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

by Kelly Clayton

  She disappeared through another door, and Hunter asked, “What’s a lock-in?”

  “I don’t know if it’s the same in Jersey, but in Glasgow, they’d close a hotel or restaurant bar at the end of the night and let their favoured punters stay behind. No one new could get in, so effectively a lock-in. The decent places would play by the rules and offer free drinks, making it a private event.”

  “And the not so good?”

  “Ah, they’d keep charging their paying customers until the small hours.”

  As they headed back to the car, Hunter turned and said, “Seems any of the staff would know where to get poisonous mushrooms.”

  “Yep, looks like it. Plus anyone who’d ever been on one of the damned foraging tours.”

  #

  Cathy had the day off. Well, strictly speaking, she was supposed to be at work, but Helen had called and said it might be a good idea if she took a bit of time to recover from the upsetting incident. Cathy knew what that meant. Stay away until we work out how to deal with this. She was happy with that. She turned over in her bed, pulled the pillow across to her and, pressing it to her face, inhaled deeply. She could still smell him, the musky maleness that had enticed her and pulled her in. Her stomach lurched, and bile rose. She threw the covers back and swung her feet to the floor, a hand against her mouth. She sipped from the water glass on the bedside table. It settled her stomach, and the nausea passed. What was she going to do without him?

  She hadn’t known grief wasn’t purely an emotional pain, but a physical one as well. The ache of loss spasmed deep inside her, and it was heavy, all-encompassing as it lay on her shoulders, weighing her down. She looked around. All she could afford was a studio apartment. It was one big room with separate areas for sleeping and living. The small galley kitchen and tiny shower room completed her home. She had been happier here than she had ever been in the three-bedroom house she’d shared with Peter.

  The shrill ring of the doorbell made her jump. It was still early, just gone 9:30 a.m. Who the hell could it be? She checked the video intercom, and her heart stuttered. Oh Christ, what to do? The bell rang again and again. She looked around in a panic, threw a robe over her nakedness and took a deep breath as she spoke into the intercom. “Hi, what can I do for you?”

  “I’d like a word. May I come up?”

  What choice did she have? She made her bed and had to lie in it. “Sure.” She buzzed the front door open and tied the sash of the robe tighter. She opened her door and waited for the lift to open. By the time it did, she had collected herself and said, “Hi, Louise, come in.”

  Louise Portland was dressed all in black, wearing a severe suit, which covered her from neck to mid-calf. Cathy smoothed her short flowered kimono and regretted not taking the time to get properly dressed.

  “Thank you, Cathy. I’ll get straight to the point. I thought we better have a word after yesterday.”

  “Look, Louise . . .”

  “No, Cathy, you look.” She reached into her handbag and took out a long white envelope. “It’s best we terminate your services. We won’t need you anymore. Here. I’ve added a little extra something as this is such short notice.”

  “You’re getting rid of me? I might have expected it, and I do appreciate your feelings, but I could take you to a tribunal for this. There was nothing wrong with my work, so you can’t get rid of me.”

  “In this envelope is payment for your statutory notice period. I have tripled the amount you’re due as I won’t see anyone suffer unexpected hardship.”

  “But—”

  “Cathy, you were screwing my husband, and you work for me. You and Peter caused a huge rumpus yesterday, and it’ll be the talk of the bloody island by now. Let’s both agree it would be untenable for us to work together and you need to move on. Leave it at that.”

  Cathy took the envelope, opened it and her eyes widened at the amount. “Okay, fine.”

  “Good. I’m glad we got that settled. Now I don’t expect to have to see you ever again.”

  “I will need to collect my things from my locker.”

  “I’ll get someone to package them, and they can let you know when they are ready.”

  “Louise, don’t you have any questions? Don’t you want to know how it started, what it meant? It wasn’t some cheap affair. I’m sorry. I didn’t want this to happen, didn’t expect it.”

  Louise’s laugh was loud and jarred on Cathy’s nerves. “Drew is gone, and I couldn’t care less what you did or what he may have stupidly promised you. It’s all over now.”

  She turned and walked out, closing the front door behind her. Cathy sank to her knees onto the worn rug, clutching the envelope in her hand. What the hell was she going to do now, especially if her fears became a reality?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A cab had dropped Sophie off at the hotel the night before. Justin had offered to walk her to her apartment, but she’d politely refused. She didn’t want to tempt fate and get carried away. He’d kissed her on the cheek and said he’d see her soon. As she left the cab, impulse jumped in, and she had offered to make him lunch the next day. She didn’t know why.

  So here she was, table set and wine opened. Instead of calling room service, she’d headed to town and come back armed with cheeses and cold meats, the makings of a salad, some good bread and olive oil and the best balsamic vinegar she could afford.

  She checked her reflection in the hall mirror for what had to be the hundredth time. Her mascara had smudged a little, and she wet her finger and rubbed the marks away. A sharp rap on the door made her jump, and her hand flew to her chest; her heart was beating a tattoo at double pace. Her nerve ends were tingling as she opened the door.

  Justin was wearing one of his tailored suits; this one was charcoal with a crisp white shirt and a tasteful dark grey tie. He was clutching a huge bunch of pink roses.

  “Here. I mean, I hope you like these.” His words tumbled over one another, and his nervousness seemed to match her own.

  “Great, thank you. Come on in.”

  He closed the door behind him, and she reached to kiss him on the cheek as he turned to do the same to her, and they ended in an awkward peck as their lips met. She jumped back and quickly turned away as her cheeks flamed.

  “I’ve done a load of cold bits. Hope that’s okay. Why don’t you sit down and pour us some wine while I pop the flowers into some water.”

  She fled into the small galley kitchen, dumped the flowers into the washing-up basin and ran enough water to cover the stems. She placed her damp palms on her cheeks to cool her face. She had to calm down or she’d look like a complete prat.

  As she walked into the small lounge, he handed her a glass of wine. “Good choice. I take it this is from the cellar?”

  “Thanks, yes, it is. I’m glad the old tradition of being able to get the wine at cost hasn’t disappeared.”

  “Not yet, but business isn’t what it was, so let’s be grateful we have it for the time being.”

  “The international hotel industry has taken a battering over the last few years, and I guess the island hasn’t been immune.”

  “Indeed. We do the best we can.”

  She fiddled with the stem of her glass. They’d shared so much in the past it seemed odd to speak of banalities.

  “You’ve certainly done that. Your dad would have been proud of you.”

  Justin was quiet for a moment. She knew he had never liked talking about his father, but Gary Le Mahe’s failings were a long time in the past.

  “I don’t know about that. If he had valued success, I guess he’d have made a go at being in partnership with your dad. Not being bought out within a few years because he couldn’t keep away from the bottle. He wasted the money he had on flash cars and buying everyone drinks whenever he went out, which was most nights.”

  “You’ve come a long way.”

  “Thanks to your dad. If he hadn’t taken me on, I have no idea where I’d have ended up.”

&nb
sp; “You were ambitious back then. You always used to talk about having your own hotel, which you do. It’s you that runs this place after all.”

  “Yeah, I guess one of my teenage dreams came true.”

  She sensed the moment his thoughts veered onto a different path. The air seemed charged, and part of her prayed he wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t move their conversation onto a different level. His voice was low; she had to lean in, head bent, to hear him.

  “I have to ask. Why did you never answer my calls? I must’ve left a hundred messages. I didn’t have the address of your new digs. Nor did Louise or Diane. One minute I thought we had a future, and the next you cut me off entirely.”

  He’d caught her unawares, and she instinctively drew back and crossed her arms. “Well, that’s direct. I guess I asked for that.”

  “I’m owed an explanation after all this time.”

  The years faded away as she remembered the sheer joy, the rush she experienced each time she had been in Justin’s company.

  His voice drew her back to the present. “Why didn’t you keep in touch? Not a word all those years.”

  She’d thought about this a lot over the last decade, and her answer was quick. “It was too intense. When I was here, all I could think about was you, and I was dreading going to college. Then Dad died, and Louise was with Drew. I was furious with her and needed distance.”

  “I get that, but why did you have to leave me as well?”

  “I guess I was overwhelmed by our feelings. We were talking about settling down and being together forever. I was only nineteen, and I suppose I must’ve panicked. Once I was at university the easiest thing to do was to forget all about Jersey, push it from my mind and make a new life for myself, and to do so meant breaking contact. I was a foolish, careless girl who shouldn’t have disappeared.”

  “Well, you’re here now.” He raised his glass in a toast. “To friendship, I hope we at least have that now.”

  She raised her glass in a silent response. They were akin to strangers, two people who hadn’t met or spoken in ten years. A decade during which they’d each grown to full adulthood, each new experience shaping and sculpting them into the people they were now; people who didn’t know each other. They hadn’t always been strangers. They’d laughed together, shared whispered confidences, grown sure of their emotions and spoken of the future. She’d sneaked out of the house and lain beside him in a moon-dappled meadow and shown her love the only way she could. How could they ever be friends?

  #

  Le Claire had switched his computer off and was reaching for his jacket when Dewar popped her head around the door. He was dog tired and hoped she wasn’t here on any business requiring serious thought.

  “Justin Le Mahe called. They’ve reviewed the records and accounted for most of the bottles of Margaux either as stock or verified sales. However, six bottles were taken by Drew. The procedure is lax. The cellar is left open and unattended, and those in the know can go in and help themselves. It’s a bit like an honesty box. They write down their name and what they’ve taken. Sophie Ginelli confirmed this earlier. Le Mahe scanned across the relevant records. Drew would simply scrawl the name of the wine and his initials.”

  She handed him several sheets of paper, and his eyes flicked to the entries she had highlighted. “Yeah but we’re talking about bottles of wine worth hundreds of pounds each, not the honesty boxes you find on island lanes selling eggs, potatoes or tomatoes. His writing was a messy scrawl. Anyone could have falsified that it was Drew who took the Margaux. Plenty knew the cellar was unlocked and that this process was in place. Okay, let’s leave it for tonight.”

  She turned to leave and hesitated. “A few of us are off for a drink. You want to join us?”

  The refusal was on his lips before he knew it. Sasha had gone to a friend’s for supper, and he’d be fending for himself.

  “It’s Hunter’s birthday, so we’ll grab a bite to eat as well.”

  Ah, to hell with it. “Okay, count me in.”

  An hour later, and while not exactly regretting his decision, he certainly doubted it. He wasn’t the most sociable of men—dinner parties were a chore, and he’d long outgrown a Saturday night in town. His idea of a good time was a comfy sofa, food served at his own table, a bit of TV and a loving wife. It was, therefore, no surprise he was out of place in the Berkley Arms.

  It was a good old-fashioned pub with dark wood-panelled walls, a kaleidoscopic swirl of sticky carpet, low lighting and cheap beer. There was a raw charm and ambience you wouldn’t find in any of the interchangeable restaurant/bars dotted around town. He’d seen who was there—Hunter, Dewar, Masters and a few junior PCs and admin staff—and wearily gave in as he took their orders. This night was going to be expensive. He ordered seven beers and two white wines and propped himself against the bar as he surveyed the room, a tactic born of long habit. It was a mixed crowd. Trendy twenties and thirties jostled for space with an earthier crowd who claimed the bar as their local.

  “I thought you might need a hand. Here, let me take those.”

  It was Dewar, and she held a glass of wine in each hand. He noticed the remaining drinks on the counter-top and a barman with a not-so-patient look on his face. “Sorry. I was wool-gathering.”

  He paid and grabbed three beers in one hand and balanced four in the other. His university education came in handy sometimes.

  “Here you go, guys. Happy Birthday.” He smiled widely at Hunter to hide the fact he had no idea what his first name was.

  “Yes, happy birthday, Rob.” And Dewar to the rescue.

  #

  Two hours later and Le Claire had consumed two more beers and demolished a burger and chips, plus he’d finished off Dewar’s fish, chips and mushy peas, and someone’s deep-fried calamari. He’d texted Sasha, and she’d agreed to collect him on her way back through town. He looked around the table. “Right, I’m off soon. Let me get a final round.”

  His offer was taken up with alacrity, and he headed to the bar. The mirrored back wall above the bar gave him a good view of the room. His team was laughing, and, judging from his flushed face, they were gently teasing Hunter. They saw more crap in a day than most, and he was glad they could have some respite. His eyes glided over the room, idly tracking the goings-on.

  There were two men in the far corner that caught his attention. One was tall and muscular, the other slightly shorter and packing a paunch. His eyes surveyed the rest of the room but kept flicking back to rest on the two men, who were having an animated argument, which was increasing in volume. The fight erupted before he could move. The taller guy hit out at his drinking buddy, a hard punch direct to his stomach. He fell and stumbled into a couple of seasoned-looking drinking professionals, knocking their pints flying. All hell broke loose. One of the pissed-off drinkers smacked the guy with the paunch, knocking him to the ground.

  Le Claire had launched himself off the bar and was halfway across the room, but Masters, followed by Hunter, beat him to it. The guy with the muscles had stopped fighting his friend and instead jumped to his aid. Masters caught the man’s swinging punch and, twisting his arm up his back, forced him to his knees. Dewar and Hunter jumped on the other would-be pugilist with shouts of, “Stop. Police.”

  A shocked-looking barman was standing around, but there didn’t seem to be anyone in authority. Le Claire headed in the direction of a door marked staff only to try and find the manager. What he found was a man kneeling by a pile of crates, who demanded, “Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m DCI Le Claire. Sorry to bother you. Are you in charge?”

  “Yes, I’m Steve Bates, the manager. What can I do for you?” The man replaced his grimace with a welcoming grin. He’d also moved in front of the crates, blocking them from view.

  “You’ve had a bit of a contretemps in the bar. Luckily, my team was here having a drink, so we’ve got everything under control.

  “Great, great. Let’s get out there. You first.”

 
He flapped his hands, indicating for Le Claire to turn around and head back to the bar. His upper lip beaded with sweat, and his pupils dilated. Le Claire deliberately maintained eye contact as he leant to the side and glanced at the crates stacked behind the man. He realised what he was looking at and smiled.

  #

  Le Claire had cancelled the pickup from Sasha and said he’d make his own way home in a taxi. He watched as the team, protective gear on, moved the rest of the crates into evidence. “Secure them and let Vanguard know his team has got some more work.”

  Dewar was by his side. “I’m still not entirely sure what is going on.”

  “Smuggling. Contraband. We have wooden crates marked toys and books, which are duty-free, but the interiors are built to accommodate twenty-four bottles of wine each. And they’re filled with French wine.

  “Ah, so they’re avoiding the duty.”

  “Looks like it. Wine can still be found much cheaper in France, and a cheaper cost makes a bigger profit.”

  “Is there always a scam running on this island?”

  His laugh was genuine. “Yes, you could say that.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Le Claire had delivered an early morning cup of tea to Sasha as she snoozed in bed. His phone rang, and he quickly answered. He didn’t want her disturbed. She’d tossed and turned most of the night.

  “Le Claire.”

  “Jack, it’s Gareth Lewis. How are you?”

  The words were short and the tone sombre. Le Claire had seen it was a London number but wasn’t prepared for hearing the familiar voice.

  “I’m all right, Gareth.” He stumbled over the words and barely resisted the temptation to revert and call his old boss sir. The silence was oppressive, and he could taste the sourness of his dread. There was only one reason Gareth would contact him. This was no time for pleasantries or prevarications. “What’s the latest?”

  “They’ve brought the date forward. The defence is putting in a case for dismissal. The court will hold a private hearing in the next couple of weeks.”