“I don’t need an answer today or even tomorrow or next week. But I want you to know how serious I am about you; to appreciate how I’ve always thought about you. I need you to see something.” He fumbled in his inside jacket pocket and removed a small, square box. He opened it to reveal a diamond solitaire.
Her eyes widened, and he laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m not pushing things that far. At least, not today.”
He gestured with the box. “This is the ring I was going to give you ten years ago. I was waiting for the right time, but I’ve learned the right time never comes. You have to seize your chances as soon as they appear. Say you’ll move in with me, and we’ll talk about putting this ring on your finger as soon as you’re ready.”
She knew Justin the boy, but she didn’t know the man, and he certainly didn’t know the woman she had become. But his eyes were beseeching, and a champagne buzz had heightened her senses, so she leapt off the proverbial cliff. “Yes, yes, I will. I’ll move in with you and see where this goes.”
She looked at his handsome face and the last decade disappeared. Was she finally coming home?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The sun was peeking in through the slatted blinds, and Sophie rolled over in bed, taking the duvet with her. There were no complaints though, for Justin had left as the sun had risen. After dinner, he’d insisted they come back to her place at the hotel as he said he didn’t want her taking the walk of shame in the morning.
He had some suppliers to see and had to go home and get changed first. He’d kissed her good-bye with a feverish intensity, and she’d wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him back down onto the bed. He’d caught her hand and kissed the palm, turning it over to lay a swift peck on her finger, above where her engagement ring would sit if everything worked out and she agreed to marry him. He’d left with a smile and a promise to pop by and see her later. She lay for a moment as memory rushed back. She was going to move in with Justin, and they may spend the rest of their lives together. She hugged the thought to her and reached for her mobile. Diane answered almost immediately.
“Hiya, darling, what you up to?” Diane’s voice wasn’t as cheerful as usual.
“Are you at the shop?”
“Yeah, we’ve just opened. Why?”
“I might pop in and see you later. I’ve got some news.”
“You can damned well tell me what’s going on and come and see me later. Come on, spit it out.”
“Justin asked me to move in with him last night. We’re going to see if what we’d got between us is real. He produced a ring he was going to give me years ago before I left. I said yes to the living together, and we’ll see about the marriage.”
There was silence on the other end. “Diane? Are you there?”
“Yes, yes, I am. But jeez, I wasn’t expecting that. What the hell happened that I don’t know about?”
“I didn’t tell you, but things moved on a pace the night before last. Justin stayed the night. It didn’t seem right to talk about it when we last met.”
“You dirty dog! I bet he never slept on the couch.”
“The years melted away, and all my old emotions came rushing back. We went for dinner last night but met at his place first. And it all came out.”
“That’s great.”
“You don’t sound too enthusiastic.”
“It’s all a bit rushed. You’ve got a life elsewhere. You had no intention of returning to Jersey for good. One night with Romeo and it’s all changed. I don’t want you to get hurt or make a mistake.”
“The mistake I made was in running away and leaving Justin behind. We could have been together all these years. Might even have had a family by now.”
“Look, you need to think about this. You’d be giving up everything you’ve worked for these last few years. Do you even know Justin anymore? Promise me one thing. Just enjoy being together and don’t rush into anything.”
She laughed. “Yes, I promise.”
#
Louise’s mouth dropped open, and her eyes popped wide. Sophie couldn’t tell if she was happy, sad or shocked. Louise spoke, and all doubt disappeared.
“Oh God, oh God. I knew it. I knew there was a good chance you’d get back together. I am over the moon. Justin is a wonderful man. I don’t know what I’d have done without him. He’s kept the business afloat in some pretty rubbish times. Sorry, I’m babbling.”
“No, it’s fine. In fact, it’s all great.”
“What will you do? What about your job?”
“Well, if we do decide we’re going to try and make a go of things I guess I’ll have to resign. We can’t be together and have me living in America and Justin here. I still have over two months of my sabbatical. We’ll know by then if we still have something worthwhile together.”
“Have you considered having Justin join you in the States?”
“What about Ginelli’s?”
“There’s something I wanted to talk to you about. I’m getting the business valued in two ways; one as a going concern, an actual evaluation of what someone would pay for the Ginelli hotel and restaurant, and another as development land. I abhor the idea, but hotels have been closing down all over the island to be replaced by blocks of apartments. I want to know what this site could go for, and your news makes it even more important. Tell Justin I’ll pop into the office and download the ledgers myself. I want to move forward.”
“Why on earth would you want to sell.”
“I’ve been considering the business a lot lately. Your dad took on Justin when his father passed away. Gary Le Mahe was a fun guy, but he had a streak of entitlement a mile long. He always claimed he was being put down or that he was due something, which is why he never held a job for long. Justin has worked so hard, but I do wonder if the hotel business was what he wanted to do or what he fell into—and stayed in through a sense of gratitude to your dad’s memory.”
Sophie wondered where this was going and didn’t hold back. “Are you saying I don’t know him? I know the core of who he once was, but I agree I don’t know who he is now. I’m looking forward to finding out though.”
“Take it easy. I don’t mean anything by this, although I agree you two need to get to know and understand how you’ve changed and developed over the years. What I meant was perhaps there is some other career that would make Justin even happier, but he feels he has to keep Ginelli’s going for all our sakes. I want to give him the opportunity to make his own decision. Once I have the valuation reports, the three of us can talk and decide what’s for the best.”
“That’s food for thought. I had assumed being with Justin meant coming back here. What about you? Where do you stand on selling up?”
“I’ll leave the final decision down to you and Justin. My life has changed recently, and I don’t mean Drew’s death. There’s something I need to tell you.”
#
Le Claire had headed home at 5:00 p.m. It was Saturday night, and he wanted to spend it with his wife. They’d eaten with trays on their laps in front of the TV; bowls of Sasha’s spicy Bolognese for them both, and red wine for him and fruit-flavoured water for Sasha. The box flickered with images of Saturday night family viewing, but he had turned down the volume so they could speak.
“You look tired, Jack. Are you all right?” Her voice held a welcome timbre of concern that made their past troubles seem insignificant. They were back where they should be and more so.
“I’m fine. The murder case is complicated, and I have a group of people who could all have had a reason to kill Drew Portland. I just have to find out which one.”
“You know what they say. No one is completely innocent and we all could—not saying would, but certainly could—have motives for any number of nefarious deeds.”
“Like what?”
Her smile was mischievous. “Well, if something happened to your parents, God forbid, let’s say they died in suspicious circumstances, you’d be an obvious suspect.”
He
laughed. “Mum isn’t that bad, but I see your point with Dad.”
“Very funny. But think about it. An only child whose father threatens to cut him off on a regular basis . . .”
“Oh, come on. You know I don’t care about the money. And Dad only says that because he hopes it’s a bargaining tool. He’d never actually do it. Mum would be the one killing him then. She hates her relatives, and Dad’s got none, so I’m their only option.”
“Yes, but not everyone knows that.”
He considered her words and knew she was right. It was easy to look at a situation and believe you could read the signs, and think you knew why people reacted how they did, but the reality was those who looked most guilty were often blameless, and it was those sporting a halo that had done the most damage.
“Maybe I need to practice reading the signs.”
She ran her hand down his forearm. Her eyes were soft and the invitation unmistakable. “You don’t do too badly where I’m concerned.”
He drew her into his arms and bent his head. Her soft lips welcomed his, and he pulled her closer. Then stopped. He rested his forehead against hers and let out a sigh. “Perhaps we shouldn’t. Is it safe? I mean, for the baby?”
Her throaty laugh was a vivid reminder of a multitude of other nights when the depth of the intimacy they shared was almost overpowering. “We can fool around a little. Come here.”
With one finger, he traced a line down her throat until he reached the buttons of her shirt. He slowly undid them as her eyes followed his every move. He pushed the opened shirt from her shoulders, feathering kisses as he did so. She moved closer, pressed against him.
Brrrriiiiinnnggggg!
His bloody mobile was ringing. Damn. He looked into her eyes and saw amusement. “You better take that. I’ve been a police wife long enough to know you can’t ignore the call.”
He checked the caller ID and answered.
“What’s up, Dewar?”
“We’ve heard from the police station in St Malo. A Detective Lasalle has something to show us. It’s about Francine Bresson.”
He sat up, on full alert. “What did he say?”
“Nothing yet. It was a gendarme who called on his behalf. This Lasalle has busted his foot chasing a suspect, and he was in A&E. He wants to see us tomorrow, so I’ve booked our tickets.”
His palms were slowly being covered in a layer of light sweat. He hesitated before asking a question he didn’t want an answer to. “What tickets?”
“For the ferry. It leaves at 9:00 a.m., so I’ll see you at the harbour at eight. Okay?”
His stomach clenched. “Why the hell do we have to go all the way to St Malo?”
“I know it’s a pain, but he wants to show us something. He said it was vital he talk to us about Francine Bresson.”
This could be the break they needed. He couldn’t afford to ignore it. “Fine, fine. I’ll see you at the harbour.” He disconnected the call.
He glanced at Sasha. “I’m on a day trip to St Malo tomorrow to see some detective about the body we found on the beach.”
Sasha paled. “Oh God. How will you manage? The crossing takes about an hour.”
How well his wife knew him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
It was as bad as Le Claire had feared. They’d squeezed into their designated seats, and he’d told Dewar he was grabbing forty winks. He’d closed his eyes and listened to the monotonous chug of the engines, rolling with every surge and sway as the ferry pulled away from the harbour and headed across the Channel. He kept his eyes shut for the sixty minutes it took to reach the French Coast, only opening them when the tinny-voiced announcement advised passengers should retake their seats ready for arrival in St Malo.
He turned to the seat next to him. It was empty. He looked around and saw a snaking line of passengers coming down the stairs from the top deck. They looked windswept and dishevelled, but their eyes glittered from the sheer power and force of the sea. Dewar was amongst them, and she threw herself into her seat with a thud as the sway of the boat made her lose balance for a second. Her cheeks were pink, and her eyes sparkled. “That was incredible. Here we are on what is a big boat to us, but in the sea, it’s nothing—insignificant. If the waves turned against us, we’d be toast, with no way of fighting it. Makes you feel alive.” Her smile was broad, her exuberance childlike.
The damned image wouldn’t leave his mind—the ferry devoured by a massive wave, overturned; he was trapped inside, being engulfed by the rising water line or thrown into a watery grave. He heard Dewar’s question through his rising panic and over the constant grind of the engines. “You all right? You look a bit green.”
He spoke without thinking. “I’m fine. Just tired. Sasha couldn’t sleep and kept me awake most of the night.”
“Oh, is she ill?”
The boat lurched as it turned to head into the harbour. “No, no, she’s pregnant.”
He snapped back into the moment the second he heard his own words. Dewar stared at him for what seemed the longest time before she lurched forward and gave him an awkward hug. They both froze before she pulled away. “Sorry, sir—I mean Le Claire—it was just a natural reaction, but I forgot where I was.” The unspoken “and who I was with” hung in the air.
She recovered sufficiently to say, “Congratulations.”
He ran a hand through his hair, weary but secretly glad someone else knew. “Thanks. I wasn’t supposed to say anything yet. Keep quiet, or Sasha will roast me. You know, early days and all that.”
He couldn’t say anything else. What would he say in any event? That he thought they’d never have children, and he hadn’t been bothered, and now Sasha was pregnant he couldn’t quite believe it and didn’t want to say anything to jinx them?
As the ferry slid into its docking position, accompanied by thunderous thuds and creaks as it settled against the mooring, Le Claire focussed his mind on the matter at hand—how Francine Bresson ended up dead on a Jersey beach.
#
A uniformed policeman was waiting for them with a name board. The tight military-style shirt, side-planted cap and dark glasses gave him a sinister look. Or at least it did to Le Claire. Dewar was sucking in her stomach and standing a bit taller. Not so sinister to her, then.
They were bundled through customs security and into a waiting marked car, which navigated past the mass of foot passengers making their way across the bridge to the walled town that lay ahead.
The driver spoke, his near-perfect English marred only slightly by his guttural pronunciation.
“Welcome to St Malo. Detective Lasalle is waiting for you. I am to take you to him.”
The car travelled past the walled city, the towering ramparts a physical reminder of this region’s bloody past. They hugged the coast for ten minutes, and Le Claire idly watched the breakers crashing against the broad expanse of golden sand as he thought about a dead woman found on a quiet shore. He was roused from his musings as the car turned inland past housing estates and pretty flower-filled gardens. He looked across to where they were headed and whispered, “What the hell is this about?”
The car turned into an archway cut into the high stone wall and slowly drove through the wrought iron gates. In front of them was a grey stone church, its heavy wooden doors closed tight. To the left was a path leading to a large cemetery. Manicured lawns surrounded the rows of headstones and monuments. Lasalle wasn’t hard to spot. He was resting on a wooden bench surrounded by beds of autumn flowers, his right leg held straight, the heavily plastered foot resting on the edge of a squat planter.
Le Claire noted he was of average height with a close-cut pelt of dark hair, tanned skin and a mouth marred by smoker’s lines. His eyes were a faded blue, his words coated with Gallic flavour.
“Detectives, please sit and accept my apologies for not rising to greet you.” He waved a hand towards his raised foot. “A thief on a moped stole a tourist’s handbag. Luckily, I was in the area and made chase. I grabbed hold of the
strap of the bag and unseated the little cochon. Unfortunately, I fell.” His insouciant shrug was a puff of disregard for his injuries. “So, you are looking for information on a Francine Bresson of St Malo?”
Le Claire and Dewar settled themselves on the adjacent bench. “Yes, that is correct. Or to be more precise, we need information on the late Francine Bresson. We found her body on one of the small bays in Jersey. Cause of death was massive head trauma. We don’t know for sure if she was in Jersey and met with an accident or whether she was washed ashore from a vessel. There is no record of her coming to the island on any plane or boat. There is also a connection to a suspicious death we are investigating.”
Lasalle leant back. “Okay, I don’t know who your dead woman is, but I know she isn’t Francine Bresson, born and formerly resident in St Malo.”
Le Claire was intrigued. “And how do you know that?”
Lasalle struggled to his feet, and Le Claire tried to help him. He was shooed away as Lasalle grabbed his crutches and clumsily moved along the nearest line of graves. “Come with me. I have something to show you.”
They slowly walked alongside Lasalle, who asked. “You say Francine Bresson was born in St Malo on the thirteenth of May, 1991?”
Dewar swiped her phone and read the note she had made before the trip. “Yes, that matches the passport details.”
Lasalle stopped. “Good, good. Unfortunately, your lady is not Ms Bresson, for she died almost ten years ago, shortly after graduation from the lycee. A group of teenagers, fast cars and cheap wine never mix. Look.”
He pointed at the headstone in front of them, inscribed with the name Francine Bresson and her dates of birth and death.
Le Claire stared. If Francine Bresson had died at around seventeen years of age a decade earlier, then who was currently lying in the morgue?
Dewar commented, “So perhaps there was another Francine Bresson?”
“Perhaps, but we have checked the national records, and there is no one with that name and date of birth in St Malo or elsewhere in France. I am afraid your dead woman is a ghost.”
Blood On The Rock: Treachery, desire, jealousy and murder (A Jack Le Claire Mystery) Page 21