“In addition, a woman’s body was recently found on the northern shores. She has been identified from her passport, but we’re having difficulty finding out much more about her. What we do know is that her phone was used to call an unregistered mobile used by Drew Portland in the days before he was killed.” He sighed. “So give me your ideas, your thoughts and comments. I don’t care how far-fetched. This can’t all be a coincidence. But if these crimes are all connected, then how and why?”
Masters was first up. “I like the look of one of the Portland brothers, maybe even both. The family were due to inherit everything. The mother’s a bit of a one as well. I wouldn’t like to face Maura Portland in a narrow alley on a dark night.” Le Claire knew Masters was a fool, but he had to agree with him on this one.
Dewar was next. “What about the wife? She was being made a fool of.”
Hunter commented next, “From the notes, it appears Mrs Portland’s friend is always there, a Dr Tom Mathison.” All eyes turned to him, and, predictably, he blushed a fiery scarlet. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but perhaps they were having an affair, and he wanted the husband out the way.”
Masters said, “Good point, but why kill Cathy Frobisher and Francine Bresson?”
Hunter grimaced. “Yeah, I didn’t think that far ahead.”
Le Claire butted in to bring matters back on track. “Don’t forget Sophie Ginelli and the hotel manager, Justin Le Mahe. Both had issues with Drew. But at this stage, we need some direction because I have to confess we’re going nowhere fast. Dewar, you and Hunter look into the financial angle. Masters, dig around the Portlands. And put out an alert on the news for information regarding the whereabouts of Cathy’s phone.”
#
Le Claire went in search of Louise Portland and found her at home. She was alone for once and didn’t show any surprise at seeing him on her doorstep.
“I wondered how long it would take you. I’ve heard about Cathy and, no, I didn’t kill her.”
Her directness took him aback, but at least he could now get straight to the point. “You are well-informed. Cathy Frobisher was murdered last night. We’ve commenced our investigations and have come across some interesting information. You recently went to see Cathy at her home. Why was that?”
Her gaze was unflinching. “I told you I had to let her go. I paid her over the odds to leave work and keep away. I left an extremely generous cheque. I wanted Cathy out of my sight, and quickly.”
“She’s permanently out of your sight now.”
“Yes, she is. Allow me to be blunt. I didn’t like Cathy, she betrayed me in the worst possible way and destroyed a marriage we could still have turned around. I didn’t kill her. I had no reason to.”
“May I ask where you were last night?”
She shook her head, puffing out a breath of irritation. “I was at home. I can assure you I wasn’t haunting the Five Mile Road with murder in mind.” There was a mocking lilt in her tone. He’d get nothing more from her today.
#
Sophie had spent the afternoon in the flat, lost in her own thoughts. She hadn’t seen Drew in years, so his death, to be frank, didn’t impact her. Cathy was a different matter. She’d spoken to her, seen her in the flesh and now she was, well, gone. But what did that mean? Sophie was in no mood for a one-sided philosophical conversation with herself. She knew what—or rather, who—she needed.
She headed downstairs and filched a nice bottle of red from the cellar. Taking a deep breath, she knocked on Justin’s office door. He opened up, and she could hear the thudding of her heartbeat as it shifted, quickened. He was wearing a shirt and suit trousers, jacket and tie discarded, hair ruffled, and he seemed preoccupied, but his slow smile and intent gaze reassured her she was a welcome interruption. “Hey, come on in.” He looked around and grabbed a pile of papers off the low sofa and bundled them onto his already overflowing desk. “Sorry, it’s a bit of a mess in here.”
“I hope I’m not disturbing you?”
“No, not at all. I was working on the financials.”
“You do everything around here, don’t you?”
“I have to keep an eye on every aspect of the business. Times are tough.”
“Louise mentioned the business hasn’t been doing so well the last few years. It’s been challenging everywhere, but the guys I work with run top-end properties, and there are still people who have lots of money to spend; there are fewer of them though.”
“Well, those rich people aren’t coming to Jersey, and if they do, they’re not staying at Ginelli’s. We should have modernised the bedrooms and some of the public areas, but Louise and Drew weren’t keen to spend the money. And later we didn’t have the cash to spare even if they’d wanted to.”
“Louise said we’re often at full capacity and the restaurant is always busy. The profits have dipped so much we could see a loss if matters don’t improve. Want me to take a look?”
“Thanks for the offer, but we know why. Our suppliers have us over a barrel. We stock French, Italian and Spanish wines and delicacies, and we’re being hammered with the exchange rate. We can’t increase our prices to match the jump in costs. The market won’t stand for it.”
“The situation isn’t sustainable.”
His smile was rueful. “I know, which is why I spend most days trying to cut costs and devise a cunning master plan that doesn’t cost any money.”
“Well, let me know if I can help. It’s my future as well.”
She sat down on the sofa, crossed her legs and her skirt rode up, exposing her thighs. Usually, she’d immediately pull it down. Not today. Not with this man. The air was heavy, and awareness caused each fine hair on her arms to tingle. The sounds of the hotel, a closing door, a guest’s laughter as they headed to the lifts all receded, all faded as her total concentration focussed on the man in front of her.
He sat next to her. “I may take you up on your offer of help. We always did complement each other.”
His eyes trapped hers and the atmosphere changed, took them on a more intimate road. “I missed you. I hurt for a long time, but, with the resilience of youth, I got on with things. I’ve had a few relationships, but nothing serious.”
“Same here.”
“Maybe we were waiting for the same thing. You can’t deny the attraction flared as soon as we saw each other again. Or can you?” His voice was low, husky, and the words challenged.
Her reply was honest—there was no room for pretence here. “No, I can’t, and I don’t want to.”
He cupped the nape of her neck, drew her closer and touched his lips to hers. The fire was instantaneous, and a rush of shivers swept through her. He deepened the kiss, and she arched her body against him until not even a puff of air separated them. His hands roamed, touched, caressed, and she reciprocated. Sensation and desire were the only thoughts in her mind. He pulled away from her, leaving her bereft. He pressed his forehead to hers and took a shaky breath. “Let’s take the bottle of wine you brought and go to the flat. What I’ve got in mind wouldn’t brook any interruptions.”
She placed her hand in his and let him draw her to her feet as desire willingly compelled her on a different path to the one she’d imagined, and she walked through a door she’d long thought closed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Le Claire was in his office, sifting through emails and catching up on admin. He checked his watch and saw he’d been at it for hours, and it was only 09:30 a.m. He’d grab a coffee and see what was happening in the Incident Room. His office door banged open, and Hunter rushed in, clutching a piece of paper. “Sir, you have to see this.”
“What is it?”
“It’s an email retrieved from Cathy Frobisher’s account. She received it the day she died. Listen.
Cathy,
I think we can reach an agreement on money, but we need to talk face-to-face. I don’t want us to meet where we could be seen. Can you meet me at the car park by the Beach Café along the Five Mile Roa
d? I can help you, and the baby, get what you deserve.
“That’s it, sir, but we can safely say Cathy Frobisher’s murderer sent the email.”
“And who would they be? Who is the bloody email from?”
“Ah, that’s the problem, sir. It came from [email protected]. We checked into it, and it’s a brand new account. Probably only created to send this email.”
“Can they tell what computer or device was used to access the account?”
“Yes, but the IP address is for Connections Coffee Bar. It’s an Internet café. People can go in there and pay to use the computers.”
“Have we spoken to them yet?”
“No, sir.”
“Right, where’s Dewar?”
“She was on the phone when I saw her last.”
“Okay, come with me.”
#
Justin had spent the night, and she’d awoken as he crept out of the apartment at dawn to go to his place and get changed. He’d left her with a hot kiss and a promise to be in touch later. She had lain in bed and replayed their conversations and relished his touches. He knew her body so well, even after all these years apart, and every caress, each stroke had brought back her past feelings for him; emotions she had thought long gone had resurfaced, and she now recognised they had simply been buried, waiting to be reawakened.
She marvelled at the tricks the mind played. She had barely thought of Justin in years. The odd memory had been triggered by a song, the smell of the aftershave he’d worn, perhaps a movie they’d seen, and she’d remembered her first love with a fleeting warmth. But it was quickly suppressed. Now she wondered if guilt had made her block and hide her true emotions, even from herself.
But now, having seen Justin again, talked to him—and more, she again experienced the irresistible pull of attraction that propelled her back through time and space. The fierce emotions of a nineteen-year-old were now packaged with a grown woman’s desires and needs; a combustible mix.
A sharp, staccato knocking on the flat door made her jump. She looked at the clock on the bedside table; it was almost 10:00 a.m. Who the hell could it be?
She scrambled out of bed, shouted, “I’m coming,” and grabbed her robe from the chair to cover her nakedness. She tied the belted sash tightly and opened the door, a grin of welcome on her face as she saw who her visitor was. “Diane, this is a surprise.”
Her friend rushed in, and Sophie noticed the colour had leached from Diane’s face. “What is wrong?”
“I just got off the red-eye. I’ve been in London buying stock for next season. The hotel didn’t have Wi-Fi, and I haven’t been on Facebook.”
“Whoa, you’re babbling. What’s up?”
“Cathy Frobisher is dead. Have you heard?”
“Yeah, what a shock. You seem upset?” Sophie knew this was an understatement if there ever was one. “What’s wrong? You hardly knew her.”
“I certainly know Pete.”
“Pete Frobisher? Are you still in touch with him?” Sophie knew they’d had a thing years ago, but Diane had been devastated at their break-up and always said she avoided her old flame.
Her friend laughed, a high, brittle sound laced with despair. “I’d say so. I’ve been sleeping with him for weeks.”
“What! Is that why you told me about Drew and Cathy? Why?”
“Because I wanted her to be gone. I wanted their marriage to end. If you confronted Drew, it might have pushed him into making things permanent with Cathy.”
Sophie recoiled; the words certainly packed a verbal punch.
“You used me. You knew I wanted the opposite, not Louise and Drew splitting up and him swanning off with a settlement from my dad’s money.”
“I wanted to be with Pete, and now I’m scared I did something stupid.”
“Like what?”
“I sent him an anonymous note saying Cathy was seeing Drew. I thought it would mean he’d never take her back.”
“Jeez, you love to stir it. Why the hell would you do that? Pete dumped you years ago. Did you think it would be any different this time?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Her voice was a whispered sigh. “But I know he was crazy about her.”
“What are you worried about?”
“I posted the note to Pete. I didn’t want to leave it on the mat or be seen putting it through his letterbox. I don’t know when he would have got the letter. So I have no idea if he received it before someone killed Drew. And now Cathy has been murdered as well.”
“Ah, I see where you’re going.”
#
Le Claire savoured the aroma of the coffee. It was assaulting him from every direction. The Internet café was mobbed. High tables held about thirty computer terminals, each workspace separated by wooden privacy screens.
A counter ran across the back of the room, and a blackboard offered everything from Americanos to lattes to double macchiatos. He hadn’t known this place existed. They waited until the guy behind the bar had finished serving his customer. The sweet, creamy, frothy cappuccino wafted past Le Claire, and he licked his lips. Maybe he’d get a coffee to take out.
He flashed his badge. “I’m DCI Le Claire, and this is PC Hunter. Could we speak to whoever is in charge, please?”
“As I’m the only one here, that would be me. I’m David Carter.”
“An email was sent from one of these computers, and we need to know who sent it.” He glanced at the ceiling, saw the telltale cameras attached to the top of the walls. “I see you’ve got CCTV. We’ll need access to the recordings.”
David leant over the counter and, after checking to be sure no one was listening, said, “Ah, the cameras don’t exactly work. We put them there as a deterrent.”
Le Claire couldn’t keep the frown from his face. If he only had a pound for every time he heard that.
“Fine. We’ll need to speak to whoever was working on Tuesday afternoon.”
“It was me.”
“Great, I will need you to identify someone who was in here—facial characteristics, etc. We have the IP address of the exact terminal used.”
The barista laughed and gestured around the packed room. “Not a chance, I’m afraid. This place is mobbed every day. People come in for fifteen minutes to check their emails or stay for hours googling to their heart’s desire. Everyone minds their own business here.”
“What about any regular customers? Could I talk to them?”
“We don’t have any regulars as such. I serve coffee and take the money, that’s all.”
“We’re investigating a murder, and it’s vital we find out who this person is.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t see how I can help.”
Le Claire indicated for Hunter to follow him. He stopped by the front door and looked back at another dead end. Cathy Frobisher’s killer had been in here the day she died to commence the execution of a twisted plan. But because of a cheapskate owner who’d used CCTV for show only and the random nature of the coffee bar’s users, they were no further on.
#
“Run that by us again.” Le Claire wasn’t sure he understood what William Mason was saying, and from the look on her face, neither did Dewar.
The lawyer’s face was set. “I’ve spent an age trawling through all my late father’s papers, and what I have found as relates to Drew Portland is as follows: He had a prenuptial agreement with his wife, which entitled him to his personal belongings, and nothing else, on divorce. I’m not entirely sure that would have held up in court. Anyway, everything else was in Louise Portland’s ownership, and I mean everything. Houses, boats, you name it. And he had no claim on any of it.”
Dewar asked, “Even the shares in Ginelli’s?”
“I got a letter from the Ginelli’s lawyer this morning. The shares were a restricted gift. If they divorced or Drew died first, which he did, the shares reverted to the wife.”
“And if she died first?”
“He got to keep them.”
Le Cla
ire considered all of this. “So his family won’t inherit anything?”
“I’m saying what he did have is limited. I found some papers and he had a bank account in the Isle of Man. I don’t know what the balance is on that. I’ve written to the bank in my capacity as executor, but they haven’t replied yet.”
“Don’t worry. I’m sure we can get the information much quicker. Dewar will see to it.”
“Thank you. Now Cathy Frobisher is dead, the estate—whatever it may comprise—will be distributed in equal shares to Maura Portland and her remaining sons.”
#
Le Claire had never spent so much time near boats, and it was making him uneasy. However, he’d had an urge to come and look at Drew Portland’s berth in the marina for no other reason than to think through the case. Drew Portland had loved the sea, had got his best friend’s wife pregnant and may have been about to leave his wife. His family business was on the decline, and his brothers seemed to resent his access to wealth. He’d run a secret charter business with the friend he was cuckolding and kept a load of cash tucked away on his boat. So many connections to the sea. Le Claire looked out across the marina to the rolling waves and shuddered. He was about to head back to his car when a voice got his attention. “Le Claire, good morning. Or should I say, ‘ahoy’.”
It was Paul Armstrong. He was casually dressed and leaning over a boat’s railing. Even Le Claire could see it was modern, sleek, and no doubt extremely costly. The legal business must be doing well. “Morning, I didn’t know you were a boating man.”
“Well, it’s more pottering than anything else. Another strand of my midlife crisis, I guess. Terrible to hear about what happened to Drew Portland. Poisoning, and deadly mushrooms at that.”
Le Claire had got to know the lawyer in a previous case he’d worked on, and he’d added Armstrong to his list of specialists to go to when he needed help or information.
“I’m glad to hear the island gossip mill is working so well.”
Blood On The Rock: Treachery, desire, jealousy and murder (A Jack Le Claire Mystery) Page 19
