Gillespie jerked upright, his attention sharp and focussed on Le Claire. “What was he doing here?”
“You hadn’t invited him?”
“I barely knew him.” He looked behind him. “Danny, what’s going on?”
A man moved out of the shadowed corner of the room. He was a younger, trimmer version of Aidan Gillespie, who introduced him. “This is my brother, Danny. Fetch Ben, he dealt with the guest list.”
Danny Gillespie quickly left the room.
Le Claire carried on. “So you didn’t know Mr Hamlyn’s name was on your guest list? That seems unusual – I mean that someone could be invited to your party and you don’t know who by.”
“I have people who deal with these things. One of them will be here in a moment.”
Danny Gillespie returned, followed by another man, who was probably in his late twenties. He was tall and well built; fair hair was left a little long and framed an undoubtedly handsome face; his jaw was stubbled, and vivid blue eyes matched those of Aidan Gillespie. Le Claire could almost hear Dewar’s thoughts. She stood slightly behind him. He couldn’t see her, but he imagined she’d be standing straighter and sucking in her stomach.
The newcomer seemed puzzled as he looked around the room. “Aidan. What can I do for you?”
“Detective, Sergeant, this is my cousin, Ben. He looks after things for me.”
“Some things, I do most of it.” Danny Gillespie’s voice was defensive.
Aidan Gillespie was dismissive of his brother’s protestations. “Sure, sure, of course you do. Ben, there’s been an accident. Scott Hamlyn has drowned in the pool. How the hell did he get in here?”
“Scott? Christ, that’s insane.” He shook his head and roughly raked his fingers through his hair. “Crazy. I mean, he definitely wasn’t on the guest list when we prepared it. Look.” He opened up a small tablet and, with a few swift swipes, said, “Here’s the list.” His finger flicked upward as he scrolled. He stopped and looked again. “He isn’t on the list. How the hell did he get past security?”
Aidan Gillespie’s words were spat out. “That’s what I’d like to know.”
Ben raised his hands in supplication. “His name wasn’t on the list, Aidan. Security would not just have waved him in.”
“Who did, then? Who?” Aidan Gillespie had turned a dark shade of purple.
The cousin’s voice was soothing. “Take it easy. He must’ve sneaked in somehow.”
Aidan Gillespie slumped into his chair. “It bloody well sounds like it, doesn’t it? Now he’s dead, and my party is ruined.”
Le Claire ignored the self-pity. “How did you know Scott Hamlyn?”
“He did some minor legal work for me. I have no idea what he was doing here.” His eyes were pleading. “Can we keep this quiet until the party finishes? I mean, there are some very important people here; your father amongst them.”
Le Claire heard Dewar gasp next to him. He didn’t blame her, for it was a pretty blatant comment.
He felt anger rise, automatically dampened it and held his emotions in check. That was the problem with the rich; they all acted like they were owed favours. Not in his world.
“Several squad cars have arrived, and I’ve secured the area, which is being taken apart by the Crime Scene Investigators. We would like your guests to stay here until we have finished our preliminary investigations. We’ll take down their names, addresses and contact details and also whether they saw anything unusual this evening and if they left the main house since the party started. We’ll also do general checking on whether they knew the deceased and what their movements were during the evening.”
Aidan Gillespie briefly closed his eyes. “Don’t you think that’s a bit of overkill? Some of the most prominent people in the island are here tonight; I don’t want them badgered.”
“I’m afraid it’s what the investigation demands.”
There was a long pause until Aidan Gillespie finally nodded in acceptance. “Yes, of course, Detective.” The man clearly understood that the evening’s events had transformed his party guest from Jack to DCI Le Claire. “My people will give you all the cooperation you need. Ben will go with you and see to it.”
“Thank you, my colleague and I are on our way to inform the family. We have to do this quickly; otherwise the evening’s events will be on Facebook and Twitter before we know it.”
Gillespie winced at his words. Le Claire guessed he was realising the enormity of the situation. His party would be remembered, but for all the wrong reasons. Anyone who was thought to be anyone had been invited, and almost all had attended, no doubt mainly out of curiosity as to what this self-made man had done to one of the island’s most important historical manors. Now these guests were being questioned by the police and bundled unceremoniously on their way.
#
As the police exited the room, followed by Ben, Aidan Gillespie caught his brother’s eyes and flicked a gaze to the open doorway. Danny picked up on the unspoken order and closed the door tight. Danny was younger by twenty years – the offspring of his father’s second marriage. He figured his father had put it about a bit, and he probably had other siblings, but Danny was the only legitimate one and, in many ways, was more like a son to him than a brother. Danny’s upbringing had been very different from his own. A few years ago, Gillespie had put him in sole charge of the entertainment division.
He turned to his brother. “We could have contained this if that stupid cow hadn’t screamed like a banshee and run straight for Le Claire Jr, who happens to be a bloody Detective Chief Inspector with the local police. Now the place is swarming with coppers.”
Danny laid a hand on his brother’s arm. “Take it easy. It can’t be helped.”
Gillespie brushed him away and rose and paced the room, hands behind his back and frown on his face. “Do you know how much effort it has taken to start to be accepted here? These people aren’t just interested in money – they want style and something else. What they don’t want is their champagne guzzling to be interrupted by a dead body turning up and then to be interrogated by the local plod. It’s all messed up.”
He could hear the petulance in his voice and hated himself for it. He walked to the antique sideboard that took up most of the far wall. The top was covered in decanters, bottles and crystal glasses. He poured them each a generous measure of malt whisky, handed one to his brother and downed his in one. The fiery liquid burned his throat, and he relished the physical discomfort as the alcohol eased his fractious thoughts.
“You get this cleared up, Danny – you hear me?”
#
The Hamlyns lived in the picturesque seaside village of St Aubin. Their pink-washed three-storey home sat above the bay in a terrace of similar properties. The neat front garden was lit by multi-coloured solar lamps. The door was opened by a slightly crumpled looking man in his fifties; he was tall with a narrow frame and stooped a little. Le Claire had checked his watch before ringing the doorbell. It was just gone 11:30 p.m. When he’d worked in the Met, a Londoner’s response to a late night visitor was to open their doors a crack, peering past the security chain. Here in Jersey, it was normal for a person to fling the door wide open and ask with a smile, “Can I help you?”
The man’s cheerfulness made a difficult job unbearable. Le Claire flashed his badge. “Mr Charles Hamlyn?” He continued at the man’s nod. “I’m DCI Le Claire, and this is DS Dewar. May we have a word?”
Surprise crossed his face, but he motioned them through the long narrow hallway into a pretty kitchen at the back of the house. The kettle was boiling, and a woman busied herself with the makings of a late night pot of tea. Scott Hamlyn’s mother presumably; her hair was a carefully highlighted caramel-blonde bob, cut to frame her face and highlight her cheekbones. Le Claire could immediately see traces of Ana in her features.
“Darling, it’s the police. Detectives, this is my wife, Sarah.”
Sarah Hamlyn’s face wa
s a polite mask. “How may we help you?”
Le Claire was quick and direct – always the best way. “I am sorry to inform you that your son, Scott Hamlyn, has been found dead. I am very sorry for your loss.” He knew they were meaningless platitudes in the first sharp hit of shock.
As so often happened at these times, Le Claire saw the same range of clashing emotions vie for supremacy as the Hamlyns tried to understand what was being said. Incomprehension gave way to disbelief. Charles Hamlyn was the first to speak. “What? That’s absurd. You’ve made a mistake.”
Before either Le Claire or Dewar could comment, his wife interjected; her voice was strong. “I’m going to call Scott right now, right this minute. Where’s the phone, Charles? Where is it?” Her voice was rising in panic.
She rummaged through the magazines sprawled over the kitchen table, and they spilled onto the floor, revealing a telephone handset. She dialled a number from memory. Her face was white as she listened to the ringtone. “He’ll just be a second. He always answers when he sees it’s me. No matter what he’s doing. Scott’s our only child, and we’re very close. So he’ll answer. He always does.” Her brittle smile faltered as the phone kept ringing. In the silent room, they could hear the distant click of an answerphone.
Dewar reached out and carefully took the phone from Sarah Hamlyn, set it down and led her toward a squashed and well-loved looking sofa. She moved mechanically, unresisting as Dewar placed a hand on her shoulder and gently pressed her to sit.
Recognition and understanding aged her in front of their eyes. “Oh dear Lord, no, is it true?”
“I’m afraid so, Mrs Hamlyn.”
“What happened?”
“Scott was found in the swimming pool at a private home. We’ll be treating it as a suspicious death until we know all the facts. It was Aidan Gillespie’s place.”
He didn’t need to explain further. Everyone in Jersey had heard of the multi-millionaire who had just completed a costly refurbishment of the manor. They’d be hearing it again soon, when news of the death became public knowledge.
Charles Hamlyn’s eyes were bleak. “Are you positive it was Scott?”
“Yes, he was found by his cousin, Ana.”
Sarah Hamlyn had been resting her head in her hands, but she sat bolt upright at these words. “Ana? What does she have to do with this?”
“She was waitressing and was sent out to fetch some supplies from the pool house. She found Mr Hamlyn and then came to find me.”
Charles Hamlyn said, “Ana knows you?”
“Yes, she works for my father.”
“Ah, of course, you’re Philip Le Claire’s son. You’re young to be a Detective Chief Inspector.”
Le Claire didn’t even bother to grit his teeth. It was just a throwaway comment. The usual sly insinuation wasn’t there, that nepotism had got him his job and, at just turned thirty, he had a rank that usually went to a more seasoned policeman. Little did they know that their suppositions couldn’t be farther from the truth. A man who had just been told his child was dead could be afforded some leeway. Charles Hamlyn’s little colour had all but disappeared, leaving his face an ashen mask of grief as tears filled his eyes. Sarah Hamlyn’s voice was tired, resigned. “Never mind the detective’s age, Charles.”
She asked Le Claire, “Can we see Scott?”
Le Claire said, “Of course. We will need you to complete the formal identification. We’ll collect you in the morning. Now we’ll stay here until the Family Liaison Officer arrives. We’ll just give them a call.”
Sarah Hamlyn’s voice was sharp. “No, don’t do that. We don’t need anyone.” Her eyes beseeched him. “Please just leave us alone, please.”
He nodded, and with that left them standing alone in their kitchen, a couple whose future would be irrevocably shaped by this night’s events.
Chapter Five
Ana had woken as the first tendrils of dawn crept through the slatted blinds, shafts of light beating back the dark for another day. For one tiny second, one infinitesimal moment, she was cocooned in the blissful twilight world between sleep and awake. And then her stomach lurched, her eyes flew open and she remembered. Scott. Christ. She lay flat on her back, staring at the stain on the ceiling, but not seeing it. Thank heavens Jack Le Claire had been there. She had run straight for him and not felt any of her usual nervousness when she was around him. For one, he was police; Ana had felt as if his perceptive eyes were analysing her the few times they had spoken. It made her feel guilty, even when she knew she hadn’t done anything. She had always been a little shy and gauche around him. He was a handsome man with neatly trimmed dark hair and eyes that she imagined could draw you in, should he wish it. He was also well over six feet and towered over most people. He had been professional and focussed last night, but he had shown a softness that Ana had more than appreciated.
She sighed out loud. She’d have to phone her aunt later. No matter the harsh words that Sarah had fired at Ana, she was still her aunt, her blood. She checked the time on her phone and saw the reminder flash up. She dragged herself out of bed and pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, slipping her feet into sandals. She grabbed her backpack and was out of the door in five minutes. She had an appointment, and she had to keep it, otherwise Irena’s possessions would be in the rubbish bin.
She figured she was nearly at her destination and pulled the crumpled piece of paper from her pocket again and peered at the address. Irena had once told her it was the large detached house at the end of the cul-de-sac, number seven. Her friend had complained there were children’s brightly coloured plastic toys to be found lying in the manicured front garden and drive. Ana found the place straightaway and made her way past the predicted jumble of toys.
The doorbell was answered by a man who Ana assumed was David Adamson. He looked harassed, his brown curling hair was a little mussed, his clothes were rumpled and he hadn’t shaved recently – however, that didn’t mean he was unattractive, and Ana blushed a little that her thoughts might show on her face.
“Yes, can I help you?”
“Mr Adamson, I am Ana Zielinska, Irena’s friend. We spoke on the phone?”
“Of course, come on in.”
As she followed him into the house, Ana noticed that a tea towel was thrown over his shoulder, and he had a sauce-stained apron tied around his waist. Irena had said the wife was away a lot, and most of the household chores fell to her husband. That had been a wonder to Ana. Her dad had been her hero, but his culinary expertise had started and finished with a thick stew made of anything and everything.
They entered a large kitchen/diner, where modern appliances and sleek cupboards were softened by a family wall planner and cartoon drawings stuck to the American-sized fridge door.
Ana asked, “Have you heard from Irena?”
David Adamson ran his fingers through his hair. “Ana, I am sorry, but as I told you on the phone, she has just skipped out. She’s taken her passport and most of her clothes. I’m sorry your friend didn’t tell you she was leaving, but she’s let us both down. My wife works abroad for several weeks at a time, and I relied on Irena to look after the kids. Now I’m stuck here when I should be running my business. I’m glad you turned up. My wife packed up all of Irena’s belongings in an old suitcase. As I said on the phone, I was under strict, and I mean strict instructions to dump everything. The bin men come tomorrow, and this lot would have gone out with the trash. Beth, my wife, would have gone crazy if it was still here when she came home.”
He sounded anxious, and Ana could guess who ruled this household. He pointed to a suitcase by the door, and her heart sank. Then she realised it could be rolled on wheels.
She hefted her rucksack higher on her shoulder and, pulling the case, made for the door. “Thank you, but will you please call me if you hear from Irena? Tell her I just need to know if she’s okay.” She pulled a neatly folded piece of paper from her pocket. “This is my number and address. I wrote it d
own in case you need to contact me.”
She opened the front door, and David Adamson’s voice drifted down the hall. “Do you need a job, Ana? I could do with some help around here.” At that, she could hear small voices shrieking from the back garden. “Daddy, Daddy, come here now!”
Ana was shaking her head before the words were out. “No thanks. I work as a PA. Afraid I wouldn’t be good at the kids and cooking thing.”
David Adamson nodded, and Ana could feel his eyes on her as she walked down the path, and headed for the bus that would take her home, if you could call it that. Ana had one room and shared a bathroom with three other girls. She had use of the kitchen and a TV that didn’t always work. Nor did the lock on her bedroom door. Her parents hadn’t left her much, and they hadn’t planned to die in a car crash. She was alone and standing on her own two feet, or trying to.
The broken lock forced her to carry her valuables with her, and the weight of the rucksack made the straps dig into her shoulders.
She waited at the bus stop, people-watching to distract her from thinking about Scott. Even ordinary people looked better here, the women with well-tended hair and subtle makeup.
She ran a hand over her own hair and considered having it cut; it was light brown, straight and long, flowing halfway down her back. Irena often teased her and said she looked like a little girl. At just turned twenty-five, Ana had often wished she was more like her older and infinitely more outgoing friend. Irena’s white-blonde crop contrasted with the dazzling blue of her eyes, and sharp cheekbones accentuated her pixie features. Where was she? Ana was battling between a sliver of fear that something bad had happened to Irena and a sense of disappointment that her friend had just left her without a backward glance. Now she had lost her cousin, her only real family in this island, and felt more bereft than ever.
She could see the bus in the distance. She needed to buck up, get home and see what, if any, comfort she could offer her aunt and uncle.
#
Le Claire had gone to bed after 2:00 a.m. and was at his desk by seven. He had spoken to the chief the previous evening and been appointed the Senior Investigating Officer. His first job was to get the right resources in place to manage the investigation. It was now mid-morning, the Major Incident Room was being set up in the largest conference facility they had and he had chosen the team to work with him. The majority of them were out on the road carrying out interviews, having been allocated names of the partygoers and serving staff from the night before.
Blood Ties: Obsession, secrets, desire and murder (A Jack Le Claire Mystery) Page 3
