She closed the apartment door behind her, kicked off her trainers and leaned back against the wall. The apartment was quiet and the air heavy as the last rays of sun, blinding in their dying intensity, poured through the wall of glass that overlooked the beach. She crossed the room and, unlocking the security latch, pulled the glass slider wide open. The sea breeze floated in, cooling the room and caressing her bare arms. The flashing message light on the phone caught her attention. She pushed the replay button once; she wanted the new message, not the twenty-six old ones. Scott never bothered deleting the damned things, and it hadn’t been her place to do so. She listened to the automated tones that had invited the caller to leave a message. The line had been connected, but no one spoke. She shivered, but not from the breeze. The recorded silence, with its electronic tone, was unsettling. She’d had a call like that before she had gone out.
The rest of the evening stretched ahead of her. The only company she had were memories. Scott had been out of his depth when they first met. He’d been standing alone at the party, sipping champagne, isolated and with an arrogant lift of his chin. She’d been about to turn away when something made her look closer. She’d taken in the guarded, protective stance, arms crossed in front of him as if to ward off the other guests. He was shy. In the time they had been together, she had seen through his facade to the insecurities that were usually hidden from view. It made her love him all the more.
She had to do something productive, anything to banish her thoughts for just a little while. She should catch up on some emails, stare aimlessly at Facebook and take vicarious pleasure from other people exposing their lives in minute detail.
Her laptop was in her carry-on luggage, and she took it out and set it up on the dining table. She tried to fire it up, but nothing was happening. She held the power button down, pressed it another couple of times. Nothing; the battery must be low. She trudged to the bedroom and rummaged through her case. Everything she expected to be there was except her laptop power cable. That put paid to her plans to lose herself in social media for a few hours. Then she remembered. Scott had changed the password on his laptop a few weeks ago and had asked her to write it down in the book he kept to record everything like that. She’d always said it was a bad idea; now she hurried to get it. She could use his laptop.
She rarely went into the study, but the sight that met her stopped her in her tracks. Scott wasn’t tidy; his working papers and personal mail were usually scattered across his desk, spilling over his laptop, which was permanently plugged in. It was hard to tell that the large desk was a fine rosewood antique. However, this was something different. There was a cleared space along one side of the desk. It looked like someone had simply swept the bundles of documents and mail to the floor, where they now lay in an untidy pile, and there was an empty space in the middle of the desk where his laptop should have been.
Chapter Seven
Ana wearily crawled out of bed just past sunrise. She had lain awake all night, tossing and turning as she thought of Scott or, more to the point, tried not to think of her cousin, but it hadn’t worked. She’d given up on sleep as the sun rose, quickly showered in the shared bathroom and dressed in a plain, dark sundress. It was Monday, and she’d be working from Philip Le Claire’s home office. She’d called and left a couple of messages for her aunt, but there had been no response. Part of her thought that was typical; the other couldn’t imagine what the woman was going through as she mourned her only son.
Without thinking, she followed her usual routine, grabbing a coffee and pain au chocolat from the little bakery near the bus station.
She hopped off the bus in the middle of the countryside and turned into a private lane surrounded by fields and bordered by hedges. Ahead were the tall gates with the sign that proclaimed this the entrance to La Belle Haven. She entered the key code in the numbered panel, and with the faintest of metallic whirrs, the tall gates swung open, revealing a long drive that ended in a bend to the right. There were a mass of plants, flowers and trees crammed into the overflowing borders that were wide enough to have small shingled walkways scattered through them.
She walked around the side of the large house and, with a quick knock, entered through the kitchen door and greeted her boss’s wife. “Morning.”
Elizabeth turned, a look of surprise on her carefully made-up face, her silvery bob swinging back into place. “Ana, what are you doing here? Didn’t you get my text message?”
“Yes, I did, and it was kind of Philip to say I should have the day off, but I think I’ll feel better having something to keep me occupied.”
Elizabeth frowned. “Well, it’s up to you, but see how it goes.”
#
The morning brought rain, that light, incessant drizzle that often affects coastal areas. The smell of damp jackets and raincoats hung in the air as Le Claire entered the incident room. He’d slept the night through with Sasha by his side, and the past hadn’t come crawling into his dreams. He’d woken refreshed and happy. Then he had driven home to shower and change, as if they were a couple who were dating and not one that had been married for years.
He looked around the room with an appraising eye. Everything had been set up as he had requested the day before. Several banks of desks with high-speed monitors and fast Internet connections jostled for space with high-tech printers. One wall was dominated by a massive white board. Pairs of desks lay waiting for the detectives who had been seconded to the team.
Several of the workstations were occupied, and Le Claire approached a young constable. “Hunter, how are you doing?”
Hunter coloured, jumped up, sent the papers flying off his desk and bent down – even pinker now – to pick them up. Le Claire just resisted raising his eyes heavenward. The boy was naive and clumsy, but he was a computer whizz, so Le Claire had tasked him with finding out all he could about Scott Hamlyn’s online profile and what that told him about the man himself.
“Leave the papers, Hunter; just tell me what you’ve found.”
Hunter stood up quickly, a mass of papers lying at his feet. “The victim did not appear to have any of the usual social media profiles; no Facebook, Twitter, WhatsApp or Instagram.” Le Claire was getting a tick under his eye just thinking about the rise of social media – he just didn’t get it. If you wanted to catch up with someone, then telephone or meet them for a drink. Or was he in the minority? Even his mother had a Facebook account.
“So nothing there.”
“He did have a large online gaming presence. You know, war games and suchlike.”
Le Claire didn’t know what to say. Scott Hamlyn was a lawyer and a professional, not some spotty fifteen-year-old. “So he played games online.”
“Yes, Ranger94, his tag, had some pretty decent scores. He must’ve spent a long time playing these games. Often the regular users exchange messages online and build up friendships.”
“See what you can find out. We need to look at every angle, but I find it hard to believe that one of his Internet war buddies was also at the party and decided to kill him – then again, stranger things have happened. Know the victim, know the killer. The stronger a picture we build of Scott Hamlyn, the closer we’ll be to knowing who murdered him.”
Le Claire turned at the thump of regulation police shoes across the carpet tiles. He only knew one person whose presence was announced in such a way, and he turned to greet Dewar. Her face was round with a chin that displayed determination or a stubborn streak. He had seen both. She’d removed her uniform jacket, and he noticed the sinewy muscles in her slim arms. She wasn’t a skinny girl but nor was she carrying extra weight – she’d been doing some training recently, and he was glad. Le Claire hated to see good officers let themselves go, which happened all too often in an island where food and drink played such a large part of social life.
“Dewar, have you ever played personal console games?”
“Like Xbox or PlayStation? Sure, as a kid I loved Tomb Raid
er. I used to spend hours pretending I was Lara Croft.”
Even Le Claire knew that Lara Croft was the pneumatically built female adventurer who always seemed to have a rifle slung across her back and a hunting knife strapped to her thigh. It cheered him to think of the criminals who came Dewar’s way if she was in a Lara Croft mood. “It seems our victim liked to play soldiers online. I wonder what that says about him.”
“On its own, not much; I mean, loads of our guys play.”
“They do? Who? No, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know. But I guess if you add in everything else, Hamlyn’s lack of friends and zero social media profile, he comes across as a loner.”
“Apart from Laura Brown.”
“Indeed. And that’s a bit of a mystery. I wonder what she saw in Hamlyn.”
“I would say his money and good career prospects, but surely she would meet a lot of successful people and business owners doing her promotion work, so I guess there has to be more to it than that.”
“Her background checked out?”
“Preliminary details so far, but she works for a company, Classic Promotions, and they supply models and promotional people for trade events, advertising and the like. She’s the director. We can’t find out who owns the company, as it is registered to another private company, but we’ll keep at it. She rents a flat in Hampstead.”
“Okay. And the cash we found at the murder scene?”
“That’s why I came to see you. We got access to Hamlyn’s financials this morning. The guys are running a full check, but the cash appears to have come from four of his accounts, held at different banks. He took just under £5,000 out of each one. It didn’t trigger any suspicious transaction reporting, as he did take out a few grand in cash occasionally.”
His response was fast. “Who needs almost £20,000 in cash these days?”
“Someone who is up to no good?”
“Perhaps, certainly someone who doesn’t want a record of what they’re doing or who they’re giving money to.”
“Gambling? Or prostitution? Maybe drugs?”
“You’d get a lot of either for £20,000, or a little of the very best.” The question was which one was Hamlyn’s vice?
Drug use was much more prevalent these days. Prostitution wasn’t a big business on the island. They busted the odd small-time pimp every now and again, but the bigger issue was the high-class escorts who shipped in for a few days at a time from the UK. However, they weren’t so easy to catch as the deals were high level and sophisticatedly planned. A part of Le Claire thought they ought to just let them get on with it, as long as no one was being harmed or coerced. But if you were an upholder of the law, that meant upholding all laws – not just the ones you thought were valid.
Dewar’s voice broke into his thoughts. “I checked out the parents. Charles Hamlyn is an engineering consultant, and Sarah is a housewife. There are no adverse hits against either. She chairs an organisation called MAI, which is short for…”
“Mothers Against Immorality. Sasha told me.” She looked slightly affronted that he was aware of this. “Carry on, what else did you find out?”
“She’s well respected and seen as a poster girl for clean living, playing by the rules and toeing the line. Last year she was honoured at a posh dinner, which was covered by local TV. Here, have a look.”
She picked up her tablet from her desk and pressed the screen. “This came up when I googled her. It’s from the TV archives.”
The first shot was a wide view of a crowded dining hall; the well-dressed guests looked relaxed and had shifted in their chairs to face a raised dais. The camera panned across the room to a woman standing in front of a microphone. Sarah Hamlyn wore a demure evening dress and was clutching a silver plaque. Her hair was styled and her face made-up. She looked elegant and very pleased with herself. Dewar turned the volume up, and they listened as Sarah Hamlyn addressed the audience. “Our young people live in a very different world to the one we enjoyed. They are constantly connected through social media, sharing intimate details of their lives. They devour the antics of reality TV personalities, whose shameless behaviour is beamed into living rooms, somehow normalising their debauchery. Loose morals, divorce and extra-marital affairs carry little shame, and children are increasingly born out of wedlock. We have a duty to act as role models, to lead by example, teach right from wrong and show, in our own decisions, our very actions, the value and beauty in living a moral life. I am honoured to accept this award and want you to know that I will devote all my energy to furthering our aims. We will bring morality back.”
The camera switched to the diners, who were rapturously applauding; some had risen to their feet, and Sarah Hamlyn beamed. Le Claire recognised several politicians and business personalities. This was an influential crowd.
The screen went black as the clip ended. Dewar shook her head. “Well, that was a bit evangelical.”
“The words obviously struck a chord, given the reaction of the audience.” He had seen the looks on their faces as Sarah Hamlyn spoke. She was a powerful force.
Dewar started sliding toward the ad-hoc kitchen area they’d set up at the back of the room. No doubt she was headed for yet another of her cups of tea. He hated to burst her bubble, he really did. “No time for that, Dewar. We’ve got someplace to be.”
Chapter Eight
It was a very different-looking Laura Brown who opened the door to Le Claire and Dewar. Her face was makeup free, and an undoubtedly sleepless night had resulted in puffy bags that discoloured the delicate folds beneath her eyes, grief emphasising the tiny laughter lines. The air of fragility did not detract from her attractiveness. “Come on in. What can I do for you?”
Le Claire got straight to the point as they moved into the lounge. “As part of our investigation, we’d like to know more about Scott. To do so, it would be good to start with his private papers, emails, that kind of thing. Is there a study?”
“Sure, it’s this way.”
Laura opened a heavy oak door and ushered them into a cluttered space, which was in direct contrast to the modern sleekness of the rest of the apartment. There was a strong musty smell, and the windows, which overlooked the inner courtyard, were closed tight, and the heavy heat was palpable in the room. Le Claire glanced at one wall, which was covered in rows of book shelves. However, they weren’t filled with eye-catching, colourful dust jackets. The weighty tomes were bound in dark leather and tooled in gold. Built-in drawered units took up the rest of the wall space. A desk sat in the middle of the room. It was covered in a jumble of papers. Neatness and organisation hadn’t been Scott Hamlyn’s strong point; or at least not in his private study.
“Scott tended to work from home in the evening. He said it gave him something to do when I wasn’t here. I guess you’ll find work and personal papers jumbled together. It’s a bit of a mess, I’m afraid.” Her shoulders slumped, as if the weight of grief was a physical presence.
Le Claire could never understand how people allowed their desk spaces to get into such a chaotic state. He’d bet half of them would never be able to tell if they’d been burgled or not. In fact, a burglar would probably leave less mess.
“Thank you. DS Dewar and I will have a look through everything.”
He had perhaps been more abrupt than he intended, but there was something about Laura Brown, a vulnerability that was at odds with her usually self-confident air. He didn’t want to feel sorry for anyone; his job was to be impartial. He saw her draw back slightly, a perfectly reasonable reaction to his words of dismissal.
“Oh. I’ll leave you to it. Can I get you tea or coffee?”
Dewar was too quick for him. His swift refusal was drowned out by her loud acceptance. “Thanks. I’d love a cup of tea.”
“Sure. Is a mug okay?”
His heart sank at Dewar’s enthusiastic yes; she’d be in and out of the loo all day. He couldn’t care less when they were in the office. It drove him crazy whe
n they were on the road. He could recite the whereabouts of the publicly accessible loos in every parish. Not a talent he was proud of.
The door closed behind Laura, and he turned to Dewar. “I’ll have a look through all these drawers, and you tackle the desk and the papers on the floor.” He tried to keep his voice professionally authoritative with a hint of innocence. Dewar cast him a black look that said she knew when she was being stitched up. They pulled on the thin, transparent plastic gloves that were part of their everyday field kit. Le Claire opened drawers and rummaged through their relatively neat contents. He couldn’t see anything of interest – just used notepads with legal scribblings, pens, old photographs and last year’s Christmas cards. He looked over his shoulder at Dewar, who was sorting out the papers into neat piles, carefully reading each one.
There didn’t appear to be anything of interest in the drawers. “This is a waste of time. You have any luck?”
“I have no idea; there’s a load of draft legal documents, some bank statements, nothing more. Although there is something odd.”
“What’s that?”
She held up an unattached power cord. “There isn’t a desk PC, but there is a printer. Where’s the laptop?”
Laura’s voice came from behind them as she edged into the room, a tray of coffee and tea in her arms. “That is what I was going to ask. Scott pretty much used his laptop as a static device. He didn’t take it into work with him; in fact, I’ve never known him to even unplug it. He just didn’t carry anything except a work Blackberry. He wasn’t into mobile gadgets. Did he have it with him?”
Le Claire’s radar went off on red alert. “So Scott’s laptop is missing? Thank you, Laura. We need to get back to the station.” He walked to the door and tried to hide his smirk as he saw Dewar walk past Laura, and the untouched tea tray, with a mournful glance.
Blood Ties: Obsession, secrets, desire and murder (A Jack Le Claire Mystery) Page 5
