“I knew they’d be going for dismissal as an opening gambit, ridiculous as it is. So what’s new, apart from the early date?”
“We’ve had feedback that the outcome isn’t looking good.”
Acidic bile burned his throat, a bitter manifestation of his mounting rage, and he couldn’t keep the edge from his voice. “Define ‘not looking good’.”
“The prosecution team say the defence’s claim of insufficient evidence could hold some weight and have the case thrown out.”
“What about Chapman’s confession? How about the fact he led us to April Baines? It was too damned late, but he showed us exactly where she was.”
The devil that rode his back whispered in his ear. What if he hadn’t battered the man unconscious—no matter Chapman had been wielding a vicious blade and wasn’t reluctant to use it. If the man hadn’t been unconscious for weeks, maybe they’d have found April in time. But they hadn’t. April Baines, a teenage runaway and, to some, another statistic, had been raped, beaten and buried alive. Even in his darkest moments, he couldn’t comprehend the unspeakable agonies she must have endured before her death. He shuddered as Gareth spoke.
“I’m sorry, Jack. It looks like the confession will be inadmissible. We knew there was a risk this could happen. Only you heard him speak about April in the hospital. His team claims you heard it elsewhere and used it to pin these abductions and murders on him. As for the confession? You know the lawyers say it has the taint of brutality, Chapman was scared of you and only said what you wanted to hear.”
“Is that what you believe?”
“Don’t be an ass. If that were true, the original internal hearing would have had a very different outcome.”
“Fine, but if Chapman gets off because of me, I assume there will be questions.”
“You no longer work for the London Met. The States of Jersey is a separate force.”
“Right, but mud sticks. What now?”
“I’ll keep you posted. Don’t worry.”
He disconnected the call and leant back against the headboard.
“Jack? Is something wrong? Was that Gareth?”
He heard the concern—and fear—in her voice and wished he hadn’t. Neither of them needed any reminders of London, not now they were finally back on track. But it looked like London wasn’t going away. He took a deep breath. “He says Chapman may get off—that the case may not even get to trial.”
She sat up, the duvet falling to her waist. “No way, the man is a psycho. He raped and murdered young girls and buried April Baines alive. They can’t let him off.
He ran a shaking hand through his hair. “It’s one thing catching a criminal, but that’s only the beginning. The legal machine kicks in, the lawyers get involved, and it doesn’t always go as you expect from there. I wonder why I do this sometimes. Maybe Dad is right. It’s the lawyers who make a difference, not the police.”
She touched his arm in a soft, soothing caress. “The criminal lawyers would have nothing to do if guys like you didn’t catch the monsters in the first place. Don’t let this disillusion you.”
She leant into him, and he held her tight, but a knot of dread had formed in his chest.
#
It might be Sunday, but murder investigations didn’t follow a Monday-to-Friday pattern so forget the nine to five. Le Claire had been at his desk for two hours, and it wasn’t yet 10:00 a.m. He’d pushed the Chapman matter to the side; he had to—there was no other way to cope. He’d handed in the reports on the previous evening’s incident so it would be someone else’s problem now. He had enough of his own to deal with.
He knew they were looking at murder. There were quicker and easier ways to kill yourself than the slow, agonising method of fungi poisoning, and why the hell would you doctor your own wine? As far as he could make out, there were plenty of people with a reason to want Drew Portland gone. His betrayed wife, his lover, her husband, the wife’s shadow or even the stepdaughter. They’d need to speak to his lawyer and find out what would happen with Portland’s estate. Most murders were carried out with either sex or money in the motive mix.
He sighed, leant back in his chair and stretched his arms over his head to ease his aching shoulders. He’d finish in a bit and go home. He and Sasha were going out for breakfast. But he couldn’t wait that long for a coffee, so he grabbed his jacket and headed to the snazzy new cafeteria. He might have to avoid coffee at home as it was giving Sasha heartburn. She hadn’t said as much, but she’d thrown him a filthy look when he’d walked back into the bedroom, coffee mug in hand, to give her a good-bye kiss. Sasha loved coffee almost as much as he did, so this was going to be a challenge. As was it all, but he was ready for it. Their future was taking a different path, but it was one that gave him a jolt of wonder every time he thought about it.
“What have you got to be so bloody cheerful about?”
A harassed-looking Vanguard scowled even further at Le Claire’s breezy, “And a good morning to you as well.”
“Stop smiling; you’re ruining an already crap day.”
“What’s up?”
“I’m overworked and overstretched. The recent budget cuts mean I can’t employ anyone else at the moment, and I’ve more than enough on to expand the team. Ironically, I now also have space and snazzy new equipment since we moved here.”
“I guess I shouldn’t ask how you got on with the stuff from Drew Portland’s office?”
His glare was disconcerting. “No, you shouldn’t. I’ve allocated someone to run through what we’ve taken away. I’ve sent a team back in there today, and they’ll finish with a thorough review of Portland’s boat, in case we missed anything. I’ll let you know the results soon enough.”
Vanguard rarely missed anything, mainly because he always allowed his teams a couple of days to finish their investigation. There were no rushed jobs on his watch.
His thin face looked tired and even more drawn than usual. Le Claire made to move away and then asked, “The woman on the beach. Do we know who she is yet?”
“Yes, some youngsters were messing about in a kayak and came across a lightweight rucksack caught amongst the rocks.”
“Our mystery woman’s?”
“Yep. It contained a small Swim Cell. That’s a waterproof store for valuables. Surfers and swimmers use them. This one was meant to hold a phone.”
“And did it?”
“Yep, plus about fifty quid in notes and, the piece de resistance, a passport. The photo matches our Jane Doe.”
“Who is she?”
“A French girl. Francine Bresson. The passport says she was born in St Malo, so we’ve contacted the local police. See if they can access any up-to-date information from their database.”
“What’s the current status?”
“Given the circumstances, the Home Office pathologist has been called in to do the post-mortem, but he’ll likely only arrive this afternoon, that’s if the fog lifts. DI Murphy is running with the investigation, and I believe there are no leads yet as to how the body got onto the beach. No one of that name has entered the island or been reported missing or lost at sea.”
“At least we know who the poor woman is.”
“Yes, but not what she was doing on the beach or what led to her death.”
“The facts never stay anonymous forever.” He clasped the CSI chief’s shoulder. “Take care. The last thing we need is you getting ill. Don’t work so hard.”
Vanguard’s voice followed him down the corridor. “Pot and kettle spring to mind.”
#
The pub was quaint and served great food. He’d had a full breakfast washed down with a real pint; typical of this part of the Cornish coast. They had satisfactorily concluded business and would offload the merchandise when they had finished eating. He had been forced to keep the prices low, but any profit was better than none, especially in his current predicament.
The inn’s proprietor, he had no idea what his name was, said, “Can you let me hav
e the same order in a couple of weeks?”
He smiled, but inside he seethed. This backwater village wouldn’t get through this delivery in a few months, let alone two weeks. The cheeky sod of a landlord would sell to further afield pubs and restaurants and pocket a bit for himself. There was nothing he could do. “Sure, I have an order I’m collecting early tomorrow so I can let you have it two weeks today.”
How much longer was he going to have to go on like this? He needed money, and he’d better get it soon. Enough had gone wrong already.
#
Louise pushed the platter of roast beef towards Tom. “Have some more. As you can see, there’s plenty.”
He speared two generous slices and added them to his plate. “Thanks, I will. I appreciate you inviting me for lunch, but you shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.”
She ignored the slight censure for she knew he meant well. Perhaps she had gone a little overboard. She cast her eye across the table. She’d roasted a side of beef and served the trimmings. Her Yorkshire Puddings were perfect, crispy on the outside and fluffy within. She’d cooked far too many vegetables, but she’d honeyed and spiced them until they oozed with flavour and perfectly complemented the joint. They’d enjoyed a simple starter of fried calamari, and there was a devilish chocolate pudding for dessert.
“I needed something to do, and cooking calms me, takes my mind off things.”
“How are the arrangements?”
“I’m waiting to hear when they’ll release Drew.” She couldn’t say the body, that was too cold, too clinical. “I called Maura, and we’ve agreed on a quiet, private funeral. No fuss.”
“Can we leave after it?” There was a plea in his voice she didn’t want to hear.
“Don’t. Not right now. The truth is, I don’t even know if it’s what I want.”
“Louise, you promised.”
“I said I would give it serious consideration, but I truly don’t know what to do for the best. I mean, how can I leave the business?”
“By putting yourself, and your needs, first for once. Justin can manage. Luckily, he’s taken on more and more the last few years.”
“I promised Tony I’d look after the hotel, and I’ve tried, but I had to give time to Drew as well.” She hesitated, voiced her fears. “What if this doesn’t work out?” Her voice wobbled, and hot tears filled her eyes.
“I would never steer you wrong. You know what you mean to me . . .”
She drew back. “Please don’t, not now.”
He sighed and sipped at his wine. “Very well but this can’t wait forever. There needs to be a decision.”
#
Peter was bone-weary as they tied up the boat and made sure everything was tight and in its place. He glanced at Beth. His sister was a wonder, and he didn’t know what he’d do without her. “That was a great help, love. You head on off now and thanks for today.”
She’d changed into clean jeans and T-shirt, and he had to keep his face straight when he saw the slogan on her top, Displaced people, Disrespected Souls. The one she’d taken off had said, Feminist Rules, Manly Fools. He was never entirely sure what her latest cause or belief was. She’d once chanted all the way to France in her Wiccan phase; claimed it was a protective spell. He hadn’t known where to look when the holiday-makers who were day-tripping with them hadn’t seemed to know whether they should be worried about why they needed protection or the fact a self-proclaimed witch was their protector. However, she was far too touchy for him to tease her.
“You sure? I haven’t tidied the galley yet.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll do it.” He craved some time alone to consider all that happened and perhaps even indulge in a little self-pity.
The small kitchen wasn’t too untidy. Beth had made herself some soup and a sandwich when he was ashore. She liked to keep to herself and didn’t like company. He set to and had everything washed, dried and packed away in ten minutes. He grabbed a can of lager from the fridge and headed to the deck. He’d sit on his rickety chair and watch the sun go down. The small harbour was devoid of people, but not boats. These weren’t fancy yachts but personal craft used for fishing and, if they weren’t too decrepit, going on jaunts to France or the UK. Patched hulls and mended sails were the order of the day, and the engines chugged and spluttered. Real boats, real seamen.
His vessel was the largest and best maintained, but it was his livelihood. Or part of it. He had free rein with what he had jokingly referred to as Drew’s fleet. Whether it continued would depend on Louise.
He tipped his head back and took a long, slow draught of the ice-cold lager, straight from the tin. The alcohol soothed him, although he didn’t need a hangover in the morning, not when he’d be sailing out before the sun rose. Dusk brought swooping gulls, flying low and venturing farther inland. The Jersey seagulls were entitled creatures, known to steal sandwiches from plates and chips out of your hand. They’d get nothing from him tonight. He couldn’t be bothered going home, as he’d need to come back in a few hours. He’d have another drink and make his bed in the small cabin. The roar of a car-engine, close by, surprised him. No-one came here at night.
He recognised who it was and shame mixed with anger, each fighting for prominence. Anger won as she slammed the car door and he watched her stroll to the dock.
“Hey, how you doing? I came by earlier, but the boat was gone. Where have you been?” Her voice was light and coated with honey.
That wasn’t any of her bloody business. “Out with clients. What the hell are you doing here, Diane?”
He knew his voice was cold and the words unwelcoming but he did not need this. His mind was crowded with enough at the moment without her piling on the pressure.
“Don’t be like that. I came to see how you were. Apparently, I needn’t have bothered. What has you in a foul mood? Shall I hazard a guess?”
He was taken aback by the sly look in her eyes and the vicious twist of her mouth.
“Imagine Cathy having an affair with Drew. What a shocker. You’re well rid of her.”
He raised his hands, palms facing her as he stepped back. “That’s enough. Leave it. I don’t want to talk about this with you. Cathy is my wife and whatever happens is between us, no-one else.”
“You think you can make this okay? She was shagging your best mate who was laughing about you behind your back. Tell me you’re not going to forgive her?” Her lips pulled back, baring her teeth and she looked dangerous, unhinged, feral. “You hope she’ll come back to you now lover-boy is dead? Not if she finds out about us, eh?”
He tensed, his heartbeat racing. “Keep your mouth shut. You hear me.” He’d shouted the words, and she stilled.
“You watch your step, Peter Frobisher. You can’t treat me like this and get away with it.” And with that, she ran back to her car and sped off.
His heart was thudding. Was it all going to come crashing down again?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The next morning Le Claire was sitting in his office, admiring his new space but secretly missing the old when Dewar popped her head around the door. “Louise Portland gave me the name of her husband’s lawyer. I’m off to see him now. Do you want to come?”
“Sure, let’s go.”
The lawyer’s office was tucked away at the top end of town, sandwiched between a jeweller’s and a computer repair shop. Happily, it was a five-minute walk from the new station.
The receptionist directed them to a cramped room directly off the small foyer. A man who looked to be in his forties, with glasses and untidy hair, greeted them as he rose from behind his cluttered desk. He swept the piles of paper on his two visitor chairs to the floor and gestured for them to sit.
“Thanks. I’m DCI Le Claire, and this is DS Dewar. You must be Mr Mason?”
He inclined his head. “William Mason at your service. Now, what can I do for you?”
“We’d like to know about Mr Portland’s will. Has it been read yet?”
Mason took his glas
ses off and rubbed them clean on his tie. “No, we’d usually do something like this after the funeral, when all the parties are together. However, there are some complications I need to look into.”
“And those might be?”
“Mr Portland was my late father’s client. My dad passed away several months ago, and I’m trying to make sense of the business. I’ve taken a sabbatical from the practice of which I’m a partner to get all this,” he swept his hand around the jumbled mess of papers, “into some order.” His sigh rebounded in the small room. “It’s not easy. Anyway, the long story short is that I have a couple of points to look into about Drew Portland’s will, and I need to collect details of his estate and determine the bequests. But I must investigate a major issue first.”
Le Claire lifted a brow. “Is there a problem with the will? Who inherits?”
“That’s the problem. Drew Portland left his entire estate to parties other than his wife. I’m sure you appreciate I can’t go into exact details at the moment but the heirs are relatives. The problem is that Jersey has heirship provisions that determine minimum percentages of an estate that must be passed on to widows or children.”
“So his will may not be legal?”
“I need to check it out. There may be an agreement between husband and wife to override the heirship rules.”
Dewar leant in. “And if it is legal, how much would we be looking at the heirs inheriting?”
“I can’t say. I don’t have any idea what he was worth personally, apart from the business, of course.”
“What? He had an interest in Ginelli’s?”
“I’m trying to find that out. However, he ran a small charter business. My father drafted the partnership agreement about a year ago.”
“He had a partner?”
“Yes, let me see. I recall the agreement said the charter business would pass to the survivor if one of them died within the first three years. So this is not an asset of the estate.” He opened a manila folder, where pages were neatly clipped or stapled together and filed under coloured dividers, and ruffled through the papers. The son was more organised than the father had been. He pulled out a typewritten sheet of paper. “Yes, here it is. The partner is a Peter Frobisher.”
Blood On The Rock: Treachery, desire, jealousy and murder (A Jack Le Claire Mystery) Page 11
