Blood Rights

by Kelly Clayton

  Jessica stared at her, shoulders tense and body rigid as her chest rose and fell in shaky breaths. “What the hell was I supposed to do? You know I signed a prenup and a crap one at that. I would have been left with nothing. I married him with stars in my eyes that blinded me to the reality of that bloody prenup coming into play. I thought it would never happen. I loved him. How could he do that to me?”

  “Same way he did it to Eva, I guess.” The look directed at her could have curdled milk. “Well, I’m sorry, but it’s true. How much of this stuff have you sold?”

  Jessica went from sour to petulant, led by a defiant chin. “Not near enough. I’ve got about £5,000, and that will last five minutes.”

  “A slight exaggeration. Hey, I know. Why don’t you get a job?”

  “Very funny. Doing what? I was working as a junior finance administrator and a part-time waitress when I met Kurt. You expect me to go and get a job like that now?”

  “I think you need to do whatever you can. You have a lifetime of looking after yourself ahead of you.”

  “Yes, and I’ll be damned if I don’t get what I’m due. I’m taking this all the way. I was tricked and made to look a fool.”

  She thought of all she’d heard from Jessica over the past days and realised she barely knew who her sister had become. “I am sure you won’t be left with nothing. Surely the least you’ll get is what was due you under the prenup. That would be fair.”

  “Fair? Fair? Let me tell you about fair.” Jess was on her feet now, her reddened, scrunched-up face inches from Chloe’s. “I married him. I pandered to him. I put myself in second place, all to make him happy. He gets bored and wants a divorce, and fortuitously dies, leaving me an exceptionally well-off widow.” She laughed maniacally, and Chloe took a step back. “Only we’re not married, are we? Where does that leave me? His live-in lover? And my little sis gets left a million. You always were close to Kurt. I used to laugh at the rumours. Just how close were you after all?”

  Shock and rage fought for supremacy. Fury won, and Chloe’s hand shot out and slapped Jessica, hard, across her face. “You vicious, spiteful cow. I’ve had enough of you. Did you do it? Did you kill Kurt?”

  Jessica drew back, her mouth gaping. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it? He wanted to divorce you, meaning the prenup would kick in. Maybe you decided you’d fare better as the widow with a nice one-third share. As for Susan—you hate her, always have; Eva too. Maybe you couldn’t stand them getting their hands on anything. Eva would kick you out of the house, and Susan could have sold the land and been sitting pretty. You’d have no means of lording it over her, and she would be on your financial par. That’s all that matters to you, isn’t it? You haven’t answered me. Did you do it?”

  Jessica deflated in front of her. “Of course I didn’t. How can you think me capable of that? I’m sorry. I’ve been a bitch. But I’m pissed off and worried about the future. I can’t believe all of this is happening, and, stupidly, I miss my husband—even though it turns out we weren’t married. I can’t believe you think I could be capable of those atrocities. How could you say that?” The last ended on a strangled sob.

  Jessica had a mercurial nature, but this about-face was swift, even for her; Chloe didn’t have the energy to fight against Jess’s usual victim-culture. She’d seen it too many times before. Jess was never in the wrong. “Okay, Jess. It’s fine. I’m sorry. But you must be careful. How will it look if it comes out that you’ve been selling stuff? The police could argue that you had an excellent reason—millions of them, in fact—for wanting Kurt out of the way. Add in the fact that you’ve effectively been stealing from him as well, and it doesn’t look good.”

  “But they’re not going to find that out, are they? I mean, the only person who could tell them is you. And you’re not going to do that, are you?” Jessica stared her down.

  “No. I’m not.” Of course, Jess hadn’t killed anyone. She had just been stupid. “Anyway, wait till I tell you what happened to me last night.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Vanguard accosted Le Claire as he entered his office. “We’ve sifted through the debris from the fire. It’s mind-numbing forensic work, but a theme is emerging.”

  “Which is?”

  “Amongst the ashes were tiny fragments of tin. It looks like a load of cans were stored there. The interior walls are covered in miniscule flecks of paint, especially at the mezzanine level.”

  “Someone was painting there?”

  “Yes, without a doubt.”

  ◆◆◆

  Richard Grainger was not his usual polished self; crumpled clothes, morning stubble and bags under his eyes testified to an unpleasant night in the cells. He hunched over in his chair, staring at his tightly clasped hands resting on the table in Interview 1.

  Le Claire drew back from the viewing panel set into the door and entered the room, closely followed by Dewar. He waited for Dewar to sit and then settled himself directly opposite Grainger. “I have to say I was definitely surprised to find out you’d been our overnight guest. Care to tell me what happened?”

  “It was nothing. Is Chloe pressing charges?”

  “That’s not the point. You broke into Miss Marsden’s home. Why was that?”

  “It was stupid, but not related to anything illegal. Look, I’m sorry. I’ll make good any damage I’ve done. It’s no big deal.”

  “Let me be the judge of that. The report mentioned a laptop. Is that what you were after?”

  “Yes, it was my wife’s. Chloe was asked by Nils to have a look at what needed to be done to keep Eva’s business interests ticking over.”

  Dewar said, “I’m puzzled. Miss Marsden works for you. Why wouldn’t you trust her to deal with your wife’s business?”

  “There is private information on that laptop, personal stuff that I couldn’t risk Chloe stumbling upon.”

  Le Clare picked up on the unusual word usage. “Personal material? What was it?”

  “The clue’s in the name. I said it was personal.”

  “I think you’re intelligent enough to work out I’ll need more information.”

  Le Claire turned as the door opened behind him and Hunter came in, as planned, the awaited package in hand. “Perfect timing, thank you.”

  Hunter handed him the laptop, wrapped in a sealed plastic bag. “It’s okay to handle. The prints have been taken already. The password is inside the bag.”

  “What the hell? How dare you. Give me that.” Grainger jumped to his feet, reached across and grabbed one edge of the laptop and pulled towards him.

  Le Claire held tight and pulled back. Grainger followed suit. Le Clare sighed, gritted his teeth and wrenched the laptop from him. Grainger lost his balance and sprawled across the table, facedown.

  Dewar effortlessly lifted Grainger to his feet and helped him back onto his seat with a none-too-gentle push. Her weight-training sessions were paying off. She stood by his side, ready to intervene if he tried anything else.

  Le Claire ripped open the seal and removed the laptop and the envelope. He glanced up. Grainger’s breathing was laboured, his face covered in a mottled flush. “I’m going to unlock this device. PC Hunter will take it and search every file, every application, every download until we uncover what you were so desperate to conceal from Chloe Marsden.”

  He typed in the password, and there was a swooshing sound as access was granted. “Maybe I’ll have a quick look myself first.”

  “Stop! Please.” Now there was a plea to his voice.

  Le Claire’s hands hovered over the keyboard. “Why? You have to talk to me; otherwise, we’re going to have to review everything.”

  Grainger’s head dropped into his hands. When he looked up, his eyes were sheepish. “Eva and I, well, we like . . . I mean there’s nothing wrong with it . . . But we, well, it was only once, that is, we like to . . .”

  From Grainger’s embarrassed demeanour, Le Claire had a terrible feeling that he didn’t want to kn
ow what they liked to do; he longed to jam his fingers into his ears and block out whatever words were coming his way. Unfortunately, that wasn’t an option. “Spit it out.”

  “Oh Christ, I can’t believe I have to tell you this.” He cleared his throat a couple of times, and the words came in a rush, falling over each other in their haste to be out. “We got drunk one night and fooled around on video. Nothing explicit, but enough for embarrassment. It’s perfectly natural. It’s only for us, but we do it through Eva’s laptop, and that’s where the videos are stored. I couldn’t risk it, couldn’t take the chance that Chloe might have a little look around. She wouldn’t even have to be snooping. Eva sometimes made videos of art for sale to send to specific clients.” He shook his head, biting his lip. “I couldn’t let Chloe see us.”

  Le Claire could understand his distress, but he had still broken into someone’s home. “I am afraid we can’t take your word alone. We will need proof.”

  Grainger drew back. “No way, you pervert.”

  “We have to at least be able to prove that there are indeed videos of you and your wife on this particular laptop that would cause embarrassment should they have been seen by Miss Marsden.”

  From his stiff shoulders and clenched jaw, Grainger wasn’t happy. His gaze flicked between Le Claire and Hunter before he pointed to Dewar. “Her. She can look.”

  Dewar’s face was a picture, an appalled one at that.

  Le Claire could only guess what she was thinking, but he’d bet it matched his own thoughts. Why choose Dewar? Was he going to get off on a female police officer seeing him being intimate—if it indeed went that far? “I don’t consider that would be appropriate.”

  “Let me show DS Dewar. The video is mainly of Eva. I don’t want another man seeing her in this way.”

  Dewar nodded to indicate her resignation. “Okay. Show me.”

  Le Claire watched as Grainger clicked here and there and then turned the screen so only he and Dewar could see. The volume was on low, and Le Claire heard a woman’s laughter and a man’s voice. It was clearly Grainger. Dewar’s face was set as her eyes locked to the screen. Grainger looked away, staring to the side, his face unsmiling and tense. Le Claire attempted to block out the excited moans and groans coming through the sound system. After a few moments, though it felt like a lifetime, Dewar reached forward and touched the screen. The sound stopped. She said, “I’ve seen enough. More than enough. I saw Eva Englebrook is a state of undress, considerable undress, being embraced by a clothed man. The man is identified as Richard Grainger. The relations appeared consensual. I have stopped the video clip with five minutes remaining.” Her tone was neutral, formal and authoritative; her plea was unmistakable: Please don’t make me watch it to the end.

  “Thank you. That will be enough. Mr Grainger, I am going to authorise the retention of the laptop in our secure custody until Mrs Englebrook is better. If anyone needs access to her email, and they have the sign-in, they can use any device to access it. They do not need a physical laptop. This will prevent any embarrassment to Mrs Englebrook.”

  “Thank you. What happens now?”

  “Miss Marsden does not wish to press charges. You can go soon, but first I have a few questions on another matter.”

  Grainger had pushed himself to his feet, ready to leave, then sat down with an exaggerated sigh. “What is it now?”

  “You’re an art expert, that we know, but you also run art classes with Angela Laine. You’re a painter as well?”

  “Not exactly. I don’t create original art. I haven’t done that in years.”

  “But what do you do at the art class?”

  Dewar chipped in, “Angela Laine spoke about Old Masters and their techniques before we met with her in private. What were you doing?”

  He shook his head as if exasperated. “Why does any of that matter?”

  They kept silent, and eventually, Grainger carried on, “Oh, very well, a load of nonsense it all is. There is a section of the Jersey population with money in their pocket and time on their hands. And some of them like to pretend they’re arty. Angela needs to keep the gallery afloat, so she charges £35 per weekly class. She gets them painting something or other, and every now and again she finds genuine talent. And when I say that, I mean about once every few years.”

  Le Claire asked, “How do you come into this?”

  “I pitch up every now and again and do my bit about techniques. On the day you came in, we put up pictures of three paintings and spoke about colours, tools and the use of light and shadow and its importance in making a painting appear life-like. Then we got the class to have a go at copying one of the pictures.”

  “Oh, like a forgery?” Le Claire kept his tone conversational.

  Grainger chuckled. “They only have thirty minutes or so and turn out a complete load of crap, most looking like it’s been done by a five-year-old.”

  “And what does yours look like?”

  He looked lost for a moment before his frown disappeared. His laugh was loud and false. “Oh, I get it. No, I am not a forger, and I didn’t shove fake paintings into Kurt’s collection. I don’t paint. I dissect the work in words. I talk about style, how certain effects were created at the time, not how to replicate them today.”

  Dewar asked, “So if we searched your home, we wouldn’t find any art materials?”

  He seemed taken aback. “Christ, you’re serious? You may find some bits and pieces. Eva leaves some of her gear at my place, but not a lot. Wait a minute—do you think the fakes in the collection have anything to do with Kurt’s and Susan’s deaths and the attack on Eva?”

  “You answer our questions, Mr Grainger, not the other way around. We have reason to believe that the Picasso Blue Mood Woman, has been subject to forgery. The Englebrook painting is a fake. The one purported to have been sold is a fake. What we don’t have is the original.”

  “Where the hell is it?”

  “We don’t know. Do you? And while we’re on the topic, did you kill Kurt and Susan? Did you attempt to kill your wife?”

  Grainger jumped up. “Of course, I didn’t. This is a bloody joke. I want my lawyer.”

  “That is, of course, within your rights, but we aren’t accusing you of anything—yet. You are free to go for now, but I would like to check out your place. Can we send someone now, or do we need to get a search warrant?”

  “I am happy for someone to search my flat to their heart’s content, for they won’t find anything.” He threw a set of house keys at Dewar, who caught them in one hand. “I need to collect my car. I’ll meet your people at the apartment I rent. They’ll get there before me. It’s not far from here.”

  ◆◆◆

  Richard Grainger inhaled the crisp, fresh air, then exhaled a shuddering breath. Funny how you didn’t appreciate freedom until it was taken from you, even if only for a night. He’d never experienced claustrophobia before but had undoubtedly been given a glimpse after a night in the tiny, antiseptic cell. The size and discomfort of the place hadn’t been the problem, it was the door slamming, locked from the outside and no way of getting out. It was a loss of control. He’d parked a few streets away from Chloe’s place and headed through town last night. He’d get the car, drive home, wait for the police to finish their fruitless search and get changed. Next, he’d go to the hospital. He’d better come clean with Rudy and Nils about the laptop. That was a conversation he wasn’t looking forward to.

  The pulsating tension had left him as the police said they would hold the laptop. The relief was palpable. It was okay for someone to access Eva’s emails. There was nothing there. But not so the documents folder. That’s where they’d find the evidence of his twisted truth that would prove his lies.

  He had something to do first. Chloe picked up the call on the first ring. “Where the hell are you, Richard, and what was that all about? You better get explaining and tell me what the hell is going on.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Le Claire peered over
Dewar’s shoulder. “Is that it?”

  “Yeah, that’s a tin of Ripolin red enamel paint circa 1930. It’s on eBay. Who keeps this stuff?” Her puzzlement was evident.

  “The collectors and clutter bugs of the world, I guess, much to the delight of antique dealers—and forgers—the world over.”

  “All we need to do is find an artist with this, who knew Kurt Englebrook, and our work is done. Simple, huh? A needle in a haystack doesn’t even come into it. I guess we need to start an elimination process with artists in Englebrook’s circle.”

  “Good idea. There are certainly a few of them.”

  Dewar pushed back from her desk and slid her chair towards the printer, where she grabbed some papers. “Not that I’d exactly tag any of them as killers.”

  “As we both know, killers don’t always come with mean looks and M for murder printed on their foreheads. Another angle is that if the fakes were being done on the island, then the bespoke paint would need to be imported, which means they’d need to clear customs if they were declared by the shipper as containing paint.”

  “Yes and look at these sample pots for sale. You can only buy six, they’re labelled as a collector’s item—who collects paint?—and are on sale for over £200.”

  He got her meaning immediately. “Anything coming into the island with a value over £240 will be subject to the goods and services tax.”

  “With a record kept of what arrived, who for and who paid the tax to release the goods.”

  Excitement quickened his heart rate as the chase was on. “Get on it. This could be the lead we need.”

  ◆◆◆

  Le Claire rushed to the hospital as soon as the station received the call. It was getting crowded outside Eva Englebrook’s hospital room. Rudy and Nils waited on one side while Chloe Marsden spoke to Richard Grainger on the other.