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

by Kelly Clayton

  Le Claire stood. “Thank you for your time. We’ll wait to hear from you about that mobile number. We’ll see ourselves out.” And they left the Averys in their study.

  ◆◆◆

  Richard stood and took his wife into his arms. She was shaking as she said, “Oh, Richard, we’ve seen more of the police these last weeks than in our entire life. When will this all end? I just want us to get back to normal.” She finished on a sob.

  Richard gently ran a soothing hand over her hair. “Hush, love, hush. We’ve nothing to worry about.”

  Susannah looked into his face; her gaze was direct and perhaps a little calculating. “I’m glad to hear that because, if I am truthful, I don’t know if you were in the house during the time the inspector mentioned. You never came to bed, remember? Same as last night. That’s a habit I’d like you to break, darling.”

  Richard Avery felt the power balance in his marriage quiver and ever so slightly tilt in his wife’s favour.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Le Claire and Dewar were on their way to speak to the next person on their list when his mobile rang. “Le Claire speaking.” He remained impassive as he listened to the caller. “We’re on our way” was his only comment.

  “Sir?”

  “Turn around. We need to get to the hospital—fast.”

  ◆◆◆

  They were directed by a clinically efficient receptionist to the right floor. Le Claire pushed through wide double doors into the ward, closely followed by Dewar.

  Grace Howard and Sam Avery were huddled together on hard plastic chairs the same putty colour as the sterile hospital walls.

  Le Claire murmured a brief “hello” as he made his way past them to where a uniformed policeman sat. “Briars, what’s the story?”

  The young constable rose, took out his notebook and slowly flipped through the pages, carefully reading what was noted on each one before checking the next.

  Le Claire groaned. People usually said that one of the most disturbing things in life was that as they got older, policemen seemed to get younger. Christ thought Le Claire, they should do my job. “Get on with it, son.”

  With a flushed face, Briars did just that. “Sir, Mr de Freitas, Luca de Freitas, is a gardener and handyman. One of his jobs was at the property where he was found, Rocque View. He never came home last night, and his wife went looking for him this morning. According to his wife, he thought someone was trespassing on the grounds of the property at night and had gone to see what he could find out. He was discovered by his wife, a Mr Sam Avery and Miss Grace Howard. The latter two are residing at the property. Mr de Freitas was unconscious and bleeding from a head wound. An ambulance was on-site within minutes of the call, and they alerted the station that it looked a matter for investigation.”

  “And what has our investigation found so far?”

  “Mr de Freitas appears to have been attacked on the lawn and dragged into the bushes. He was hit over the head with a heavy instrument, a spade.”

  Le Claire lifted a brow. “A spade? How can we be that precise?”

  “It was lying on the ground beside the victim. And there were traces of blood on it.”

  I asked for that, thought Le Claire. “Thanks, Briars. What is the current position with Mr de Freitas?”

  “He was unconscious the last time I spoke to the doctor in charge, which was about half an hour ago. However, there have been quite a few doctors and nurses rushing in and out of the room since then.”

  A middle-aged man wearing dark blue scrubs was walking towards them, and Briars said, “That’s Dr Foster. He’s in charge.”

  The doctor’s face was grave. “Hi, Jack. I thought you might pitch up here. This is bad business. He’s lucky to be alive.”

  “How is he? Is he still unconscious?”

  “Yes, but his condition is stable. We’ve just had a bit of a scare as his heart rate went off the scale, but we got it back down, and it’s under control.”

  “Okay, but I need to know as soon as he is conscious.

  The doors to the room behind them swung open, and a young nurse came rushing out. She quickly glanced around and, seeing the doctor, made straight for him. “We need you, doctor.”

  Dr Foster turned to follow the nurse; stopping as he realised Le Claire was right behind him. “You can’t come in with me. Let me deal with this, and I’ll let you see him as soon as I can.”

  Dr Foster closed the door solidly behind him. Dewar joined Le Claire. “Is everything all right?”

  “Looks like something is going on in there, and I’m hoping we’ll be able to talk to our victim soon. The timing of this attack on Kate Avery’s gardener is too coincidental for my liking. So the sooner we can find out what happened, we can either use the information or discount this incident from our enquiries.”

  “I spoke to Sam Avery before he left to get some coffees.” Le Claire glanced around and saw Grace sitting on her own, just staring into space. “He said that Kate Avery had trouble in the past with kids sneaking into her garden at night. A couple of times, she found empty beer cans and cigarette butts discarded in the bushes.”

  Le Claire shook his head slowly. “If this is down to kids, then the little sods deserve whatever happens to them. Wait here. I’m going to try and talk to the doctor.”

  ◆◆◆

  He stood alone. Rage was coursing through him as he considered how matters were spiralling out of control. What the hell had the gardener been doing there last night? The fool certainly didn’t get paid enough to stick his nose into anyone else’s business, so why was he creeping around in the dark and spying on him?

  He’d seen the movement behind him, tracked the dark shadow as it clumsily made its way across the lawn. In seconds, he had his bag in his hand, the machine inside it, and was about to turn and make a run for it. It would have been simple to lose him in the labyrinth of nearby estates. Would have been, that is, if that damned idiot hadn’t brained the man, and with his own garden spade of all things. Now Rocque View was a crime scene, and he’d need to lie low for a few days until the police had finished with it.

  But time was one thing he didn’t have.

  ◆◆◆

  Le Claire stopped the doctor as came out of the hospital room. “How is the patient?”

  “He’s showing some signs of awareness.”

  “Can I see him?”

  The doctor shook his head. “I didn’t say he was conscious. My patient’s health comes before your investigation. You’ll see him when I am sure he is fully on the way to recovery.” He took pity at Le Claire’s expression. “If it’s any comfort, I’d expect that he’ll be up to talking to you by the day after tomorrow at the latest. I’ll get in touch as soon as he’s fit to be interviewed.”

  Le Claire groaned. That long? “Fine, I guess the doctor is always right. Let me know if we can see him earlier.”

  Le Claire walked back to Dewar, whose face wore a slightly haunted expression as she spoke to Grace.

  “Sir, I’ve just been telling Miss Howard that our enquiries are proceeding and we’ll let her know as soon as we have any more to say about her great-aunts.”

  Grace was combative. “And I’ve been asking why the police are being so incompetent. Do you have an answer?”

  “I can assure you that we are doing all that is possible, and matters are progressing satisfactorily. However, you must appreciate that it is simply not possible, or indeed appropriate, for us to discuss the specifics of an ongoing investigation. I am sorry, but I cannot prejudice our investigations.”

  Le Claire turned and walked away, Dewar on his heels. “There’s nothing else for us to do here at the moment, Dewar. Come on.”

  As they exited the hospital, Dewar asked, “Where to, sir?”

  “To speak to the other person Emma Layzell called just before she died. James Grayling.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Grace and Sam left the hospital shortly after the police. Luca was stable, and there
was nothing they could do for the moment.

  Grace busied herself with her laptop as she caught up on email correspondence. She hadn’t looked at her account in days. There were several missives from her mother, a much shorter one from her father, a couple of how-are-yous from friends and, surprisingly, an email from Carter.

  Grace hovered the cursor over Carter’s name, considered the surname she had once thought was going to be hers. She hesitated. Was she really in the right mood for whatever it contained? She had couriered her engagement ring back to Carter. Perhaps he was emailing to say he’d received it? Or maybe it was something else entirely, especially given her mother’s recent comments.

  She was jolted from her musings by the ringing of her cell. She reached out to pick it up, but her hand stopped and hovered in midair as she recognised the number. Never one to run from her demons, Grace stiffened her resolve and answered the call. “Carter. This is a surprise.”

  “Grace, it’s good to hear your voice. How are you?”

  How am I? thought Grace. Dumped, grieving and in the middle of a multiple murder enquiry.

  “I’m fine, Carter. You?” Grace was polite, but she could feel the distance between them, physical and emotional.

  “Actually, that’s what I’m calling about. I’m not that great.”

  “Really?”

  The words tumbled out of him. “It’s not working out with Gina. She doesn’t really fit in with our crowd. I took her to a charity dinner at the Met. You know, the annual one to benefit the smaller charities in the city.”

  Yes, I do know, you bastard was Grace’s vicious thought as she considered how many years she had attended the exact same dinner with Carter and their friends.

  “Anyway, Gina said she’d meet me there, wanted to surprise me with her outfit. Christ, that she did. It was sexy as hell, but she looked like a hooker.”

  “Carter,” Grace interrupted. “Can you get to the point?”

  “Oh, sure. Anyway, Gina really wasn’t dressed appropriately. We were at a table with the governor and his wife for Christ’s sake. Gina’s dress was so low cut no one knew where to look!”

  “You knew what Gina was like, Carter. She always dresses like that. I had assumed that’s what attracted you.”

  “Yes, I know. But at the Met?”

  Grace stifled a snort as she thought of Gina at the same table, no matter what she was wearing, as the stuck-up Governor Beaufort and his equally snobbish wife.

  Carter was in full flow. “I didn’t know where to put myself. The crowning moment was when Gina flipped out at the waiter for serving us soup that had gone cold. When I tried to quietly explain that gazpacho is meant to be cold, she went ballistic. Said she was mortified, blamed me for not telling her and openly ignored me for the rest of the night.”

  “I think we both know that Gina isn’t currently my favourite person. I really don’t want to hear anything about your relationship with her. I have enough to deal with right now without discussing your woes.”

  “Oh yeah, sorry about your aunts. Anyway, that’s why I called. I’m not happy.”

  Had he always been so selfish? She brushed the thought aside as a gnawing in her stomach evidenced her growing nervousness about whatever he was about to say. She had a compulsion to close her ears and end the call now. But Carter’s voice wouldn’t go away.

  “I made a terrible mistake. You’re the right wife for me. Please say you’ll forgive me?”

  “Carter, please, I don’t think...”

  “Don’t answer me now. Think about it. I know you won’t let one little mishap ruin our future together. I’ll call you again in a couple of days. We can talk properly then.”

  And with that, Carter disconnected the call, leaving Grace confused and not entirely in control.

  ◆◆◆

  The traffic had been crawling at a snail’s pace as Dewar had driven them west from St Helier along the dual carriageway and then north. A distance of only a few miles had taken them well over forty minutes as the coastal road groaned under the onslaught of Sunday drivers.

  Le Claire’s elbow was leaning out the open window, his hand reaching up to drum impatiently on the roof. “For Christ’s sake, where are all these people going? It’s a good job we don’t have an emergency on, or we’d be ploughing through them. Actually, maybe that wouldn’t be a bad thing.” For not the first time in his life, Le Claire bemoaned his honesty and wished he was reckless enough to order Dewar to bang on the sirens and send the cars in front of them scattering out of the way.

  Dewar flicked a sideways glance at Le Claire. “I guess we are in a rush, sir, so maybe... ?”

  He knew she was thinking the same thing and that the canny Scot would be tempted just to slam on the siren and lights and use the power of the police symbols to get to where they wanted to go as soon as possible. Le Claire ignored her.

  Having left the coast behind, they slowly drove along narrow, hedge-trimmed country lanes. Dewar glanced at the vehicle’s navigational system. “Sir, we’re nearly there. I think it’s this block of flats coming up.”

  As they drove into the car-parking area, Le Claire felt a surge of nostalgia. The building used to be a hotel and nightclub venue, and he’d spent a good part of his late teens here. Like so many of these buildings, this one had recently been converted to fancy apartments for the finance sector crowd and others with more money than sense. He’d never been inside one of these, but he bet it was all open-plan living, wooden floors, double ovens and built-in coffee machines. Over the top for sure, but he couldn’t help but wonder how much they went for. He guessed too much for a policeman’s salary, for he drew a firm, impenetrable line at taking handouts from his parents.

  “Everything okay?” The car had stopped, and Dewar was staring at Le Claire, waiting for him to make a move.

  Le Claire brushed aside thoughts of finding a new home, especially one he couldn’t afford and jumped out of the car. He took in the surrounding countryside, a perfect setting for the quiet grandeur of the remodelled Georgian-style building, its long sash windows and stone balconies reminiscent of a gentler age.

  “Sir, does anyone live in a normal house in Jersey?” The Scots import was used to living in police staff quarters, and she hadn’t been on the island that long that she was yet blasé about the wealth and comfort that a lot of residents enjoyed.

  Le Claire was grateful that Dewar had never seen his parents’ place. “Of course they do, Dewar, just not on this case. Now ring the damned bell and let’s get on with this. We don’t have all day.”

  James Grayling answered immediately, his voice distorted through the intercom. “The police? You better come up. It’s the penthouse.”

  It bloody well would be, thought Le Claire as the lift doors closed behind them. Within moments, they soundlessly slid open to reveal a brightly lit internal hallway with a silver-painted mirror and low sideboard as decoration. The solitary door faced the lift, and as they walked forward, it was opened by a tousle-haired and barefoot man that Le Claire assumed was James Grayling. He stood in the doorway, dressed in soft sweatpants and a pristine T-shirt. He gestured towards himself and apologised. “Sorry, I was just chilling on the balcony with a beer, so I’m afraid I’m a bit casual. Please come in.”

  Le Claire could almost feel Dewar suck in her breath, and she seemed to be walking straighter. Great, hormones at play. “Mr Grayling, I am DCI Le Claire of the States of Jersey Police, and this is my colleague, DS Dewar. We have a few questions for you if we may?”

  James looked surprised but indicated that they follow him. A short, narrow corridor led into a large open-plan living space, furnished entirely in shades of oatmeal and sand. Blasts of colour came from the modern artwork, huge canvases that bled across the walls with splashes of scarlet and ochre.

  Dewar couldn’t help herself. “Wow, this is some place.”

  Le Claire grimaced while James Grayling’s face lit up with a broad grin. “Thank you, although I can’t take any c
redit for this. It came already decorated.” And with an expansive gesture, he indicated the living and kitchen area. “The study and bedroom are more to my taste.”

  Dewar grew pinker at the word bedroom, and Le Claire had to wonder, entirely inappropriately, when she had last got laid.

  He shook that worrying thought aside as Grayling said, “What can I do for you?”

  Le Claire answered, “I’d just like to ask how you knew Emma Layzell.”

  “Sorry, I don’t know what you mean. That’s the girl who was killed? I heard about it from a friend, but I didn’t know her myself.”

  Le Claire shot a look at Dewar, and she handed him a piece of paper. He reeled off the digits of the mobile telephone number. “That is your number, isn’t it?”

  He frowned. “Yes, but I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

  Dewar took the paper back from Le Claire. “Your number came up as having been rung shortly before she died. Why did Emma Layzell call you?”

  “Look, I don’t know any Emma Layzell—oh, Christ, wait a minute. It was Emma Blair, wasn’t it? Oh God, she’s dead? I never knew her married name. I need to sit down.”

  Grayling sat down heavily on the opposite sofa to Le Claire and Dewar.

  “Why would Miss Layzell have called you?”

  “I hadn’t seen Emma in ages. I rent this place and had been toying with the idea of buying somewhere. I bumped into Emma in town. I hadn’t seen her in years. When I realised she was an estate agent, I gave her my number and said to phone me if any good apartments came up.”

  Dewar prompted, “What did she say on the call?”

  “I never spoke to her. She left a message. Pretty garbled about where I was and so forth. To be honest, she sounded drunk. I didn’t even realise it was her until I played it back a couple of times. I guess she must’ve dialled my number by accident. Someone was talking about her last night. I had no idea it was Emma Blair, though. I’m really shocked.”