Blood On The Rock: Treachery, desire, jealousy and murder (A Jack Le Claire Mystery)

by Kelly Clayton

  He closed his eyes and willed for a little more sleep. His breathing deepened, and he relaxed into the firm mattress and his soft wife.

  The shrill ring of the telephone jolted him upright.

  “Christ, answer that, Jack.” Sasha was fully under the duvet again, and her muffled grumble had him hurrying to answer the call. The voice on the other end made him still. “Vanguard, what is it?”

  For the CSI chief to call him at past dawn undoubtedly meant news.

  “We’ve had the test results in overnight.”

  He pushed the duvet back and moved off the bed. “Well, tell me about them.”

  “I’m on my way into work for an early start. I’m outside your place. Any chance of a coffee?”

  “Sure. Be with you in a minute.”

  He hauled on last night’s jeans and grabbed a T-shirt from the drawer. Barefoot, he ran down the wooden stairs and opened the front door to a grim-faced Vanguard.

  “Come on in.”

  Vanguard followed Le Claire into the gleaming white kitchen. He spooned coffee into two mugs and filled them from the boiling hot filtered-water tap.

  He handed Vanguard a mug. “It’s black for you?”

  “Yeah, thanks. Your tap’s a bit fancy.”

  Le Claire smiled. It was a fancy tap in a fancy house paid for by his father-in-law, who was anything but. He brushed the thought aside. He had more to contend with than his current indebtedness to a man who couldn’t stand him.

  “What have you got?”

  “We found toxic elements in the traces of wine left in the glass and bottle.”

  “What toxic elements?”

  “It’s a match for Amanita phalloides.”

  Le Claire frowned and couldn’t keep the impatient snap from his voice. “Don’t play funny devils. What the hell is that?”

  “Death cap; the most poisonous—and deadly—of the fungi. Found in America, Europe and, apparently if you know where to look, the woodlands of Jersey.”

  “Drew Portland died from drinking poisoned mushrooms?”

  “I don’t know about that. You’ll need the autopsy results to find out what killed him. However, I can tell you that the pieces of glass and the empty bottle of wine found to the side of the body held traces of the twenty toxins found in death caps. I don’t know what killed Drew Portland. However, if he drank that wine, he ingested liquidised mushrooms—deadly mushrooms.”

  #

  Vanguard headed to work, and Le Claire showered and changed before driving into town. By the time he reached his office, he and the Home Office Pathologist had each received an email with the full test results. The call came in at 8:45 a.m.

  The caller’s voice was direct and professional. “Le Claire, this is Dr Newman. I’m the Home Office pathologist who carried out the autopsy on Drew Portland. I’ve read through the CSI team report and test results.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “I can now finalise my own report. Drew Portland died from organ failure, consistent with deadly fungi, most likely death cap poisoning.”

  “So we can safely say his death was neither an accident nor from natural causes. And the instrument of his death was the poisoned bottle of wine found at the death scene.”

  “I’m afraid that’s where you have a problem. When poisonous mushrooms, such as death cap, are ingested, the toxins attack the body, eventually leading to death from liver or kidney failure.”

  “What’s the issue?”

  “It can take from six days to two weeks for death to occur. Unless he first drank from that particular bottle over a week ago, there is no way it could have been the cause of his death.”

  “So you’re saying we know someone poisoned the bottle of wine found by the body and it was the same type of poisonous toxin that killed Drew Portland, but he must have ingested it before tonight, and at least a week ago?”

  “Exactly. Right cause, same toxic compound, but the wrong instrument.”

  He disconnected the call and sat in silence for a moment, trying to make sense of what he had heard. He dialled an internal extension. “Sir, it’s Le Claire. Drew Portland’s death is suspicious, and there is undoubtedly third party involvement. I’ll need a Major Incident Room.”

  #

  Le Claire had left Bryce Masters and Hunter in charge of setting up the Incident Room. Masters would happily boss the others about without wrinkling his pristine suit or dirtying his hands. The smug DI often cut corners and could talk his way out of just about anything with a charming grin. His carefully styled jet-black hair, square jaw, and megawatt smile had him classed as the force’s poster boy, and he was often rolled out for promotional initiatives and PR duties. Le Claire disliked him, so tried hard to overcome his prejudices. Masters, he had found, was better working with him rather than against him. He’d be happy he was in charge, and Hunter’s common sense would prevent his colleague from screwing up.

  He’d hunted down Dewar and found her in the staff canteen, having a cup of tea and a chocolate-filled croissant. She would need to wait until later for the tea, and could eat the pastry on the way. “Come on, I’ll update you in the car, but Drew Portland’s cause of death is consistent with ingestion of poisonous mushrooms.”

  Now he stood in front of Louise Portland’s front door, which was opened by Tom Mathison. Le Claire kept his face passive. Was this guy a permanent fixture? It was certainly looking like it. “Dr Mathison, we’d like a word with Mrs Portland.”

  “Can’t it wait? Louise is exhausted.”

  “No, I’m afraid it can’t. Some new information has come to light, and we need to ask a few more questions.”

  The dark look didn’t shift. “Wait in there.” He pointed through a doorway into a spacious kitchen. “I’ll get Louise.”

  Dewar followed Le Claire, and he could hear the soft whistle that was her initial reaction. “Wow, this looks professional; it gleams.”

  Louise Portland’s kitchen was an industrial space, which wouldn’t look out of place in a commercial kitchen. Pristine white units ran from floor to ceiling, and stainless-steel counters and splash-backs completed the look. There was a huge Aga, a separate triple oven and a mass of shiny cooking implements and pots and pans suspended from hooks.

  “Yeah, I imagine you could produce enough food for an army in here.”

  “And I have done, Detective, on many an occasion. Only instead of soldiers, I feed our guests. I have always loved to entertain.”

  Louise Portland looked washed out, with shadowed and red-rimmed eyes. Her hair was rumpled, and it looked as if she may have been sleeping.

  “I’m sorry to bother you. There has been a development we would like to discuss.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “The autopsy report is in, and I’m afraid it is conclusive that your husband had traces of poisonous fungi in his system; the likelihood is this was the direct cause of his organ failure and subsequent death.”

  Her face paled, and her hand clutched at her throat. He noticed her fingers were claw-like and her skin almost translucent, exposing the veins beneath. “No! Oh God, how could this have happened? He knew better than that. Obviously, something he ate. How stupid.”

  Dewar shuffled from foot to foot and shot him a glance. Le Claire knew what it meant. Get rid of the illusions and hammer in the bad news. “It could have been, but we have reason to suspect a third-party may have added poison to his wine.”

  Mathison’s voice cut across Le Claire. “What the hell do you mean? Are you saying it was murder?”

  “I’m saying it’s suspicious.” He turned to Louise Portland, who had settled into a high-backed chair, an anxious-looking Tom Mathison hovering by her side. “Mrs Portland, we will need to piece together your husband’s movements on Wednesday. Can you tell us a bit more?”

  She shook her head and, shrugging her shoulders, said, “I can give you a rough idea. However I didn’t keep tabs on my husband’s whereabouts. Drew left the house before I got up. He’d ha
d a bad bug but seemed to have perked up.”

  Le Claire interrupted before she could carry on. “What kind of bug?”

  “Something was going around I guess. He had been vomiting for a few days. Was it connected?”

  “I don’t know, but it could be relevant. The more information we have, the quicker we can work out what happened. How did your husband spend his days?”

  “It was his habit to go to the marina in the morning, and he usually had lunch at the restaurant. If he was alone, I would join him, or I’d leave him to it if he was with friends. I’m not entirely sure how he spent his afternoons. Again, perhaps at the harbour. Sometimes he went to visit his family or maybe took out one of the boats.”

  Dewar looked up from taking notes. “You weren’t expecting your husband for dinner. I mean, you hadn’t seen much of him during the day?”

  From her sharp glance, she had got the implication in Dewar’s words. “It is no secret my husband and I had different interests. The sea was Drew’s life, and I gave him the freedom to enjoy what he loved. We were happy to be together as and when we could.”

  Le Claire asked, “So you would say you had a happy marriage?”

  Mathison was the one who replied. “What nonsense is this? Louise’s husband is dead, it may be murder, and you’re questioning the state of her marriage? Of course, it was happy.”

  Le Claire kept his voice calm. The good doctor was getting on his nerves. “I asked Mrs Portland the question, but we’ll leave it there for the moment. Now could we have a look at your bedroom and any private spaces Mr Portland had, please? We need to find out more about him as a person.”

  She darted a look in the doctor’s direction, and her smile seemed strained. “We didn’t share a bedroom. Drew often left extremely early to go out on the boat, or sometimes he joined his brothers on their fishing trips.” She pushed herself off the chair. “I’ll show you his room first and then the study.”

  They followed her through the spacious hallway and up a light-flooded staircase to the first floor. She led them to a door in the wide corridor and ushered them through. “This was my husband’s room. Christ, I can’t believe he’s gone.”

  Mathison had followed them upstairs and, putting an arm around Louise Portland’s shoulders, led her towards the staircase. “You must come and sit down. It’s been a traumatic couple of days.” He looked at Le Claire. “I suggest you look at what you need to in there and then come back downstairs. Drew’s study has a boat engraved on the door. You can’t miss it. Louise, it’s okay for them to go in there?”

  Her voice was weak. “Yes, yes of course.”

  #

  Le Claire waited until he was sure no-one could overhear them. He moved deeper into the bedroom, Dewar following. “I’m not convinced this marriage was a particularly happy one. Something seems off.”

  “A lot of marriages go that way over time. Separate rooms and lives but shared memories. I guess that’s all that keeps people together. That, and perhaps a fear of being alone. Mind you, that’s when people do stupid things.”

  Le Claire had never asked, but he didn’t believe Dewar had ever been married. Even if she had been, she was too young to have spent years in a relationship gone wrong. He could never remember, but she must be in her mid-twenties. There was a bitterness that escaped whenever they came across unhappy relationships. Perhaps she came from a broken home? Didn’t everyone in some way or another? His own parents were very much together and a tight unit. It was their son they had problems understanding.

  He brought his mind back to the present and looked around the luxuriously decorated bedroom, which resembled a five-star hotel. A plush carpet lay underfoot, and framed prints of the sea, yachts, and regattas covered the walls. The room contained a double bed, two nightstands, a two-seater sofa and a coffee table, the latter in front of a large wall-mounted TV. There were two doors set into the far wall. One led to an en-suite bathroom and the other into a huge open dressing room. He stopped for a moment, jarred by the neatness and obsessive-compulsive-like feel.

  Suits, shirts, trousers, casual jackets, and tops were all grouped by type of garment and colour. Sweaters and T-shirts, again displayed by colour, were piled on open shelves. As entire wall held racks of shoes, shiny evening shoes, trainers, boating shoes and flip-flops.

  A narrow glass-topped island in the middle of the room displayed watches—expensive watches nestled on velvet cushions as they slowly, and silently, rotated.

  Le Claire said, “Well, he certainly liked to be tidy.”

  Dewar snapped shut her gaping mouth before answering. “Obsessively so, by the looks of it. Some of this stuff looks pricey.”

  Le Claire moved a few of the clothes on the rails, looked at the labels. “All of it is expensive.” He flicked a hand over the glass watch cases. “A few Rolexes, a couple of Breitlings. He had expensive tastes, yet we need to know more about him than that.”

  They searched through the drawer units, but all they contained were socks, underwear, and baseball caps. “He must have kept all his papers in his study. Let’s try in there.”

  The boat motif-engraved door was at the bottom of the staircase. The study was small and neat. A glass desk held a globe and a fancy pen set. A high-backed leather desk chair was accompanied by a two-seater sofa and matching armchair. A huge TV was on the wall, and a well-stocked drinks cabinet took pride of place in the corner. The room was luxurious but devoid of any objects that displayed the personality of the man who had used it.

  Dewar was shaking her head. “There aren’t any cupboards, drawers or filing cabinets. Where are his papers? His bills?”

  Louise Portland’s voice drifted in from the doorway. “I look after the bills and suchlike. Drew never involved himself with anything like that.”

  “But he must have had some papers, bank statements, financial data and the like.”

  “I dealt with all of that. Drew wasn’t interested.”

  Le Claire was clutching at straws. “Yacht club subscriptions? He must have had bills for boat fuel. Birth certificate?”

  She smiled, a fleeting lift of her lips. “And again, I dealt with all of that. I opened all mail addressed to Drew, paid the bills, took out subscriptions. All important documents are in the safe. I was more like my husband’s PA sometimes.”

  “Okay, fine. Where can we find Mr Portland’s family? We’ll need to speak to them.”

  “They have a small seafood stall by the old harbour. His brothers, Ian and Oliver, are fishermen, and their mother, Maura, runs the sales part. You can’t miss the stall—Portland Fisheries—and they have an office behind it in one of the dock warehouses.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Portland Fisheries stall looked like it had seen better days. It was an open-sided trailer on wheels with a display counter, the bottom part of which was angled and filled with ice, on top of which were what were presumably the remnants of the day’s catch—or maybe a few days before, for the stench of fish filled the air. Le Claire instinctively held his breath as his eyes were drawn to a bucket of guts and waste that stank to high heaven. He wouldn’t be asking Sasha to get dinner from here anytime soon.

  An untidy-looking woman stood behind the counter. She was running to fat, and her greying hair was drawn back into an unflattering bun. Her apron was stained, and she was smoking a cigarette, which she quickly stubbed out on the floor as she saw Dewar’s uniform. The smell of smoke lingered and caught Le Claire at the back of his throat. He coughed—discreetly, he hoped.

  “Can I help you, luvvies? Fancy a nice bit of crab meat? I’ve got some going cheap.”

  Le Claire shook his head and, not wanting to offend, hoped he hadn’t done so too vigorously. “No thanks, I’m looking for the Portland family.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and he saw a flash of suspicion. “I’m Maura Portland. What you after?”

  Dewar spoke, “Mrs Portland, I’m DS Dewar, and this is DCI Le Claire. We’d like to have a word with you about your son Dr
ew.”

  Her face sagged, and he could see a mother’s grief in her eyes. “Call me Maura; everyone does. Let me shut this up, and we can go to the warehouse. No bugger’s buying from me anyway, not with the fancy-pants stalls some have turned into posh stores. Beats me how they do it.”

  She pulled the shutter down and came out of a door set into the side of the trailer, squelching through a pile of something with her wellington boots. Le Claire didn’t look too closely. They followed her along the harbour wall to a row of wooden warehouses. She stopped at the first one, whose entrance was wide open. The smell of fish was fierce. This room led onto another, and Le Claire could see it was the refrigeration and preparation area. A dark-haired, slender girl was sweeping up, and Maura barked at her. “Ali, I need to talk to the police. Get out of here and keep an eye on the stall. Come and get me if anyone needs serving.”

  The girl bobbed her head and rushed outside to do her boss’s bidding. Maura sat down on one of the mismatched wooden chairs that stood to the side of a battered desk covered in empty packing crates. Bits of rope and plastic packaging trays were scattered around the floor, making it hazardous to navigate. “What you got to say about Drew? How did my son die? His wife won’t tell me anything. She called round here with the doctor who’s always hanging about and said our Drew was found dead on the boat. Here, sit down.”

  Le Claire knew Dewar had tensed—she did like to keep her uniform tidy; he preferred his suit without stains as well—so he put her out her misery. “No, thanks. We’ll stand. I’m afraid the autopsy results show cause of death as poisoning, more specifically fungi ingestion.”