Blood In The Sand: Betrayal, lies, romance and murder. (A Jack Le Claire Mystery)

by Kelly Clayton

  “What? So the breakup is my fault?”

  “Carter wouldn’t have looked elsewhere if you’d been keeping him happy. He would never have had the inclination to eye up that slut if all his needs, especially his male needs, were being met.”

  Grace blanched. “I am not having this conversation with you.”

  “Very well. Anyway, Carter was in good form. He was keen to talk about you. He wanted to know what was happening. He was so shocked to hear about your great-aunts. I could tell he was worried about you. If only you’d come back home. Pretty yourself up and let him see what he has discarded.”

  There was a pause, and when her mother next spoke, Grace could hear the slight tremor in her voice. “Grace, this isn’t how things are meant to be. We should be planning your wedding. There is a lovely brownstone that your father and I thought would be perfect for your first home together. People like us don’t just take offence at the slightest mishap. Goddamn it, Grace. Come back here and fight for your life.”

  Grace sighed, long and heartfelt. Her tone was soft as she said, “But that isn’t my life any longer. And I see Carter’s betrayal as more than a mishap to navigate past.”

  “I have said my piece, Grace, but mark my words: if you actually bothered to put your full focus into this, I know you could get Carter back. All you have to do is come home.”

  “Thanks for the call, Mother. I do appreciate it, but I don’t want Carter back. Look, it’s late here. I better go.”

  As she disconnected, Grace pondered where this new strength came from. Perhaps it was losing Kate, maybe the Carter breakup or the realisation that life is a frail commodity. Whatever it was, she prayed that it lasted. As she readied herself for bed, Grace’s thoughts were of Carter and the life they’d had together. Had it been all that bad? And was her mother right? Was something there to rescue?

  ◆◆◆

  Rocque View lay asleep. Moonlight reflected off the white-painted walls, which were stark against the dark surrounds of the gardens. A growing breeze rustled through the trees and blew the odd leaf across the patio. The tide was high, and thunderous waves crashed against the granite sea wall.

  He stood in the shadows of a mature oak, concealed beneath its spreading branches. He glanced at the illuminated dial of his watch—almost 3:00 a.m.—and then tucked the watch, and offending light, under the cuff of his dark jacket.

  Moving forward, he pulled his baseball cap farther over his brow and hefted the heavy bag he carried higher on his shoulder. He had to finish this—and soon.

  He scanned the gardens, mindful of the hidden recesses among the deep borders, his eyes alert for the slightest movement. Then he shook his head. Who could possibly be watching him? No one, that’s who.

  ◆◆◆

  Luca’s knees ached, as did his back and just about every other part of him. However, it was his heart that had given him the most trouble. He had felt as if it was going to leap out of his chest when the dark figure emerged from the side of the house, their gaze slowly—excruciatingly slowly—raking over the garden, seemingly seeking out the darkest corners.

  He had shrunk farther back into the deepest foliage, hoping that his dark clothes would render him invisible to the naked eye. He had even rubbed handfuls of soil on his face to blend into his surroundings. That made him feel slightly foolish, but then again, what could be more absurd than his current endeavour? Lurking in his employer’s garden in the dead of night, hoping to see what? He had been half-convinced that nothing would happen. That he would spend an uncomfortable night in the damp outdoors and return home to a ticking-off from his wife, followed by an “I told you so” tirade.

  But then the man had appeared—he figured it had to be a man from the height and build—and he knew his worst imaginings had been right. Sam had confirmed the rumours that Kate had been killed, and someone had been haunting her property ever since.

  Luca saw the man move towards the corner of the garden nearest the house and firmed his own fist against the handle of the spade he’d brought with him for protection. He had no option; he had to do something. Shifting his grip so that he held the spade in both hands, he moved forward, carefully placing his feet on the soft grass to muffle any sound.

  A loud crack behind him startled Luca enough that he dropped the spade. He turned around and reeled back as a large fist smashed into his face.

  ◆◆◆

  He drew back his arm, ready to launch another punch, but his victim lay dazed, eyes closed. It had turned out to be a stroke of luck that he had trodden on the twigs scattered on the grass. The noise he’d made had him cursing at first, but he’d instinctively reacted as his startled prey had turned around. One hard hit and the weakling had collapsed like a row of skittles. He was sure there hadn’t been time for his face to be seen. In any event, he wore a woollen cap, the wide brim casting disguising shadows over his face.

  He took a moment to look across the lawn at the man standing by the borders. He raised his hand in greeting and wondered how many times he’d have to save his sorry ass. Not that he was ever grateful.

  His victim made frantic grabbing motions, using all his effort to try and reach out for the spade that lay to his side. Fingertips were within grasping distance when he kicked the wooden handle out of his way. Bending down, he picked up the spade in both hands, swung it quickly above his head, and brought it crashing down on his victim’s skull. The body lay still and unmoving.

  He dragged the body by the arms and dumped it at the back of the borders. There was nothing he could do to conceal what had happened. He left the spade next to the body. He was wearing gloves, and there wouldn’t be anything to connect him to this night’s work.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Dewar strode into Le Claire’s office with a spring in her step and a broad smile on her face, clutching a sheaf of papers, which she waved in the air. The look on her face was that of a victor expecting their due tribute. Christ, he thought, she looks almost girlish. This, for the straight-faced Dewar, was quite something.

  Le Claire acknowledged her smug, expectant look and gave in. “Okay, what are you so damned pleased with yourself about?”

  “As you know, we’ve been trying to get Emma Layzell’s phone logs. However,” and here she rolled her eyes, “apparently telephone companies don’t like giving out customer information, especially on the weekend.”

  Le Claire frowned. “Didn’t you have a warrant? I thought you were having one signed by the duty jurat.”

  “I did, but I was transferred through a line of superiors, all saying they couldn’t make the decision to release the records until—finally—last night I spoke to the head honcho for the Channel Islands. He arranged for one of their guys to access the records, and I’ve just been to pick them up.” Dewar brandished the papers like a hard-won trophy.

  Le Claire’s smile was wide. “Okay, go and see what you can find in them and report back to me.”

  Dewar looked like the cat that had devoured an entire carton of cream. “I don’t need to, sir. The telecoms boss was so worried that his people had upset us that he instructed his tech guy to do a thorough job. We don’t just have the numbers Emma Layzell called, we’ve got the names those numbers are registered to. And there are some surprises.”

  Le Claire knew by the look in Dewar’s eyes that he was going to like what was coming next.

  ◆◆◆

  The ringing of the front doorbell brought an end to any dreams of a lie-in, the shrill ring seeming to bounce off the walls and break into the slumberous quiet of the house.

  With a groan, Grace hauled herself out of bed, and, pausing to throw a cotton dressing gown over her nightdress, she wrenched open her bedroom door and ran down the stairs. As Grace reached the first floor, she saw Sam disappear down the stairs in front of her. He was wearing baggy flannel shorts and a faded T-shirt, hair mussed, and feet bare. Grace ignored the internal stirring at this sight and followed close behind. She may not entirely trust Sam, but h
er body didn’t appear to care about that.

  Sam blocked the open door, and Grace had to peer around him to see who it was. The tense face of Luca’s wife stared back at her.

  “I am so sorry to bother you both, but I just wondered if you’d seen Luca. He didn’t come home last night.”

  Sam looked back at Grace and lifted his brows. He was obviously thinking the same as her. Why would they know? It sounded like their gardener was up to no good.

  Sam’s voice was gentle. “Sorry, afraid we wouldn’t know where he is. Have you tried his mobile?”

  Fiona lifted a shaky hand and indicated the phone she held. “Repeatedly. But it just kicks into voice mail. I thought you might know since he was in the garden last night.” Fiona turned to walk away as Sam put out a hand and lightly touched her arm.

  “What do you mean, Fiona?”

  “He said he’d called you and he was going to—as he put it—stake out the gardens to see if he could catch whoever was coming in at night.”

  “I had no idea he was going to do that. None at all. Maybe he went straight to the pier?”

  Fiona shook her head. “No, I thought of that. But I remembered he said the fishing club wasn’t meeting this Sunday.”

  Grace slid past Sam until she was standing next to Fiona on the doorstep. “What were you going to deal with?”

  Sam looked apologetic. “I didn’t want you to be concerned. Luca thought we may have had an intruder in the gardens over the past week. I said I’d look into it.”

  Grace recalled how she had slept, deep and heavy, two nights previously. The dogs had been staring out the window when she awoke. Had they seen someone? She was being fanciful, surely?

  Sam gestured towards the gardens and spoke to Fiona. “I know you’re worried. Why don’t Grace and I have a quick look around? He may have fallen asleep.”

  Grace gave Sam a disbelieving look. Who’d fall asleep in a dew-covered garden when they only lived a short walk away?

  “Okay. I am really sorry to be a bother, but that would put my mind at rest.”

  All three walked around the back of the house, Sam poking about the borders and bushes, parting fronds and ferns to check in the undergrowth. They moved around to the front of the house, where the beds were deeper, and Grace helped Sam in the search. Soon, they were almost at the top of the lawn. Fiona coloured a little. “Sorry, he can’t be here. I’ll just try and call him again.”

  It took the three of them a moment to realise what had broken the gentle quiet of the garden. A ringing telephone.

  Sam pointed to dense ground foliage and a lush weeping willow. “It’s coming from there.”

  Running towards the sound, the two women following, Sam leapt over the low granite wall that supported the raised area and, bending forward, swept-back the drooping boughs of the willow. “Oh, Christ!”

  Luca lay unmoving on the damp ground, the discarded spade to the side of him. Fiona was right behind Sam and fell to her knees, her frantic hands reaching out to touch her husband, the vicious wound on his head visible against the stark paleness of his skin. Sam gently grabbed her hands. “We better not touch anything. Grace, call an ambulance. Quick.”

  ◆◆◆

  Le Claire and Dewar were driving to their interview. Dewar continued to fill her boss in on all she knew about the telephone logs. “One number was dialled repeatedly over three hours. As I mentioned, it’s registered to a company. There was one other number that was called, just once.”

  “We’ll deal with the single call later. Turn in on the left. I think this is the Averys’ address.”

  As Dewar turned into the drive, they saw a charming brick farmhouse sitting squarely in landscaped gardens and surrounded by verdant fields bountiful with crops. “They’re doing well, sir, even if they are short of an investor.”

  “Yes, but it’s starting to annoy me that this family is connected in one way or another to all our open cases.”

  Susannah Avery opened the door herself, elegant in a pale cream shift dress and holding a matching jacket. “Oh, hello, you’ve just caught me. I am on my way to a lunch appointment. How can I help you?”

  Le Claire responded. “Actually, it’s your husband I want a quick word with. Is he available?”

  Le Claire noticed that Susannah Avery paused and looked as if she was going to question him, but instead she smiled and said, “Of course. Richard is in his study.”

  A cream-painted door lay half-open at the end of the entrance hall. The thick internal walls amplified the sound of their shoes on the flagstones tiles. They followed her into what turned out to be a large study, the shelved walls holding hundreds of books. Richard Avery sat at an elegant oak desk that dominated the centre of his room. He looked up from his computer as they entered. “This is a surprise. Please take a seat.”

  Le Claire and Dewar sat in the two matching armchairs that faced Richard Avery while Susannah Avery perched on the edge of her husband’s desk, gently swinging one bare, suntanned leg. Le Claire couldn’t help thinking what an attractive woman she was. Richard Avery was a lucky man.

  “Mrs Avery, we don’t want to keep you from your lunch.”

  She glanced at her husband, whose shuttered face gave nothing away. “Susannah, would you mind?”

  The sharp look she shot at her husband spoke volumes. Yes, she did mind, but she turned to Le Claire. “I’ll make some drinks. Tea or coffee?”

  Le Claire could feel Dewar’s eyes on him and said, with a sigh, “I’ll have a coffee, black, and my colleague will have some tea.” He could sense Dewar’s smile. He didn’t want a coffee, but he did want Susannah Avery out of the way for more than a couple of minutes.

  The door closed behind her, and silence reigned until Richard Avery cleared his throat. To Le Claire’s ear, the sound was rough with nerves. “Mr Avery, we’d like to ask you a few questions about Emma Layzell. Did you know her?”

  “Emma? Why, yes, although not that well. She dated my son, Sam, a few years ago. Nothing serious. I believe it only lasted a few weeks. We heard—that is, Susannah and I—we heard yesterday that Emma was murdered. Shocking, absolutely shocking.”

  Le Claire’s thought was that the Jersey grapevine never failed.

  “Yes, that is correct. We are treating the death as suspicious. May I ask if you had any contact with Miss Layzell recently?”

  “No, not at all. Look, what is this all about?”

  Dewar leaned forward. “In the early hours of yesterday morning, shortly before her death, Emma Layzell called a mobile number repeatedly—over a dozen times in the space of a few hours. That number was registered to your company.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “That scheming bitch.” Susannah Avery’s voice exploded from the doorway, the tray in her hands trembling a little. Dewar moved and took the heavy tray and laid it on an empty side table, looking longingly at the teapot. Red-faced and struggling to conceal her anger, Susannah Avery swept into the room and stood beside her husband’s chair, one hand resting on his shoulder.

  A show of solidarity thought Le Claire. Wonder why she thinks that is necessary? “What did you mean by that comment, Mrs Avery?”

  She was fierce as she turned and answered. “I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but the likes of Emma Layzell never could see an opportunity slip by. My son comes from a good family, and we’re not badly off. That little tart must’ve thought she won the lottery when Sam started going out with her. Luckily, he came to his senses and dumped her.” She took a breath and continued her tirade. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? She heard that Sam had come into half of Kate’s estate, and she was trying to get him back.”

  Her husband’s raised voice cut her off, weariness evident in his tone. “Susannah! Be quiet. That’s enough. We don’t know any of what you’ve said to be true.”

  Before she could say any more, Dewar said, “You certainly have strong feelings about Miss Layzell.”

  “Mrs Layzell—she was divorced.” Her
voice dripped with condemnation.

  “I take it you disapproved of her?”

  “We’re Catholic, and, old-fashioned as it may seem, divorce has no place in our world, and certainly not in a prospective daughter-in-law.”

  Le Claire interjected, “If we could get back to the questions we need answering. Dewar, do you have details of the mobile number we need to allocate a user to?”

  “Yes, sir.” Dewar handed the paper to Richard Avery, who immediately scanned the digits.

  Le Claire asked, “Do you know who that number belongs to?”

  “Not immediately, no. But I can check it with the office in the morning. We have several phones that are held in a pool, and we issue them to consultants and general staff.”

  “Thank you. We’ll wait to hear from you. In the meantime, can you let me know if your company had any dealings with Layzell Estates?”

  “We tend to market through two or three agents. I’d need to review what, if anything, we do with them.”

  “Please do. Finally, may I ask where you were between midnight on Thursday and 8:00 a.m. on Friday morning?”

  Before her husband could speak, Susannah Avery rounded on Le Claire-her face reddened in rage. “That has to be a joke. Richard barely knew the bloody woman.”

  Richard Avery placed a comforting hand on his wife’s arm. “Please, darling, the police are only doing their job.” Turning back to Le Claire, he continued, “I was at home. We stayed in on Thursday night, as we attended a big wedding on Friday. I left the house around eight-thirty to take our dogs to Grace Howard at Rocque View. I came straight back here, and we both left for the hotel about an hour or so later.”

  In a calmer voice now tinged with frost, his wife concurred with his account. “I can vouch for my husband.”