“I have a couple of questions.”
Frobisher sighed. “Always questions, but who ever has the answers?”
So he was in a philosophical mood. “I don’t know about that, I’m afraid. It’s relatively easy in my line of work, you’re either guilty, or you’re not. The question is, which are you?”
“What are you talking about?”
Le Claire pulled out his phone and scrolled to the image he had downloaded, showed it to Frobisher. “I asked you once before, but are you sure you have never seen this woman?” It was Fran Zhougrabai’s passport photograph.
“No, afraid not. Who is she?”
“Have you not heard about her on the news? This picture has been flashed everywhere.”
“I don’t watch TV.”
Dewar spoke, “This woman’s body washed ashore in the north of the island. We believe she was being smuggled into the UK from Syria, via France. What do you know about that?”
“What the hell are you talking about? Nothing, of course.”
“The body had a waterproof bag taped to the torso. It held a phone. A phone that only called one number: Drew Portland’s.”
“How did she know Drew?”
“I am assuming—you know, wild guess here—that Drew Portland and C.I. Charters was the means by which she was going to enter the UK illegally.”
Frobisher finally realised what was being said and drew back. “Hey, don’t try and involve me in this. If Drew was up to no good, then that was down to him. The bastard was screwing my wife, so I’d not put anything past him.”
“So you’re saying you had no knowledge or involvement in illegally transporting this woman, or any other persons, from France to the UK?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“Very well. We’d like to check out this boat’s logs. We’ll radio for someone to come down.”
He shook his head. “Fine, do whatever, but I have an appointment and need to leave here soon.”
“Thanks, we’ll get someone here straightaway.”
As they headed back to the car, Dewar muttered, “He’s a bit of a cool customer. Do you think he’s involved?”
“Frobisher sounded plausible enough, but if there’s a secret, and only two of you know it, and one is dead—well, it’s the best-kept secret ever.”
#
The handles of the heavy plastic shopping bags were cutting into Diane’s hands. She’d got the bus that morning and left the car at home. She’d intended going out but in the end, couldn’t face it. She was sure Pete hadn’t meant what he said, but maybe she should give him some space for a while. After all, she was playing a long game. She’d been calling him, but there had been no answer.
After a day of currying favour with the customers in her shop, she fancied a quiet night in front of the telly. Her stomach was aching, and she regretted the prawn sandwich she’d had at lunchtime. It had tasted a little bit funny, but she’d been hungry, and in a rush, so she’d gobbled it all down. She’d popped into the deli for some quiche and salad bits and came out with wine and water as well. The bottles were a stupid decision and too heavy to carry all the way to the bus stop. She stopped by the kerb, watching for a gap in the traffic when she saw the car. It was parked up, and he was on his mobile. The call had finished by the time she was knocking on the driver’s window.
“Hey, can you give me a lift home? My bus doesn’t leave for ages, and my shopping is too heavy.”
She smiled in what she hoped was a winning manner, but he simply gazed at her with a cool look. She was not going to let him intimidate her. After what seemed like an age, he rolled the window down and said, “Sure, hop in. You can put your shopping on the backseat.”
She did as directed and settled herself into the car. He didn’t say a word as she clicked her seatbelt into place. He fired up the engine and headed in the direction of Vallée de Vaux. She couldn’t think what to say, so pulled her sunglasses off and peered at the smears. “No wonder I had trouble seeing out of these earlier.” She rummaged in her handbag, but she didn’t have a cleaning cloth and no tissues either. “You got something I can clean these with?”
He scowled, shrugged and said, “I might have something. I’ll have a look when we stop.”
“Don’t worry. I can do it.”
She flipped open the storage compartment that lay between the front seats.
His hand slammed down on top of hers, and he rammed the lid shut. “Christ, I said I’ll find you something. Just leave it.”
“Okay, sorry.” She sat for a moment, not daring to breathe. She had barely opened the container; he’d closed the lid within seconds. But she’d seen it. She had to be wrong. She just had to be. But she knew she wasn’t. It was exactly as they’d described on the news. She’d caught a glimpse of a silver phone case, tiny red diamantes spelling out the initials C.F., Cathy Frobisher.
Tramlines of jumbled thoughts crisscrossed through her mind and crowded her senses. It all made sense. She had to get out of this car. Now.
The silence had a palpable weight, and her head was spinning, yet she had to speak. Had to get the words out. “This must be taking you right out of your way. Why don’t you drop me off at the bus stop, and I’ll walk from there. It isn’t far.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. You’re still in the cottage past the old stream, aren’t you?”
“Yes, thank you.”
There was no point in lying. She thought of her phone. It was in a zipped pocket of her bag. Could she reach it? She grabbed the strap and pulled the bag closer to her feet. The damned thing was big and heavy, so she’d have to hoist it up, and he’d see her. She looked out the window. They were almost at her place. She had to hold it together until she was out of the car and behind her closed door.
The air in the car was heavy and suffocating. Had it been that way the whole journey or since she found out she was probably sitting next to a murderer? They drew into the small lane she lived on, and the car had barely stopped before she jumped out and leant in to get her bags out of the back. She clutched at the plastic bags, putting her weight onto her heels, pulled back, but the bags were jammed. She tugged again. Nothing. Her mind raced. She heard the car door close and realised the engine had been switched off. Her hands were clammy, her heart pounded, and there was an overwhelming roar in her ears. His voice was pleasant.
“Here, let me help you.”
He was behind her, his body leaning against hers as he reached past her and grabbed the bags. She held on tight, unable to move. He tugged hard, and she let go. He swept the bags past her and stepped away, allowing her to straighten and turn around. His voice was smooth as he handed over the shopping bags. “Here you go. See you around.”
“Thanks, see you.” The tension fled. What a fool she was. She was seeing things. Who knew what he had in his car, but it couldn’t be anything as far-fetched as a dead woman’s phone. She’d known him a long time. How could she have thought, even for a moment, that he was a killer?
Her smile wobbled as she rummaged for her keys. She unlocked her door, walked in and closed the door with an audible sigh of relief. Before the automatic lock engaged, the door flew open, knocking her backwards. She stumbled against the hall table, knocking a glass vase to the floor, which shattered into tiny pieces.
He came in and slammed the door behind him. She didn’t know what was more frightening—the calm smile on his face or the fact that his hands were now covered in leather gloves.
“Careful there, you don’t want to fall and hurt yourself. I remembered I forgot to ask you what made you act so strangely in the car?”
“I don’t know what you mean. I’m okay; nothing is wrong.” She hated the tremor in her voice.
“Oh, I thought it was because you saw Cathy’s phone in my console.”
She was rooted, frozen. Her eyes instinctively flicked to the side, locked on the landline handset. If only she could reach it; press 999 and run. She pushed her weight onto her ri
ght foot and slowly swayed towards the phone.
He laughed. “Whoa, steady girl, you’ll never make it in time. If you go for the phone, I’ve got nothing left to lose, and I’ll snap your neck like a twig.”
She hesitated, then slowly unclenched her fists. At least he wasn’t going to do anything to her now.
#
The house was in darkness, which was strange as he hadn’t thought Sasha was going out. Call it a sixth sense, a facet of being married or call it love, but even as he opened the front door, he knew she was at home. It was as if even the air particles took on a different aspect when she was near. He found her in the bedroom, sitting with her back against the headboard, the lights out. He could see her outline against the pale duvet cover. She was resting her head on bent knees.
“Where have you been?” Her voice was muted and distant and disconnected from her usual tone when speaking to him.
His ire rose, and he was too tired to dampen it. “I was at work, Sasha. Don’t do this. I’ve got a lot on my plate.”
He flicked the light switch and stilled as he saw her ravaged face, puffed and raw.
“What is it, Sash, what’s wrong? Has something happened?”
“You didn’t answer my calls or return my messages.”
He’d seen the missed calls. She often phoned him to chat during the day, and he seldom had the time to speak. He hadn’t listened to the messages either. “I’m sorry. I was busy.”
His heart stilled as he saw the bleakness in her eyes. “There’s no baby, Jack. It’s gone.” And her sobbing filled the room, almost suffocating him.
“I don’t get it. What do you mean?”
Her reply was a scream. “I mean there is no fucking baby. I’ve had a miscarriage. The baby’s dead. Oh Christ.” The sound she made caused the hairs on his arms to stand on end. It wasn’t crying, at least not like any he had ever heard before. It was an anguished, primitive wail that called out to the gods.
He crossed to the bed, sat beside her and pulled her close. She resisted at first, her body taut and unyielding, but he whispered and soothed. “Hush, darling, it’s okay. We’ll be fine.” She collapsed into his arms, and they clung to each other, adrift in a raging sea of emotions.
They stayed like that for ten, fifteen minutes, perhaps more. As her hitching breath became calmer and even and her crying eased, he stroked her hair and tried to make sense of the emotions flooding through him. He was anxious and needed to hear her voice. “You okay, honey?” His voice surprised him. It was rough, and there was a taint of something blurring his diction and making his words catch.
Her eyes were red-rimmed and blank. “I don’t know how this happened. I just don’t.” Her words were bewildered and her tone desolate.
“What did happen?”
She took a deep breath, steadied herself. “I popped home at lunchtime. I’d forgotten my gym gear, and I was going to yoga after work. There was a letter from the hospital asking if I could call them. Something about needing to do another pregnancy test. I called, and they asked when I could come in. I have to say I was a bit freaked out. You know, worried that something was wrong, so I said I could go at any time. They’d had a cancellation, so I went straight there. The doctor did an ultrasound, and then he told me. Kindly, but direct. He explained I’d had an early miscarriage. No physical sign, no trauma-just a dead baby. They’re very popular, you know.” The last words were slashed with sarcasm. “Only the doctor kept calling it a foetus, not a baby. But it was, it was our baby.” Her voice cracked on the last word and splintered a piece of his heart.
“How did this happen?”
“They don’t have a clue.” Her eyes dropped to the duvet. “I needed you today. Where were you?”
“I am so sorry. I was busy and kept meaning to call you back” The words were inadequate. He had let her down.
“When they told me, I went straight to get a taxi. Left my car at the hospital as there was no way I could have held myself together enough to drive. Mum and Dad are still in Spain, so I went to your parents. I couldn’t think what else to do, but I didn’t want to be alone.”
His shame was a burning lance, piercing through his heart. Yet again he hadn’t been there for Sasha when she needed him. “Can I make you a cup of tea, something to eat?”
She shook her head, her eyes downcast. “No thanks, I’ll lie down for a bit.”
She eased herself out of his arms and curled up on her side of the bed. There were only a few inches of mattress between them, but the depth of separation was an abyss.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Night was giving way to the light of day, but Le Claire had been awake for hours. He’d stared blindly at the ceiling as he held his sobbing wife tight in his arms. Sasha had eventually fallen quiet, the grief that racked her body replaced by numbing slumber. She had to be at the doctor’s for another checkup by 8:30 a.m., and he’d let her sleep a little longer. There was an ache inside him that wouldn’t be soothed. He mourned for the loss of possibility, the absence of the hope a new life brings and, mostly, for this child of his that would now never be born and his heartbroken wife who had seen her dreams smashed. The pregnancy had their hopes rising high, and now they lay dashed, and they would be a little less complete, more changed than they had been a day before. Now they’d have to navigate another reality as they came to terms with their loss.
His phone vibrated and buzzed on the bedside table. He grabbed it and answered as he eased himself away from Sasha. He kept his voice a whisper. “Le Claire.”
“It’s Dewar. There’s been a development.”
He glanced at the clock, its illuminated dial lighting the room. “You do know it’s 6:00 a.m., don’t you?”
“Yes, I got woken up too.”
“Fine, what is it?”
“The girl from Portland Fisheries, Ali, she’s been into the station and asked to speak to us. From what I can make out, she says she can clear Ian Portland of anything and everything by the sounds of it.”
“Fine, let me know what happens. I’ll be in later. You can get me on my mobile.”
“What? She’ll be back at the station by 10:00 a.m. Aren’t you going to speak to her with me? She asked for you.”
“No, I’ve got something to do.” He knew he was abrupt, but he didn’t have the energy for anything else.
Sasha’s hand took the phone from him. “Hi, Emily. Jack will be with you as soon as he can get into town. We have something to deal with, but I can manage on my own. Bye.” She disconnected and handed him the phone.
“I said I’d go with you.”
“I know. But there isn’t any need. They’re only going to check me over.”
“Sash . . .”
She pressed a soft finger against his lips. “Hush, it’s okay. Let’s not make a big deal of this. I can handle it. Go and be my policeman.” Her words were strong, but her gaze was distant.
#
Angela Francey was well and truly fed up. She’d waited for Diane outside the shop for half an hour. Her boss always opened up and didn’t let Angela have her own set of keys. Three regular customers had turned up, and, being ladies of a certain age, wealth and demeanour, they weren’t best pleased to find their favourite boutique wasn’t open. Angela had called repeatedly, but Diane wasn’t answering her calls. There had been no other option. She’d trotted back to the car park and had driven to Diane’s place in ten minutes. She banged on the door a couple of times and, when there was no answer, bent down and peered through the letterbox. She called out, “Anybody home?” The only response was deeper silence.
She stood and muttered, “Where the hell are you?” She rooted around for the spare key. She didn’t know for sure that Diane left a spare lying around, but she was old-fashioned in many ways, and there was a good chance she stashed a key somewhere for emergencies. There was nothing underneath the doormat, the numerous geranium pots or an evil-looking gnome. However, Angela was successful with the ornamental stone cat. The key opened the
front door, and she was in. She hesitated in the doorway and called out, “I’m coming in. You better have your clothes on.”
There was no answer. Her eyes darted around the hall and settled on the broken shards of glass scattered across the tiled floor. Now she was concerned. Diane had been acting odd lately and going out a lot more. She’d had a hangover in the shop more than once. She checked the kitchen and lounge, but there was no sign of anyone. She headed upstairs. The house was filled with an oppressive heat that sucked the breath from her. There was a radiator on the landing at the top of the stairs. She ran her hand across its front. The heating was on full blast.
She’d been to the house before and quickly checked the two en-suite bedrooms. The first was empty, as was the second. Angela was about to walk out, perplexed, when she heard the distinct plop of a dripping tap.
She crossed the pretty bedroom to the bathroom, and it took what seemed like an age but could only have been moments for the fractured images she saw to coalesce into one vivid image. The bath was filled to overflowing. Diane was half-submerged, still and silent.
#
The girl had been placed in one of the smaller interview rooms, and Le Claire had been directed to meet Dewar there. She was waiting in the corridor for him, leaning against the wall as she sent a text message. She straightened when she saw him. “Are you okay?”
He didn’t make full eye contact. He knew his face bore the marks of his pain.
Blood On The Rock: Treachery, desire, jealousy and murder (A Jack Le Claire Mystery) Page 24