“He hasn’t been dead long, and, from the facial contortions, it looks like he could have had a seizure of some sort.”
Dewar looked at the body and then back at Le Claire, who could see the question in her eyes. “I guess you’re questioning why the Chief called us in?”
“Yeah, I was. I mean, it is a sudden death, but we’d usually be called in later to liaise with the coroner and the consultant pathologist at the hospital who would do the post-mortem examination.”
“And that’s exactly how we will proceed. The deceased is well known in certain circles, and I guess the chief wants to make sure that no criticism can be laid at our door. You know what it’s like these days; everyone has an opinion on social media.”
“So who was he?”
“Drew Portland. He and his wife are connected to Ginelli’s.” The popular hotel and restaurant had a Michelin star, and his parents often ate there. “I think he was the second husband.”
Viera confirmed this. “Yes, my mum’s event company does a fair bit of work there. He lived a privileged life, apparently.”
Although not that charmed, thought Le Claire, as he gazed at yet another life suddenly ended.
#
Dewar had followed the directions supplied by station coordination. The lane they wanted was past Jersey Zoo. The massive site was in darkness as they drove by.
Le Claire asked, “Have you ever been to the zoo? It’s a pretty special place.”
Dewar shook her head. “You won’t catch me going there. I remember going to one in Scotland when I was a kid. I hated seeing the animals caged like that. They all looked so dejected and sad. Skinny, depressed-looking tigers in a tiny little enclosure. It was horrible.”
“No, it isn’t like that. The place recently turned its name back to Jersey Zoo. It used to be called Durrell Wildlife Park and then, I think, Durrell. Everyone always called it the Zoo. However, it is a wildlife conservation centre. You should go sometime.”
“Oh, right. Will do.”
They fell silent. Inane chit-chat wouldn’t take their minds off their next task.
She grimaced as she slowed the car to fifteen miles per hour and turned into the narrow lane. Her voice was a grumble, the Scottish accent more noticeable than usual. “I tell you, it takes some getting used it. Why anyone drives a flash car on this island, I have no idea, yet trophy cars are littered all over the place. Why? I mean you can only go as fast as forty miles an hour on virtually one road, and that’s only for about ten minutes, if that!”
“I know, it’s part of the island’s charm.” He decided not to say anymore as he registered her black look.
Automatic lights snapped on as they turned into a flagstone courtyard. The house was big, mock-Tudor in design; the pristine white-rendered walls accented by thick slabs of dark wood. The myriad of mullioned windows were in darkness, apart from a ground-floor room from which there was a hazy cast of light through slatted blinds. He dreaded doing this; in truth, he didn’t need to carry out such tasks. It was usually those of a lesser rank who knocked on doors and shattered families’ hopes and dreams. However, where the cause of death wasn’t immediately apparent, he liked to be the one to break the news when he could. Carefully watching the reactions firsthand, gauging the depth of surprise—most victims had known their killer, some intimately.
He rang the bell and heard the shrill buzz echo through the thick wooden door. There was a short delay, until a light flicked on, illuminating the opaque glass panel at the side of the door frame.
A woman opened the door, and her brows lifted as she took in Dewar’s uniform. Le Claire was glad he had insisted they detour past the station so she could change out of her civilian clothes. By long habit, he mentally catalogued his first impressions. She looked to be in her forties, with small, neat features showing a hint of age. She was of medium height and slim, almost skinny. Her red-gold hair was tied back in a loose ponytail and her face make-up free. Her skin was pale and her eyes a dark green. She wore a long, flowing kaftan in muted blues. A woman dressed for a quiet evening at home, an evening he was about to shatter.
“Mrs Louise Portland?” At her brief nod, he carried on. “I’m DCI Le Claire, and this is DS Dewar. May we come in for a moment?
“What is this about?”
Dewar’s voice was soft. “It would be better if we spoke inside, Mrs Portland.”
Louise Portland moved aside with a puzzled look on her face and beckoned them in. “Of course, follow me.”
The hallway was long and wide with various closed doors along its length. She headed to the far end of the hall, and they entered a snug lounge. An L-shaped sofa faced a white-painted fireplace. The hearth was filled with a mass of lit candles, and there was a sweet smell in the air. He sniffed and noticed a wooden incense burner. A tall, middle-aged man walked into the lounge carrying a glass of wine and a tumbler of clear liquid. He stopped when he saw them. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t hear anyone come in. Here’s your water, Louise. I’ll leave you alone and wait in the kitchen.”
“No, Tom. Please stay.” Louise Portland stretched out a hand and indicated the plump sofa. She turned back to Le Claire. “This is Tom Mathison, a family friend. You can speak freely in front of him.”
Mathison set the two glasses on a low coffee table, nodded a brief hello and sat on the sofa. Louise followed suit. This family friend was over six feet with craggy good looks that matched his lean, rangy build. Le Claire couldn’t help wondering about a marriage where the husband sat drinking alone on his boat while the wife entertained a male friend past 10:00 p.m. He brushed that thought aside. He had something more important to deal with now.
“Mrs Portland, I am afraid I must tell you that your husband, Drew Portland, was found dead on his boat this evening. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Louise Portland stared at him as her brain undoubtedly fought to process the words, then she swayed and lilted to the side, shaking her head. “I’m sorry. You must be mistaken. Drew can’t be dead.”
Tom Mathison’s voice was soothing. “Stay calm, Louise, take a deep breath.” He gently placed his hands on her shoulders and pressed her back into the cushions of the plump sofa. He turned to Le Claire, and his voice held a hint of authority. This was a man who was used to being obeyed. “What did Drew die of? He was in good health. I gave him a thorough checkup a month ago. I’m the family doctor.”
Le Claire bit back the retort that it seemed a bit late for a house call. “Given the sudden nature of his death, we will have to arrange an autopsy. As a matter of form, Mr Portland’s death will be treated as suspicious until the results are in.”
He turned to Louise Portland. “I do have a couple of initial questions. Why was your husband on his boat this evening?”
She shook her head. “No particular reason. He likes to have a drink or two of an evening to unwind. A boat is a special place for him.”
Le Claire lodged this to the side. There was something not quite right with this marriage.
“As Mr Portland’s next of kin, we will need you to identify the body.”
Louise Portland drew back and clasped her arms around herself as she automatically looked to Tom Mathison. The doctor’s voice was abrupt. “That will have to wait until tomorrow? I won’t have Louise distressed any further tonight.”
Le Claire stiffened. He couldn’t help himself. The doctor was beginning to annoy him.
Dewar was quick to reply. “That will be okay. Would you like us to call in the family liaison officer?”
Louise Portland shuddered, as if offended by the suggestion. “What for? Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t need a babysitter. I have Tom.” She turned to the doctor. “You’ll stay, won’t you?”
His voice was gentle. “Of course. I won’t leave you.”
Le Claire stood, followed by Dewar. “We’ll organise for a car to collect you in the morning.”
Tom Mathison’s voice cut across whatever Louise Portland had been about to say. “T
hat won’t be necessary. I’ll drive Louise.”
“Very well, we’ll leave you now. We will need to ask some more questions tomorrow.”
Louise Portland stood, her face calm. “I’ll see you to the door.” Tom Mathison made to get up, but she motioned for him to stay where he was. “Sit and have your wine. I may even have a drop myself in a moment.”
“Louise!” There was a warning in Mathison’s voice that she brushed aside with a wave of her hand.
She led them back through the corridor to the front door. They were almost in the car when her voice drew them back. “I’m sorry, in the shock I forgot to ask. Who found Drew?”
Dewar answered. “It was a young woman who was out walking around the harbour. Her name was Sophie. From the notes I understand she has only just returned to the island after several years away.”
“Thank you. I will see you tomorrow.”
They kept silent until they were in the car and heading back through the lanes. Dewar puffed out a huff of air. “I have to say that the new widow was looking exceptionally cosy with the family doctor.”
“I noticed. If this turns out be anything other than an accident or natural causes, we’ll need to look closely at Mrs Portland and her dashing friend.”
#
Louise took her time walking back to the lounge, each step a heavy weight as her brain struggled to send the right messages to her body. Walk, left leg, right leg, walk. She concentrated on the movement, the rhythm, refusing to let any other thoughts make themselves known.
Tom was still sitting where she’d left him, and he looked as dazed as she felt. He rose and came forward, pulling her into his arms. She stiffened, but he held her tight and whispered shushing noises; his breath was warm and not unpleasant as it caressed her ear. She relaxed into his arms. His embrace was a welcome balm to the maelstrom of thoughts that threatened to devour her.
When she spoke, her voice was gruff, her throat dry. “I can’t believe this. I may have wished Drew gone a thousand times, but dead? How can this be?”
“I’m sure we’ll find out in the days to come.”
She drew back and moved out of his arms. “You seem unconcerned.”
“You no longer need to worry. No matter what happens, the business will be safe.”
“Yes, but I wouldn’t have wished him dead.”
“You don’t have to worry about it any longer. You’ve more than enough to concern yourself with.”
Yes, she did—and if Sophie Ginelli was back then she was one of those concerns; especially if she was the one who found Drew.
#
Sophie had been expecting the call for several hours. She’d given a brief statement and been driven the short distance to her hotel. She’d raided the minibar and poured a large gin and tonic. She alternated sipping it and worrying away at a ragged thumbnail. She hadn’t told them everything, and she’d panicked at the last. She had called the police, waited for them to arrive and said she had been out walking. Explained she’d been admiring the luxury boats when she’d seen him. A large shape lying on the deck. She’d approached, called out and, as she got closer, had seen dead eyes staring into hers.
She shook her head to clear the thoughts and took a large gulp of her drink. The bitterness of the tonic water made her tongue tingle, and she relished the sensation.
She checked the caller ID and let her mobile ring out. The ensuing silence was thunderous. The phone rang again. She knew the caller wouldn’t rest until they had spoken. She answered with a brief, “Hi.”
The caller’s voice was sharp. “Is that all you have to say? Was it you? I guess it was, since you’ve actually bothered to answer my call. What a bloody mess. What the hell happened on the boat?”
“Hello to you too, Louise. I found your husband dead and called the police. There’s nothing else to say.”
She closed her eyes at the sigh that whispered through the phone, and an ache of regret stabbed until she could almost feel physical pain. The years of happiness were faded sepia images in her mind compared to the Technicolor vitriol and bitterness of the past decade.
“Sophie, we need to talk. Why didn’t you tell the police who you were?”
“I didn’t think, and when I did, it was too late. I couldn’t face going into it.”
“Well, you’re going to have to. I will need to tell the police I know you.”
“I know, I know.” She ran a hand through her hair. “How did you get my number?” She kept the phone numbers of friends and family in her contacts book. Not to call them but to know what calls she should leave unanswered. She hadn’t received a call from Louise in almost a decade.
“Diane knew better than to hold out on me. I’ve had this number for years. Just in case I needed to get hold of you.”
She knew she would have to meet with Louise when she’d come back to the island. She hadn’t expected it to be so soon. “I’ll come see you tomorrow. We can talk then.”
“Fine, make it around noon. I need to identify the body in the morning.”
“Oh Christ, do you want me to come with you?”
“No, Tom will take me.”
“Tom Mathison? Is he still on the scene?”
“Don’t be snide. Tom is a good friend. Anyway, don’t change the subject. What were you doing on the boat?”
“I’ll explain it all tomorrow.” She paused, and the silence lengthened. She knew what she had to say and cleared her throat. It was gravelled. Perhaps words did stick in your throat. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
There was a bark of mirthless laughter. “You may feel empathy for me, having lost a second husband, however I sincerely doubt you are sorry that Drew is dead.”
“Louise . . .”
“Don’t say anything. No platitudes or lies, please. I’m almost scared to know what you were doing there. I didn’t even know you were back in Jersey.”
Thoughts raced through Sophie’s head. What was the point of the truth? Not now, not when everything had changed so dramatically. So she said what she thought was believable. “I wanted to make peace with you. I needed to make everything all right with Drew first. At least enough so that he didn’t think I’d be shooting daggers at him all the time.”
“If only you hadn’t left it so late.” Her sigh drifted through the phone. “I better go now. Come and see me tomorrow. Don’t let me down.”
The call disconnected and the not again hung in the air as if Louise had spoken the accusation.
Sophie tossed her phone onto the bed and moved to the floor-length window overlooking the harbour. She could see the marina off to the right. Lights brighter than usual as the police did their night’s work. She downed her drink and moved to make another, then stopped. She’d better leave it. She would need to be thinking straight tomorrow, for she was sure she’d be talking to the police, and she definitely had some explaining to do.
CHAPTER TWO
The next morning Le Claire watched in silence as an ashen-faced Louise Portland was comforted by a grim-looking Tom Mathison. Her voice was hoarse. “Yes, that’s my husband. That’s Drew.”
Dewar placed a gentle hand on the woman’s shoulder and directed her to the door. “Follow me, please, and we’ll get you a hot drink and sit somewhere quiet.”
Le Claire was last to leave the stark viewing room with its steel gurney in pride of place. He had seen similar white-shrouded figures more times than he cared to remember. It wasn’t a sight he would ever get used to. He shook away his musings and followed Dewar into a small anteroom equipped with a drinks machine.
He waited until everyone sat down. Everyone except Dewar, that was. She was lingering by the drinks machine and jumped into action at his nod. Everyone plumped for coffee, which would no doubt be vile, apart from Dewar, who got one of her habitual strong teas. She’d better enjoy it because this was the last time they’d be stopping for refreshment today.
Louise Portland sipped at her drink, and she looked even paler than she had yesterday. In t
he harsh light of day, there was a gauntness to her face, and he asked himself if she was yet another woman with money who almost starved herself to look good in the latest fashions. She wore a black dress, simple to the point of austerity. The distinctive buttons, embossed with interlinking Cs, gave the game away. His own mother had bought something similar for an event with some visiting dignitaries, and even his father had baulked at the cost of the outfit.
“Mrs Portland, if it’s okay, I do have a few questions.”
“Of course.”
“As your husband died suddenly, we can’t rule out any third-party involvement until the autopsy results come through.”
Louise Portland drew back a little and shook her head. “I don’t know what you mean by third-party involvement.”
Mathison drew back, shaking his head. “I assume the detective means murder. Why not say so, even though it’s a ridiculous idea.”
Le Claire kept his features even. “Third parties can also be involved in accidents, so let’s not jump to any conclusions. Can I ask you again why your husband was at the marina?”
Her initial response was a brief shrug. “Drew loves the sea and has always spent hours on the boat. He is from a fishing family. The sea is in his blood.”
Le Claire noticed that she used the present tense; it would no doubt take time for her to speak of her late husband in the past tense. “It looked as if Mr Portland was drinking alone.”
She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Is that a crime now?”
Dewar interjected, “Of course not, but we did find several empty bottles of alcohol on the deck.”
“You are asking if my husband had a drinking problem? Drew was a man of appetites and would often drink to excess. He would also abstain for several days in a row.”
Le Claire said, “The autopsy will determine if the death was alcohol related. Do you know if anyone was with him?”
“You said he was alone.”
“We didn’t see any evidence of another person there. Was he in the habit of taking people on board?”
Blood On The Rock: Treachery, desire, jealousy and murder (A Jack Le Claire Mystery) Page 2
