Blood On The Rock: Treachery, desire, jealousy and murder (A Jack Le Claire Mystery)

by Kelly Clayton

  The accompanying bark of laughter irritated Le Claire, but he did his best to keep it under control. “If you knew this was a dead end, why did you insist we travel to France?”

  Lasalle’s slouch disappeared with his smile. “Because I needed to speak to you, and it is better in person. And I cannot travel right now. What I have to say is not so much from fact, from evidence, but from inside me. You know?” And he thumped a hand against his stomach.

  Le Claire understood gut feeling and wished he’d had more of it when he fought off Colin Chapman. He pushed the memories into the far recesses of his mind.

  Lasalle’s voice broke the silence. “And there is something I need you to see in person, which I believe is a link to the mysterious woman found on your shores.”

  He strode out with his good leg, moving his crutches in a rhythmic motion to allow his injured foot to swing free of the ground. He continued talking as he walked. “So you have a dead body on a beach, and the woman’s ID marks her as a girl who died in a car accident ten years previously. Yes?”

  Le Claire mentally bit his lip at the unnecessary repetition. “So you say.”

  “I recently received a call from London—the Metropolitan Police. A man died outside a nightclub in a random knife attack. They identified him as a Luc Guille, born 18 July 1964. Your Met contacted the National Police to try and track down his relatives. Guess what?”

  Le Claire’s nerve endings jumped to attention. “Luc Guille was already dead?”

  “Indeed, the gentleman they wanted to know more about died of a long-term illness in his adopted town of St Malo in 2006. Here is his grave.”

  A stone angel sat atop an engraved plinth. It was indeed the resting place of a Luc Guille.

  “London called us straight away. The body was finally identified by fingerprinting as Henri Duval—a nasty piece of work who had been a person of interest in many crimes but never found guilty. He was a slippery customer with ties to the Corsican Mafia operating out of Marseilles, his hometown.”

  Le Claire whistled under his breath. “He got a new identity and passage to Britain, leaving his crimes behind him.”

  Dewar was looking from one to the other. “But what does this mean about our woman?”

  Le Claire glanced at Lasalle. “Whoever she was she was either running to or away from something. And it’s our job to find out what.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Le Claire had gone to bed as soon as he got home the night before. Motion sickness had taken hold and wasn’t letting go. Sasha had soothed him with loving words and, later, a back rub. She had babied him, and he wondered if this was a foretaste of what was to come. The thought that his wife was practising her mothering skills on him made him smile. He had left Sasha snuggled in bed and headed into the station. He hadn’t bothered with breakfast and even skipped coffee; his stomach wasn’t right yet after the bad return crossing.

  Dewar was in the Incident Room, eyes down and head deep in files and paperwork. He stopped by her desk. “Morning, what are you doing?”

  She sighed, rubbed at her eyes and gestured around the room. “I’ve updated everyone on our discussions yesterday and filed the report. Now I’m going back over alibis and whereabouts for the night Drew Portland died. If the figure in the shadows was indeed the killer, watching from afar to see when, or perhaps if, the previously ingested poison would take effect, then it could be a multitude of people connected to Drew. No one ever has a bloody decent alibi.”

  “The tricky thing with this one is the killer wasn’t physically in the same space. The poisoned wine was the instrument that killed Drew Portland but was ingested a week before the death. On the night he died we have someone hiding in the bushes and spying on the boat, but they may not necessarily have been the murderer.”

  Dewar grimaced and looked at the papers on her desk. “We’ve had an email from Lasalle. He ran the prints we got sent across to them last night, but our mystery woman has never been arrested for a crime, so that’s a dead end.”

  “Just because she’s never been fingerprinted doesn’t mean she isn’t a criminal. Have we heard anything on the UK search?”

  “No, Hunter ran a check on the prints in the UK. Nothing, I’m afraid. We don’t have anywhere else to turn.”

  “Okay.”

  He looked across to the bank of desks to his left, where Hunter’s eyes were glued to the computer screen, and his fingers were flying over the keyboard.

  “Hunter, any feedback on Francine Bresson’s photo?”

  Hunter stared at him for a second before mentally disconnecting from his work and realising who was speaking to him and about what. He jumped to his feet, his chair ricocheting across the tiled floor and catching the back of Bryce Masters’ chair, resulting in spilt coffee and an angry detective.

  “Look what you’ve done.”

  His white shirt was stained and dripping. Le Claire rose above any uncharitable thoughts.

  “That’s enough, Masters. Hunter, answer the question.”

  “Well, we put the photo on the TV news and our Facebook page and the website, asking for information. We also got the Met to assist, and they’re circulating the photo in the UK. We’ve had a few crank calls, but nothing concrete.”

  Le Claire turned; he’d go and sift through the reports himself. He was almost at the door when a trickle of memory teased at a deep corner of his mind. Dewar had mentioned alibis. “Remind me again. Where did Ian Portland say he was the night his brother died?”

  Dewar clicked through the computerised statements. “Here it is.” She ran her finger down the screen. “Yep, he said he was at home all night, alone.”

  “Come with me. We’re going to have a chat. I saw Paul Armstrong yesterday, and he said he saw Ian Portland the night Drew died, and he was out with some girl.”

  Dewar followed him to the car. “He couldn’t be on a date and hanging about Drew’s boat. Why on earth would someone lie and say they were alone when they had a perfect alibi?”

  “I don’t know, but we’re going to find out.”

  #

  Le Claire headed down Green Street and over Mount Bingham, and it took a mere five minutes to drive down to the harbour. They passed some other fresh fish stalls, and the queues were ranged along their counters, three deep at some. The Portland Fisheries stall had a few customers, but not many. Maura was leaning on the counter and the girl, Ali, was scrubbing away at some trays and looked neat and fresh. Her long dark hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail and her clothes, jeans and a plain T-shirt, were spotlessly clean and ironed. A huge difference from the unkempt and messy Maura. Her weight made her look blowsy and overblown, and hair was falling from her greasy topknot.

  “What you after now?” Her voice was rasped from years of tobacco use, and the smell of cigarettes was her constant perfume. Le Claire wanted to gag, and he could appreciate why the stall wasn’t popular. “You come to get some supper?”

  “We’re looking for Ian. He around?”

  “What do you want him for?”

  “We need to speak to him, Maura. What about is between him and us.”

  An exaggerated sigh was followed by a deep breath. “He’s in the offices. I’ll get him.”

  “No problem, stay where you are. We know the way.”

  He headed to the warehouses followed by Dewar. The place was in as much of a mess as before. The entrance to the fish preparation area was closed, but the smell seeped through the wooden door frame, and Le Claire worried it might cling to his clothes as it assaulted his nostrils. Ian Portland was nowhere to be seen. Then they heard his voice. It was coming from the upper level, where the offices were located. They headed up the narrow wooden stairs but stopped when Ian Portland’s raised voice came crashing across them.

  “Mr Miller, you can’t do this. Yes, yes, I know the terms we agreed, but business has been slow. We can’t pay you by the end of the month. You know I had expectations our brother would loan us the money, but he said he co
uldn’t access that much straightaway. You may have heard Drew has died. There is some issue over his estate. I don’t know what we’ll get. Look, please, this is our business. Don’t do this.”

  There was a pause, and when Ian Portland next spoke his voice was defeated. “Yes, I do understand. The end of the month it is.”

  Le Claire gestured for Dewar to follow him to the top of the stairs, and he walked into Ian Portland’s office without knocking. Portland jumped to his feet, surprise on his face. “I didn’t hear you come up.” He seemed flustered and quickly moved to the front of his desk. Le Claire glanced to the corner of the room and saw why. At least half a dozen crates were piled on top of each other. The contents were marked in distinctive block lettering: toys and books. Le Claire would bet anything they contained fancy bottles of contraband French wine.

  “Mr Portland, You better come and have a chat at the station.”

  #

  Ian Portland had gone with them quietly enough. It was his mother who had kicked off, and Le Claire could still hear her shrill shrieks ringing in his ears. As Portland had calmly walked with them to the car, Maura’s shouts had made her son turn and speak to her harshly. His words had hung in the air. “Mum, calm down. Tell Oliver, and you and Ali look after yourselves.”

  Now Maura Portland’s youngest son was sitting in front of Le Claire and Dewar in the antiseptic interview room. Le Claire could still smell fish and surreptitiously sniffed the air. It was no doubt coming from Ian Portland, but he had a suspicion he was reeking himself. He thought Dewar was pinching her nostrils tight as well. But he had other matters to deal with right now, like the man in front of him.

  “Mr Portland, I don’t like liars. Especially when the lies seem incongruous, don’t seem necessary. I especially don’t like lies being told to me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re going on about.”

  “I’ll get to that in a minute, but first of all, that’s a nice selection of crates you have in your office, and they’re filled with wine. Where did you get them?”

  “From a bloke who was down the pub the other night. There’s no crime against buying stuff yet, is there?” There was a cocky edge to his voice.

  “And who was this bloke?”

  “Look, I don’t know his name. He said he’d bought too much wine and asked if I wanted to buy some. It was a decent price, so of course I said yes.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d know where to find this chap with no name?”

  “I’m sorry, but no, I don’t. What’s the big deal anyway?”

  “The big deal is that similar crates, with the same contents, were found at a pub in town. There are no receipts for their purchase, and we suspect they’ve been smuggled into the island to avoid the duty. Problem is the manager of the bar has apparently got severe amnesia and seems to have met the same kind of bloke you did. The type that doesn’t have a name and no one can remember what they look like.”

  “Well, it was dark.”

  Le Claire shot Portland a sharp look. Was he making fun of him? The pity was they had little to go on except he was in possession of goods that tax might be due on. But unless they knew who the supplier was, they were stumped. It could be some bloke who bought cheap wine in France, brought it back on the ferry, paid the customs duty and sold it on for a profit. And there was no law against that. Then again, “Maybe you didn’t meet a man in the pub. Perhaps you smuggled the wine. You have a boat. It could easily be done.”

  “Well, apart from the fact it’s illegal, we have enough on our plate with running the fishing business to be involved in petty smuggling as well.”

  “It may seem petty to you, but it is a crime, as you so rightly say. So you’re sticking to the story that you bought the wine from some unknown bloke in the pub?”

  “Yes, that’s what happened.”

  “Fine. Can I ask who you were talking to when we arrived? A Mr Miller, wasn’t it?”

  Ian Portland stilled, and his voice was even. “That’s a personal matter.”

  “Nothing’s personal when it concerns murder. I can compel you to answer me, but it would better if we kept this on a friendly level.”

  Portland hesitated, and Le Claire thought he was going to refuse to answer, then his shoulders dropped, and the puff and bravado went out of him. “George Miller loaned the business some money, enough to keep us going through a bad time. The bad time got worse, and we are struggling to pay him back. I tried to reason with him this morning, but the truth is we don’t have the money to pay him, and the loan is secured against the business.”

  “You said something about a loan from Drew?”

  “Yes, but Drew said he was asset rich and cash poor and couldn’t lay his hands on that much money. We’ve now heard from his lawyer about the estate. It seems Louise kept Drew on a tight rein, and he had few assets of his own, even the Ginelli shares weren’t his, so anything we eventually inherit will probably be peanuts. Drew was a proud guy, and he never let on Louise was controlling all the finances.”

  “What happens if you don’t pay?”

  “I guess he can take the business, the warehouses and the boat. It’s not looking good.”

  “Looks like you could have done with that inheritance from your brother paying off.”

  His jaw set at a belligerent angle. “What are you getting at?”

  “You wouldn’t have any problem paying the debt if, for example, Drew had left you a decent inheritance.”

  “I still wouldn’t have my brother though, would I?”

  “No, you wouldn’t. Remind me where you were the night your brother died?”

  His head cocked to one side. “I told you. I was home alone.”

  “Ah, so you did. But you weren’t, were you? You weren’t home, and you weren’t alone.”

  Portland was quiet, but his eyes widened, ever so slightly, and Le Claire knew he was searching for something to say. He quickly carried on, “Why wouldn’t you let us know you were with someone, that you couldn’t have been at the marina, waiting for your brother to die. Unless perhaps the person with you, maybe they’re involved in this and helped you murder your brother.”

  He exploded. “Leave her out of this. She has nothing to do with anything.”

  “Tell us who she is, and we’ll decide that.”

  “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

  “Fine. Get Mr Portland booked into some of our lovely new accommodations, Dewar. Hold him on obstruction, lying to the police or suspicion of buying dodgy goods. I don’t mind which. And when you’ve done that, we’ll pay his brother a call.”

  #

  The Portland Fisheries stall was closed and shuttered with no sight of Maura. But that wasn’t a problem as Le Claire didn’t want to speak to her. The girl, Ali, was mopping the area around the stall, and he could smell pine-fresh disinfectant. Maybe this place was on the up, though through no effort of Maura’s.

  She saw them and automatically shrank back, her eyes downcast. She was certainly skittish. He kept his voice low. “Hi, it’s Ali, isn’t it? I wonder if you know where I can find Oliver Portland?”

  “Yes, he is on the boat.” Her voice was low with a melodic accent. He couldn’t place her nationality, but Jersey was such a melting pot of cultures she could be from anywhere.

  “Thanks.” Perhaps she could help him with another question. “Do you know if Ian Portland has a girlfriend?”

  She seemed taken aback. “I don’t know.”

  As they headed to the boat, Dewar grinned and said, “I bet Ali fancies Ian for herself. She didn’t look happy when you asked if he had a girlfriend.”

  “I know, but it was worth a try in case she knew anything.” He stopped and pushed Dewar flat against the high sea wall. From her quick exhalation of breath, he realised he had been a bit rough. He whispered, “Sorry, but I didn’t want him to see us. Look over there.” He pointed to the warehouses.

  Oliver Portland was carrying a crate, which he piled with several others on
the dock. They looked a lot like the ones that had been in Ian Portland’s office. He went back into the warehouse and, moments later, came out with another one. A young boy was on the deck and gestured to the crates. At Oliver’s nod, he hopped off the boat, lifted one and loaded it onto the deck. Oliver pulled closed the wide warehouse sliding doors and padlocked them, he shooed the lad back onto the boat and loaded the crates himself. The boy disappeared into the wheel cabin, and the next thing they heard was the rumble of the engine as it fired up. “Christ, they’re going out. We need to stop them. Come on.”

  He ran, shouting, “Oliver Portland, wait, we need to talk to you.” Oliver dropped the crate he was carrying. He looked around wildly, as if in a blind panic. Suddenly, he clicked into motion and untied the rope that bound the boat to the dock, calling out, “Anchors up. Let’s get out of here.”

  There was a loud, metallic screech as the anchor made its upward journey from the seabed. They were almost at the boat. Oliver ran across the gangplank as Dewar followed behind him. He spun around, caught her unawares and shoved her to the deck. Le Claire saw her go down, but she was now hidden by the side of the boat. Oliver pulled the gangplank in as Le Claire reached it. The boat was pulling away from the dock with Dewar on it, and the gap between land and boat was widening.

  He didn’t think but ran at full pelt; he reached the end of the marina and leapt across the growing divide. He misjudged the distance and fell, his stomach somersaulting. He flailed, and grabbed the iron railing, holding tight as his body slammed into the hull. “Christ!” His expletive accompanied the jarring pain. He scrambled to gain passage and slowly pulled himself up. He was almost there when Oliver appeared and launched a kick at his left hand; he made direct contact, and the burning pain shot through his arm. His automatic reaction was to let go, which left him swinging from his right arm. The pain blinded him. Through his blurred vision, he saw Oliver lean over and grab the hand that anchored him to the boat. He closed his eyes, waiting for the fall, bracing himself for the cold water.