#
Peter Frobisher’s boat lay in a less salubrious location than that of his business partner. It was tucked away in a small harbour, with few amenities but much lower fees. Frobisher was waiting for them on the deck, a beer in hand as he leant precariously on the back legs of a striped chair. He waved his free hand at the metal walkway connecting the boat to the dock. “Come aboard.” A young woman stood beside him. She had a natural way about her with short curly hair and a make-up-free face. From her clothes, waterproof dungarees and a sloganed top, Le Claire presumed she was helping clean the boat. “This is my little sister, Beth. She was just leaving. Thanks, love.” She mumbled a goodbye as she hopped onto dry land.
Le Claire moved to the side to let her pass with a polite smile, but inside his heart beat a little faster, and his palms were sweaty as he thought about what he had to do next. Even being on a docked boat in a sheltered harbour didn’t appeal to him. “Great, thank you. Come on, Dewar.” He wondered if his voice sounded forced but concentrated on walking onto the boat, telling himself not to look down at the sliver of sea flowing between the hull and the dock. He was conscious that he held onto the rope railing a little too tightly and prayed no one noticed. Once on board, he leant against the side of the boat and held on to the railing in what he hoped was a nonchalant manner. He gestured to Dewar. “We have a few questions. Go ahead.”
She threw him a quick look, and he couldn’t blame her. He always kicked-off the questioning first, but he was concentrating on steadying his roiling stomach.
She ably took over. “We hear you were in partnership with Drew Portland.”
His eyes widened enough for his surprise to be evident. “Yes, that’s right. No one knows about it, but we ran a small business taking the occasional charter.”
“Why was it a secret?”
“It wasn’t a secret. We only did a few jobs, and Drew didn’t seem keen on Louise knowing. I don’t know, and frankly, I couldn’t care less now. If he weren’t already dead, I’d bloody strangle the treacherous bastard.”
Le Claire ignored the remark. “So the business is yours now?”
“I guess so. We thought it best to keep it between us in the early years to see if it was valuable enough to be considered an asset. It isn’t at the moment. We’ve only done a few inter-island trips and a couple to France and the UK.”
“What boat do you use?”
“Depends. This one for the traditionalists, Drew’s fancy-pants one for the would-be millionaires and something faster, the RIB, for the thrill-seekers.”
“Whose is the RIB?”
“Drew’s—well, Louise’s, actually, but it’s used by all of us. Family and friends have carte blanche. I have to admit that he was generous with his good fortune over the years.”
“Fine. Do you have any records of the business?”
“Drew kept everything at his office.”
Le Claire recalled the empty study at the Portlands’ home. “Where is this office?”
“At the Portland warehouses. He’s always had a small space there.”
#
The flat was on the top floor of an end terrace, not far from the harbour. An open doorway led into a narrow stairwell. There were no lifts, and Le Claire climbed the three flights of stairs, Dewar hard on his heels. The concrete stairs and bare, unpainted walls smelled of something unpleasant with an acrid whiff, and he wondered if the neighbourhood cats, or the occasional drunk, made use of the facilities.
He knocked on the thin, plywood door to No. 5, no answer, knocked again. He could hear hurried footsteps, and then Ian Portland opened the door. He was dressed in loose sweatpants and had bare feet.
“Oh, it’s you. What can I do for you? We had a bellyful of your preening colleague the other day.” And that correctly summed up Bryce Masters. Portland made no move to invite them in, and Le Claire thought he heard a noise, but it could have come from a neighbouring apartment.
“We’d like a word in private. May we come in?”
Only a few seconds passed, but Ian Portland didn’t seem to be in a welcoming mood. He eventually shrugged, moved to the side and ushered them along the hallway. The flat was small but neat and well cared for. They followed Portland into a small lounge/diner.
Le Clare said, “Thanks for your time. I understand Drew had an office at your business premises. We’ll need access.”
He looked relieved, and Le Claire made a mental note to keep an eye on him. “Of course. Let me know when you want to have a look.”
“How about now?”
“What? Right. I’ll need to get changed.”
“Fine. We’ll wait for you.”
#
True to his word, Ian Portland had emerged from the bedroom after five minutes in jeans, sweatshirt and trainers. They were at the family warehouses shortly after. The messy space was the same as when they had been there previously with what must be the ever-present smell of fish that had, over the years, seeped into the fabric of the building. “It’s up here.” They climbed a steep wooden staircase and followed Ian Portland along a narrow corridor. He pulled out a huge bunch of clanking keys and, picking through them, selected one. “This is it.”
The door opened, and Le Claire smiled. This was what he expected from a study or office, unlike the antiseptic space that had been Drew Portland’s zone in the home he shared with his wife. A wooden desk, sanded and oiled and polished to a honey-gold, took centre place in the middle of the room, facing the single window, which overlooked the sea.
The desk had a laptop, some notebooks and an assortment of jars and tubs holding pens, loose change and a collection of elastic bands. Floor-to-ceiling shelving held books, trophies, yachting magazines and pictures of a much younger Drew larking about on boats with friends. Peter Frobisher was in more than one of them. A wedding photograph sat on the windowsill. Portland and Louise looked happy and, to his surprise, in love. This was a room that held a man’s life.
He glanced at Dewar. “Call Vanguard and say we need his team down here to go through this place. I want to know who Drew Portland was. They can take the laptop as well and run analysis on emails and social media. Have we got the call log back on his mobile yet?”
Dewar shook her head. “Not yet. I’ll chase it when we get back to the office.”
He addressed Ian Portland. “What was your relationship like with your brother?”
“We were brothers; sometimes we got on, and sometimes we drove each other mad.”
“And were you getting on?”
Ian Portland sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Drew was older than me by almost ten years. Years which were a wide divide when I was a kid but narrowed as I grew up. We got on fine. He looked out for me, and I, for a long time, looked up to him.”
“And your other brother, Oliver, when is he due back?”
“He should be back today. He’s in England, even went as far as Scotland, but Mum got in touch and told him about Drew and said to sail home.”
“He’s the middle brother?”
“Yes, Oliver is only a couple of years younger than Drew.”
“Were you jealous of Drew? Of his lifestyle?”
“I don’t like the inference. What exactly are you getting at?”
“You said you looked up to your brother for a long time. What made you stop? Drew was living the high life with his wealthy wife. Was that an issue between you?”
Ian Portland’s snort of laughter was a staccato bullet in the quiet. “Not everyone is driven by money. I’ve heard your folks are rolling in it, so it’s all right for you to play at being one of the masses, but you’re not, are you? Being ordinary, being average means you get by, you have the odd treat, but if an unexpected bill turns up, you’re screwed. There is no backup. Ordinary people don’t have a rainy-day fund. Hell, the island doesn’t even have much of one any longer.”
A tic worked away at the corner of Le Claire’s mouth, and his jaw tensed. It was their wealth, not his, but a tiny
voice whispered he’d inherit it all one day, so what did he know about struggling to get by? “That was quite an impassioned speech. So was money an issue between you?”
“Yes, but not in the way you imagine. Drew loved the fancy clothes and fine wines. He liked playing the jovial hotelier to the mega-wealthy guests. He craved attention and beautiful things; handmade leather shoes, bespoke suits, a fancy motor-yacht. We grew up in a two-bed cottage. Mum still lives there. Drew was, well, I guess he was growing apart from us. He led a different life and one in which we had no reference point. But he was my brother, and I loved him.”
“Did Drew ever work in the family business?”
“Not for long. He got a job in a local trust company when he left school, doing bookkeeping and preparing accounts. He hated it, but I guess it was better than getting out of bed in the middle of the night and stinking of fish guts most of the time.”
“I assume he left that position?”
“Yes, when he got married. There was no need for him to work. He tried to get involved with Ginelli’s, but even though Louise gave him a shareholding in the company, she didn’t seem to want him interfering, and her hotel manager certainly didn’t want to have Drew around.”
So Portland had an interest in the business but appeared to have little to do with its management. “Justin Le Mahe? Was there any acrimony there?”
“Drew couldn’t stand him. Justin Le Mahe was Tony Ginelli’s pet and can do no wrong in Louise’s eyes. And because there was no place in the business for him, Drew was left with nothing to do and turned into a man who took three-hour lunches and frittered his life away.”
“Thanks. We’ll go and wait in our car for the CSI team. Do you mind locking this office and giving me the key? We’ll need to secure the room.”
“Oh, of course, sure. I’ve got some paperwork to do, so I’ll be in my office downstairs.”
They were settled in the car when Dewar said, “That was interesting. Wonder what’s going on there.”
“With what?”
“I mean, who was in Ian Portland’s flat when we were there?”
“You’ve lost me.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m sure he wasn’t alone. The place is way too neat for a bloke like Portland. I could see into the kitchen. There were two wine glasses on the counter, both half-full, and two plates dumped in the sink. We may have interrupted a lunch rendezvous. Plus, the scent of Angel perfume was strong, and I don’t think it was Ian Portland wearing it.”
“Hark at you, super sleuth. So he had a girlfriend there. I wonder why he hid her away? It’s not a crime, but he merits watching, especially as William Mason said that the heirs were relatives.”
“I’ll keep on at the lawyer to find out when the will is to be read. If it takes too long, we can get a disclosure order.”
She was growing in confidence, and that pleased him. “Good, now let’s go and see Mr Le Mahe and find out exactly how much of an issue there was between him and Drew Portland.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Justin Le Mahe had the morning off, and the receptionist said he wasn’t expected at work until mid-afternoon. Dewar checked his address, and they headed to the waterfront area. They parked in the underground car park and headed through the paved pedestrianised area, dodging the skateboarders.
Le Claire drew his brows together. “Why aren’t these boys in school?”
Dewar laughed. “Probably because they all look like they’re in their late teens.”
“Well, they’re still a bloody nuisance. Hey, watch it!” A T-shirted boarder wearing a baseball cap had sailed a bit close to the wind and almost clipped Dewar as he hurtled past. “You all right?”
“I’m fine. I also used to be a kid myself. They’re not doing any harm.”
“I guess I’m getting old and grumpy.”
Dewar didn’t reply.
They walked on, and Le Claire shivered. The wind whistled between the tall apartment buildings, bringing an intermittent chill, but the enclosed area protected the ground-floor shops and coffee bars, and people relaxed on the chairs and tables dotted outside.
“It’s hard to believe this is reclaimed land.”
Dewar looked at him, surprise on her face. “What do you mean?”
“Where we’re standing used to be covered by the sea. The land was reclaimed all the way back there,” he pointed behind them, “to the old sea wall.”
“So the cinema, the swimming pool, apartments—everything is on what used to be covered by water? That doesn’t make me feel good.”
“Yeah, I suppose it seems a bit weird.” He now wished he hadn’t mentioned it, or thought about it, for now, he was nauseous, imagining the weight of all the displaced water pressing down on him.
Dewar raised her eyes heavenward as they neared the tall apartment block. “It’s in here. Top floor.”
“Oh, the penthouse. Nice.”
“See, I don’t get that. What’s so special about being on the top floor? I tell you, my granny had a flat on the top floor of a block of council flats in Glasgow, and she never even knew she was living in a penthouse. They say crime pays, but it looks like the hotel trade rewards even better.”
He joined in with her laughter. The top floor had two apartments, and they found Justin Le Mahe at home and doing some paperwork in his fabulous penthouse. The flat was monochrome, sleek and show-house ready. The floor-to-ceiling windows were the focal point of the room and drew the eye, making it almost impossible not to stare.
“Pretty special, huh? The view is the reason I bought this place.”
The windows curved, giving a panoramic view over Elizabeth Castle, the marina and the open sea and across to a rooftop view of St Helier. Le Claire had to agree. “Yes, it’s spectacular. Must have cost a fair bit, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“I was lucky and got in early and got the place off-plan; add in a huge mortgage and here I am.”
Dewar was still staring out the window with huge round eyes.
“Thank you for seeing us, Mr Le Mahe. DS Dewar and I have a few questions. If she’s finished admiring the view, we can get started.” He spoke loudly to make sure she heard him and had a rush of guilty pleasure as she virtually jumped to attention.
“Of course. How may I help?”
“I imagine you must have known Drew Portland well?”
“I wouldn’t say I knew him. We didn’t socialise or anything like that.”
“But you worked together.”
“Drew didn’t have anything to do with the hotel or restaurant.”
“But I believe he owned shares.”
“Yes, but that was as far as his involvement went.”
“Through his choice or yours?”
Justin Le Mahe levelled a decidedly cool look at him. “I am not sure I know what you’re getting at.”
“You were close to Tony Ginelli. He thought enough of you to leave you shares in the business, and his widow made you the manager at a young age—early twenties, weren’t you?”
“That’s right. Tony Ginelli was a friend of my late father. They’d worked together years ago, and Tony took me into his business and under his wing.”
“It must’ve been a shock when Louise married Drew Portland. Did he try and muscle into the firm? What caused the issue between you?”
“Have people been saying there was no love lost between Portland and myself? That’s right, and I won’t deny it. Drew did try to get involved, but luckily Louise respected the fact it was Tony Ginelli’s business, and it wasn’t appropriate that her second husband interfere.
“What was your relationship like with Mr Portland?”
“We were civil, but I had to hold firm if Drew tried to interfere. He’d try and tell staff members to take the day off for no reason at all; he was always filching wine from the cellar for him and his cronies, and the good stuff at that. The man was a liability.” He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “I’m sorry, that sounds awful, but I don’t
want to lie. Drew loved acting the big man; he was never happier than having a drink in his hand and a willing audience to listen to him.”
“Where were you the night Drew Portland died?”
His eyes widened, and a range of emotions played across his face. “I didn’t realise where you were going for a minute. I was working. And before you ask, no, I didn’t kill Drew. What the hell would I gain from his death?”
“I don’t know, Mr Le Mahe, but if there is something, I will find it out. Be sure of that.”
#
Monday afternoon brought a slur of rain to suit Cathy’s dark mood. Bad news and miserable weather were undoubtedly perfect bedfellows. She’d hauled herself out of bed for her 11:00 a.m. appointment and skipped breakfast. She hadn’t been able to keep anything down for days. Now she stood in front of the hotel and searched for the courage to go inside. They’d all know about her and Drew and be passing judgment. Well, to hell with them.
She cloaked herself in bravado, slapped a smile on her face and strode into Ginelli’s reception area. She didn’t know how convincing it would be and her heart beat a little faster. As luck would have it, Nikki was on duty. It was comical how her mouth flapped open, and she looked like a goldfish as she apparently searched for what to say. Cathy knew the gossipy Nikki would be beside herself with glee that she was the one who was there when she turned up.
“Cath, love, are you all right? We heard you’d left and wouldn’t be back.” Her voice was honeyed with false concern.
“You heard right. I’m here to get my stuff out of my locker. So I’ll go on up.”
She looked uncertain. “Well, I’m sure that’ll be okay. I mean, it is your stuff.”
She headed to the staff room and puffed out a breath of relief when she didn’t encounter anyone on the way there. The room was empty too. It was a place to store coats and bags and grab a break-time coffee. She opened her locker and quickly filled a plastic tote with a bulging make-up bag and mirror, a cardigan and some spare tights.
Blood On The Rock: Treachery, desire, jealousy and murder (A Jack Le Claire Mystery) Page 12
