“Well, it depends on what your argument was about. I hear you and Drew were going at it hammer and tongs, and it almost ended in a fight.”
“Christ, it was nothing, just a disagreement between brothers.”
“Sure, I get that; however, the brother you were arguing with was murdered several days later, so you can see why we’re interested.”
“What the hell are you insinuating?”
“What I’m saying is that I find it suspicious you have what was described as a vicious argument with a man who is found dead two days later.”
Ian Portland’s colour was high and his body tensed. “Are you accusing me of murdering my own brother?”
There was a suspicion of a smirk on Masters’ face, and Le Claire almost wanted to punch the man himself. He’d better nip this. “Ian, you must appreciate we have to explore all angles, investigate every lead. It’s the only way we can eliminate lines of enquiry.”
He shook his head and muttered words Le Claire couldn’t hear, which was probably a good thing. His shoulders sank, and he appeared resigned. “Fine, okay. Look, Drew and I had a difference of opinion. He was playing big brother and trying to tell me how to live my life. My decision was non-negotiable, and he was finding that tough.”
“Decision on what?”
“He didn’t agree with some of my choices. It was nothing.”
Oliver Portland’s voice was a growl. “The two of them had the same old argument they’ve been having for ages. Drew could be bossy, like all elder brothers, but we’re family, which takes precedence over anything else.”
Le Claire knew they weren’t going to get anything more out of them today. “Thanks for your time.”
Masters spoke as they were leaving. “I heard your brother was having a go at you about some woman. Is that correct?”
“It was nothing, absolutely nothing.” He and his brother walked back to their boat, where the girl stood waiting for them at the prow.
#
Le Claire stepped into the sunny hallway and breathed a sigh of relief as home enveloped him, a respite from the demands of his day. There was music coming from the kitchen, and he smiled when he heard Sasha belting out a tuneless melody. His wife was gorgeous, smart and sexy as hell, but she definitely couldn’t carry a tune. Plus she never could remember the right lyrics no matter how many times he reminded her. It should have infuriated him; instead, it plucked at his heart and made him smile inside.
“Ooh, yeah . . .” Sasha was murdering a Motown classic when, mid-pirouette, she saw him. Her smile, the one that lit her face when she hadn’t seen him for hours, was all the welcome home he needed. She launched herself at him, and he held her tight. He whispered into the clean, fresh smell of her hair, “Let’s hope the baby doesn’t get your singing ability. Everything else, yes, but not your musical talent.”
She laughed and drew back slightly but frowned when she looked into his face. “You seem like the weight of the world is on your shoulders.”
He sighed and rested his forehead on hers, drawing strength.
“It is, or the weight of the dead, at any rate.”
“I know you can’t talk about the details of the case, but don’t block me out. How’s it going?”
“Slow. I’ve got two dead bodies and little to go on except a muddle, mire and a loose connection. But all of that can wait until tomorrow.” He laid his palm on her stomach, gently rubbed. “I want to know how the two of you are.”
“We’re great. I can’t get my head around it. I never thought this would happen for us. Not telling people is the worst, but I guess we need to wait until twelve weeks?”
“Yeah, I can’t wait until we can tell everyone, and that’ll be that.”
She burrowed her head into his shoulder, and her arms snaked around his waist. “When you consider where we were, how we were, just a few months ago, this is a miracle.”
The thought of what their relationship had been like took the shine from the moment. “What scares me is how easily we came to almost losing each other. We were a signature away from getting divorced with a chasm between us built on my stupidity and foolishness.”
“Let’s not forget my mistrust.” She paused, and he willed her to keep quiet, not to open that door again. “I should have known that nothing physical happened between you and Penny, that it was all on her side. But you did turn to her. You talked to her when you should have been speaking to me. Promise you’ll never do that again.”
He didn’t want to have this conversation. Penny was in the past. A colleague who had misread the signs and wanted more from him than he would ever have been willing to give. He hadn’t seen or spoken to her since they worked together on his last big case that had spilled into the private clubs in London. A little devil whispered in his ear that he had led her on, whether purposely or not. “Don’t do this, love. We’ve been through it all before.”
“I know, but . . .” She hesitated, and he knew what she was going to mention, what was festering in her mind. He didn’t want to hear it. “I’m worried about the Chapman situation. Could he get off with what he did? Surely it’s impossible?”
“I don’t know. I need to keep it boxed away for the moment. I can’t let it out, not while I’m working on this case.”
“Okay, Jack, but when you do talk, it better be to me.” She was smiling, but he heard the sharp warning in her voice.
#
Cathy pulled the edges of her coat tighter together. She’d turned the engine off, and the car was not warm. The night was cool, and she wished she’d worn something heavier than her cotton mac. But it was all she had. Most of her clothes were still at the house she’d shared with Pete, and she wouldn’t be going back there in a hurry. The anonymous email had surprised her, but she’d quickly agreed to meet and discuss the proffered offer of help. She wanted this resolved, and it looked like she held the aces.
She was surprised, and not a little pissed off, at the choice of meeting place. But she’d driven across the island to St Ouen’s Bay and parked in the seaside car park as directed, only cursing a little over the twenty minutes it took to drive there. The whole cloak-and-dagger thing was getting on her nerves. They could have met for a coffee—unless being seen with her was an issue? There were no lights in the car park, and darkness enveloped the car and surrounding area like a thick blanket. Still, she was safe; her doors locked tight.
She checked her watch. It was exactly 10:00 p.m. She saw two yellow pinpricks of light coming down the Five Mile Road, moving ever closer. She thought they might drive on by—the car was going fast—but at the last moment it slowed and turned into the car park. The indicator light didn’t come on, and that irked her. She detested sloppy drivers. There would usually only be joyriders on this stretch of road at this time of night. Forget the forty-mile-an-hour speed limit; they’d be bombing away as fast as they could go, fuelled by teenage hormones and egged on by bravado. She knew. She’d been one of those girls squealing with excitement in the back of such cars, the adrenalin a prelude to the other backseat activities she’d indulged in later.
Peter had been older, and when he’d outgrown such trysts, they’d moved in together and married a year later. She’d been happy at first. And then Drew had come along, and she’d been seduced by a handsome face, a boyish grin and a charming nature. And the money had been a factor. She had to admit that. She’d enjoyed being treated to nice things; Drew had been generous with presents and fine wines, the odd trip away on one of the boats. Now, with a kid to look after, she needed to be secure. She was due what was coming her way.
The car had parked opposite her, and the headlights were on full beam. She heard a car door open, but she couldn’t see anything. She was blinded, and even when the lights cut off, all she saw was flashing strobes dancing around until her eyes once again grew accustomed to the dark. She drew in a shocked breath as the approaching figure came into focus. This wasn’t who she thought would offer financial help, to assist her in resolving her unborn child’s
claim, especially after their last conversation. She climbed out of the car and, pasting a smile on her face, said, “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I’m sure you weren’t. Shall we walk a little, to be completely private? Our discussion is no one else’s business.”
“Sure.” She was wearing jeans and trainers, so walking wouldn’t be a problem. The nearby café was closed, shutters drawn tight and lights out. They headed to the walkway that ran parallel to the sea wall. The breeze was getting up, and she brushed stray tendrils of hair from her eyes. To the left was the long, straight road, a separation from the desolate sand dunes. Ahead were pinpricks of light from the surfers’ camper vans. To the right was nothing but darkness, although the moon’s rays illuminated the rolling waves and the stark whitewashed walls of the White House. She pointed to it. “When I was a little girl, we rented it for a party once. Amazing how much fun you can have in a one-room stone hut with grass for the garden, sausages on the barbecue and Coca-Cola to wash them down with.”
“Let’s get straight to the point.”
She was taken aback at the no-nonsense attitude, but it was in her best interests to get this sorted, and quickly. “Sure.”
She swept a reflexive hand over her stomach, stopping to gently tap the as-yet indiscernible bump. For once, she held the trump card, and she was going to use it. “I’m going to be alone with this baby, and I know you don’t care about that. But I am entitled to something. I don’t need much, just enough for a small flat or cottage and to pay the bills. I mean, I won’t be able to work for a while when the baby comes. Of course, I’ll be due something more as well.”
“Like what?”
I went to Citizens Advice.” She patted her tummy. “As you’ve probably heard, this little poppet is in line for a share of Drew’s estate. A one-third share under Jersey law.”
“And you’re going after it? Having a house and some extra cash isn’t enough for you? You’ll need to prove it’s Drew’s, and you can’t do that until after the birth.”
“I know, but you can help me out until then.”
“You wouldn’t consider taking some cash now and not dragging all this through the lawyers?”
Her bitter laugh shocked even her own ears. “No one’s buying me off. Drew was wealthy. He had shares in Ginelli’s. Why shouldn’t his kid have some of that? They’ll have little else to remember him by.” Her voice hitched, and she struggled to keep calm. She’d loved Drew, but she couldn’t exactly say that at the moment. She didn’t need any money for herself—she could always get by—but she demanded it for her kid.
“You’re a married woman. Do you forget that? You want all this sordidness to be public knowledge and gossiped about all over the island?”
“I don’t care. You’ll help me, won’t you?”
“I said I would. I’ll make it all right. Come on; it’s cold. Let’s go back to the cars.”
Her shoulders lifted as the weight of worry disappeared. It was all going to be fine. Christ knows she’d miss Drew, but her kid would have it all.
She opened her door, smiled and looked down as she bent to enter the car. It happened so quickly. Rough hands grabbed her by the neck; smooth leather gloves were a savage caress as she was shaken. Her head bobbed from side to side, and she choked as her windpipe closed.
“You stupid, selfish bitch.”
She gasped, struggled to breathe as her eyes darted around. But all she could see was darkness.
“Why wouldn’t you back down? You’ve brought this on yourself.”
She was held tight, awkwardly bent, her head pressed against the door opening, the cold metal like ice against her face. She managed to speak, her voice a ragged rasp. “What the hell are you doing?” The car door smashed against her head, the blinding pain accompanied by the sound of laboured breathing. She couldn’t tell if it was hers or not. Her knees gave way, but the hold on her neck tightened and kept her bent in position. Her temple exploded in pain, and a kaleidoscope of colours blurred her vision as blood, wet and sticky, dripped into her eyes. She closed them tight. “Please stop. Don’t be a fool.” Her voice was a choked whisper. She opened her mouth wide, tried to scream, but all that came out was a ragged choke as the fingers pressed tighter against her windpipe.
“Try and ruin me, would you? No fucking way. This is what you deserve.”
She bucked and screamed as the metal door smashed against her head, again and again until she had gone beyond pain, leaving only a dark numbness that overtook her until there was no more.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
By the time they reached St Ouen, the crime scene investigation machine had already kicked into action. The car park was closed to the public and all access cut off with yellow tape and stern-faced uniforms standing guard. Six-foot tarps were attached to temporary frames and concealed what he assumed was the actual heart of the scene from any prying eyes. David Viera was waiting for them, and Le Claire was taken aback at the doctor’s demeanour.
“Viera, you all right?”
He wiped his face with a pristine handkerchief. “No, no, I’m not. I’ve seen some carnage in my life, but Christ, you have to see it. Nothing has been moved, but, well, she’s dead.”
He stood aside and Le Claire pulled the tarp to the side, Dewar close behind him.
He heard Viera speak, “Emily, you shouldn’t go in there.”
The young doctor had his hand on Dewar’s arm and was looking anxious. Her whispered response was a furious bite. “Get your hand off me. This is my bloody job. Have you gone mad?” Her lips snapped shut as she ended on a hiss. Viera withdrew his hand as if he’d been scalded and looked a bit shamefaced.
“Sorry, but it’s bad.”
“I better get on with it, then, hadn’t I?”
She rejoined Le Claire, and he said nothing. This wasn’t the time.
What had once been the beautiful, flirtatious face of Cathy Frobisher was a bloodied pulp. Her right eye bulged out of its socket, and her cheek was smashed open, shards of bone poking through ravaged flesh. She lay by the side of the open car door. Its metal trim was mottled, dark stains on the window, the door, the seats. Unmistakable dark, viscous stains.
Dewar drew a shaky breath. “What a way to die.”
“There’s rage here, anger in every blow that was aimed at her, each time that door banged against her head.” He looked around. “This wasn’t planned. It looks more like an opportunistic attack.”
“I agree. There’s no planning or forethought. This is a public car park. They didn’t bring a weapon with them, simply used what was to hand.”
He looked at the gravelled ground and sighed. “We’ll see what Vanguard can do, but this ground is hard, compacted dirt covered in shingle and gravel. There will be little to no chance of getting any visible prints, so they’ll need to bring their magic potions and see if they can find any tyre tracks left behind.”
He scanned the surrounding area, using his hand to shield his eyes from the sunlight, as he took in the detached houses set far apart and well back from the road. “Houses are few and far between here, and none of them appears to have a good view of the car park. Get someone onto a door-to-door. A resident may have seen the cars driving in.”
“Anything else?”
“I’ll call this into the chief. It’s too much of a coincidence that Drew Portland and his mistress are both murdered within a week of each other. Now we need to dissect Cathy’s life, and determine who would gain most from the deaths of Portland and his pregnant mistress.”
#
Cathy Frobisher’s parents were dead, and she was an only child. Her next of kin was, therefore, the man sobbing in front of Le Claire, his head in his hands. They’d found Peter Frobisher on his boat and broken the news quick and sharp.
“I’m sorry. I can’t believe this. I can’t. Tell me it isn’t true.” Red-rimmed eyes beseeched Le Claire.
“Your wife was by her car, her handbag, with ID, was at the scene, and DS Dewar and I h
ad previously met with her. There is no doubt it’s her. Please accept our condolences.”
He rubbed at his eyes, wiped his nose on his sleeve and took a shaking breath. “You say Cathy was attacked?”
“Yes, there is no easy way to say this. I’m afraid she was savagely beaten to death. I need to warn you that her face was severely damaged. We’ll need you to carry out the formal identification, and it isn’t going to be pleasant.”
He shuddered. “Was it a robbery? What the hell was she doing in a deserted car park on the other side of the island, and so late at night?” His voice had risen as disbelief gave way to anger.
“We don’t know yet, but, purely as a formality at this stage, can you tell us your whereabouts last night?”
“Christ!” He spat the word out, accompanied by a spray of spittle. His face was mottled with dark purple as his anger rose. “You think I hurt Cathy?”
“We need to explore all avenues. You and Mrs Frobisher were estranged, and you were both recently involved in an aggressive incident. So please answer my question.”
“This is a bloody joke, isn’t it?”
Le Claire held his impatience in check. “Where were you last night between the hours of 9:00 p.m. and midnight?”
“At home. I had a beer and watched some crappy TV.”
“No one saw you? Did you call anyone? Can your whereabouts be verified?”
“I don’t have a bloody alibi. I didn’t think I’d need one, so I didn’t plan ahead.”
“Okay. When did you last see or speak to your wife?”
There was a tiny pause. “At the restaurant. You were there.”
“And you didn’t see or speak to Mrs Frobisher after that?”
“No, no, I didn’t.” His voice was breaking, and he was shaking.
Dewar asked, “Can we call the Family Liaison Team to send someone down to sit with you? You shouldn’t be alone.”
“No, no, I’m fine. My sister and I were going out on the boat this morning. She’ll be here soon—not that we’ll be going anywhere today.”
Blood On The Rock: Treachery, desire, jealousy and murder (A Jack Le Claire Mystery) Page 17