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

by Kelly Clayton

  “I needed to get something of Scott’s. I parked on the road by the apartments and called the landline. Laura answered. I didn’t know what to say, so I hung up. A few minutes later, I saw someone leave and take the path to the beach. It looked like Laura from a distance, so I called the apartment again. There was no answer. I drove into the car park, let myself in and was back out in five minutes. There was no one there.”

  Le Claire asked, “What did you need to get from the apartment?”

  Hamlyn took a moment to answer. “I can’t tell you that.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Le Claire parked outside the garage block, ready for a quick bite to eat, an hour of numbing TV and then sleep. Charles Hamlyn had been taken to the station and interviewed for well over an hour. He was refusing to say what he had taken from his son’s apartment, just kept repeating it was something he needed. He had no real alibi for the Saturday night when Laura was attacked. He reiterated that he’d been at home with his wife, and no one else could corroborate that. There was nothing to do for the moment. Le Claire had reluctantly sent him home. They’d be digging further into Charles Hamlyn’s life, but Le Claire had nothing to hold him at the moment.

  The only other active case he was concerned with was Ana’s attack. Hopefully, the search warrant would come in overnight, and they could get the team into the Davies’s place at first light. Vanguard had his people on call, ready and waiting.

  He wearily climbed the wooden stairs to his apartment, stifling the urge to laugh at himself. At least he didn’t live in the main house with his parents, which would have been a bitter pill to swallow. This one-bedroom flat above his folks’ garage had been his home when he was back from university. He had never been sure if his mother had decorated and furnished it for him out maternal love or if she hadn’t relished the idea of her eighteen-year-old haunting the house and making the place look untidy in front of their influential friends. He had hoped it was the former and feared it was the latter.

  He put his key in the door and realised it was unlatched. His mother never came in here unasked. She sent her cleaning lady over to do a couple of hours on a Friday morning, but no one else ever ventured in here. He tensed, carefully pushed the door ajar and entered, scanning the kitchen and lounge area. What he saw made his heart jump and a feeling of peace, one he hadn’t known he was missing, settled over him. Sasha was by the cooker, her back to him, stirring a pot of what smelled like her spicy Bolognese, which was one of his favourites. She wore tight jeans and a lace camisole top, the creamy colour a perfect contrast to her tanned skin. Her glossy, dark hair was pulled back in a messy knot, and he could almost feel the smooth skin of her neck as she bent over the sauce pot.

  He walked toward her, taking off his suit jacket and throwing it over the arm of the sofa. “This is a surprise.”

  She turned around in one quick movement, a delighted smile on her face. “Oh, Jack, you gave me a shock. I hope it’s a welcome surprise.”

  “Very much so. How did you know I would be home in time to eat?”

  “Ah, don’t be mad, but I called Emily; she said you were leaving in about half an hour or so. I got round here straightaway.”

  Emily? His blank look just made her laugh more and shake her head. “Dewar. Emily is her first name. You are hopeless.”

  So now he knew that Dewar was Emily; he must have known this before but hadn’t retained it as something he immediately needed to know. He also now figured his DS was a romantic, keeping quiet about Sasha’s call so as not to spoil her surprise.

  “Here, let me get you a drink.”

  She walked to the small dining table, that he saw was set for two, and poured two glasses of red from an open bottle, handing one to him and holding the other in a mock toast. “I know it’s only Monday, but what the hell.”

  He took a sip of the wine as Sasha picked his jacket up from where he had slung it over the sofa. “I’ll hang this up. If you want to go and have a shower, I can have dinner ready in half an hour. I hope pasta is okay?”

  He was showered, changed and sitting at the table in just under the allotted time. Sasha laid bowls of steaming hot penne Bolognese in front of them, the rich beef-and-tomato ragu topped with shaved parmesan and basil leaves. It certainly beat the tuna sandwich he’d planned to have.

  “This is gorgeous. Thank you.”

  “It’s my pleasure. How is everything going with the case?”

  He sighed. “We have a few lines to follow, but no leads. The fact it happened at the party gives us so many potential suspects or simply people to cross off the list.”

  “I know! I was interviewed by a very dashing policeman.”

  Le Claire kept the growl in his throat. Masters had been in charge of getting statements from the party guests.

  Sasha spoke again. “Shall I answer your unspoken question now?”

  He toyed with the stem of his wineglass, buying time, for he didn’t want to spoil the evening with an argument. “What question?”

  “Why I’m here? Am I still mad at you?”

  “Ah, yes, that question.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry, Jack. I shouldn’t have kicked off like that. It just scares me that you drift a bit farther away from me every time you have one of these episodes. I just wish you could…”

  “What? Get over it, forget it? Don’t you think I wish that too? I do, very much, but I just don’t know what to do. And don’t say I should talk to someone. The truth is that I’m not ready to face up to what happened. Not yet.”

  She sipped her wine, eyes downcast. When she looked at him, he was overwhelmed by the sympathy, compassion and, he hoped, love that radiated from her.

  “Come on. Let’s forget it for tonight. I want to finish this meal, snuggle on the sofa watching trashy TV and then go to bed – early.”

  His grin displayed his agreement. “Sounds like a plan, but why don’t we skip the TV part?”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The persistent ringtone of Le Claire’s mobile blasted through the room. He glanced at the other side of the bed and was taken aback when he saw it was empty. All Sasha had left behind was the barest of imprints of her head on the pillow. He recalled she’d mentioned an early yoga class as he reached out and answered the call with a mumbled, “Le Claire”.

  “Jack, don’t hang up. It’s Gareth Lewis. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  He hadn’t needed to hear the name. He had instantly recognised the smooth voice of his old boss, redolent with vestiges of the valleys he’d long left behind and the joking reference to the long-ago faux pas when a much younger Le Claire had cut off Gareth Lewis when he was trying to bring him into an important conference call.

  “It’s fine. How are you?”

  “I’m well, Jack. Still missing one of the best I’ve ever had work for me. How is small-town life?”

  Le Claire laughed. Gareth Lewis had lived in London all his adult life. Anywhere outside its boundaries was Hicksville to him. “Small island maybe, but we do have a population of 100,000, plus a stream of seasonal workers and visitors each year. It’s enough to keep me busy.”

  “Good, good. Look, Jack, God knows I don’t want to bring up the past…”

  Then don’t. The words screamed through Le Claire’s mind. He wasn’t prepared for this; not at all.

  “…fact is, he wants to see you.”

  He didn’t need to ask who; the chill was already slowly engulfing him.

  “What does Chapman want with me?”

  “He says he needs to talk to you. The thing is, Jack, he has pleaded not guilty all along. His side is being closemouthed, but we believe they’re going to announce a plea change. If he pleads guilty, it will all be over so much sooner, much better for the families of the girls involved.”

  His mind was a mass of jumbled thoughts, of razor-sharp images that once again threatened to send him over the edge. Images that drew him back to a place buried deep inside
, a place usually kept in the shadows that was moving closer to the light. He did as usual and tried to push the thoughts away.

  “What could he possibly have to say to me?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he wants to tell you about the plea change?”

  “I don’t want to see him. I can’t see it doing any good.”

  “Jack, I don’t want to jeopardise a guilty verdict. You know that an open court on this is going to be a challenge for us, given the circumstances.”

  “You mean given what I did.”

  The sigh was heavy. “Look, we both know that we’ve been dreading any hint of police brutality. You weren’t the only one there that day. All the other officers have sworn that you had no option; you had to stop him.”

  “I stopped him a bit too permanently though, didn’t I?” He rubbed at his eyes, considered what he was hearing. “Okay, when do you want me to see him?”

  “Can you come soon? We don’t want to be blindsided by a plea change. Could you see him tomorrow?”

  “What? I’m in the middle of a murder enquiry.”

  “Yeah, I know. I just got off the phone with Chief Wilson. He says you’ve got a great team around you with a particularly diligent DS. He’s okayed you to come to London, but only if you want to.”

  Le Claire knew he had no option. He just hoped he could survive another meeting with Colin Chapman.

  #

  The search warrant had been issued in the early hours of that morning by a somewhat grumpy jurat. That had been the text message sent by Dewar, who had also said that John Vanguard and his team had been at the site since 6:30 a.m. Le Claire had showered and dressed; the call with Gareth Lewis had cost him time, and he had missed his morning coffee. He now stood in the Davies’s ground-floor apartment. Apparently, they owned the house but had a tenant on the second floor. He’d donned protective clothing and slipped plastic covers over his shoes. Who knew what they’d find. They couldn’t be too careful.

  The place was filled with similarly clothed scene investigators who were methodically taking the place apart. Their remit was to look for anything of interest and specifically for a red dress, masks and anything that tied them to private, organised parties. It hadn’t taken long. John Vanguard shouted down the stairs, “Le Claire, get up here.”

  Le Claire took the steps two at a time. He could hear the low rumble of suppressed excitement in the CSI chief’s voice. “Apart from the studio that is rented out, all the other doors were left open except this one. A bit of deft lock picking courtesy of a misspent youth and we easily gained access. Look at this.”

  The room was decorated like a parody of a French bordello. Heavy velvets and shiny satins were the order of the day. The walls were painted a deep dark red, the four-poster bed was draped in diaphanous scarlet, the mattress was covered with a black satin throw and more red was displayed in the mound of cushions that acted in place of pillows.

  An elegant white-painted, spindle-legged dressing table was topped with a three-panelled looking glass and covered with paints and powders. A lidless lipstick had been carelessly discarded. It was vibrant red. The open doors of a huge freestanding wardrobe held a treasure trove of dresses; reds and blacks, silver and white, silk and satin and chiffon. The side of the wardrobe held a vertical row of shelving. Le Claire smiled. One compartment held a pile of masks, the ones beneath froths of lingerie. “And the piece de resistance.” Vanguard pointed to a sideboard that was partially concealed by the open door to what was presumably an en-suite bathroom. On its top, and displayed like ornaments, was a row of Styrofoam mannequin heads. Each of the five displayed a wig, one of which was black, bobbed and sleek.

  Le Claire moved to the wardrobe and started flicking through the gowns, his hands protected in their plastic gloves. He concentrated on the red. “This is it.” He pulled out a slither of red that looked much less alluring than when it had been clinging to Lena Davies’s body. “Right, get this dress, the masks and the wigs secured and analysed. We need to prove that they were worn by Lena Davies.”

  “Sir, over here.”

  A young investigator, who looked like she should still be at school, was kneeling in front of an open suitcase. “This was under the bed sir.”

  Vanguard reached it before Le Claire. “Looks like some kind of RSVP card or something.”

  Le Claire knew exactly what it was. For hadn’t Blair handed him the exact invitation as his entry to the party? He had them now.

  #

  Le Claire headed straight for the incident room. It was still early, but most of the desks were already occupied. The distinctive aromas of buttery breakfast pastries vied with strong coffee for supremacy. The coffee was winning, and his noise twitched and his mouth watered. Reluctantly, he conceded that he didn’t have time to stop. As he had expected, Dewar was already at her temporary desk.

  “Dewar, with me. Let’s have a chat with Basil Davies. Get him brought to the interview room.”

  She looked up from the papers she’d been reviewing. Her eyes were wide, and they glittered with excitement. He recognised that look. He stood still, and his heart was beating a little faster. She waved the papers in her hand.

  “I’ve heard from Ian Jennings. He’s the guy who left the voicemail for Hamlyn. He’s just returned my call. He’s a private investigator all right, ex-force, so he knew the score. He sent over a copy of the report he prepared. You better have a read of it. I think you’re going to want to see someone else first.”

  Puzzled, he took the papers from her and started skimming. Then he stopped and read through from the start, slowly. The contents were explosive. He looked at Dewar. “Let’s go and pay a call to Mr and Mrs Hamlyn.”

  #

  Sarah Hamlyn sat next to her husband, close together on the sofa in their neat lounge. Both were pale-faced with dark shadows and heavy bags under red-rimmed eyes, and Le Claire wondered if Hamlyn had been interrogated by his wife after he’d got home from the police station. He’d debated how to broach the subject on the way here. Decided to dive in. “Mr Hamlyn, I need to ask again what you took from your son’s home?”

  Sarah Hamlyn jumped in. “Charles has told you again and again. He isn’t saying any more; he just needed something, and it has nothing to do with Scott’s death or Laura Brown’s attack. He won’t even tell me what it was for.”

  Charles Hamlyn laid a hand on his wife’s. A subtle, soothing gesture. “Detective, it’s a nonsensical, personal matter, nothing to do with anyone else.”

  “I’m afraid it’s for me to decide what is relevant to my investigation.” He hesitated; they gave him no choice. He had to raise the issue that could ruin their lives.

  “Did you know your son had engaged the services of a private detective?”

  Sarah Hamlyn looked relieved. “He was having Laura investigated, wasn’t he? I just knew he wouldn’t be taken in by her forever.”

  Dewar replied. “No, that wasn’t it. Was there any issue between you and Scott?”

  Sarah Hamlyn was still. “Issue? Of course not. What are you getting at?”

  Dewar glanced at Le Claire; she was chewing her underlip and he took pity on her, took over. “Scott hired an investigator to look into the past. His past and yours.”

  She didn’t so much as blink, yet her shoulders tensed and her clasped hands worried away at each other. Her eyes flicked to her husband. “Charles, darling, go and put the kettle on. I’m parched. Coffee all round?”

  Hamlyn shook his head. “Let’s just get on with this Sarah.”

  Her look beseeched. “Please? I really am desperate for some caffeine.”

  With a sigh, Hamlyn pressed his hands against the sofa and boosted himself to his feet. He shuffled through the doorway with Dewar’s request for a tea floating after him.

  When Sarah Hamlyn looked at Le Claire, her gaze was direct and unflinching. “Get on with it and be quick, please.”

  “The report details the time you spen
t in London when Scott was three. I understand you had split from Mr Hamlyn and were living with your elder sister and her husband. You think of all the millions of people who travel through London every year, multiply that by over twenty-five years, and you’d think there’d be no memories of a young Jersey girl and her small son.” A tic worked away at the side of her mouth. He continued. “A teenage girl lived with her parents, just two doors away from your sister and her Polish husband. When her parents died, she inherited the house, and now she lives there with her own family. Apparently, babysitting Scott was her first job, and she’d been so proud to be trusted. Even more so when the baby, Ana, arrived, and she sometimes sat with her for an hour or so. She remembers you well.”

  Sarah Hamlyn’s face was closed, but he could sense the fear that had gripped her. Her tongue darted out from between tight lips, and she briefly looked to the left of him, not meeting his eyes. Her words were rushed. “I don’t know where this is going, but I think it would be better if I came to the station with you. You can talk to me there.”

  Charles Hamlyn’s voice, strong and certain, came from the open doorway and cut off Le Claire’s reply. “There’s no need. I know, Sarah. I know it all.”

  Le Claire would bet that he’d never got as far as the kitchen, but that he’d been listening, waiting for his moment.

  She was ashen; the blood had leached from her lips and her eyes locked on her husband’s. “It’s not true, Charles. Whatever they say, it isn’t true.” There was a panicked edge to her voice.

  The air was heavy, pregnant with the tension that radiated between the married couple. Hamlyn’s sigh filled the room as he walked over to his wife. “Yes, it is, Sarah. It is so simple and yet explains so much. You’re Ana’s real mother.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Ana’s day had been busy, deliberately so, as she tried to distract her mind from the confrontation with Basil Davies. The snake! She’d called Daria, who hadn’t been surprised and had said, with a dark undertone, that she wouldn’t put anything past that man and his wife.