Fatal Legacy (21 page)

‘Graham and I were at school together, so when he decided to replace Kemp and Kemp, he called me to suggest that he became a client of ours. We started acting for Mr Wainwright in March, shortly after his father died and he inherited a
considerable
part of his estate.’

‘But not as much as he’d been hoping for.’

Sacks looked shocked at such a crude observation coming from the lips of a senior police officer.

‘I really couldn’t comment.’

‘Did he ask you to consider pursuing the Wainwright-Smiths for the other half of the legacy?’

The solicitor opened the slender leather wallet with long dry fingers and flicked to some notes right at the back. A brief look of concern crossed his face but disappeared quickly.

‘Initially, yes, but he changed his mind later.’

‘Why?’

‘I have no idea. He simply dropped the matter.’

‘And what about the terms of Graham Wainwright’s own will?’

‘He didn’t make one – he died intestate. I doubt he expected to die quite so soon, Chief Inspector.’

No will. It was another reason to doubt that his death was suicide. Surely, after inheriting so much, he would have put his affairs in order before killing himself.

Sacks continued speaking, oblivious to Fenwick’s
preoccupation
.

‘My dealings with Mr Wainwright were restricted to some investigation of title. As you will see, this is a very slender file.’

‘And the others?’ Fenwick pointed to the tatty box files.

‘From Kemp and Kemp. We did nothing with them. In fact they arrived only a week before Mr Wainwright’s untimely death. My client had been extremely keen that we obtain them. It was most irregular. They were not, after all, Mr Wainwright’s property but he was insistent and so we progressed the matter. Jeremy Kemp was very helpful, although it did take some time for them to arrive.’

‘I see. Mr Sacks, I wonder if we might trouble you for some coffee?’

‘Really? Are you going to be here that much longer?’

‘Some time, yes.’

Cooper looked down to hide his surprise. He had thought that they were finished. The buzzer was employed again and Sacks’ assistant diligently took an order for coffee. It arrived moments later: three cups already poured, and a tiny jug of cream which was placed delicately by the sugar. Fenwick added sugar and cream to his coffee until the cup was virtually overflowing. Then he made a show of pulling out papers from his leather folio, something Cooper had never seen him do before. He was clearly having difficulty finding a particular article, and Cooper watched in horror as notes, files, even a folded umbrella were dumped unceremoniously on the virgin maple. Every time something new was added to the growing pile Sacks winced. When a small stapler landed and fell over on to its side Cooper had to stop his own hand from darting out to catch it.

‘Ah, there it is.’ Fenwick appeared oblivious to the solicitor’s growing horror. ‘Now, do you know any of these people?’

He pushed a plastic folder of photographs aggressively across the table but somehow his aim was off. Instead of reaching Sacks, it slid rapidly towards Fenwick’s brimming coffee cup. A corner of the folder caught under the edge of his saucer at full speed and knocked the cup over. Sacks watched in horror as dark brown liquid spilled out over the tabletop in a long trickle, heading towards the edge and the perfect beige rug below.

‘Look what you’ve done!’

‘I’m so sorry. Here, let me help.’ Fenwick pulled out some paper tissues and thrust them at Sacks. He did it in such a rush that he caught the top of the milk jug and it tipped into the sugar bowl, which promptly upended. Now sticky demerara sugar joined the brown spill and started to dissolve.

‘You idiot!’ Sacks was furious. He stared for one further horrified second at the disaster that was already ruining his table and threatening his extravagant rug, and then darted for the door.

As soon as he was gone, all trace of the clumsy buffoon left
Fenwick and he moved nimbly around to the leatherbound file and flicked through its pages.

‘Sir!’

‘Never mind. Go and keep an eye out in the corridor. Tell me when he’s coming back.’ He continued to check the pages rapidly, occasionally pausing for a few seconds to skim their contents.

‘Coming!’

When Sacks and his assistant returned, they found Fenwick and his tissues desperately mopping at drips as they ran over the edge of the table. Cloths and a sponge were deployed rapidly, and it looked as though disaster had been averted by the narrowest of margins. The file of photographs, though, was ruined.

‘I am sorry. Look, we’ll come back some other time to go through the photos.’

Sacks could barely bring himself to bid a civil goodbye to Fenwick, and Cooper left quickly, purple with suppressed indignation and embarrassment. He said nothing until they were in Fenwick’s car and the Chief Inspector was driving smoothly back to Harlden police station.

‘We had no warrant.’

‘Indeed not.’

‘We had no powers of search.’

‘Did I search? I don’t recall searching.’

‘But, sir!’

‘But nothing. All I did was take a little look at papers he’d left open on the table. If they had been at all sensitive, a solicitor like Sacks would have taken them with him.’

Cooper subsided into censorious silence and Fenwick continued driving. They were almost at the station before Cooper’s curiosity finally vanquished his principles.

‘Anything interesting?’

Fenwick hid the smallest of smiles in the turn of his head as he pulled into the car park.

‘Yes, very. Come on, we’ll discuss it in my office.’

Fenwick waved a hand in the general direction of the duty sergeant, who buzzed them through the electronically locked
door that separated the public and private areas of the station. He took the stairs two at a time, leaving Cooper way behind. When he was certain his sergeant was out of sight, he paused and rubbed his right knee, wincing as he touched the tender joint. Then he walked up the rest of the flight and had comfortably regained his breath by the time Cooper puffed into his office.

‘Who would you say was the most reliable – and open – solicitor we know?’

Cooper was breathing heavily and glad of the pause for thought that the question gave him.

‘Hmmm, tricky.’ He scratched his head and eased himself into the bone-hard visitor’s chair. ‘Cook? He’s a bit of a bugger, but he’s all right.’

‘Good idea. Pass me that phone directory, there, behind you.’

The call was answered within three rings, and Cooper could hear the distinctive Scots voice booming from the receiver.

‘Andrew. Long time. What can I do for you?’

‘I need some help, Richard, from someone with insight into our local legal firms.’

‘Intriguing – go on.’

‘What can you tell me about a certain Mr Sacks?’

‘Relatively new, expensive and bloody arrogant. A piece of work.
Very
smart and very prickly. Not someone to get on the wrong side of.’

‘Ah.’ Fenwick’s tone said it all.

‘Too late, huh? Never mind. You’ll survive. Was that it?’

‘No, there is one other thing. Kemp and Kemp: what’s the word about them?’

There was a long pause.

‘That’s a little more tricky,’ Cook said at last. ‘Are we on the record?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘And you’re not on your mobile?’

‘No, I’m in the office and there’s no tape running. Go on, you’ve made me curious.’

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘The firm was acting for a couple of people who’ve died
rather unexpectedly since the start of the year, and we have our suspicions over at least one of the deaths.’

‘Ah, that would be the Wainwrights. Interesting.’ Cook had no expectation of Fenwick either confirming or denying his supposition, so he simply carried on. ‘Well, what can I tell you? And before I do, be sure that I’ll never say any of this publicly. Let’s see, there are one or two rumours about Kemp and Kemp – well, about their esteemed client Wainwright Enterprises, really. Nothing certain, just an odd smell.’

‘What sort of smell?’

‘The smell of funny money. Kemp’s have been the legal advisers to Wainwright Enterprises for as long as anybody can remember, as well as the family’s solicitors. Wainwright’s is a strange firm, constantly prosperous; in good times and bad it just keeps on bringing in the profits.’

‘Would you take on an ex-client of theirs – say, a member of the Wainwright family?’

‘Probably not.’ He paused. ‘No, scrub that, definitely not.’

‘That’s very helpful, thanks, Richard.’

‘No problem. Oh, there’s one more thing. Again just a rumour, but the word at the golf club is that Kemp has been fishing off limits, dangling his tackle in waters outside the home pond. Seen in odd places and at odd times with someone not obviously resembling his wife.’

‘I see. Any idea who?’

‘None at all, not my scene, but James FitzGerald might be able to help you. He runs FitzGerald Financial Advisers in the High Street and sometimes hangs around with Kemp and the people from Wainwright’s.’

As Fenwick replaced the receiver thoughtfully, Cooper looked at him with renewed respect.

‘What put you on to Kemp?’

‘Sacks’ face when he flicked through that prissy neat file of his. He saw something in there that he’d rather not have brought into the room with him. There he was, displaying those papers, showing that he and his firm had nothing to hide, and then he suddenly realised they did have. It was written all over his face. I was curious to find out what it was.’

‘So you meant to spill that coffee, then!’

‘Cooper!’ Fenwick feigned hurt surprise and then grinned conspiratorially.

‘So what did you find out?’

‘A memo from Sacks to the other partners advising them that Graham Wainwright had asked to become a client. There was an estimate of the likely fees – over fifteen thousand pounds – but then a line that went something like: “Given the family history of this client and the nature of the ceding firm, I suggest that we discuss this opportunity at the next partners’ meeting, on the sixteenth.” I suspect if he hadn’t known Graham or that the firm hadn’t been new and in need of a prestigious local name, they might have turned Graham away – and that’s very interesting indeed.’

FitzGerald Financial Advisers was located in the middle of the High Street in elegant and expensive premises. There was a discreet counter towards the back where routine business was conducted, in front of which there were two businesslike desks and chairs spaced well apart.

An eagle-eyed receptionist behind the counter gave Fenwick a winning smile as he walked in.

‘We’d like to see Mr FitzGerald. I’m DCI Fenwick and this is DS Cooper, Harlden CID.’ He showed his warrant card and spoke quietly, not wishing to alarm any potential clients.

‘Mr FitzGerald is on the phone to a client at the moment, but I’ll let him know you’re here. What may I say it’s regarding?’

‘It’s a police matter.’

Fenwick watched as she stepped into an office in the corner behind the ashwood barrier. As he waited, he watched a smart young man’s attempt to persuade two very sceptical people of the value of life assurance and a pension. He doubted he’d have much luck there.

‘Chief Inspector Fenwick, Sergeant Cooper.’ The receptionist’s soft voice called him into the office.

James FitzGerald sat comfortably behind a battered oak desk that looked unpretentious and lived-in – rather like its owner. He had three telephones, one of which was housed in a unit nearly a foot long filled with preprogrammed numbers. It resembled a mini-switchboard, and as they walked in, FitzGerald 
was in the act of angling it so that his visitors couldn’t read the names alongside the dialling buttons. He was tall and thin, with stooped shoulders, but his handshake was surprisingly firm.

Fenwick took a moment to judge the man and decided on a direct approach. He explained that they were investigating at least one murder and several suspicious deaths, and watched the man’s expression change from shock to scarcely concealed concern. When he mentioned the connection with Wainwright Enterprises, though, the concern disappeared, to be replaced with caution.

‘What’s all that got to do with me?’

‘Kemp and Kemp are the legal advisers to Wainwright Enterprises.’

It was a straightforward enough remark, but it had a significant effect on FitzGerald. He shifted in his seat and ran a finger around the inside of his shirt collar, as if his tie had suddenly become too tight. He drew his mouth into a thin, hard line.

‘I still don’t see why you need to talk to me.’

‘I understand that you might be able to give us some background information on Kemp’s.’

‘I hardly know them; they’re not our solicitors. You’ve come to the wrong man, Chief Inspector.’

‘Word on the street says I’ve come to the right man.’

FitzGerald’s lean face flushed from white to deep red and he opened his mouth to argue, exposing sharp white teeth. Then, in an instant, the anger evaporated and he burst out laughing. To Fenwick’s practised ear it had the clear ring of artificiality.

‘All right, all right. If I get on my high horse you’ll only go all heavy on me. I’d love to know who fingered me for this, but I’m sure you won’t tell. “Word on the street” – oh, please!’ He laughed again and settled back comfortably in his chair, lifting a leg to rest a highly polished shoe against an open drawer.

‘What is it you think I can tell you?’

‘I’m trying to find out what sort of firm they are.’

‘Well, that’s straightforward enough. You could ask them that yourselves.’

‘Anything unusual about them?’

‘Nothing that I’m aware of.’

‘No rumours of shady dealings or anything like that?’

‘Nothing.’

‘So why was I told that you’d be a good source of gossip?’

FitzGerald laughed again. ‘Oh, that’s old news. Kemp had an affair with my first wife, but that was years ago. As I said, you’ve come to the wrong man.’

There was an unmistakable ring of finality about the remark. Fenwick said a quick goodbye and left with Cooper.