Blood Ties: Obsession, secrets, desire and murder (A Jack Le Claire Mystery)

by Kelly Clayton

  David Adamson, reading glasses perched on his nose, looked up and blinked in surprise. “Detective, how can I help you? Is it about Irena?”

  “No. I believe your company manages a property in St Mary called Fairways?”

  “Yes, that is correct. It’s the Blacks’ place. They’re in Greece at the moment. Is something wrong?”

  “The property has apparently been broken into.”

  “Oh Christ, are there damages? Is it a mess?”

  Le Claire remembered the pungent smell of disinfectant that permeated the very air at Fairways. “I think you’ll find it’s probably cleaner than the last time you saw it.”

  Adamson looked puzzled. “Sorry, I don’t follow.”

  “Never mind. When do you check the place?”

  “Every Wednesday.” He took off his glasses and dropped them on the cluttered desk. He rubbed his hand across his forehead. “Oh my God, the Blacks will go mad. I better call them.”

  “We’ve already done that.”

  His mouth dropped open. “Oh no, were they angry?”

  “We couldn’t comment on their feelings. So you don’t know of anyone who had access to the premises apart from you?”

  “Access? I thought it was a break-in?”

  “We’re just covering all angles.”

  The door opened, and the woman came back in. “Everything okay?”

  “Yes, yes. Sorry, this is my wife, Beth. Honey, this is DCI Le Claire.”

  She nodded and turned back to her husband. “What’s happening?”

  “Fairways, the Blacks’ place, it’s been broken into, and they know.”

  She rolled her eyes. “When did you last go there?”

  Le Claire clearly heard the wifely criticism, sharp and accusing in the way only a spouse could get away with. Adamson’s mouth took on a sullen edge as he glared at his wife. “It’s been a tough time. I’ve got no childcare, remember? And you’re usually halfway round the bloody world.”

  Le Claire was swift to pick up the omission. “You didn’t answer your wife’s question, so I’ll ask it again. When were you last at Fairways?”

  His eyes didn’t meet Le Claire’s. “Over a week ago. The Wednesday before last. Everything was fine, as usual. I’ve been busy, and the au pair’s gone, and I just didn’t have time to do everything, so I thought I’d skip a week. I’ll have to call the Blacks. I mean, you said it wasn’t damaged, so no harm done.”

  Le Claire knew how Jersey worked. Nothing was ever kept secret, and it would eventually get out that the house had been broken into, a party held and an orgy had been on the cards. Add in that there had been an attack on a girl – for that wouldn’t stay quiet either – and EDA Properties weren’t going to last long in the field of looking after empty houses for absent owners.

  “Before you do that, could you tell me where you were on Friday night?”

  Adamson looked puzzled. “Friday night? Don’t know what that has to do with anything, but I was here with the kids.”

  Le Claire turned to Beth Adamson. “I understand you work away? When did you get back to Jersey?”

  “I got back this morning, on the first flight. I’m here for two weeks.” She said this as if it was a lifetime, and Le Claire felt sorry for David Adamson, and even more so for his children.

  #

  His office door swung open. It was Vanguard. His thin face was, as usual, impassive and unyielding, but his eyes were lit by excitement.

  “Come on in. What have you got for me? I know it’s something.”

  Vanguard threw two photographs on the table. Each one a foot imprint with a ridged sole. “Look at them. Just look at them.”

  Le Claire did so and immediately recognised the beauty of what lay in front of them. “They match?”

  “They are identical. The one on the left was taken from the print at the manor; the one on the right was taken from the Converse trainers you gave us. Laura Brown, or to be more accurate, her shoes were at the back entrance to the manor at some point after last Saturday morning.”

  Le Claire barely had time to thank Vanguard as he grabbed his jacket and ran out to his car, mobile in hand as he called Dewar.

  Calls to Laura Brown’s mobile had gone unanswered. Le Claire had tried several times, but no joy. He had therefore decided just to go and see her and arranged to meet Dewar there. He was impatiently waiting in front of the apartment building when Dewar’s car drove in. At last! He schooled his features as she hurried toward him. Instead of her usual buttoned-up uniform, Dewar was wearing casual workout clothes, the type Sasha wore at yoga, loose pants and a tight top. She was pulling on a hooded zip-up. As he got out of the car, her apologies started. “So sorry. I was at my Pilates class when you called and didn’t have time to go home and change.”

  “Don’t worry; let’s just see what she has to say.”

  “So the shoe was a match?”

  “Absolutely. It puts her at the scene of the crime, sneaking into the manor by a hidden entrance, and add in that she lied to us and arrived the night before she said she did, and don’t forget her unsavoury past – well, if I was betting, I’d put money on Laura Brown being involved somehow. Come on. Let’s do this.”

  The main door to the apartments was open yet again, the same piece of smooth wood used as a stopper to jam the door accessible. Dewar sighed. “I simply do not believe people who do this. And then they complain when someone breaks in.”

  “I know, don’t worry about it. We’ve got more to think about.”

  They reached Laura Brown’s apartment, and after several rings on the buzzer aided by a few sharp raps, the door remained unopened. Le Claire looked at Dewar, who had bent her knees and was peering through the letter box. He recognised the moment her shoulders tensed, and her words confirmed the action. “Oh God, the place is a mess; tables and chairs are overturned.”

  She looked at Le Claire, and his tone was decisive. “We’re in fear of the occupier’s well-being, so move back.” That covered any need for a warrant.

  Dewar moved to the side, and Le Claire took a step back. He braced and threw himself against the door, hitting it full force. “Ah, that hurts.” He slid to the floor, clutching his shoulder. He used his uninjured arm to get to his feet just as the next door along the corridor opened and an elderly gentleman came out. His voice was brusque. “What is going on here? I had enough of the racket last night.”

  “Sorry, sir, DCI Le Claire and DS Dewar. We’re concerned for Miss Brown and need to access the property.” Le Claire had taken out his badge, which the septuagenarian took from him, carefully reading the words. Apparently satisfied, he handed it back and said, “I’m Edward Farrar. I’ll call the caretaker. He has keys to all the apartments.” He disappeared for a moment, and his muffled voice could be heard through the open door. He returned almost immediately. “He is on his way. I got him on his mobile. He is in this building, so he won’t be long.”

  Dewar asked, “You said there were noises that bothered you last night? What were they?”

  Edward Farrar shook his head. “I don’t know, but I had to shut my patio doors to block out the noise. I never had that problem when young Hamlyn was there on his own.”

  “Morning.” A short man with a balding head and a cheerful smile walked toward them. He wore casual trousers and an open-neck shirt. A tool belt around his middle made clear his identity. “Carl, this is the police. They need access to Scott Hamlyn’s place; well, it’s that girl’s now, I hear.” He turned to Le Claire. “On you go, show him your ID. You too?”

  Farrar looked at Dewar, and he didn’t seem entirely convinced she was a policewoman. Dewar didn’t rise to the question in his voice but simply complied. Le Claire couldn’t blame the man for being dubious. She looked younger and softer in her workout gear. He made a note to himself that she should always wear her uniform.

  Carl, happy with their identity, complied and took out a huge bunch of keys and open
ed the apartment door. Le Claire entered first, Dewar close behind him. He heard her speak. “Gentlemen, thank you, but we can take it from here. Please remain outside the apartment.”

  As he moved along the hallway, he could see into the lounge. A table was overturned, and a glass lamp lay smashed on the floor. The panoramic window was uncovered, and bright sunshine streamed into the room, making it difficult to see. After a moment, his eyes adjusted, and Le Claire saw her. Laura Brown lay on her back; she was still, and her face was a bloodied mess. Her top had been ripped open, revealing the dark bruising that covered her chest. He bent to his knees, checked for a pulse and called, “Dewar, get an ambulance. She’s still alive.”

  #

  Viera had arrived with the ambulance and carried out a quick check on the unconscious Laura. “She’s taken a beating. If it’s this bad on the outside, we can only guess at what damage has been done internally. We need to get her to hospital. You won’t be able to talk to her for a while – if she regains consciousness, that is. Right now, she comes first.” Within minutes, Laura Brown had been stretchered out, the ambulance rushing her to hospital.

  Vanguard’s team had arrived and were painstakingly investigating the physical scene. Le Claire was quiet for a moment, reflecting on the situation, when the voices around him brought him back to the present.

  “Oh, hi, Dewar, err, I almost didn’t recognise you there.”

  Dewar scowled at Viera, and Le Claire thought she did look different, but he would never tell her that. Knowing Dewar, she’d take it as an insult.

  “Why, is something wrong with the way I look?”

  Le Claire was treated to the unlikely sight of the strapping young doctor blushing as he stumbled through a response. “No, you just look different, you know, nice. I mean, you always look nice…I think I better be off, then. I want to brief whoever is on duty at Emergency about my initial findings, just in case any of it can be helpful. See you both later.” The medic rushed out, taking his medical bag and his blushes with him.

  Le Claire waited a beat until he was sure Viera was gone. “You’ve made an impression there. Must’ve been the yoga pants.”

  “Very funny. I could never go out with someone like him.”

  “Why not? I guess women find him good-looking, he’s a nice guy, good prospects and all that.” His words were true, but he was joking, a release of the earlier tension, and he knew she could tell.

  “Can’t you just imagine people asking us how we met? I mean, I’d have to tell the truth and say I first met David Viera over a dead body.”

  They laughed, but he could see that Dewar’s eyes were still sombre, and he knew his own would tell the same story.

  #

  Dewar had gone to have a quick shower and get changed. She’d said she might as well do some work whilst she was here. The incident room was quiet when he walked in. Not that it wasn’t occupied. There were several officers on duty today, and others had come in to finish up some of their work. Murder was a serious business, and they all knew they were up against the clock. Le Claire glanced around the room and stopped when his eyes rested on Masters. Le Claire was getting on better with him now; maybe Masters wasn’t so bad after all. Perhaps he had to accept that he just had a personal dislike and that Masters was perfectly capable of doing his job. Decision made, he walked across the room.

  “Bryce, how are you?”

  The megawatt smile that greeted Le Claire made his skin itch, but he let it go – manfully, he thought.

  “Yeah, all good here. We’re data-mining deep into the financials and have finally finished the interviews with the party guests.”

  “The reports so far haven’t thrown anything up?”

  “No, everyone checks out okay, and there were only superficial connections with Hamlyn.”

  Le Claire was about to walk away, changed his mind, decided to be pleasant. “Okay, thanks for your work. I guess you’re having to spend time on your normal caseload? Hope it’s not too hectic.”

  Masters flashed white, perfectly even teeth. “No, it’s fine. The usual nonsense we get sometimes.”

  Le Claire kept the conversation going. He had to try and make an effort. “What’s been happening?”

  Masters laughed. “There was one yesterday. Boy, did I save you from a freak show.”

  “A freak show? Now you’ve got me intrigued. What do you mean?”

  “This society woman turned up, all posh highlights, stretched face and beige outfit. She was dragging some misfit with her. The man hardly looked like he was top drawer, more like a European migrant. She was asking for you, but I took some details and sent her on her way.”

  Le Claire mentally closed his ears to the inappropriate comments but picked up on the most salient point. “She asked for me by name?”

  The smile was sly. “Yeah, I thought she was maybe one of your society pals, and we can’t have them breaking rank, can we?”

  Le Claire held his temper. “Who was she, and what did she want?”

  “Let me check.” He tapped his computer keyboard. “A Mrs Caro Armstrong. She was with a Boris Tchensen. Seems his daughter, Armstrong’s au pair, has run off, and they’re asking what we can do about it. I mean, that’s not our problem.”

  “Why come to us if she has run off?”

  “Yeah, I know. Mind you, they said she was missing.”

  Le Claire had a flash of memory. His mother had introduced him to Caro Armstrong at Gillespie’s party, but she’d said her au pair had skipped out. What had made her change her opinion?

  “Thanks, Masters. If anyone else asks for me again, don’t speak for me. Just make sure I know about it.”

  Le Claire ignored the affronted-looking Masters and headed to his office.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Dewar was back in less than fifteen minutes. Her dark trousers, plain shirt and casual blazer hit the right tone. From how she held herself as she walked, Le Claire had a suspicion that she had her eye on getting out of uniform. If she kept up this work, he’d certainly help her get there.

  Le Claire was leaning against her desk and, pushing himself to his feet, said, “Don’t get comfy. We’ve got somewhere to be.”

  As she jumped into the passenger seat and buckled up, he checked the address. “Caro Armstrong lives in St Brelade, so we’ll have to battle along the Esplanade.” The dual carriage way was the main connector between the east and west of the island and the St Helier capital that lay in the south.

  “That’s all we need on a Sunday. It’s the busiest road in the island.”

  She was quiet for a moment as Le Claire navigated out of the station and crept through the slow traffic until he was passing the hospital and heading for the coast and the Esplanade. “Why are we going to see this Mrs Armstrong?”

  “I spoke to her at Aidan Gillespie’s party. She’s a friend of my mother, and she mentioned her au pair had walked out on her. She was dismissive about it at the time. Apparently, she recently called in asking for me. Masters spoke to her, but decided not to pass the message on.” Careful, he warned himself. Even he could hear the peevish tone in his voice. There was no need for him to show his feelings about Masters. He kept his voice professional, even though he saw Dewar roll her eyes dismissively. “The girl’s father turned up. He’s worried about her. I thought I may as well check it out.”

  Dewar pulled a face. “Since when is it our job to track down missing persons?”

  He simply shrugged. The last case he had dealt with at the London Met involved a serial abductor, rapist and murderer. The last victim had been a product of the care-home system. A fifteen-year-old girl whose disappearance got lost between the cracks in a flawed system. He wasn’t going to ignore a direct appeal for help.

  Caro Armstrong lived as he had assumed she would. Her father had been big in pharmaceuticals, and she’d been his only child. She’d moved to the island with a husband, third or fourth, several years ago. She’d dit
ched the marriage and stayed on in the island with their twins. The estate, for there was no other word for it, was one of the largest on the island. They were summoned through smooth electronic gates and directed to the main house, a four-storey Georgian manor that was painted a blinding white, and the dark green shutters lay half-closed against the late afternoon sun. A dog barked somewhere in the distance, the only noise that broke the expensive quiet.

  Dewar whistled. “You know, it’s easy to forget how much money some people have. I mean, we see some nice places, but a lot of the time they’re owned by ordinary people who’ve worked hard. This, well, this is something different.”

  “Let’s try to keep our tongues in our heads, okay?”

  Dewar took the gentle rebuke with a smile. “Tongue held firmly in check.”

  The door buzzer was answered by a uniformed maid who was obviously expecting them. “This way, please. Mrs Armstrong is waiting in the garden room for you.”

  They followed the stiff-backed woman through a spacious hallway and down a wide corridor. The place had obviously been remodelled as it was light and airy with good proportions. The decor was something else. Huge tapestries and paintings of well-fed aristocratic-looking types lined the walls, every tabletop, every nook and cranny was stuffed with objets d’art and curiosities and heavy, ornate, overstuffed chairs and chaise longues were scattered about the place. The same with the garden room. Louis XV spindly legged chairs battled for supremacy with wing-backed armchairs and, surprisingly, some old wicker barrel chairs that were occupied by two people. Caro Armstrong stood and greeted them. “Do come in, Jack, and who is this?”

  “My colleague, DS Dewar.”

  He looked pointedly at the other occupant of the room. The man was probably in his early fifties; he wore casual clothes that slightly hung off his thin frame, his shock of wild black curls adding to his dishevelled look. Caro Armstrong waved a hand in the man’s direction. “This is Boris Tchensen, Katrina’s father.”

  “How do you do, Mr Tchensen. I am DCI Le Claire.” After refusing a seat, as nothing looked in the slightest bit comfortable, he asked, “Mrs Armstrong, could you tell me what the issue is, please?”