As they turned to leave, Viera called, “Hey, Dewar, did you have a good time last night?”
“What? Oh, err, yes, thanks.”
Dewar had coloured, a fiery blush that stained her cheeks. Le Claire held his tongue until they were back in the main hallway. “What was that all about?”
“It was nothing.”
“It didn’t look like that. When Viera spoke, you coloured up like a fire engine. You two got a thing?”
Dewar looked embarrassed. “Absolutely not, no way. Nope. We just bumped into each other last night at a bar.”
In time-honoured fashion, Le Claire suspected the lady protested far too much. Viera was built like the rugby player he was, and the surreptitious looks thrown his way by the females – and some of the males – at the station made Le Claire think he had more than his fair share of admirers.
“You know what they say. Don’t mix business and pleasure. It only ever leads to trouble.”
If anything, Dewar was even redder and looked decidedly uncomfortable.
She shook her head. “Nothing to talk about at all.”
He thought she sounded a little disappointed, but he didn’t have the time or the inclination to think about that right now.
#
Lady Mallory was typical of women of a certain age and class. Her neatly cut brown hair was held back by a thin velvet band. Her figure was trim and spare, and she was pale beneath her carefully applied makeup.
Dressed in slacks and an open-neck shirt, the only visible sign of her distress were her red-rimmed eyes and the way she sat hunched over on the sofa, clutching the hand of a pretty brunette who looked to be in her early twenties.
Once Le Claire had introduced himself and Dewar, the younger woman gestured for them to sit. “I’m Louise Mallory. Grandma’s a bit upset – we both are – but, well, I guess I’m more shocked than anything else. Yes, shocked.” Her voice tailed away, and Le Claire saw the bewilderment in her eyes.
He addressed the older woman. “I am very sorry for your loss. Can you tell me what happened?” His voice was gentle. He could see she was in deep shock, and he didn’t want to upset her any further.
“Hugh was in the studio. He loves to paint, you know. I usually leave him be in the mornings. I was just popping in to say I’d see him later as I was going to do some shopping in town with Louise. I knocked, but there was no answer, so I just went in, and, oh God, he was just lying there. I didn’t know what to do. I can see it was foolish now, but I called his name, asked him what was going on. What a stupid woman I am. I screamed, I guess. Louise was waiting for me in the hall and came in. She dealt with everything.”
“Hush, Grandma, there is no need to say anything else.” She placed a comforting arm around the older woman, who looked completely worn out. “I called for an ambulance. They arrived and so did the police.”
“I know this is indelicate, but do either of you know why Sir Hugh would take his own life? Did he leave a note?”
“No. My grandfather had a good life; he was very well respected in the community. He had no reason, none at all to do this. I can only assume that he may have been ill and thought, in a blind moment, this was his only option. They say, don’t they, that suicides often have a split second where everything seems so dark there is no alternative?”
“And was your husband ill, Lady Mallory?”
Before she could speak, Louise Mallory butted in. “My grandfather would not have wanted to distress my grandmother. It would be just like him to try and conceal something like that.”
“So you don’t know if he was ill? It doesn’t matter. We’ll be speaking with his doctor. If you’re up to it, we’ll take down some details.”
As they climbed back into the car, Le Claire looked around at the magnificent fort. “A long and distinguished life and all he’ll be remembered as is a guy who committed suicide. Have a chat with his doctor, but I think we can close the file on this quickly.”
#
The Hampton Bars was a comfortable pub and diner, popular with the young and also the not-so-youthful. The food was cheap, the drink not overpriced and the surroundings more congenial than the bedsits and shared flats a lot of people lived in.
Daria had commandeered a velvet-covered booth, and they’d eaten steaming plates of mussels with a creamy sauce and sipped ice-cold white wine.
“How long have you been in Jersey, Daria? I don’t think you’ve ever told me how you ended up here.”
“Same as a lot of people, I guess. A friend was working here, and I came to join her for a summer season, just over six years ago. I got a job in a hotel, mainly reception work. Once I’d done my five years, I moved from hospitality into the employment agency.”
“Did you suggest the agency start bringing in girls from Poland?”
“Sure, and Romania as well and farther across Europe. There are loads of jobs here for au pairs and nannies and even in shops and financial services. If you don’t have five years’ residence, you can still get a job somewhere that has a spare licence to recruit non-locals. Well, that’s how you got the job with Mr Le Claire’s business.”
“Yeah, I was lucky there. Pity the accommodation can be so crappy for the unqualified. As soon as I get some money saved up for a decent deposit, I’m going to try and find something better.”
Daria looked puzzled. “But your mum was born here; doesn’t that mean you get your qualifications earlier than ten years?”
“Afraid not. I spoke to Housing, and everyone, even those born in the island, need to do ten years’ residence before they are residentially qualified. There are no shortcuts just because Mum was a Jersey girl.”
Daria sipped her wine, her eyes shadowed by lowered lids. “I am sorry about your cousin. You were close, weren’t you?”
“Yes, I came here thinking I’d have a chance to be part of a family again. Things haven’t worked out with my aunt, but Scott was amazing. He welcomed me, and we became close. The funeral is tomorrow, and I’m dreading it.”
Daria went to speak and then shut her mouth as she looked straight past Ana, who recognised the flirtatious look in her friend’s eye. Ana sighed. No doubt Daria would get chatted up, and she’d be the usual wallflower. The next words told her how wrong she was. “Ana, what a surprise to see you here.”
She recognised the voice, and her heart stuttered in her chest. She could feel her cheeks burn as she turned round. “Hi, Ben. Yes, this is a surprise.” She wanted to kick herself and mentally rolled her eyes as she berated her gaucheness.
He glanced at Daria before turning back to Ana. “You girls out for a quiet drink?”
“Yes, and a bite to eat. This is my friend, Daria. Daria, this is Ben.”
Daria’s smile was sly. “Ah, Ben and I go back a bit. I know him well. How is Danny?”
Ana felt Ben stiffen beside her, and his voice had an edge to it. “He’s fine. How do you know Ana?”
“Ana and I met through the agency. She is friends with Irena. You remember her, don’t you?”
Ana turned to Ben in expectation. How did he know Irena? Then again, this island was pretty incestuous at times, the usual six degrees of separation was more like three in Jersey.
“Vaguely. I’m here with friends and better get back to them.” He turned to Ana; his gaze was direct and unwavering, and she held his eyes, didn’t back down from the look of admiration that probably matched her own. “Ana, I’ll give you that call, huh?”
“Sure, that would be good.”
He reached out, and his hand skimmed over hers. The touch was fleeting, but the sensation lingered long afterwards.
#
Laura had been waiting to be contacted since Sunday morning, but no one had called. Or at least not who she’d been expecting.
The phone had rung once. It was a colleague of Scott’s; the office sent their condolences. That had amused Laura. He hadn’t been aware of it in himself, but there was an arrogance abo
ut Scott, he gave off a sniff of superiority. He was shy and sometimes awkward and countered with an attitude that made him seem distant and mocking. People didn’t see though the mask; who had the time to understand a colleague’s psyche? Instead, they saw a man, not yet thirty, who acted as if he knew everything and needed no one. But he’d needed Laura. What started out as a casual arrangement had grown into much more. He’d wanted to marry her, look after her, and she’d capitulated. He’d said the past wasn’t important.
She’d said they should wait, see what happened, but he’d been impatient, had wanted everything cleared up. He said he needed to know they were safe. That was immaterial now.
The phone call still hadn’t come. Tomorrow was Scott’s funeral, and she wasn’t sure she could stand the not knowing any longer. Her hand hovered over the phone. She pulled it away. Not the landline. Best to be safe. She moved to the bedroom, found her suitcase and rummaged around until she found her phone – her private phone. There were no records of incoming or outgoing calls, no monthly contract where your information could be passed over. She’d got into the habit of using these phones a long time ago and wasn’t going to give up now.
She dialled from memory. She hadn’t called it in a while, but it was funny how some numbers, seemingly forgotten, tumbled back when you thought of whom they belonged to. She shivered, hoping she was doing the right thing.
The ringtone sounded one, two, three times and was answered on the fourth with a simple “Hello,” the voice unmistakable.
Her mouth felt dry. “It’s me.”
This was answered by a growl of impatience. “Why the hell are you calling me? You better not be on a traceable line.”
“I’m not that stupid.”
He was apparently mollified, for his tone was less aggressive. “Good, what do you want?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I thought someone might have called. Let me know what’s going on. What have the police said? Have they spoken to you?”
His voice had regained its usual smoothness. “I assume they’ve spoken to lots of people.”
Impatience rose. She wasn’t in the mood for games. “Do they know what happened?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play with me. Do they know?”
His laugh was mocking. “I don’t know what the police know. However, I am sure they’ll ferret out what is relevant to their case and even perhaps some secrets that aren’t.”
“You’ve always been a cocky swine.”
His voice was serious. “I’m winding you up. You just keep your mouth shut and don’t act guilty. I mean, you’ve got nothing to worry about. You’ve never broken the law, have you?”
“Did you threaten him? Is this down to you?”
His laugh was vicious. It was obvious he still bore a grudge. “Just keep quiet and act the grieving girlfriend. And don’t call me again.”
The line went dead. She threw the phone down beside her and covered her face with her hands. Fat, hot tears fell as she wept, mostly for Scott Hamlyn, and a little for herself.
Chapter Twelve
Le Claire and Dewar stood at the back of the church as Scott Hamlyn was laid to rest. Sarah and Charles Hamlyn occupied the front pew on the left side; an uncomfortable-looking Ana perched next to her uncle as his wife stared straight ahead. Laura Brown sat in isolation on the right side pew. Behind the Hamlyns sat several older couples – relatives or family friends, he supposed. There was a scattering of younger people. Le Claire caught a few of them checking their watches; one even seemed to be reading through phone messages or email. Work colleagues perhaps, with the obligatory showing of face; for some it would be skiving off work for a few hours with an excuse no one could complain about.
Le Claire was drawn from his musings by an elbow being poked into his side. Dewar. She caught his gaze and flicked her eyes to the other side of the room a few pews back. Some of the work colleague types sat there, and Le Claire recognised one immediately: Paul Armstrong. They had met the lawyer on a recent case when his client, and long-term friend, was murdered. That had only been the start of a killing spree built on greed.
As the choir voices faded and the last chords of “Jerusalem” floated on the air, the pallbearers stepped forward, and the coffin of Scott Hamlyn was borne aloft and carried outside in a sombre procession. A private burial was to follow.
Charles and Sarah Hamlyn stood just inside the church doors in a receiving line with Ana and two of the older couples. Laura Brown wasn’t present.
Le Claire gently shook Charles Hamlyn’s hand and then clasped that of his wife. “Please accept our condolences.”
“Thank you for coming.” They spoke in unison, their voices robotic and faces unsmiling. Sarah Hamlyn’s eyes were slightly unfocussed, and Le Claire could almost hear her scream, How did this happen? Why? Le Claire silently promised that he would find out what had happened. Small comfort to Sarah Hamlyn, but he would make sure her son’s murderer was caught and punished.
He nodded at Ana and made to move out the doors and then turned back. “I see Miss Brown has gone. Could she not face the receiving line?”
Sarah Hamlyn’s face distorted with distaste, her nostrils flared and fire lit her eyes. “My boy would still be alive if it wasn’t for that woman. And she isn’t in the receiving line because she has no place here.”
“Sarah!” Her husband’s voice was shocked, but he laid a gentle, consoling hand on her arm.
“Don’t,” she snapped as she shrugged him away. “Detective, I am sure you are doing what you can to find out who did this. But you need to look at Laura Brown; there is something off about her.”
“We are looking at everyone connected to your son, everyone. But what do you mean about Miss Brown?”
Her sigh was audible as her shoulders sank. “Nothing, I meant nothing.”
Le Claire realised there was no use pressing her, especially on this of all days. He and Dewar made their way toward the high, arched doors. The thick granite walls of the church made the inside cool, dark and hushed; the only light came from the beams that illuminated the stained-glass windows, sending prisms of light creeping along the stone-flagged floors, undulating over the grooves worn from centuries of penitent feet, or at the least, well-shod Sunday churchgoers.
As they exited, the sun was blinding, and Le Claire raised a hand to shield his eyes. Once he grew accustomed to the light, he saw a lone figure standing by the small alms gate. As he walked up to her, she hastily wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. He couldn’t help but think that grief suited Laura Brown. Her eyes were moist, lending her a vulnerable air, but her makeup was intact.
“Are you all right? Could you not face the receiving line?” He didn’t reveal that he knew she wouldn’t have been welcomed by the Hamlyns. He wanted to know what she thought.
Her laugh was brittle and sharp. “Scott’s mother would have had a fit. I’m just waiting for my taxi, and then I’m out of here. I better go. That looks like my cab.”
His eyes followed her as she walked up the stone pathway that led to the road. Le Claire was heading to where Dewar waited when a familiar voice rang out, “Miss Brown, wait, please wait.”
Paul Armstrong hurried toward Laura Brown, who was about to get into the waiting taxi. Heads bent, they conversed for a few moments. She was shaking her head; Armstrong looked like he was pressing her to come with him. Laura Brown seemed to droop in defeat, and she stepped aside as Armstrong searched through his pockets and, pulling out some notes, paid the taxi driver and led her to his own car. Now what was that about?
#
Le Claire had been staring at his virtually blank personal case board since they had returned to the station. It contained a picture of Scott Hamlyn, together with a random scattering of names and comments, including Laura Brown, the Hamlyns, Aidan Gillespie, the manor and £20,000 in cash. A copy of the guest list for the party was tacked to one side. With a sigh, he returned to
his computer screen. Each of the officers on the team regularly loaded their reports onto the electronic case file. All information, no matter how small or insignificant it may seem.
He was jerked out of his reverie by his phone ringing; it was the emergency operator.
“A call has come in. They asked specifically for you, sir. It’s a Paul Armstrong at the Somerset Hotel. There’s been an incident. I’ll send some uniforms down there.”
He sat upright in his chair, all alert. The Somerset was where Scott Hamlyn’s wake was being held. “Yes, get someone down there and put the call through to me.”
There was a dull tone, a click and then the line was opened. “Mr Armstrong, what can I do for you? I hear there’s been an incident?”
The lawyer’s voice was tense. “Yes, you could say that. There has been a bit of a rumpus between Sarah Hamlyn and Laura Brown, Scott’s girlfriend. I saw you at the church, and Sarah said that you’ve been asking questions. I know you can’t say anything, but if you’re involved, I’m assuming that Scott didn’t voluntarily end up in that pool. If you are investigating his death, then I think you should get down here.”
“Fine, I’m on my way.”
Le Claire grabbed his jacket and swung by Dewar’s desk to collect her. What the hell was happening?
#
PC Hunter was standing ramrod straight outside double doors that lay halfway along the long corridor. His stiff shoulders visibly relaxed when he saw Le Claire.
“What’s up, Hunter?”
“I think it better if Mr Armstrong explains, sir. He’s waiting just inside the door.”
Hunter knocked three sharp taps, and the door opened immediately, wide enough for Armstrong to just squeeze through.
He briefly smiled at Le Claire, who didn’t bother smiling in return. He assumed there was nothing to smile about; why else would they be here? “Mr Armstrong, tell me what happened.”
“Sarah Hamlyn and Laura Brown had an altercation. I guess you’d call it a fight.” He removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was a man who carried a bit more weight than he should, but he must be in his mid-fifties and, with his carefully styled grey hair, had the look of money from his deep yachting tan to his impeccably tailored suits. However, at the moment he was looking a little crumpled. He reached into the inside pocket of his suit and drew out a spotted handkerchief that he used to wipe his brow.
Blood Ties: Obsession, secrets, desire and murder (A Jack Le Claire Mystery) Page 8