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you tell us who the beneficiaries are?’ asked Fitzjohn, watching West remove the will from its envelope.
    ‘Other than bequests to his staff, there’s only one beneficiary.’ West smoothed the pages flat with his hands before he peered through his bifocals. ‘His name is Benjamin Carmichael.’
    Fitzjohn’s brow furrowed. ‘Carmichael?’
    ‘That’s right.’
    ‘Can you tell us what relation Ben Carmichael was to Peter Van Goren?’
    ‘He wasn’t a blood relation. I know that because Mr Van Goren told me as much. He said he had no next-of-kin. As to what connection he had to Mr Carmichael, that I don’t know. Mr Van Goren didn’t offer that information, I’m afraid.’
    ‘What does the estate entail?’ continued Fitzjohn, feeling a surge of interest at the mention of the Carmichael name.
    ‘It’s quite substantial,’ replied West, looking at Fitzjohn over his glasses. ‘Besides monies, stocks and bonds, Mr Van Goren owned a number of commercial properties, and a chain of coffee shops. There’s also his home in Vaucluse. That, however, has been left to a member of Mr Van Goren’s staff. His housekeeper, Ida Clegg.’
    A slight smile came to Betts’s face.
    ‘Even so, all in all, I’d say we’re looking at an estate of at least fifty million. Perhaps more.’
    ‘Can I ask when you executed Peter Van Goren’s first will, Mr West?’ asked Fitzjohn.
    ‘Yes, of course. Now, let me see.’ Raymond West rummaged through the manila folder and brought out a sheet of paper which he held up. ‘This is a list of instructions I have taken from Mr Van Goren over the years.’ West perused the list. ‘Mmm. I thought so. The first will was executed on the tenth of October, nineteen eighty-six.’ West looked up and gave a quick smile.
    ‘So is that when you first met Mr Van Goren?’
    ‘Yes. At the time, he’d just bought his first commercial property.’
     
     
    A soft rain fell as Fitzjohn and Betts left the building and walked toward their car. ‘Finally, Betts, we have a connection between the Carmichaels and Peter Van Goren. Van Goren had to have known the family. One doesn’t leave their entire estate to a stranger.’
     
     
    With the long day behind him and darkness falling, Fitzjohn walked into his office and closed the blind before he sat down at his desk. As he did so, the office door flew open and Chief Superintendent Grieg walked into the room.
    ‘What the hell’s going on?’ he roared. ‘Why are you involved in the homicide at the Observatory? And why wasn’t I told?’
    Knowing nothing irritated Grieg more than his temperate demeanor on such occasions, Fitzjohn dug deep to contain his abhorrence of Grieg. ‘I daresay that’s because you weren’t here at the time, sir. But now that you are, I can tell you all about it.’ Fitzjohn gave a wry smile.
    ‘Don’t patronise me,’ spat Grieg.
    ‘I wouldn’t think of it,’ continued Fitzjohn. ‘Would you care to sit down?’
    ‘No, I wouldn’t.’
    ‘Very well. In your absence, the Chief Constable merely asked me to take charge of the investigation. He didn’t explain why, but I’m sure if you ask him...’
    ‘I know what you’re up to, Fitzjohn, and it won’t work.’ Grieg’s fist came down on top of the metal filing cabinet. The vibration sent the frame containing Edith’s photograph crashing to the floor.
    Fitzjohn’s right hand clenched. His eyes locked onto Grieg. ‘I have no idea what you mean,’ he replied before leaving his desk to pick the photograph up from amidst shards of glass.
    ‘Of course you do,’ hissed Grieg. ‘And don’t think undermining me is going to get you a promotion. It’s more likely to get you fired.’
    Fitzjohn watched the door to his office slam behind Grieg. Minutes later the door re-opened and Betts’s head appeared. ‘Everything all right in here?’ he asked.
    ‘Couldn’t be better,’ replied Fitzjohn, brushing Edith’s photograph off and placing it carefully against the