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

by Kelly Clayton

  Caro Armstrong nodded her smoothly coiffed head and complied. “Boris came to see me a few days ago. He hasn’t heard from his daughter in a couple of months. I said she’d skipped out without any notice, and Boris said…” She turned to her guest. “Boris, you may as well explain.”

  His voice was accented, but his English was excellent. “Thank you. Katrina came to Jersey to better her English. She has a business administration degree and, with excellent English skills gained from living the language, she can get a very good job back home. She was happy here. It is such a beautiful place to be and two lovely children to look after. Her weekly calls were full of how lucky she was.”

  Dewar interrupted. “But she left?”

  “Yes, she told me she had met someone and was going to visit London with them for a short break. She always called me on Sundays, but said that they’d be busy. Said if she couldn’t call, she’d be in touch when she was back in Jersey. She never called me again and doesn’t answer her phone. That is not like my daughter. I have waited and waited and decided to come and see for myself.”

  Caro Armstrong was quick to speak, the words tumbling out in a rush. “And when poor Mr Tchensen called me a few days ago, I was pretty dismissive. And then I asked what I should do with Katrina’s things, and he got worried when I explained what they were.”

  Le Claire recalled her ire at the party that she had to go to the bother of getting rid of her au pair’s belongings.

  “My wife died many years ago. Katrina is our only daughter, and I gifted her with her mother’s jewellery when she turned eighteen. We are not rich people, so the actual value is small, but the sentimental value is huge. Katrina always wore her mother’s emerald engagement ring, which is now so tight she cannot remove it, but never the wedding ring. She said she would be too scared to lose it. The wedding ring was left in her room. She would not simply discard her mother’s memory like casual rubbish. Even if she wanted to have a new life, to disappear, she would not have left that ring behind. Not if she had a choice.”

  Le Claire considered the man’s impassioned words. “Do you have any idea what happened to Katrina?”

  The strength seemed to seep from the man as he sank deeper into the chair. His eyes were pained. “Something bad. She would not leave me to worry; she would get word to me somehow. My Katrina has been gone for nearly three months. I have not known where to turn. I am not a rich man and a cousin helped me with the airfare.”

  “Right, we’ll take down some details. Perhaps you have a photo of Katrina, and you could let us know any distinguishing marks, what the ring she wears looks like and on what finger.”

  He could feel Dewar’s eyes boring into him, no doubt wondering why he was further involving himself with a missing person case. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice.

  #

  Le Claire had sent Dewar home; it was her day off after all, although it was now edging toward evening. He’d head home himself soon, but he had a quick phone call to make first. He perched on the end of his desk, one leg swinging, as he listened to the ring tone. The call was swiftly answered.

  “Paul Armstrong, how may I help you?”

  “Paul, it’s Jack Le Claire. I hope I’m not disturbing you, but I have some bad news.” He knew from past experience it was best to just dive in. “Laura Brown is in hospital, and her condition is serious. She was attacked at her apartment last night.”

  He could hear the shocked inhalation. “What? I can’t get my head around this. That poor girl. Have you got who did it?”

  “No, but we’re working on it. I have a quick question for you. If Laura were to die, who inherits Scott Hamlyn’s estate?”

  “That has to be the wrong tree you’re sniffing around.”

  “Probably, but just answer the question.”

  “Fine. I don’t even need to look it up. We just put in a fairly standard clause that if Laura didn’t survive Scott by more than thirty days, then his parent’s would inherit everything.”

  “You say that’s standard. What is it trying to achieve?”

  “It is mainly meant to cover situations where people are involved in an accident and one survives the other by a matter of days. If the clause wasn’t there, then the assets would form part of Laura Brown’s estate. Scott, like most people, wanted to choose who his assets went to.”

  “Okay, I get it. Thanks.”

  “Wait, can I go and see Laura?”

  His voice was gentle. “I wouldn’t think so. She is unconscious, and we haven’t had any proper feedback on her condition yet.”

  He hung up, grabbed his jacket and was out the door in a flash. He’d speak to the Hamlyns on the way home.

  He swung past the incident room and was about go in when he heard his name mentioned. He couldn’t tell who was speaking.

  “Right, so we’ve got nine people for the Million Pound Lottery. We need one more. Maybe Le Claire would join the syndicate.”

  “I doubt it. What does he need with a one-tenth share of a million? That’s peanuts to his family. Little rich boys don’t need to do the lottery like us normal muppets.”

  The voice, with its sneering, condescending undertone, was unmistakable. Bryce Masters.

  “Are they really that rich? He just seems normal.” The speaker was Cobb.

  “Don’t let him fool you. Not only is his family loaded, his dad is majorly connected. I mean, don’t you think it’s strange that Le Claire, after years working at the Met, suddenly moves back to Jersey and gets taken on as a full DCI?”

  “I guess so.”

  “And I’ve done a bit of digging. The last case he dealt with was that Colin Chapman. He was a creep who ended up killing several young girls, raping them as well. Why would golden boy suddenly leave the Met and come home when he’s just bagged the catch of a career? Unless he came back with his tail between his legs.” The accompanying laughter was harsh and derisory.

  Le Claire carefully eased back from the door and carried on his way out the building. It was true. Eavesdroppers never did hear anything good about themselves. His father had never helped him in his career – the opposite, in fact, but he had left London under a shadow. He didn’t need it to taint his future as well.

  #

  Sarah Hamlyn ushered him into the kitchen, where her husband was reading the Sunday papers. “Have you caught who did this?”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve some other news to discuss.” He watched their faces with care. “Laura Brown was brutally attacked at her apartment last night and is now in intensive care at the hospital.”

  Charles Hamlyn’s mouth dropped, and he reared back. “That is shocking. Was it a burglary?”

  Before Le Claire could speak, Sarah Hamlyn said, “Was anything stolen? Scott has personal items that shouldn’t go to that woman. I was going to ask Paul Armstrong to get them for us.”

  “It doesn’t appear to have been a burglary. If you don’t mind me saying so, you don’t seem that bothered about Miss Brown’s welfare.”

  “I am sorry for anyone’s misfortune, but Laura Brown is nothing to do with us.”

  “May I ask your whereabouts last night?”

  Charles Hamlyn stiffened. “Now look here…”

  His wife’s voice cut across him as she glared at Le Claire. “You think one of us went round there and beat up that girl? I can’t stand her, but I wasn’t going to attack her.”

  His eyes were fixed on her. “You did after the funeral.”

  She fired back, “That was in the heat of the moment.” Her shoulders sagged, and she briefly closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the ferocity was gone. “I don’t like Laura Brown. To be truthful, I don’t know her, but I didn’t want her to ruin my son’s life. We didn’t hurt her. Charles and I were at home together, alone. So no, I’m afraid we don’t have a convenient alibi.”

  There was nothing more to say, so he took his leave and headed home to his empty apartment, a microwave p
izza and a lonely beer. His wife still wasn’t returning his calls.

  #

  He stood in the darkest corner of her bedroom, his back tight against the wall. A sliver of moonlight crept through the narrow gap in the closed curtains, its fine beam cast toward the bed. Her face was tucked beneath the duvet; all he could see was the top of her head and one delicate hand that held the bed cover close. It had been so easy getting in. He held back his laugh, brought on by nervous energy. The key had been in the back of the door. Fools. All he had to do was insert the fine blade of his utility tool into the keyhole and wiggle and move it until the key came free and fell to the floor. The other bit of luck had been the unlocked cat flap. It wasn’t a kitty, but his hand that reached through and filched the key.

  He crept across the carpeted floor and stood over her. His shadow blocked even the modest light, and with mounting excitement, his hands fumbled across the cool cotton duvet cover until he came to the living, breathing body beneath. With the lightest of touches, he traced a line across her hips, over the ribcage and up toward her head until, with one savage movement, he viciously yanked a handful of her hair, his other hand clamped tight against her mouth to prevent a sound escaping.

  She struggled, a reflexive action that simply compelled him to tighten his grasp, almost pulling her hair out by its roots.

  He bent down, pushed his mouth against her ear. “I’ve a message for you. Keep quiet, or you’ll regret it. No telling tales.”

  He moved back, released her hair and pulled the duvet down to her waist. She wore a thin nightgown, and he could see the outline of her high, full breasts.

  Her eyes opened wide, and she stared at him over the hand that held her silent. He saw her emotions jostle for supremacy; confusion overtaken by realisation, and then fear took precedence. To his horror, he saw something else. It was the wrong girl.

  He stepped back, paralysed by panic, and then, as her shrill scream shattered the night air, he ran from the room, the house and his mistake.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Le Claire had been at his desk for hours, and the clock hadn’t struck 8:00 a.m. yet. He’d placed a call to the hospital and left a message for Dr Foster, who had yet to ring back. They’d known each other for years, and so Le Claire felt no compunction in hounding him. He dialled the saved number, and after two short rings, he recognised the unmistakably terse voice. “Well! What are you after, as if I didn’t know?”

  “Brian, don’t be like that. I am calling to see how Laura Brown is? She was brought in yesterday and—”

  “I know. I was on duty in Emergency. The girl’s in a bad way. She went straight into surgery yesterday to try and halt what was massive internal bleeding. The team has done their best, but she is still unconscious, and we don’t know the prognosis yet. I can’t tell you anything, Jack, because I don’t know yet whether she’ll make it or not. What I can tell you is that some bastard worked her over. Her body is covered in bruises, and there may even be some organ damage. That could be a best-case scenario, for there is a very real chance she may never come round.”

  Le Claire ran a hand through his hair, and his eyes momentarily closed. A muscle ticked at the corner of his mouth, and the rage bubbled away, deep inside. There were many atrocities that he had seen in his job, and he would no doubt experience many more. However, the one thing that he would never get used to, never become inured to, was violence against the weak and vulnerable, which was usually – not always, but usually – women and children.

  “Right. Thanks. Let me know if anything changes.” As he hung up, he winced at the coldness in his own voice, but it wasn’t for Laura. It was aimed at the heartless coward who had kicked and punched a girl within inches of death – and she wasn’t yet out of danger.

  “That’s a pensive look. Share those thoughts for a penny?” Vanguard was standing in his doorway, clutching a thick file.

  “Nothing worth talking about. You? Anything from the Laura Brown scene?”

  “That’s exactly why I’m here. I tagged Dewar on the way through and asked her to join us. Hope that’s okay, but there are some areas you’ll need to get checked out, and I thought it easier to brief you both at the same time.”

  “Sure, come on in. Here’s Dewar now.”

  She came rushing in, and there was a slightly guilty look on her face as she apologised for being late. She’d probably hung back, sending Vanguard ahead so she could finish her habitually full large mug of tea. He was getting wise to her. Some people disappeared to have a sneaky ciggie; it just so happened that Dewar’s drug of choice was a builder’s brew.

  Le Claire gestured at the file in Vanguard’s hands. “Right, give us what you’ve got.”

  The CSI chief perched on the edge of Le Claire’s desk as he motioned for Dewar to take the only seat. “Okay. In time-honoured tradition, let’s do the bad news first. No apparent forced entry, so we can assume that Laura Brown let her attacker in. The buzzer at the main front door to the apartments is connected to a video system. As soon as the buzzer is pressed, the recording starts. However, the video wasn’t activated at all over the weekend. We spoke to the caretaker, who said the tenants have a habit of jamming the main door open, and often it can be left that way for days at a time.”

  Le Claire and Dewar exchanged a quick glance. Damn. The door had been jammed open the first time they had gone to the apartment. With a whisper of regret, he wished they’d spoken to the caretaker, made a fuss. If they had, maybe there would be a video image of the attacker instead of absolutely nothing. “Is there any good news?”

  A grin spread across Vanguard’s narrow face. “There could be. The answerphone at Hamlyn’s place was filled with old messages, in excess of twenty. He obviously only deleted them every now and again. There were some from his parents, customs about deliveries that duty was payable on – the usual, mundane day-to-day stuff. There was one from a David, who said he’d meet Hamlyn at the latter’s place before they went out. A friend, I guess.”

  Le Claire confirmed the assumption. “Yes, that would have been David Adamson. We’ve spoken to him already.”

  “Fine. However, the most interesting message, which is certainly intriguing, is from an Ian Jennings.” He checked the file. “He asked if Hamlyn had any questions on the report he had sent by email. He then said he had posted a hard copy as well and that he had returned the photograph. He was also at pains to say that the balance of his account was now due.”

  Le Claire had listened carefully, but it sounded like some sort of business matter apart from the photograph bit, but that could be about anything. What they needed was a solid lead, not more of the same. His thoughts were wandering as he tried to piece together what could have got Scott Hamlyn killed and Laura Brown beaten within an inch of her life. If indeed the two incidents were even connected. He knew better than to jump to conclusions. He zoned back into Vanguard’s words.

  “…it’s the last comment that made me wonder. I mean, he said that Hamlyn should just let him know if he needed any more investigative work carried out and also to be reassured of his discretion. He said his business was digging up secrets for those who employed him, not general tittle-tattle.”

  Le Claire’s attention was firmly back on Vanguard. “What the hell does that mean? What kind of investigator is he?”

  Vanguard raised his palms in supplication. “Afraid that’s down to you guys. I just give you the facts. It’s up to you to determine what they mean.”

  Le Claire scowled. He knew Vanguard was right, but now all they had was more open questions. “Is that everything?”

  “There were some strange calls on the day after Hamlyn died. A few where the answerphone clicked in, but the caller didn’t say anything, just silence.”

  Dewar rolled her eyes. “Like a heavy-breathing call?”

  “No, but there was a palpable sense that the person calling was waiting for someone to pick the call up. The recording also picked up Laura Bro
wn. She said…” He looked through the file, pulled out a transcript and recited, “Her exact words were Hello…hello, is someone there? Jesus, don’t torment me. If that’s you, Danny, just quit this, you hear me? And then she slammed the phone down. There was another call about ten minutes later; again the answerphone went on, and after about thirty seconds of silence, the caller hung up.”

  Dewar spoke a millisecond before Le Claire’s own words had formed. “Danny? Could that be Danny Gillespie?”

  Le Claire grabbed his jacket. “Thanks, you guys did a great job there. Go through Hamlyn’s papers and see if there is anything from this Ian Jennings, and then turn that place upside down and find Hamlyn’s bloody laptop. Dewar, you’re coming with me, but before that, get one of the guys onto the phone numbers and track these callers down.”

  Vanguard interrupted. “We’ve also got the video recordings from the underground garage camera, going back to the night of Hamlyn’s death. May be worth someone checking the car licence plates.”

  Dewar nodded. “Right, I’ll get someone on it.”

  #

  Aidan Gillespie did not look at all pleased to see Le Claire and Dewar waiting in his study. Le Claire wasn’t too happy to see him either. “We asked to see your brother.”

  “This is my house detective. My staff knows to keep me informed of what is going on. My brother is finishing a meeting. He’ll join us in a moment. Can I ask what this is about?”

  “That is something for me to discuss with your brother.”

  Le Claire turned as a cool voice came from the open doorway.

  “I want Aidan to hear anything you have to say to me, so please go ahead.” Danny Gillespie sauntered into the room, a mocking expression on his face. “What’s the matter? Not caught Hamlyn’s killer yet, so you’re back to hound us?”

  Le Claire let the comment roll over him. He took the direct route. “Tell me, how well do you know Laura Brown?”

  The only indication that the question bothered him was a slight widening of his eyes. “Laura Brown? You mean Scott Hamlyn’s girlfriend?”