“There was a fire at the tower on the edge of the estate. Mr Englebrook was trapped in the building.”
A hand flew to her mouth, and she paled. Gulping furiously, she took another sip of water. “I’ve got a bug and went to bed early last night. I wasn’t on Facebook and didn’t catch the news. How could they not tell me?” She closed her eyes, and when she opened them, the pain seemed to have deepened. “How did Kurt get trapped? What happened?”
“That’s what we’re trying to work out. How long had you known Mr Englebrook?”
“Forever. I worked for Kurt in London and moved to the island when he did.”
“You said Mrs Englebrook has a problem with you?”
“I should probably ask which one? The first wife resented my relationship with Kurt, and the second even more so. We were close. I helped him build his business.”
“Did they have any reason to resent your relationship? Was it more than business?”
She drew back as if slapped. “It irritates me that people think every relationship between a man and woman has some basis in sexual attraction. We were friends; we respected and liked each other.”
“Okay. Do you know of anyone who had a grudge against Mr Englebrook, anyone who would want to harm him?”
She held his gaze. “You think he was murdered?”
“I believe it wasn’t an accident on Mr Englebrook’s part, but aside from that, we don’t know much else at the moment. Would anyone want to harm him?
“Of course, he had enemies. He was Kurt Englebrook. He was an incredibly successful man, a hedge-fund buccaneer, an asset stripper bar none. He had to make some tough decisions in his business life. He made enemies.”
“And would your son be one of them?”
“Riley? Don’t go down that path. Yes, he had an issue about access to the land, but it wasn’t personal. It was about the rights of the people, not anything against Kurt. Riley wouldn’t harm a soul.”
“Where can I find your son?”
“Riley isn’t involved in whatever has happened, but if you need to speak with him, he should be at work. He has a surf shop in St Ouen, on the Five Mile Road. It’s Longboarders.”
Dewar said, “I know the place.”
Le Claire took a moment to wonder if Dewar was a secret surfer; she hadn’t mentioned it before. “Great. Thank you, Mrs Jones. We may need to speak to you again.”
“Of course. You must catch who has done this. Christ, I can’t believe it.” Her voice caught on unshed tears.
Her sobs followed them out of the building.
CHAPTER SIX
Rudy stared at his brother. Jessica had retired to her bedroom, like some delicate 1930s movie heroine. He’d half expected her to draw a hand across her fevered brow. Bloody drama queen. Chloe had disappeared, Christ knew where. Nils was always calmer when she was around. His mother had gone home. He wasn’t sure where Angela was. He hoped she hadn’t left.
Nils paced in front of the French windows overlooking the terrace, worry emanating from every pore. “But what should we do? What do we tell the market?”
“All we can say is the truth. There has been a tragic accident, and Dad has died.”
“Yes, yes. Fine.”
“And that I’ll be taking over as acting CEO in the interim.”
Nils stopped pacing, his worried look morphing into belligerence. “What the hell? Why you? You can’t make that assumption.”
“I said acting. It is obviously an interim measure, but we need to have a plan in place for the investors. Something to reassure them that we have continuity of management.”
“But why you? You get everything.”
“Jesus, Nils. Grow up. I am the deputy CEO; part of the job is to take the helm if something happens to the top guy. Anyway, I’ve already authorised the text of a press release. It’ll officially go out when New York opens up.”
“Without telling me. You’ve gone too far. Don’t think you’re automatically in charge just because Dad’s gone.”
“Leave it. We need to buy some time until the new life-sciences fund beds down. It has the potential to provide investors with a tenfold return. And we need it to pull us out of the hole created by the property funds.”
Nils nodded his agreement, although his expression was still hesitant. “Fine. But this isn’t over.” He walked out of the room, almost colliding with someone.
Rudy smiled in relief. “Angela, darling. Thank God you’re still here.”
She moved towards him and pulled him into her arms. They had always fitted so well together. She was only a few inches off his six foot two, and she rested her head on his shoulder as her slim figure sank against his body, comforting yet arousing at the same time. He stroked her hair and caught one long Pre-Raphaelite auburn curl in his fingers. He let it loose to join the others.
She drew back. “I sat in shock for ages after you called last night. What the hell happened? Was he smoking?”
“He may have been. He said he gave up years ago, yet he had packets of cigarettes hidden all over the place. The police don’t know how the tower caught on fire, but they believe it may have been deliberate.”
“Who would do something like that? This is a nightmare. How is Jessica?”
“She’s fine. Well, by that I mean she’s playing the widow quite beautifully. Shame she gave up acting.”
“Rudy, don’t be unkind. I know Jessica hasn’t been the best stepmother.”
“Stepmother? She’s thirty-nine, only ten years older than me. I was twenty when Dad dumped Mum and married Jessica within months. She’s no mother to me.”
“But she was your father’s wife. She will be grieving in her own way.”
“Yeah, right. Dad and Jessica were hardly love’s young dream these last couple of years.”
“What happens now?”
“I guess we need to wait for the autopsy to see when we can organise the funeral. And then, of course, there will be the reading of the will. The family lawyer is flying in from the UK tomorrow.”
“I guess it should all be pretty straightforward?”
“I imagine so. Dad always said he’d look after Jessica, and the rest of the assets will be split between Nils and me.”
“I don’t mean to be indelicate, but what about this place—and the artwork? They’re a huge responsibility.”
“I assume it will belong to Nils and me. We may not keep the house, I don’t know. It was Dad’s dream.”
“And Eva’s. I’m surprised Jessica was happy to move into another woman’s house.”
“She had no option. Dad wasn’t leaving this place. As for the art, I guess we’ll hold on to it, for a while at least.”
“Yeah, this isn’t a good time to sell.”
“You should know. With your contacts through the gallery, I’m sure you can help us do the right thing.”
“I am more than happy to help, but what about Richard Grainger? He is the collection’s curator.”
“His eyes aren’t on the game anymore. He’s too involved in his London business these days. Chloe says he has so many commissions to source art for wealthy buyers that he’s turning them away. No, he was Dad’s man. Come here, I need my girl.”
He pulled her close and lost himself in her lips, caressing her gentle curves. He needed her in so many ways.
◆◆◆
The island was amid one of its special early autumns; the temperature was in the high twenties, the main beaches busy and the sea inviting. St Ouen’s Bay was a three-mile-long golden beach that deserved its surfers’ paradise reputation. A popular spot with locals and tourists alike.
Longboards surf shop was located directly on the beach walkway. The tide was out, and the wide sandy bay was filled with sun worshippers, picnickers and water enthusiasts.
A young man was behind the counter in the eclectic and colourful shop; surfboards and surf clothes battled for space with small paintings and arts and crafts.
Le Claire said, “Hi, I’m lookin
g for Riley Jones, is he around?”
“Who’s asking?”
Le Claire smiled. “The police, that’s who is asking.”
“Sorry, thought you were a lawyer for a moment. We’ve had enough of them around here.” His gaze flicked towards Dewar. “Didn’t see you there, love.”
She smiled, sort of. “Well, you see me now, so where is Riley?”
“Outside in his campervan. You can’t miss it; it’s about three or four spaces down from here. A nice big shiny beast and a lovely blue with a fancy bit of silver detail.”
Le Claire made to leave. “Thanks. You sound as if you’re from Australia. You’re a long way from home. You here for the surf?”
“Yeah. I came here a couple of winters ago—well, that’s my winter, not yours. I’ve spent the last two of your summers here; love the surf, love the vibe, love the people. What’s not to love?” His broad smile followed them as they headed outside.
Dewar frowned. “Why would someone from Australia come to Jersey for surfing? I mean, I know it’s a big deal here, but you can’t compare the two.”
“It’s a thriving scene. We’ve held World and European Championships here before. I think the island even has the oldest European Surf Club.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t like to brave the Jersey water.” She stopped and pointed. “Look, that has to be his van.”
Slotted neatly in between a rust-bucket Jeep and a fancy motorhome was a beautifully restored Volkswagen van. The paint was pale blue, the trim Chrome and the front seats tan leather. The side door was open, and a young man sat on the step in front of a portable barbecue. He was grilling some burgers, a beer by his side. His brown hair was lightened by golden highlights courtesy of the sun. His shirt was unbuttoned, and he wore faded jeans shorts. Beach life indeed.
“I assume you are Riley Jones? I’m DCI Le Claire.”
Riley looked up, bringing a hand to his brow to shade his eyes from the glaring sun. “I thought you might be. I’ve been expecting you.”
“Did your mother call you?”
“No, but she would have done. I telephoned her just after you’d gone. The news is everywhere that the tower was on fire. I wanted to know if everything was okay.”
“I assume you know that Kurt Englebrook is dead.” Le Claire continued at his nod. “I understand there was some history between you and the deceased. We know about the court case and the appeal.”
“Well, if you know that, you know everything. There’s nothing else to say.”
He held his annoyance at bay. “You must have been angry that Mr Englebrook won the initial court case.”
Riley shot back. “But we will win the appeal.”
“Court cases are expensive, as is an appeal. Who is footing the legal costs?”
“No one person, if that’s what you think. We set up crowdfunding. Loads of people have contributed. We’ve got enough to see the appeal through.”
“And Englebrook had the financial resources to counter-appeal again and again. Was that concerning you?”
Riley’s smile was slow and lazy and irritated Le Claire no end. “No. I’m afraid that particular road will lead you nowhere. I didn’t harm Kurt. I may not have liked him or his plans, and I certainly disagreed with his lord-of-the-manor attitude, but I had no hand in his death.”
“Forgive me if I don’t take your word on that. Tell me about your relationship with Kurt Englebrook. How long did you know him?”
He slumped as if the plug had been pulled on his bravado and cockiness. “All my life. Mum has worked for Kurt for years. When he moved to Jersey, we relocated as well. That was around fifteen years ago.”
Dewar said, “How much interaction did you have?”
“Initially, a lot. Until five years ago, we lived in one of the cottages on the estate. We moved out when Mum got her housing qualifications. Kurt was always good to me. He bought me some cool birthday and Christmas presents and all that. But his main focus was his business.”
Le Claire asked, “Not his family?”
“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m saying Kurt was a successful man, and you need a particular work ethic to do as well as he did.”
“Yet you effectively turned against him over the right of way. How did that come about?”
“This wasn’t personal. On the one hand, I could see how people like Kurt and his friends owned vast tracts of the island, and so much of it was closed off to the public. Old rights-of-way forgotten about and conveniently blocked off. This island is a beautiful place; it’s special and needs to be preserved for future generations. And by that, I don’t just mean the ones who can afford big estates, where they throw up barriers and fencing to shut out most of the population.”
Le Claire had to admit that he agreed with the sentiment. “But it is their land.”
“I totally respect that, but rightful access shouldn’t be blocked because someone has money.”
“And you think that happened here?”
“I think Kurt paid for fancy lawyers to give some claptrap about how his quality of life would be destroyed if there was public access across his land to the cove. Utter rubbish. There is no other land route to that beach. It can only be approached via the old right-of-way or from the sea. That beach is public property, yet we can’t get to it. And don’t get me started on the tower.”
“What’s your beef there?”
“It’s part of island history, and we can only access a few of them. The old right-of-way went close by the tower so people could at least see part of this island’s past, plus that bay is beautiful. I used to go there when I lived at the manor, but most people have no idea it even exists. Money has taken enough from this island, it shouldn’t take the few free pleasures people have as well.”
“You have something against money?”
He laughed. “No, but if you’re hardworking and lucky enough to be rich, you should also give something back. That bloody right-of-way would have been mainly used at weekends by a few people. Not the rampaging hordes Kurt liked to pretend would descend and violate his land.”
“What were your whereabouts yesterday?”
He lifted a brow, his head turning to the side. “You’re definitely barking up the wrong one there.”
“So where were you?”
“I spent the day either at the shop or surfing and then I chilled out here with a few beers. I slept here last night as well.”
“You do know that’s illegal, don’t you?” Le Claire had to make a comment, but his voice was mild. There had been an enormous furore recently over the people who spent nights, and sometimes the weekend, in their vans parked up along the beach walkway at St Ouen. This thriving community was peaceful overall, and Le Claire couldn’t summon the enthusiasm to berate him over it.
“Yeah, technically, but I wasn’t causing any harm, and I figure you’ve got better things to do.”
He had it in one. “We’re waiting for the autopsy to get more information. When we do, we will probably be back for another chat.”
“Sure, feel free. You can always find me here.”
They walked back to the car out of place in this environment. Him and his suit and Dewar in her tailored trousers and a neat shirt. He had hung about at the beach growing up, but he was no water baby. The aquatic finale of his last big case still made him break out in an anxious sweat.
He turned to Dewar. “What do you think?”
“He seems assured and bursting with confidence, but I can’t tell if that’s his usual way or if he’s trying to hide something.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
They headed south, and as they began the descent to St Aubin, Dewar said, “I started compiling a list of connected persons. Angela Laine, Rudy’s girlfriend, lives in a cottage adjoining her gallery; it should be around here somewhere. Sunset Arts, it’s called.”
“I know it. I’ve been there before. Let’s go and see if Angela is there. I wouldn’t mind talking to someone who isn’t related in some way to Eng
lebrook, just to get some perspective.”
“She is connected through her relationship with Englebrook’s son, so she isn’t going to be that objective.”
“Perhaps not, but we’ll need to talk to her anyway. May as well do it now.”
They parked by the harbour, squeezing into a lone free space, and headed on foot up the narrow, winding hill. The gallery was tucked amongst a row of old fishermen’s cottages, now extended into desirable homes with brightly painted doors and festooned with hanging flower-baskets.
The downstairs floor was a gallery store, selling paintings and ceramics from local artists. The girl manning the till was, to their surprise, Chloe Marsden.
“I didn’t realise you worked for Miss Laine.”
“I help out every now and again if Angela is shorthanded. It’s a favour, really. My actual job is working for Richard Grainger’s art and collectables auction business. He is the curator of the Englebrook Collection and an old friend of Kurt’s.”
“What do you do there?”
“He does the larger commissions, but I’m getting proficient with some of the smaller stuff, working on due diligence and provenance and the like. It’s great because I can do most of my work remotely. I only need to travel to London occasionally. Best of both worlds. I get to work in the London art world but base myself in Jersey.” Her smile was apologetic. “If you were looking for Angela, I’m afraid she isn’t here at the moment.”
“That’s a pity, as we were in the area, but we’ll catch up with her another time.”
“Wait! It’s DCI Le Claire, isn’t it?”
A woman bustled towards them. Wild, greying curls surrounded a surprisingly unlined face. Intelligent blue eyes fixed on his. “I recognise you from the news.”
He inwardly sighed but kept the friendly public smile in place. They’d had to do a TV appeal a couple of weeks previously—a missing teenager who had disappeared in the middle of the night. After an island-wide search lasting several days, she had turned up, tearful and apologetic. She’d been hiding out in a friend’s motorhome, drinking cheap wine and cursing her parents. Masters usually jumped at the chance to flash his pearly teeth on film. Unfortunately, he’d been on holiday, so Le Claire had reluctantly agreed to go on camera. He hated every moment. He drew the line at general promotional work. Apparently, it was good for the Force’s image, and appearing approachable was the in thing. Nothing wrong with that, but he couldn’t help thinking of his old boss from the Met. Gareth Lewis was old-school, and an almost extinct breed. That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, though. He’d have told the bosses where to shove their promotional work. Come to think of it, he’d probably have made Le Claire do it as well.
Blood Rights (A Jack Le Claire Mystery) Page 4
