Fatal Legacy (11 page)

‘And you are …?’

‘Mr Wainwright-Smith’s assistant. What do you want? I’m sure you don’t have an appointment today, so why are you here, please?’

‘Surely you must have heard about Arthur Fish?’

She continued to stare at him blankly, but the delicate rose tint left her cheeks.

‘As you can see,’ she gestured towards her coat, ‘we have only just arrived. What’s happened to Arthur Fish?’

‘He was murdered yesterday. I’m the officer in charge of the investigation.’

She said nothing but stretched out a hand to steady herself.

‘You’d better come in and see Alex … Mr Wainwright-Smith. He doesn’t know.’

She tapped on one of the large, anonymous mahogany doors and walked straight in without waiting for an answer, leaving Fenwick behind her. She spoke before he could stop her, and whilst her body and the door still shielded his view of the room.

‘Alex, this is Chief Inspector Fenwick from Harlden police. He’s here because Arthur was murdered yesterday.’

It was neatly done, and now he would never know how the managing director of Wainwright Enterprises had reacted.

Wainwright-Smith’s assistant showed Fenwick to a chair with a graceful open-palmed gesture, and he looked around at an office the size of a large conference room. Considering its size, the furnishings were modest, even understated. A desk was positioned before the landscape windows, surrounded by comfortable chairs. Wooden filing cabinets occupied all of one wall. At the opposite end of the room from the desk, two sofas and three easy chairs were loosely grouped about a huge coffee table. Between the desk and the sofas an oriental rug occupied
a sort of no-man’s-land of dead space.

Cooper had interviewed Wainwright-Smith about his uncle’s death, so Fenwick had never met him. He was much younger than Fenwick had expected. He had reddish-blond hair,
astonishing
blue eyes and a smattering of freckles on a disconcertingly open face. At first Fenwick appraised him as lacking in character, but then he shook hands and looked him in the eye, and the strength and intelligence he found there warned him not to underestimate this man.

‘This is terrible. When did it happen?’ He sounded appalled but in control.

‘Yesterday evening.’

‘But I only saw him at five o’clock, just before he left for the faculty meeting.’

‘It seems everyone knows about the faculty meetings. What were they?’

‘I’m not sure exactly, something to do with one of the accounting bodies, I think but, yes, we all knew about them because Arthur was fanatical about them. He went monthly and never missed one; they should have given him an attendance medal!’

Fenwick thought briefly about the body and the signs of recent sexual activity with sado-masochistic overtones, and wondered what impact this knowledge would have on the memory of Arthur Fish. Would he go up or down in people’s estimation?

He went through his standard questions about Fish’s last days, but as managing director, Wainwright-Smith knew little of his financial controller’s routine.

‘Neil Yarrell, the finance director, could tell you more. He keeps very tight control of the department.’ Wainwright-Smith hesitated. ‘You said it was murder, definitely? It couldn’t have been suicide?’ He looked anxiously at his assistant as he spoke. She had remained in the room throughout the interview, sitting neatly on the sofa with her perfect long legs modestly inclined at an angle, knees and ankles together.

‘We’re fairly certain it was murder – no weapon was found at the scene and the way he died would have been an unusual, not to say impossible method of suicide.’

‘How
did
he die?’

‘We’re not releasing details yet. Why did you ask about suicide?’

‘Oh, nothing.’ Again the look to the woman, as if for guidance. ‘It’s just that …’ Wainwright-Smith hesitated and his assistant walked over to him.

‘Murder is such a shocking and extraordinary event,’ she finished for him.

Fenwick stared at the pair. There was something more here than a boss–secretary relationship. What had Wainwright-Smith been about to say before he had been cut off?

‘I assume he was mugged, then.’ She seemed so calm and in control, almost disconnected, as if violent death had to be expected from time to time.

‘Why do you think it was a mugging?’

His question clearly shocked her.

‘Why not? Surely most random murders are.’

‘And why do you assume it was random, Mrs …’

‘Wainwright-Smith, Sally. I’m Alex’s wife. I naturally thought that it would have to be random. Why would anyone wish to kill Arthur Fish, of all people? He was so harmless.’

‘Did you know him well then?’

‘No, I hardly knew him. Did you, Alex?’

Her husband still looked shocked, a deep frown on his face.

‘Of course I did. I’ve worked for Wainwright’s since I left school, and he had been in the finance department for years even then.’

Fenwick decided it was essential to separate this pair. They were forcing him to ping-pong his questions from one to the other and it was distracting him.

‘Mrs Wainwright-Smith, could I trouble you for some coffee, no milk, one sugar.’

She would have to make it fresh, as the jug on the desk outside would be cold by now. With obvious reluctance she left the office. Fenwick closed the door firmly behind her.

‘Why did you really wonder if it might be suicide, Mr Wainwright-Smith?’

The man sitting opposite him nodded, as if admitting that it was inevitable Fenwick would ask the question.

‘Arthur had been having difficulty with his workload, even though we are computerised now. I was concerned that we had worried him so much that he had killed himself. He was a very nervous man.’

‘Why should he be nervous?’ Fenwick’s question sounded mild, a matter of routine, but it masked how much Wainwright-Smith’s comments intrigued him. They were in such contrast to the tutored answers he had been given by the finance staff.

‘Did I say nervous? I meant nervy. He was a man who fretted over details and as the business has grown, so he appeared to become somewhat over-worked.’

‘Despite the computerisation?’

For some reason, the question unsettled Wainwright-Smith.

‘Perhaps because of it. He didn’t like change of any kind.’

‘Is there anything more you can tell me, sir?’

Wainwright-Smith looked away, unable to meet Fenwick’s eyes.

‘No, except that I shall miss him.’ He paused. ‘Sally’s a long time. I’ll just go and give her a hand.’

The last thing Fenwick wanted was for them to compare notes. He shot up out of his chair and made it to the door before the other man could reach it.

‘Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll go and find her. I need to ask her a few further questions and I’ve already detained you long enough.’

They shook hands and Fenwick retreated to the small executive kitchen, where he found Sally reheating in the microwave the coffee she had made earlier. She saw the look of disbelief on his face and smiled.

‘Waste not, want not, Chief Inspector.’

‘Of course.’

As he sipped his stale but hot coffee, he asked her directly about her automatic assumption that Fish’s death had been a mugging. She avoided his questions with deftness born of practice, which left him suspicious and frustrated. As soon as he had finished his coffee, he left.

Sally. He began to understand why the Wainwright clan disliked and distrusted her so much, and she was certainly beautiful enough for people to believe her capable of any

entrapment. Fenwick continued to puzzle over her as the lift descended uninterrupted. It was an odd relationship up there on the top floor, and not altogether helpful for their enquiries.

The receptionist visibly relaxed as he reappeared from his unauthorised tour. Cooper was waiting for him in reception with a grin on his face. He really was impossible.

‘Wait until we’re in the car, Sergeant.’

Fenwick drove this time, impatient to be doing something.

‘Well, go on.’

‘She was
very
chatty over a cup of tea and a fruit slice. Apparently, Mr Fish had been worked up ever since Alexander Wainwright-Smith took over, and even before that you could hardly have described him as relaxed.’

Fenwick told Cooper what Alexander had revealed about Fish’s growing workload and difficulty coping with the
computer
.

‘Well, that explains it then.’

‘Does it? I disagree. The Wainwright-Smiths were too quick to volunteer an opinion about his death – a suicide brought on by anxiety, or a mugging. In my experience, very few innocent people, or at least very few of those with nothing to hide, make such suggestions to the police without even hearing the facts first.’

Cooper frowned, in obvious disagreement, then voiced the thought that was troubling him.

‘You don’t think that your previous concerns about Wainwright Enterprises are making you a bit overly suspicious, do you, sir?’ It was said with deference, but answered firmly.

‘No, Cooper, I do not. We need to find out much more about Fish. Talk to his bank manager, friends and lawyer. How much of an estate has he left? Wainwright-Smith was holding something back and his wife was a completely closed book. I don’t trust her at all.’

‘So you met the famous Sally? Can you understand why Graham Wainwright distrusts her now? Mrs Dwight told me all about her and I can’t wait to meet her myself. It’s a pity we neither of us interviewed her last month. I wonder what Nightingale thought of her. She did the re-interview, didn’t she?’

‘I don’t think she did. Sally was ill, or something, and by the time she was better, we’d already concluded our work.’ Fenwick signalled left, off the by-pass.

‘Mrs Dwight says she’s into everything. She’s only been working here a week or so and she’s already disliked. Even Neil Yarrell watches himself around her.’

‘Why on earth is she working as her husband’s secretary?’

‘Cost efficiency, according to Mrs Dwight. Hey, watch that cyclist. Bloody idiot!’ Cooper turned and shouted at the startled teenager who’d just rushed out directly into their path from a side road.

Fenwick had braked, swerved economically and continued without a backward glance. He didn’t even look shaken, let alone angry. Cooper wondered, as he frequently did, whether the Chief Inspector had any real feelings left at all, apart from his obvious love for his children.

‘Apparently Mrs Wainwright-Smith is fanatically mean with money despite the fact that she and Alexander inherited half his uncle’s estate,’ Cooper continued. ‘Sally used to work
somewhere
else, but she packed it all in, moved them into their new family estate, sorted it out in double-quick time, got bored and then turned her attention to the business. Now she’s into everything, cutting back and proposing efficiencies
everywhere
.’

‘So she’s not really his secretary then – that’s just a convenient label.’

‘Oh no, she is. She may not be popular but she works like a trouper, Mrs Dwight says. And the economies included the top floor. She cut out a PA and an assistant, put in voicemail and now runs things with a rod of iron. She’s got a junior secretary working for her, and Yarrell has his own PA, who sits in his office.’

‘It might be cheap but it’s not effective. When I went up there, she was the only one in the office – and she’d only just arrived. We’ll need to speak to Graham Wainwright and the rest of the family again. This is the opportunity we need to reopen the Alan Wainwright inquiry. I’ll speak to the ACC this afternoon to clear it.’

Fenwick pulled up beside a bakery.

‘Sandwich? We’re not going to have time for lunch.’ Cooper nodded reluctantly and comforted himself with the thought that at least his waistline would benefit if he skipped his usual meat and three veg in the police canteen. And of course the fruit slice he’d had with Mrs Dwight earlier, just to be companionable, had filled a few corners.

The railway station was less than half a mile from Police Division in Harlden, so Fenwick had ordered an incident room to be set up conveniently one flight up from his office. By the time he and Cooper returned from Wainwright’s, the room was fully equipped with desks, phones, computers, printers, a direct fax, secure filing and the inevitable whiteboards. He had called a briefing for two o’clock. The Superintendent and the ACC wanted this one solved as soon as possible. Everyone there knew that this was a high-profile case and the pressure for an early result had already started.

A team of over fifty officers from divisions along the railway line had been at work since first light, and Fenwick had been given a detective inspector to run the work in Harlden whilst he co-ordinated the whole inquiry. Unfortunately, the only
inspector
available was DI Blite, who had a tendency to cut corners.

The incident room was well organised. Photographs of the murder scene had been pinned up next to two of Fish, alive and smiling at an office party. The train timetable from Brighton to Harlden had been copied and enlarged, together with all the connecting routes. On one of the boards someone had set up a neat chart with all the stations on the line down the left-hand column, with a checklist across the top detailing the actions required at every one: collect and check the contents for all rubbish bins; interview staff and regular passengers; post notices to the public describing the incident and asking for help; check taxis; collect any security-camera footage, and so on. Fenwick was pleased to see that the board was already more than half completed.

His secretary, Anne, arrived just before the meeting was due to start.

‘The ACC wants to talk to you straight after the briefing, sir.’

Fenwick nodded, resigned to the inevitable. He called the meeting to order briskly. Extensive work had been done, all well organised, but so far with few results. Ten minutes into the meeting the door was flung open with unnecessary force and a young detective constable walked in hurriedly. Fenwick vaguely recognised him as a year-two graduate on the accelerated promotion scheme. There were unanimously raised eyebrows and shakings of heads as the young man lurched forward, trying without success to catch the door before it crashed against the wall. Fenwick deliberately let silence descend as, with blazing cheeks, the graduate hovered at the back of the room.

‘Sorry, sir. A lead came in and I was just checking it out. I’m very sorry I’m late, sir.’

Cooper glared at the lad and motioned him to sit down at the front of the room. He liked to think he ran a tight team and he was old-fashioned on matters of discipline. He saved Fenwick the bother of deciding how to react by ordering the latecomer to report.

‘Yes, sir, we have had a report of a blood-stained ticket and paper towels being found at Burgess Hill station. The ticket’s a return from Harlden to Brighton, bought the same day as Fish was killed. I’ve passed the ticket number on to the station here so that they can tell us when it was bought, and the local team at Burgess Hill are stepping up their interviewing.’

‘It could be anybody’s blood. Bloke cut himself on a beer can for all you know.’ Inspector Blite was dismissive of such naivety. The detective constable coloured but kept his head up and looked to Fenwick, who nodded once.

‘It will take a while to get the results of the blood test from forensics and you did the right thing in the meantime. The case is less than twenty-four hours old and if we’re going to get a break it will most likely be today or tomorrow. Just remember, all of you, to remain objective and keep up the work at other stations, particularly Brighton. What’s the feedback from there?’

‘Not a lot, sir. We have one sighting of Fish which confirms he got off the train at the main station but none of the regular
taxi drivers recognises him and so far no bus driver recalls him either.’ DS Gould had been put in charge of the checks along the railway line. He had experience of working with the other divisions involved and with the railway police.

‘He had sex shortly before he died, and from the marks on his body, it could be sadomasochistic. How far have enquiries reached with known prostitutes in Brighton and the nearby towns?’

‘Not very.’ DI Blite shook his head dismissively. ‘They had two prostitutes murdered last night at the start of a terrible Easter Weekend. The whole division is working flat out, and they’re trying to help but …’ His voice died.

‘Two prostitutes murdered last night? Any link with our Mr Fish, do you think?’

‘I doubt it. The Brighton police are looking for connections between the two local deaths – they were discovered less than a mile apart – and they aren’t that keen on adding Fish as an unnecessary complication. I’ll chase it anyway.’

Fenwick read out the highlights of the pathologist’s and forensic reports. The forensic report confirmed the pathologist’s suspicions; traces lifted from Fish’s nails and body included baby lotion and talc. The microscopic fragments from the weals on his lower back were wood, and they were working to find out the species, not that it was likely to help particularly. Fenwick ignored the explosions of laughter that mention of the baby lotion brought to the room.

‘All right, all right. That’s enough. One last thing: we have a full set of fingerprints lifted from the victim’s coat, with more on his wallet. It is unlikely that they were the murderer’s, unless he was particularly inept, but we’re running full checks against the national index.’

The briefing concluded, and once the others had left, Cooper brought up the subject of the key.

‘It’s to a small fireproof lock-box but our locksmith can’t give us any idea of where it was made. He’s taken an impression and sent it to the Met. Apparently they have experts there who might be able to help but it’ll take a while – a week or more, maybe.’

‘Keep an eye out for anything it might belong to – it’s curious
that he would keep it hidden in his wallet.’

After the briefing, Fenwick descended the stairs,
determinedly
ignoring the twinge from his right knee that had started inexplicably to ache again. His old injury invariably chose moments of stress or intense activity to reawaken. In his office he removed his jacket and hung it carefully over the back of a visitor’s chair. Then he sat back in his own chair, head resting on the hands laced behind it, and simply stared at the contents of the pin-board opposite his desk. From the earliest days of his career, he had found that creating his own visual imprint of the case from the evidence as it was assembled, helped him to focus. As soon as he had been given an office, he had put up a cork board – the same one that graced it now, tattered as it was – on which to pin copies of the key exhibits that the incident team were assembling. It was almost half full already with material from the Fish case, and Anne had tacked the report from Alan Wainwright’s suicide in one corner.

When his phone rang he ignored it; an urgent fax was delivered and it wasn’t even given a second look; fresh coffee arrived, and his secretary, recognising the signs, set it down without a word and left, closing the door behind her.

There was no science or process to describe what was happening in his mind. He was waiting for inspiration, for the moment when the right random half-thoughts found their way into his active mind. After a time, he picked up his pen and pulled a clean sheet of paper on to the immaculate white blotter that covered the centre of his desk.

He wrote swiftly, in sketchy, economic letters, dashing one word off after another:

The scribbling stopped and he looked down at the jottings that covered the page. They made little sense, but even so, he pinned it on his cork board beside a photograph of Arthur Fish, smiling into the camera at some office party.

His phone rang again and he snatched it up, annoyed at the interruption.

‘Yes?’

‘Fenwick. Didn’t you receive my message? That damned secretary of yours …’ The ACC sounded furious.

‘I’m sorry, sir. I did get it but there was a late development and I was diverted. I apologise.’

‘Yes, I’ve already heard about it, this blood-stained ticket. Let’s hope it is the break you need. Now look here, I’ve had Alexander Wainwright-Smith on the phone most upset. I told you to handle Wainwright Enterprises delicately, and instead you go in there and charge around the place as if you own it!’

Fenwick didn’t bother to ask how the ACC already knew about the discovery of the ticket at Burgess Hill station. Blite had probably called him personally as soon as the briefing had finished. But the complaint from Alexander surprised him, particularly as he thought he’d discerned a certain subtlety in the managing director. He guessed that Harper-Brown was overreacting to a mild comment and judged the tone of his response accordingly.

‘I certainly didn’t charge anywhere, I can assure you, sir. In fact I was very conscious of your guidance and behaved accordingly. Was he very upset? Would you like me to call him?’

‘That won’t be necessary. Just be more careful in future. And I’m still waiting for today’s report on the case. I don’t expect to have to remind you again.’

‘I’m working on it now, sir, and I shall let you and
Superintendent Quinlan have a copy in the next hour.’
Superintendent
Quinlan was, after all, Fenwick’s direct boss, in charge of Harlden Division. He tolerated the ACC’s direct involvement in sensitive cases with a patience Fenwick could only admire.

The phone call left Fenwick in a bad mood, and word soon reached the team that it would be better to leave him alone that afternoon. An hour later there was a hesitant knock at the door and Cooper’s head appeared round it. Seeing Fenwick standing by the board, he visibly relaxed and came into the room.

‘Any new ideas, sir?’

‘Not really. I’ve spent most of the afternoon on the phone to the other divisions. There’s no further breaks so far. We must find out whether either of the prostitute murders in Brighton is connected in any way to our case; and obviously analyse the blood and fingerprints as quickly as possible. Has Gould strengthened the team at Burgess Hill station?’

‘Yes, sir. He’s tracing all staff and taxi-drivers who were on duty last night in case it is the station where the killer left the train, and we have a listing of all care in the community cases with any record of violence. It’s a long list.’

‘Have you traced Fish’s family?’

‘One son lives in Canada and is on his way back home. The daughter works for a voluntary association in Africa; we haven’t reached her yet. No trace of the other son. Apparently he’s on a back-packing tour somewhere.’

‘Call Joan Dwight. I want to know what was on the tape that Fish dictated before he left work on Thursday, no matter how trivial.’

Cooper glanced at the clock surreptitiously: six fifteen. The Chief Inspector saw his glance and swore out loud.

‘The children! Excuse me, Cooper, I’ve a phone call to make.’

He was dialling as the sergeant left. The phone was answered, as it nearly always was, by Bess.

‘Harlden two-six-five-nine-two, who is speaking, please?’

‘It’s Daddy.’

‘Daddy!’ A high-pitched, excited yelp shrieked into his ear and made him laugh. It was always the same: whenever he called, she was so warm, loyal and openly loving. It almost
broke his heart sometimes, and the absolute trust filled him with the fear that he would some day not prove worthy of it. She knew at once that he would be home late, and with a generosity and understanding way beyond her seven years, she saved him the difficulty of having to explain.

‘I’ll tell Wendy to have your supper ready for when you get back tonight, shall I? She’s half expecting it.’

‘She shouldn’t make me supper but if she already has, yes, please tell her I’m going to be late. Now, what sort of day have you had?’

She chatted on happily about school and her recorder class.

‘We’re learning “Three Blind Mice”, a real song, and I can almost play it without the music! Shall I go and get my recorder – hang on.’

She was gone before he could say a word. In the distance he could hear her calling out to Christopher, ‘Daddy’s on the phone,’ then the sound of pounding, uncoordinated feet, the rattle of the receiver on the wooden table and his son’s voice.