But instead he heard a vicious curse. “You fucking bitch.” Portland had spun around and was clutching his head. Dewar smashed the heavy bar she held into his stomach. Portland doubled over, and she ran to the railing, her arm outstretched.
“Quick, hold on to me.”
He was weakening, but she managed to pull him up halfway before Oliver launched a blow to the side of her head. She staggered back and let go of Le Claire, but he had a firm grip on the railing, quickly adjusted his stance and climbed over and onto the deck. Dewar was trying to get to her feet, and he could see dark bruising was forming along her jaw and blood was dripping from a cut on her forehead.
He heard a roar. Oliver was heading his way. The boat was rocking with the swell, and Le Claire had trouble staying on his feet. But as Oliver came closer, Le Claire steadied himself, remembered his training and, bending at the knees, kicked out and spun at the same time, catching Oliver in the stomach. From the agonised groan, he figured he’d hit him where Dewar’s bar had already made contact.
Oliver sank to his knees, and Le Claire restrained and cuffed him, hands behind his back. He collapsed against the side of the boat as his head spun and the rocking motion made his insides somersault. He shoved a foot on Oliver’s back to keep him down and threw his head over the side of the boat as his stomach erupted.
Dewar was on her feet, using a scrap of tissue to wipe the blood from her face. She took one look at him before heading to the prow. “That’s gross. I’ll get the kid to take us back. And I’m in no mood for any shit from him or anyone else.” She glared at Oliver as she passed by.
His stomach emptied, he leant back against the side of the boat, one foot still trapping his captive to the deck. “Well, Oliver. Assaulting officers, eh? We’ll need to have a little chat, and have a good look at this boat of yours.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Tuesday morning brought turquoise-blue skies, flat seas and a rising temperature. This investigation made his head ache, and he now believed it was indeed one case and the deaths of Drew Portland, Cathy Frobisher and Francine Bresson were connected. But he didn’t know what linked them or who was responsible.
He’d called a meeting first thing for everyone to share their reports and update each other. After that, he’d deal with the Portland brothers, both of whom had cooled their heels overnight in the cells. The Incident Room was buzzing, and almost all the team had assembled, either sitting around the conference table or leaning against the nearest workstations. Dewar sat at the table, and he heard her say, “. . . and then I told the kid to turn around, and get us back into port, and if he gave me any trouble he’d be laid flat out and handcuffed like his dad. And he did as I said, sweet as a little lamb.”
Masters snickered. “What if he hadn’t though? Would you or Le Claire have been able to drive the boat?”
Dewar’s reply was definite. “There wasn’t any chance that slip of a lad was going to defy me. I’ll have you know I put on my roughest Scottish accent.”
There was general laughter that abruptly stopped when they saw Le Claire, who joined in. “She did as well; scared me, I can tell you.”
The laughter continued. Murder was a deadly serious business, and working a major investigation took its toll on them. A bit of light relief was sometimes needed to balance out the darkness they dealt with every day. He raised his voice to get everyone’s attention. “Okay, gather round. Let’s keep this brief as we’ve all got a lot to get on with.”
There was a general shuffling of feet and squeaking of chairs as everyone got themselves settled. “You’re up-to-date on everything apart from yesterday’s events, but I can see I interrupted Dewar updating you. Ian Portland lied to us. We believe he wasn’t alone the night his brother died, but he won’t tell us who he was with. On its own, that isn’t much of anything. It’s odd not to say when you have genuine corroboration of where you were at any given time, but it’s not a crime to do so. However, he was in possession of several crates containing bottles of the same wine we confiscated from the Berkley Arms. All he’ll say is that some bloke in a pub sold it to him.”
“Ah, that old chestnut.” Masters was in a talkative mood today. Le Claire thought about it and considered he preferred him when he kept quiet and smiled to show off his dazzling white teeth.
“Indeed. Dewar and I went to talk to Oliver Portland, and he tried to do a runner as soon as he saw us. We managed to restrain him on the boat, and he’s in a cell, same as his brother.” He checked his watch. “Vanguard should be here soon. He had a team go over the boat last night. Right, Masters, what have you got?”
“The Portlands’ finances are in a total mess. God knows how they afford to pay anyone to work there. The business had an injection of capital about six months ago, but it’s virtually all gone. I haven’t found where it came from yet.”
Dewar said, “Ian Portland said they took out a private loan. The lender wants to be repaid, and they don’t have the money. The loan is secured on the business. Default on the loan and their way of earning a living disappears.”
Realisation lit Masters’ eyes. “Oh, now that’s a good reason for wanting your rich brother dead. That is if you thought he had any money.”
Le Claire agreed. “They had no idea Drew wasn’t asset rich; they do now as the lawyer for the estate has confirmed Drew had minimal assets in his own right. So yes, either—or both—of the brothers have a motive.” He turned to Hunter. “Have you managed to get any information on Drew Portland’s Isle of Man bank account?”
“Yes, although it isn’t in his name. It’s in C.I. Charters, which is an Isle of Man-registered company. The bank account has a balance of slightly over £80,000.”
Le Claire let out a low whistle. “A tidy sum. Where did the money come from?”
“It’s mixed. I guess they did shorter and some longer charters. Some deposits are for as little as £200, and then there are others for £5,000 or so. The money is either from individual bank accounts or, in some instances, companies. There were no large cash withdrawals from the account. So we still don’t know where he got the cash found on his boat.”
Dewar snorted. “Maybe cash payments for the charters. Mind you, £5,000 for a boat trip? That’s a bit rich.”
Masters chipped in. “Depends on where they went and for how long. We paid a fortune once to hire out a sailboat in Turkey. We only had it for a week, but it cost almost that much.”
Le Claire couldn’t let that go. “You obviously get paid too much, Masters.”
“There were ten of us blokes sharing the trip, so it wasn’t too bad. I guess some people could afford that all by themselves though, eh?”
Le Claire cursed his stupidity. He would never be able to get away without some kind of comeback if he tried to talk about money. Not one of them would believe he and his wife lived off their salaries alone, even though both sets of parents would be classed as wealthy by most standards. But he did live in a house bought by his father-in-law. He pushed the thought aside.
“Okay, check into the charters and the payments received and make sure everything is on the up. We still don’t know anything about the cash we found on Drew Portland’s boat, and that bothers me. Also, if he had £80,000 in the bank, and £100,000 in cash why couldn’t he lend it to his brothers to help them out with their loan?”
#
Le Claire was in search of coffee when he heard heavy feet thudding along the corridor behind him. Dewar. He’d never mistake her heavy walk. How someone as trim as her could make such a racket simply by walking, he had no idea. She was puffing as she caught up with him. “I’ve chased you halfway around the building.”
His voice was dry. “I can hear that. What is it?”
“We’ve had a walk-in. It’s a man who thinks he is related to Francine Bresson.”
“He thinks? He doesn’t know?”
“That’s what he said.”
“Intriguing. Let’s go see what this is all about.”
Th
e man had been shown into one of the shiny new interview rooms. But like such places the world over, they were sterile, blank and unwelcoming. He looked up at their entrance, nodding a hello to both.
“I’m DCI Le Claire, and this is DS Dewar. How may we help you?”
“I watched the news on TV. I’m from London. It was about the woman who was found on one of the beaches here. You called her Francine Bresson.” He stopped and cleared his throat several times. Dewar passed him a bottle of water, and he gratefully sipped. His English was accented, and from his olive skin and dark features, Le Claire thought he might originate from the Middle East.
“Thank you. Yes, so I saw the news segment asking for anyone who knew this woman to come forward. From the photograph, it looks like my sister, Fran Zhougrabai. My apologies, I did not introduce myself. I am Nadir Zhougrabai.”
Dewar said, “We have the passport of the woman we found, and the name isn’t Zhougrabai. What makes you believe she’s your sister?”
He shook his head and ran a shaking hand through his hair. He sipped his water, and a nervous tic worked away at the corner of his mouth. He was clearly under a huge amount of emotional stress.
“I am from Syria. I am a doctor and the lucky one. I came to London over twenty years ago and studied here. I moved into medicine, built a life and married. There was never any question of going back to Syria. Britain is my home. My wife is from Ireland originally, and we have three children. My wife, Molly, is a psychiatrist, and we live a good life. I lost contact with my family when the conflict in Syria escalated. My parents are dead, but I have two sisters, and I haven’t heard from either or had any word of their whereabouts until I saw Fran’s picture on the TV. I got on the next plane. Here, look.”
He rummaged in a leather satchel by the side of the table and pulled out a creased photo. “It’s a few years old, but you can see Fran clearly.”
He was right. The girl in the picture looked remarkably like the woman in the passport photograph. “Why would your sister be travelling under an assumed name?”
“I don’t know, but my family had some money. My sister could have been trying to get to Britain. Get a new identity and leave Syria behind.”
Le Claire processed all of this. “Did your sister have any identifying marks? Something that would say once and for all that Fran Zhougrabai and Francine Bresson are one and the same person?”
“Yes. Fran has an oval birthmark on her right calf.”
“I’d like you to have a look at the body. Is that okay?”
“It is for the best, for me to be sure. Thank you.”
“Fine, we’ll make the arrangements. We’ll leave you alone for a moment.”
Le Claire closed the door behind them, leaving Nadir Zhougrabai with his thoughts. He kept his voice low as they moved along the corridor. “So if the girl was his sister, which I have to say I think she is, what was her connection with Drew Portland? He may not even have known her background.”
“Maybe. But now they’re both dead. So was her death an accident, or was it murder?”
“That’s what we have to find out.”
His phone rang. It was Vanguard. “Yes?” As Le Claire listened, he smiled.
#
Le Claire waited for Dewar outside the interview room and wondered if he’d made the right decision. He heard her footsteps before he saw her and knew it was too late. Dewar was accompanied by a surly Oliver Portland and a strapping PC. She obviously wasn’t taking any chances with the elder Portland getting one over on her again. She had a multi-coloured bruise along her jawline, and he assumed it rankled more than it throbbed.
“Right, it’s all ready. Let’s go in.”
They herded Oliver in before them. Dewar turned to Le Claire and whispered, “I’ve had a call from the morgue. The identification was positive.”
Le Claire had expected this, but regret washed through him at the thought of Fran Zhougrabai dying before she reached freedom. Her journey may have been illegal, but for her—and so many others—it was their sole option. The attending PC was last into the room and closed the door behind him. He turned and leant against the wall.
Ian Portland had been shown into the room earlier, his shoulders tensed, and his mouth gaped open when he saw his brother. “Oliver, what’s going on?”
Le Claire had a sense of how their relationship worked as the younger man looked to his older brother for support.
Oliver dutifully replied, “You’ll know as much, if not more than me. I got slung in the back of a police car and spent the night in the cells for no reason.”
The elder brother was going to play Mr Innocent. Well, that wasn’t going to last long. “Please take a seat next to your brother. Thank you. Now, Ian, do you still maintain you bought the wine that was in your office from a random guy you met in the pub?”
“Yes, I told you that’s what happened.”
“I know you did, but we found Oliver here moving some identical crates, and when he saw us, he scarpered. Not the kind of reception I expect.”
Ian glanced at his brother and then Le Claire. “You’ve held my brother overnight for moving wine we own?”
“No, it was assaulting police officers that tipped the scales.” He didn’t look at Dewar, but he was sure she’d be glaring at Portland with one of her fierce expressions. At least he hoped she was.
“Tell me, Oliver, how’s the fishing business?”
He looked taken aback at the change in subject but answered readily enough. “It’s not easy, but we get by.”
“Who do you sell to?”
“Some restaurants and direct to customers from the stall.”
“Doesn’t seem like a lot of business to me. Do you ever fish in UK waters?”
“No, we don’t have the licences for that. We do sell some surplus fish to some of the south coast distributers. Not often though.”
“What about France? Do you fish near there?”
“Of course not. The French guard their waters as closely as we do. We can only fish within certain areas.”
“I thought you might say that which makes it all the more surprising your boat’s log records distances and coordinates that see you frequently travelling between Jersey, St Malo and the English coast. I wonder why that would be. Perhaps a little smuggling, but I don’t imagine it’s only cheap booze and half-price fags. What if it’s people?”
There was silence for a moment, and the brothers glanced at each other. Oliver said, “I think we’d like a lawyer now.”
They were entitled to legal representation, but he knew he couldn’t hold them. He didn’t have enough for that, not yet. The Portland brothers would have another grilling, lawyer beside them, but he’d have to release them before the day was out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The whiteboard was a tangled mess of pinned photos, scribbled notes and interconnecting arrows. Le Claire was a visual person and needed to see the facts laid out, had to draw shapes and write the words before he could see what he was facing. And at the moment what lay in front of him was the question of who killed Drew Portland, Cathy Frobisher and Fran Zhougrabai. The problem was that the perpetrator was hidden by lies, self-interest and motivation. Many could have had a reason to kill these people, but having a reason and actually doing something about it were two entirely different concepts, and it was his job to clear away the fog and find their culprit. He leant back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head, gently rocking as the seat’s ergonomic back followed his movements.
Drew Portland had been a man of expensive appetites and had the money to indulge them; however, he had lived off his wife’s money and hadn’t had any wealth to call his own. Louise had kept her man on a tight leash indeed. The Portland brothers weren’t averse to breaking the law here and there. At the least, Ian had bought goods he had to know weren’t exactly legit, and Le Claire guessed his perfidy ran deeper than that. Oliver was a deeper, darker kettle of fish, and not one Le Claire could easily trust.
Louise Portland was a deceived wife, whose time might be limited. Could her husband’s adultery have driven her to commit these heinous crimes? What about the Ginelli shares—did they factor in any of this?
Whoever had killed Drew had tried to throw suspicion onto Louise. They must have known him well to know he hated mushrooms and therefore wouldn’t eat them. But the use of mushrooms was vital to turn attention to Louise. Cathy Frobisher? Well, that smacked of spur of the moment, of desperation. And Fran Zhougrabai? Was she even connected? Could it have been a coincidence that she had Drew Portland’s number? The phone was found in Portland’s office at the fisheries. But his brothers had keys to the place and all the access they could want. Did they use that phone?
“Sir? Sir?”
He looked up, and it took a moment to clear his brain and realise Hunter was standing by the door.
“Sorry, I was miles away. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve looked at the payments going into the C.I. Charters bank account and something seems a little odd.”
“What’s that?”
“Most of the payments came from a couple of London-based organisations. One of them, Friends of the Displaced, made several payments, each one in excess of £2,000.”
“Odd because it’s an organisation making the payments?”
“Yes, and I also checked the email account for the charter business. The emails don’t mention longer trips, which you’d expect for that sum of money, but ask to book a day or overnight excursions.”
Little pieces of the puzzle clicked into place. “Hunter, get authority from Louise Portland. I want us to run checks on all the boats they own, and I want to know where they’ve been and when. Get on it straightaway.”
#
Peter Frobisher was, as usual, lounging on his boat. He wasn’t the most dynamic of men, and Le Claire could see how he drifted through life as if being drawn and buffeted by the tide. Empty beer cans lay by his side, and it was obvious he was drinking his way through his grief. The man’s eyes were red-rimmed and shadowed, but Le Claire had no idea whether he was grieving his wife, his best friend or the loss of that relationship through Drew Portland’s actions. The question was, had anger at this most cutting of betrayals caused him to commit murder? He was still high on Le Claire’s list. Frobisher’s expression didn’t change as he gestured for them to come aboard. Le Claire stayed where he was, feet firmly planted on terra firma, and motioned for Dewar to do the same.
Blood On The Rock: Treachery, desire, jealousy and murder (A Jack Le Claire Mystery) Page 23