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

by Kelly Clayton

  “Yes, fine. Let’s get on with this.”

  She drew back a little, an involuntary reaction to his closed-off reply. He ignored this as he had neither the time nor the energy to pander to anyone today and headed into the stark room.

  Ali was hunched over the table; head bent as she toyed with the cord tie of her sweatshirt. A half-empty bottle of water sat on the table in front of her. She looked up, her eyes wide and darting between them.

  They sat across from her, and Le Claire motioned for Dewar to begin.

  “We understand you wanted to speak to us. Perhaps you could give us your full name?”

  “Ali Durrant.”

  “And what can we help you with? You told the duty officer it was regarding Ian Portland?”

  “Yes, when Ian was released yesterday he said he is being accused of people smuggling . . .”

  Le Claire stayed silent. They hadn’t charged the Portlands with anything as yet. Dewar simply smiled, and Ali spoke into the silence.

  “. . . and that you believe he could have killed his brother. You say he has no alibi and could have been the person who delivered wine and watched Drew die. It isn’t true.”

  Le Claire knew what would be coming next, and he sat a little straighter in his seat.

  Dewar asked, “And how do you know that?”

  “Ian was with me. All evening and all night. He wasn’t out of my sight from the moment I finished work. He couldn’t have gone to the marina. I clean boats for extra money; Drew’s was one of them. I was there the night he died. He was okay when I left, although he had been sick when I arrived.”

  Ah, so she was the girl they saw on the CCTV. “Are you romantically involved with Ian?”

  “Yes, we live together.”

  “You mentioned people smuggling, and we are looking into Ian’s involvement. Do you have anything to tell us that could help him?”

  “Yes, Ian didn’t have anything to do with it. It was his brother, Drew, and Peter Frobisher.”

  “And how do you know that? Do you have any proof?”

  “Yes, I am the proof. Drew Portland and Peter Frobisher picked me up on the French Coast and were to deliver me to Kent in England. I have new papers and everything. I am Syrian, and my father paid virtually all the money he possessed to get me to safety. I am now Ali Durrant, but I was born Alia Farisi. I don’t care what you do to me, but Ian had no part in this.”

  #

  Le Claire had sent Masters and Hunter to bring in Peter Frobisher. They’d only been gone half an hour when the call came in. “Masters here, we’ve got him. The cocky so and so is waiting for you in interview.”

  Frobisher was leaning back in a chair; arms crossed and a smirk on his face that carried over into a confident voice. “Thank you for having me, Detective, but whatever it is you’re thinking of pinning on me won’t stick.”

  “We’ll see. Now about our little chat yesterday. You said you didn’t know Fran Zhougrabai. Is that still what you maintain?”

  “Of course I do, never met the woman.”

  “Right, we’ll get back to that in a moment. I take it you still deny you had anything to do with illicitly carrying passengers between France and the UK?”

  “I told you. I don’t know what Drew was up to. I didn’t know he was sleeping with my wife, and I did not have any idea he was involved with anything illegal.”

  He sat there with a smug look on his face, voice dripping with arrogance, and Le Claire wanted to punch him. He was wound tight today and knew he probably shouldn’t have come in this morning—in an ideal world, that is, for you can’t take a day off for personal reasons when there’s a murderer on the loose. Or those who break international people-trafficking laws. A knock on the door preceded Dewar. Her face was set, emotionless, but her eyes were alight. She handed him a piece of paper. “You’ll want to read this.” She smiled and sat beside him.

  Le Claire took in the words and folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket. “What about Ali Durrant? You know her, don’t you?”

  “She works for the Portlands, doesn’t she?” He looked unconcerned and sounded uninterested.

  “Yes, you know her better than that, don’t you. You brought her to Jersey, didn’t you?”

  “I assume she got off the ferry like everyone else, or do all the newcomers arrive by plane these days? Anyway, what makes you think I know her?”

  “I was told it.”

  “Who by?”

  “By Alia Farisi aka Ali Durrant.”

  Portland paled. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Afraid not. She said she paid £3,000 to an agency that promised to get her out of Syria and into the UK with a new identity and the documents to back it up. And she met you and Drew Portland. But she got ill, didn’t she? And you didn’t know what to do. Drew took her to his mother, who looked after her. She met Ian Portland, and the rest, as they say, is history.”

  “The stupid cow!” The words exploded from him, and he flew out of his chair. “Why would she do that? All she had to do was keep her mouth shut. She’s put herself in danger. Drew said it was a bloody mistake for her to stay here, but his little brother was thinking with his dick.”

  Dewar didn’t even flinch. He guessed she’d heard worse. Her voice was calm and even. “Sit down, Mr Frobisher. I guess Miss Farisi did it for love and to ensure we knew Ian Portland had nothing to do with it.”

  Le Claire thought of the note Dewar had passed him. “We also found a notebook on Drew’s boat. It was in code, but one of my brightest, armed with a few key factors from this case, broke the code. It details the smuggled person’s original name, their assumed name, how much was paid to Portland and how much to you. It was devilishly simple. The original letters were substituted with those two places ahead in the alphabet. The numerical amounts stayed the same. Your guilt is written in a dead man’s hand.”

  Peter Frobisher covered his face with his hands as he muttered and cursed, much good it would do him.

  “You’re under arrest for the illegal trafficking of Alia Farisi and Fran Zhougrabai and persons yet to be determined. We’ll have someone come in soon to complete the formalities. What happened to Fran? Did you harm her?”

  Frobisher paled. “No, I swear I didn’t”

  “We’ve already seen you’re capable of one criminal act. What about yet another? Did you kill Drew? He was sleeping with your wife; that must’ve hurt. A man you trusted, called your friend, and he was betraying you in the worst possible way?”

  “Of course it hurts, but I didn’t know about the affair before Drew died. I didn’t kill him. You have to believe me.”

  “You’ve already lied to us, so your reliability isn’t exactly rating high with us. We’ll talk later, but I urge you to tell the truth before I ferret it out.”

  They left Peter Frobisher protesting his innocence of murder. Time would tell if that was yet another lie.

  #

  Louise Portland’s morning had to rank as one of the worst she’d ever spent. She’d woken groggy and heavy-headed from the painkillers she popped like sweets, and the fog surrounding her mental faculties had taken an age to lift. Thankfully, it had as she had an appointment to keep.

  The accountant was a wiry man in his fifties. Louise had only met him once before and hadn’t expected to be seeing him again so soon. “I was surprised to receive your call. I thought the valuation of the business would take much longer.”

  “It will, but something urgent came up.”

  “And what is that?”

  “The turnover is good, steady and on point for the market, but your operating expenses are massive.”

  “Well, yes, everything costs so much now.”

  “Not this much. You are paying between three and ten times the going rate for everything from fresh produce to wines and spirits.”

  “Oh right, well that doesn’t sound like good management, but it’s hardly a crime.”

  “All of the suppliers are based in the British Virgin Isl
ands. Your Italian olive oil, French duck and Spanish olives are all supplied by a company registered in Tortola. This company, and several others like it, all invoice Ginelli’s for an array of goods. Not one of these them has an online profile, no web page, and if you Google the names, the only hit is the registered office address; it’s the same address every time and belongs to a corporate service provider who typically manages thousands of companies.”

  “What are you saying?.”

  “I’m going to be blunt. Either someone in your business is completely incompetent and being swindled, or someone is embezzling funds.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Louise had got rid of the valuer, who hadn’t valued anything yet but had given her a nightmare and driven into town. Ginelli’s was still quiet. A few residents and guests were having late morning coffee, but the lunchtime crowd wouldn’t be there for an hour or so yet, which gave her pause. The place was always busy. Why hadn’t she questioned the falling profits? The devil on her shoulder told her it was because, even with a drop in profits, she had still had enough to live well and enjoy her life.

  She smiled a vague hello to the receptionist and headed to the office area where they dealt with reservations and accounts. The team was relatively new as there had been a bit of turnover in staff these last years. Had that been deliberate?

  “Barbara, you pay the suppliers, don’t you?”

  A part-timer with four children under the age of ten, Barbara was a steady worker who kept her head down. She blushed, and Louise assumed she was a little overwhelmed at the overall boss speaking to her. Louise didn’t usually deal with the staff; yet another task she had left to Justin. The woman’s voice was low, and Louise had to lean in to hear her correctly. “Yes, is there something I can do for you?”

  “I have a couple of questions, but I see Justin isn’t around?” Louise knew he had the day off, which was inconvenient, but she’d chat with him later. “I see we only have a couple of suppliers. I recall we used to have a multitude of different firms we worked with.”

  “I don’t know about that, but I know we use a couple of organisations. It’s because we get better prices by giving them more business.”

  Apparently not. “Okay. What do we know about these people?”

  “I don’t know. Justin deals with them.”

  Louise thanked her and went to the kitchens and tracked down the head chef. He was busy shouting orders, tasting sauces and controlling his ship. Louise pulled him to the side, much to his displeasure if his dark frown was anything to go by. “Do you order the supplies direct?”

  He looked annoyed. “Of course I do. I choose the best produce for these kitchens.”

  “So you liaise with the suppliers?”

  He laughed as he gestured at the organised chaos of his busy kitchen. “I’ve no time for that. I just decide what I want and where from.”

  “Who deals with the orders, then?”

  “I don’t know. Someone in the office. I tell Justin what I need, and it appears. That’s how I like to do things.” A loud expletive cracked through the air, and his head spun to the source. “Sorry, look at those bloody little cakes. Burnt to a cinder. Someone’s balls will roll for that.” And off he went.

  Louise heard a mental click as the puzzle pieces slotted into place. She ran to her office as fast as she could, hampered as she was by a weak body and a heavy heart. She rooted through her desk for the message she had received from the reception desk the day before. She had seen returning the call as an inconvenience; now it was a necessity.

  #

  Le Claire raised his voice. “Gather round, guys, we need a quick update.”

  Chairs were shuffled and scraped against the floor as the group moved closer together. “Right, we’ve got Peter Frobisher in the cells under suspicion of people trafficking, which was the real nature of the business he carried out with Drew Portland. We’ve also spoken to Alia Farisi, who is the girl who works at Portland Fisheries. She has admitted to being in Jersey illegally and travelling on false papers as Ali Durrant. She’s the one who collared Frobisher and Portland as the people smugglers.”

  Hunter spoke, “What about the woman on the beach? What happened to her?”

  “According to Frobisher, it was just a terrible accident. The seas were wild and the fog heavy. He was struggling with the craft, and when everything had quietened down, the woman was gone. Frobisher’s sister was crewing for him, and she told him that one minute the woman was there, the next she was swept overboard.”

  “What about the murder of Drew Portland? Is he still in the frame for that?”

  “Yes, and we need to go at him hard. If he has anything to hide, I want it all out.”

  He looked at the team. “We’ve no reason to believe Ian and Oliver Portland were involved in transporting immigrants. Whether they are simply buying contraband goods, like the wine, or are the suppliers, is for Customs to investigate. Alia Farisi is giving Ian Portland an alibi for the night of his brother’s death, and if his family is telling the truth, Oliver Portland was on a sailing trip. That means neither could have been the figure we saw on CCTV delivering the wine to Portland’s boat.”

  Dewar said, “What about an accomplice?”

  “Yes, that’s possible. What we have to consider is the removal of Fran Zhougrabai from the list of victims. She died as a result of an accident, tragic though it was. That leaves Drew Portland and Cathy Frobisher as the two victims, and, as is usual, their deaths will probably be down to either sex or money.”

  Dewar concurred. “Imagine this, Peter Frobisher discovers his best friend is sleeping with his estranged wife—in fact, his friend may even have been the cause of his marriage breakdown. He plots to kill him in a way where the obvious suspect would be Louise Portland with her knowledge of poisonous plants and fungi. Then he finds out his wife is pregnant with Drew Portland’s child. He arranges to meet her somewhere out of the way, and, in a rage at this further betrayal, he savagely beats her to death.”

  There was complete silence for a moment, and then Le Claire nodded. “Yep, that could work, except we have no proof at all. But it’s a definite possibility. And there’s the money angle. We can rule out the Portland brothers or at least put them way down the list. Louise Portland knew she had a potentially terminal illness. If she died first, hubby kept the shares in the business. She kills him, using the poisoned wine. The shares will revert back to her.”

  Hunter piped up. “And then she finds out Cathy Frobisher is pregnant, and her husband’s estate could be held up, and gets rid of her.”

  Le Claire said, “Exactly, but highly unlikely for two reasons. Would she be stupid enough to kill her husband using a method that so clearly incriminates her, and secondly, she is as weak-looking as a sparrow. Would she have had the strength to kill Cathy Frobisher in such a physical way? I doubt it. Also, the shares in Ginelli’s weren’t part of Drew’s estate. They reverted to Louise. If she killed Cathy, it was for a reason other than getting the shares back.”

  Dewar said, “We have Sophie Ginelli. No love lost between her and Drew Portland. She was due to receive fifty percent of the shares held by her stepmother in a few weeks. But Louise had gifted some to her husband and Sophie wouldn’t have known they would automatically return to her stepmother. Sophie could have killed Drew so the shares would revert to Louise. And murdered Cathy Frobisher to make sure there was no delay in the estate going to probate or the shares left in limbo.”

  Masters looked at Le Claire. “Could be. What’s your take on Justin Le Mahe?”

  “Ah, the redoubtable hotel manager. He had been Tony Ginelli’s protégée and was the son of Ginelli’s ex-business partner, so there was always going to be tension with the second husband.”

  His mobile rang, and he quickly checked in case it was Sasha. It was the station switchboard. They had a call for him.

  “Mrs Portland, what can I do for you?”

  He listened carefully. “We’ll meet you there.”
He turned to Dewar. “Come on. We’re going to the marina.”

  #

  Sophie held on tight as the motorboat crashed through the waves; the wind whipped her hair in front of her face, and her laugh was one of sheer exhilaration. She called out a laughing plea. “Whoa, Justin, slow down.”

  He smiled back at her from where he sat at the wheel. This was certainly a party boat with padded leather bench seats that ran around the sides and back of the boat, with several chairs anchored to the deck. Justin had surprised Sophie with a picnic and suggested they do an island trip. His boat was built for pleasure, and they’d circled the island, peeking into bays and past the towering cliffs, all reminding Sophie of her connection to this place. The whooping gulls swept above them, coming ever closer on their never-ending quest for food.

  She thought of Louise and what she hadn’t yet discussed with Justin. “Did you know Louise isn’t well?”

  “Yeah, she told me a while back. I’m sorry I haven’t said anything before. I was going to call Louise and ask if I could talk to you about it. It wasn’t my secret to tell.”

  “No worries. It sounds pretty serious, doesn’t it?”

  He slowed the boat until it gently rolled across the waves. They were far from the shore, so he didn’t have to focus his full attention on where they were headed. “Afraid so. Louise said the outlook isn’t great and there is no established cure.”

  Sophie shivered, even though the breeze was warm. “Tom is on the case, and he has some leads that could prove more positive.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Yeah, so fingers crossed there may be a chance of some treatment that could stop this being the worst type of prognosis.” Thoughts of Louise made her remember what else they had discussed. “Sorry, I completely forgot to mention it, but Louise said she is going to get the business valued to allow us to make an informed decision about whether we want to keep it or sell up. I guess she is planning for the worst-case scenario if something happens to her.”

  “That’s ridiculous. If everything works out with us, if you decide to come home, we’ll run Ginelli’s together. That’s what your dad would have wanted. She’ll need to get the books from me, so I’ll tell her not to bother.”