come down.’

He was the senior detective on the case, and to be required to take a statement like this betrayed an inefficiency in the team which worried him intensely. It could be symptomatic of a deeper problem. He thought immediately of Cooper, and had the operations centre patch him through to his sergeant’s radio.

‘Cooper! There is nobody here manning the incident room. What the hell is going on?’

‘Rike should be there, sir.’ Fenwick could hear his sergeant’s discomfort and was glad.

‘Well, he isn’t, and since when do we have a single officer manning the phones in a multiple murder inquiry?’

Cooper could have pointed out that Fish’s murder had virtually been solved with the death of Francis Fielding, and that Fenwick had started so many lines of inquiry that DS Rike was finding it impossible to cope. He
could
have said all that, but what Fenwick heard was:

‘I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again. I think we need to replace Sergeant Rike, sir. He’s been under the weather and struggling to cope.’

‘Do it then, Cooper. Talk to the duty sergeant and have that room properly staffed by the time I return from having to take a routine witness statement!’

Miss Wilson had been shown into one of the ground-floor interview rooms. Fenwick guessed her age to be mid forties. She was smartly dressed, well spoken and was accompanied by an obedient Highland terrier on a tartan lead.

‘Miss Wilson, I’m sorry to have kept you. Detective Chief Inspector Fenwick. I’m in charge of the investigation into the death of Mr Arthur Fish.’

She extended a sensibly manicured hand for Fenwick to shake, and he caught a faint trace of a lemony eau-de-Cologne. Miss Wilson was exactly the sort of witness juries and judges loved, and he hoped, against the odds, that she had something significant to say.

‘Firstly, Chief Inspector, I must apologise for not coming forward sooner. I have spent the last few days sailing with my sister and her husband and had no idea about the murder.’ He waved aside her apology and she continued. ‘I caught the
six-seventeen
train from Harlden on Thursday the twentieth of April and distinctly remember seeing Mr Fish. There were three young girls in the same carriage, very badly behaved, and they tormented the poor man all the way down to Brighton.

‘Just before we left Harlden station, a young man clambered on board. I remember, because he pushed past me to board the train, and tripped over Hector here and swore at me.’

‘Would you recognise him again?’

‘I think so. He had very distinctive eyes.’

Fenwick pulled out bundles of photographs, including one of a sneering Francis Fielding and showed them to her. She pointed to the one of Fielding without hesitation.

‘Yes, that’s him, I’m positive.’ Fenwick felt a surge of adrenaline. ‘Is he the murderer, then?’ Miss Wilson sounded surprised.

‘We believe so. Why?’

‘Well, it’s odd really, because I saw him meet his girlfriend in Brighton and I assumed they had spent the evening together down there.’

This was entirely new. They had had no idea of what Fielding had done whilst waiting for the return train. He urged Miss Wilson to continue.

‘I was first off the train at Brighton, as I was in a hurry to catch a bus to my sister’s. Anyway, I missed it, and as I was walking back to queue for a taxi, I saw Mr Fish on the opposite side of the street. That man in your photograph was walking behind him, and I’m sure that he was with a woman.’

‘Can you describe her?’

‘Not really. I paid little attention, and there was traffic passing between us. Blonde and slim is all I recall.’

‘And afterwards?’

‘Nothing further, I’m afraid. I took a taxi to my sister’s after a long wait, and we caught the morning tide.’

Fenwick thanked her and assured her that the information was useful, then asked a constable to take her statement. Within minutes of returning to his office, he was on the phone to DS Gould.

‘We have a witness who saw Fielding leave Brighton station with a woman – blonde and slim is all we have on her. Have someone redo all the interviews at Brighton station and trace taxi-drivers working that evening. Also put up a poster by the cab rank, appealing for witnesses to come forward. There was a wait for taxis that evening and somebody may have seen Fielding and this woman meet or leave.’

He replaced the receiver, all trace of the gloom that had descended after his meeting with Superintendent Quinlan evaporated, leaving him determined and optimistic once more. There was more evidence out there; he just had to find it. The last of his files was packed quickly and he made his way home in the hope of seeing his children before they were asleep.

The next morning, Cooper saw the administration manager and asked for yet more officers for the case. Two had been found at short notice the night before, but he needed another. When Nightingale’s name came up, he grunted in a noncommittal way and nodded, but the secret pleasure he felt at having the lass on one of his cases again went some way to compensate him for declining a cooked breakfast that morning.

Nightingale couldn’t believe her good fortune. She was summoned unceremoniously and told to find Cooper in the incident room. He was there with DS Gould and DI Blite. They glanced up as she entered, registered her age and rank and then returned to their conversation. She sighed inwardly with relief. It was so good simply to be ignored.

The team began to gather for the first of the day’s briefings. It was a Sunday but there were few long faces. Fenwick arrived just before nine o’clock.

‘Good, you’re all here. I want to review progress on each case, starting with Arthur Fish’s murder. Have we made any headway on where he went when he left the station?’

DS Gould shook his head.

‘How’s the team getting on interviewing prostitutes? We know Fish was into kinky sex. That must make it easier.’

‘Yes, but that’s not so unusual. Believe me, most of the girls – and boys too, for that matter – are willing to indulge their clients in a little S and M – as long as it’s not too rough.’

‘But what about the baby lotion and talc – that can’t be as common.’

The detective shrugged and Nightingale opened her mouth to speak, but then thought better of it. She had to learn not to be
smart in every meeting. Fenwick, though, had spotted her.

‘Something to say, Nightingale?’

She thought fast. She could recall the crime scene – the costumes in the closet, the galvanised bath, the nanny’s apron with its bottle of baby lotion.

‘Come on.’

‘When did Fish die, sir?’

‘April the twentieth.’

‘There was a murder of a prostitute on that night. I attended it.’

‘We know about that, but the detective in charge said there was no connection. If you disagree, we’ll talk afterwards. Right, I think we need to re-interview Fish’s wife.’

DS Gould was already struggling to cope with the new demands in Brighton.

‘She’s virtually comatose, sir.’

‘Just the same … I’ll do it if you’re too busy.’

DI Blite had chosen to sit at the back of the room for the briefing, and during the whole of DS Gould’s report he had been engaged in a whispered conversation with one of the sergeants on his team. It was an obvious signal that he felt the cases were completely unconnected. He perked up, though, when Fenwick called him up to the front to update the team. Inspector Blite finally had some good news to report and he was going to enjoy the moment, conveniently forgetting that the detective work that had led to this particular break-through had been at Fenwick’s instigation, not his own.

The dead man’s fingerprints had been found on the fruit and veg box, together with Sally Wainwright-Smith’s, and the market stallholder identified him as the man who picked up the delivery.

‘This could implicate Mrs Wainwright-Smith even more – and she has a very weak alibi, unlike Jenny Reynolds. We have a confirmed sighting of her on the train from Scotland on Friday morning.’ Fenwick had shared his suspicions of Sally Wainwright-Smith only with Blite, as he had wanted the team to remain objective. Suddenly Blite was preparing to share them and he felt it was too early. He changed the subject.

‘Anything new in the full post-mortem report?’

‘We haven’t had it yet, sir.’ Blite’s tone of defensive sarcasm revealed how embarrassed he was by his failure to cajole the report from the pathologist.

‘That’s completely unacceptable. I’ll call Pendlebury myself and get it for you today.’

Blite nodded, relieved that Fenwick’s actions would distance him from a potentially sensitive situation. He had called Dr Pendlebury’s office less than half an hour before, and his finely tuned nose for political problems had caught a strong whiff of something far nastier even than the odours originating from the autopsy room.

After the meeting, Gould, Nightingale and Cooper stayed behind with Fenwick. Now that they were a smaller group, Nightingale relaxed and told it straight.

‘On the twentieth of April, at around nine o’clock, Amanda Bennett’s neighbours heard sounds of a struggle and breaking glass.’

‘Fish wasn’t the murderer, then; he was on his train back to Harlden by then.’

‘No, sir but he might have visited her beforehand. You see, her house was full of costumes, whips, chains—’

DS Gould interrupted. ‘Our boy was into gentle caning and having his bottom kissed better afterwards, Nightingale, not that sort of stuff.’

Nightingale blushed a deep red. ‘I know, sir, but I think Bennett was really versatile, she didn’t just do the hard stuff. In her cupboards we found a birch, baby lotion and talc. I know that it’s not conclusive, but it could be a link.’

‘I agree, we can’t ignore it.’ DS Gould was regretting his earlier sarcasm. ‘I’ll have forensic compare the traces of wood we recovered from the body with the birch at her house. If there’s a match we’ll do a full comparison of trace evidence.’

Fenwick agreed. ‘We’ve got a busy day ahead of us, but I sense we’re reaching a turning point, at least in the Fish case. Cooper, you and Nightingale go and see Kemp’s wife. Find out if there’s any truth in the rumour that Kemp was having an affair. Then see the other girl up at Wainwright Hall, Shirley Kennedy, and get her account of Thursday. I need to talk to
Fish’s wife. And we must continue digging into Sally’s
background
. But first I’m going to chase Pendlebury for that report. I don’t know what’s got into the man lately.’

The post-mortem report had been promised faithfully by Pendlebury for the previous day, but he had been taken ill and rushed to hospital, and no one else in his office would now sign it.

Fenwick called the pathologist’s office number and was advised that Pendlebury had now returned home from his brief spell in hospital, and would the Chief Inspector like to visit him at his earliest convenience. Fenwick left at once.

He found the pathologist sitting in an upholstered chair in a conservatory full of exotic plants, his feet resting on a wicker stool. He winced with pain when he moved to shake hands, and the sight prompted Fenwick to be more direct than he usually was.

‘What’s wrong with you? Why did they admit you to hospital yesterday?’

‘It was a bit embarrassing. I collapsed at work. Caused quite a stir.’ He couldn’t have been more off-hand, but it didn’t deflect Fenwick.

‘And …?’

‘I’ve got a growth on the base of my spine. I’ve known for some time it was more than sciatica. It was bloody agony yesterday, and standing over the table just makes it worse. It’s not cancer, thank God, but I will have to have an operation. Not without its risks.’

‘Why aren’t you in hospital now?’

‘Discharged myself. The operation’s not due until Wednesday and I can’t stand lying around with a bunch of sick people, hearing their war stories. Soon as they know you’re a doctor, you become a prisoner in your own bed. I’ll go in Tuesday, that’ll be time enough.’

‘Why did you want to see me?’

‘The Wainwright post-mortem examination.’ He paused, obviously very uncomfortable with what he had to say next. ‘I cocked it up, Andrew. I’m sorry, but I made a complete idiot of myself over it.’

‘Tell me how.’ Fenwick’s voice adopted the neutrality that it always did when he was struggling to keep his emotions under control. A faulty post-mortem was very serious. It could jeopardise his investigation and potentially be a gift for the defence in court.

‘I was feeling terrible. I’d had a couple of painkillers but they didn’t have any effect. I’m fairly certain that my external examination of the body was sound.’ He tapped a folder on a table next to his chair, and Fenwick realised it was the
long-awaited
report. ‘I’ve reread my notes and had my deputy check the whole thing, and that part of the PM’s all right. It’s from the dissection onwards that I had a problem.

‘Cause of death was obviously asphyxia, but it wasn’t by hanging as I thought; it was ligature strangulation. He was strangled with that rope and then strung up to make it look like hanging. I’m sorry, Andrew. It’ll never happen again. I shouldn’t have been working yesterday.’

‘How can you be so sure it was strangulation? You said that the post-mortem lividity supported hanging as a cause of death.’

‘It does. The lividity was pronounced in his extremities: hands, fingers, legs and feet, with no pressure points. He must have been strung up immediately after he died, or perhaps even as he lost consciousness. And I am sure. In cases of homicidal strangulation, the murderer usually exerts too much force, which causes a fracture of the hyoid. In a suicide or accidental strangulation, it almost never happens.’

‘And Graham Wainwright’s hyoid was fractured.’

‘Yes. And there’s one other thing.’

‘Go on.’

‘There were traces of a barbiturate in Wainwright’s body. The toxicology reports came through first thing. On the morning he died he had had a hundred and forty milligrams of Nembutal, washed down with a large whisky. Normally that wouldn’t be enough to kill an adult male, even mixed with alcohol, but it would certainly sedate him.’

‘Would it work quickly?’

‘Fairly. If it’s taken orally – and there are no signs of needle marks on the body; I’ve had my deputy check – it’s absorbed through the small intestine. And if he’d been given, say,
Rohypnol he’d be compliant and easily manipulated. Trouble is, there won’t be a trace of that now.’

‘So his killer could have administered the drug, waited for it to take effect and then strangled him whilst he was heavily sedated.’

‘Exactly. I’ve asked Roy Maitland, my deputy, to redo the post-mortem. He’s at your disposal any time today. You don’t need to worry that the original PM will compromise the results, thank God. He says that the organs and all the samples are intact and uncontaminated. I didn’t botch any of the mechanics, just my analysis of them.’

Pendlebury looked out from underneath his shaggy eyebrows. He knew that what he had to tell Fenwick next would confirm how inept he had been in his internal examination.

‘I missed the signs in all the internal organs – I could barely focus my eyes by the time we had got that far – but they are there, in the lungs, brain and liver. It’s a clear case of murder now, Chief Inspector.’