Le Claire and Dewar exchanged glances as Armstrong continued. “All hell broke loose after the will was read. Sarah Hamlyn launched herself at Laura Brown and felled her to the ground. Charles Hamlyn and a few others piled in to separate them. Sarah Hamlyn was going berserk, shouting and screaming. Then she turned on her niece, Ana, sweet girl who looked absolutely shell-shocked. I didn’t know what to do. Then I thought of you.”
“Thanks. So tell me about the will.”
“I was Scott’s executor. It’s a service we often carry out for our colleagues in the firm. Sarah Hamlyn, as next of kin, was adamant that the reading of the will was to take place during the drinks reception. I tried to stop her, said I didn’t think it was a good idea, but she ignored me. Said she wanted everything dealt with today and had booked a small conference room. The plan was that we could withdraw there to read the will and then re-join the reception.”
“What caused her to attack Laura Brown?”
“Tempers were getting frayed the second that Mrs Hamlyn realised I had asked Laura to attend the reading. She went ballistic when I revealed that apart from a legacy to his parents the remainder of Scott’s estate was left, in its entirety, to Laura Brown. Sarah Hamlyn started screaming about the wages of sin.”
Dewar whistled. “And how much would that be?”
“Minus any debt, Scott’s main assets, his apartment, investments and cash were worth around £3 million; there was also a £750,000 insurance policy.”
“I take it Mother Hamlyn obviously had high expectations herself. And Laura Brown, how did she take the news?”
“She seemed surprised when I insisted that she attend the reading of the will, but she doesn’t strike me as someone who wears her heart on her sleeve.”
“Not even when she’s told she has inherited what must be virtually £4 million when everything is totted up?”
“As I said, she didn’t seem to show any emotion, and then Sarah Hamlyn was on her.”
Dewar spoke up. “And what was the legacy to the Hamlyns?”
“I don’t know that I can divulge that, not unless it’s relevant to a criminal investigation.” Paul Armstrong’s look was sly as a fox.
Le Claire put him out of his misery. “We are treating Scott Hamlyn’s death as suspicious. So please answer the question.”
“Ah, I knew something was up when you two attended the funeral. The parents were left £100,000 between them.”
“Where are they now?”
Hunter moved forward. “Miss Brown is in the conference room, and Mrs Hamlyn has been taken to a small library. The only other family is Mrs Hamlyn’s niece, who is in the main reception room.”
Le Claire rubbed at his temple. “God knows I don’t want to cart Sarah Hamlyn off to the police station on the day she buries her son. Let’s talk to Laura Brown first.”
Dewar followed Le Claire through the room where the drinks were being held. The mourners had apparently been indulging in the free champagne as testified by bright eyes, flushed faces and laughter. Their quick glances and whispered conversations were proof that the incident was the talk of the room. He saw Ana, standing alone by one of the tall windows.
A second uniform stood blocking the entrance to a corridor that led off the main room. He stood to attention as he recognised Le Claire.
“Where can I find Miss Brown?”
“She is in here, sir.” He pointed to the door he was standing next to. “Miss Brown has refused medical treatment and asked to be left alone, sir.”
Laura Brown was pale and dishevelled and merely glanced at the door when Le Claire entered followed by Dewar. Her hand shook slightly as she sipped from a plastic water bottle. She turned her face fully toward Le Claire, and he could see a dark bruise forming across one cheek, the purple hues in stark contrast to the rest of her unblemished skin. Her hair was ruffled and unkempt, but none of this distracted from her looks. He was reminded of the old adage that beauty marries up, or in this case, should that be doesn’t marry, but ends up with the money anyway?
“Miss Brown, how are you?”
Her smile was weak and rueful. “I’ve been better, but I am okay. It was just such a shock.”
“What was a shock, the attack or the contents of the will?”
Her voice grew cool, and her eyes were devoid of emotion. “Both. The attack was completely unexpected, and I had no idea that Scott had redone his will in my favour…no idea at all.”
“About the attack – what would you like us to do? I am sure there will be no lack of supporters if you decide to press charges; it was in full view of the mourners after all.”
“No, I don’t think I could do that. Sarah Hamlyn couldn’t stand me in any event. This was just the final straw, I guess. Scott mentioned to her a few weeks back that he had serious feelings about me. Apparently, his mother went crazy, screaming and shouting that he’d marry me over her dead body.”
“And was marriage on the cards?”
“I thought so. We got on very well indeed. Scott and I had been seeing each other for six months. I came to the island virtually every weekend, and we spent a couple of holidays together. I would have been very happy to move to a more permanent stage, but that’s not going to happen now, is it?”
She sounded bitter, and Dewar butted in, tensed and combative, before he could stop her.
“No, it isn’t, and I hate to be indelicate, but you did get the money anyway.”
Laura Brown’s voice was cold. “Yes, I did, but I didn’t ask for it, and I certainly didn’t kill for it.”
Le Claire moved in. “We’ll get someone to take you back to the apartment. I think it best if you stay away from Mrs Hamlyn for the time being.”
“I can assure you that won’t be a problem at all.”
They headed for the next door along the corridor and what Le Claire assumed would be a very angry Sarah Hamlyn.
On opening the door, Le Claire reminded himself not to make assumptions. Sarah Hamlyn was in a serious state, but it didn’t seem to be driven by anger. Her face was tear-ravaged and covered in blotches.
She sat on a low sofa, her husband by her side. She was staring straight ahead, her body rigid; her husband leaned into her, holding one of her hands in both of his. He was running his fingers gently across her flesh, no doubt intended as a soothing rhythm, but Sarah Hamlyn seemed anything but comforted.
She snatched her hand away, an angry look in her eyes as she held herself even tighter. Turning, she hissed at her husband, “Let me be. Just leave me alone.”
She turned to Le Claire. “My son left virtually all he possessed, all he had worked for to that girl. He just couldn’t see through her. I don’t know what came over me. I just wanted to hurt her.”
Sarah Hamlyn’s eyes were wet with unshed tears, and her pain resonated in the otherwise quiet room.
“Sarah, stop it. We’re in enough trouble as it is.” Charles Hamlyn smiled weakly at Le Claire as if in apology.
“We? I hardly think so. You’d have kissed her hand instead of giving her the slap she deserved – and got.”
Le Claire asked, “You admit to assaulting Miss Brown?”
“Admit it? I’d be a fool not to, not when there is a room full of witnesses. Scott is dead, and Laura Brown is now a rich woman. She’ll have a lifetime of living off my son’s money.”
“You have something to say about Miss Brown?”
“She slept with our son, made him think she cared about him and now that he’s dead she walks off with everything. There is no decency anymore. Look at Laura Brown, Inspector. Surely, the money’s motive enough? And who is she? Where does she come from?”
“Miss Brown is adamant that Mr Hamlyn did not tell her he had changed his will.”
“I am sure she is correct. However, he was not the most organised of men in his personal life. His private papers could be strewn over his study desk for days before he filed them safely away. Let us not forget that
woman was often alone in his apartment. I warned him to lock his study, not to allow her access if he was going out. He wouldn’t hear a word said against her.”
“Miss Brown is not going to press charges. I suggest I organise for her to be taken home, and you and Mr Hamlyn can mourn Scott in peace, but please stay away from Laura Brown.”
“Oh, I intend doing that. I won’t give her the satisfaction of having an opportunity to press charges; she has everything else.”
Chapter Thirteen
Le Claire had seen Laura Brown taken to what was now her home in a squad car and had released Sarah and Charles Hamlyn to join the other mourners and say good-bye to their only child. He had sent Dewar back to the station, saying he’d walk; he needed some fresh air, needed to think. He headed for the exit and passed the open door of a small lounge, stopping when he heard his name called. “Le Claire, in here a moment.”
Paul Armstrong relaxed in a winged armchair, a tray of coffee on the table in front of him, what looked like an empty brandy glass sat beside it. Le Claire swung into the room and wearily sank into the matching armchair. “You didn’t re-join the gathering?”
“I’ve had more than enough drama for one day. Seriously, though, I came to say good-bye to a colleague, and I’ve done that.”
“Some of the team have been to your offices and spoke to Scott’s colleagues. I have to say I forgot it was your firm.”
“They didn’t speak to me. I’ve been in long meetings for a couple of days. Were my colleagues helpful?”
“They were certainly willing to help, but I don’t think we found out very much.”
Armstrong sighed. “Scott was a strange egg. He had a wall around him that few ever climbed, far less breached. He didn’t have an easy manner, and we all like easy these days, don’t we? God forbid we have to expend energy and work at something. He was too difficult for his colleagues to get to know, so they just coexisted on the same plane. His PA would know the name of his doctor and how often he went to the dentist, but she’d never have a clue what he did in his spare time, whether he spent a Saturday night watching reality TV or listened to classical music with a glass of malt whisky. And on that note…” He beckoned for the waitress and ordered another brandy. Le Claire refused a drink.
“He wasn’t well liked?”
“They didn’t know him well enough to dislike him. The boy had his insecurities, and he kept himself back from people. But when you got him to relax, he had a clever wit and was an interesting chap to talk to.”
“No one seemed to know how he came by his recent bruises.”
“Ah yes, the fight was quite out of character.”
Le Claire snapped to attention. “You know what happened? Who did he have a fight with?”
Armstrong looked apologetic. “I am afraid I only know what happened, not with whom. I asked Scott outright how he got those bruises. He gave me some stuff and nonsense at first, but I kept on at him. That boy was too insular for his own good sometimes. How he got involved with that girl, I will never know. He was undoubtedly punching above his weight there.” He must have seen the impatience Le Claire was attempting to keep from his face, so he continued. “He said he’d had one beer too many, had an argument with a friend and traded blows. He was still seething about it, I could tell.”
“He didn’t say who it was?”
“No, but I can’t imagine it would be difficult to find out. I mean, I didn’t even know he had a friend. I’d ask his mother if I were you.”
Le Claire’s response was dry. “Thanks for the tip; I might just do that.”
“Sorry.”
Le Claire smiled. “You weren’t questioned with the rest of your colleagues, so do you mind if I ask some now?” At his easy nod, he continued. “We know Scott was in discord with at least one person, whoever he had the fight with. Do you know of anyone else he was at odds with or who might want to harm him?”
“Afraid not, Scott wasn’t forthcoming about his life unless probed.”
“So he didn’t have any ongoing issues, not even work related.”
Paul Armstrong looked contemplative; his posture stilled, he went to speak, hesitated.
“Come on, say whatever it is. You have to let me determine if it’s important or not.”
A heavy sigh preceded his words. “Scott had taken his eye off the ball a bit. We’d had a chat about it. I was anxious, I hate man-management issues, and he was arrogant, difficult to deal with. Truth is that Scott was wrapped up in his girlfriend and seemed to think of nothing else. He messed up a couple of deals, had a few irate clients.”
“Anyone in particular?”
He huffed and rolled his eyes. “The main issue was with Aidan Gillespie.”
Le Claire leaned forward in his chair, all ears. “Carry on.”
“Aidan Gillespie is a self-made man. Now he is all softened edges and pretty manners, but there is steel beneath the sophisticated veneer. Scott never quite realised that. He messed up in what should have been a straightforward boundary dispute over some land at the edge of the manor. There’s a strip of wildflower meadow with a pretty little stream running through it that was originally part of the manor lands. Apparently, the argument was that it had been ceded to the next-door property as a dowry at some point and the title never straightened out. However, there was a subsequent document returning the land to the manor. We had an open-and-closed case, but Scott had just got back from holiday with Laura. He hadn’t known her that long and must’ve been starry-eyed or lost his mind, for he forgot to submit the latest document, and the court ruled against Gillespie’s claim.”
“I assume Mr Gillespie wasn’t too pleased?”
“He was apoplectic. I was there on another case that day. When we all spilled out of court into the Royal Square, Gillespie just went for Scott. Before it turned nasty, the brother pulled Gillespie the Elder off and they went huffing away. A formal complaint was made to the office, and we had to cancel the latest invoice and return the fees already paid. Not good all round.”
“Yet Scott Hamlyn somehow gets into Gillespie’s party?”
“I wondered what he was doing there. That doesn’t make sense.”
“Exactly. Anything else to add?”
Armstrong sipped his brandy. “I think I’ve spilled my guts enough for today, don’t you?”
#
Dewar disconnected the call from Le Claire. He was heading back to the station but wanted her to do two things. The second would be the most challenging, today of all days, so she decided to quickly get the easy call out of the way first as her Scots pragmatism came to the fore.
The telephone number was in the contact sub-folder in the main case file. The landline rang five or six times before it was answered by a male voice. “Danny Gillespie.”
“This is DS Dewar, Mr Gillespie. We’d like to have a couple of words with your brother.”
“He’ll be back tonight. He has been in London and is on the last flight into the island. May I ask what this is about? Can I help?”
“I’m afraid it’s a matter we’ll need your brother’s input on, but thanks for offering.” She disconnected the line without waiting for a reply. She knew she shouldn’t let personal feelings intrude onto the job, but there was something about Danny Gillespie she just didn’t like. She half expected him to ask to speak to Le Claire instead of her, the way he’d looked through her when they last met, as if in a man’s world she was invisible; or was that her own insecurities talking? She shook the thought aside and got on with the job.
She checked the computer contact files again and dialled a mobile number. Sarah Hamlyn answered after only a few short rings. Dewar took a deep breath. “Mrs Hamlyn, it’s DS Dewar. I am so sorry to bother you. Can you speak now?”
The voice that responded sounded defeated and perhaps a little broken. “Yes. I’m at home. We couldn’t stay there any longer. Have you news?”
“No, but there has been a devel
opment. Your son had bruising on his face and to his torso.”
“Yes, I saw that. Was he beaten before he died?” His voice ended on a whisper.
“No, we don’t believe so. The post-mortem results indicate that the bruising was a few days old. A colleague of Scott’s has confirmed that he said he had got into a fight with someone.”
“That is ridiculous.” There was a pause and a less certain voice continued, “Who did that to Scott?”
“I don’t know, but he apparently said it was a friend and that they had gone out drinking and it turned into a fight.”
“I don’t believe this. I mean, he went out for a drink last week with a good friend. But David wouldn’t harm him.”
“David who?”
“David Adamson, they’ve been friends since school.”
#
Dewar parked on the road outside the house. It was one of the typical new-build, executive-type homes that seemed to have sprung up everywhere, tucked away in small closes. All cream walls and French-trimmed windows in bright colours, they housed those who had money to spend and wanted people to know it. The front garden, pristine lawn and carefully tended borders were littered with brightly coloured plastic toys. A harassed-looking man opened the front door, his brows rising as he took in Le Claire’s badge and Dewar’s uniform. “Save us from hysterical young girls. Come on in.”
Le Claire exchanged a puzzled glance with Dewar. “I’m DCI Le Claire and this is DS Dewar. Are you Mr David Adamson?”
“Yes, yes come on in.” He held a checked tea towel in his hands and threw it over one shoulder as he beckoned them to follow him into a large kitchen diner. To say it currently looked lived in was an understatement. Adamson was apologetic. “Sorry about the mess. I’ve just fed the kids.”
Blood Ties: Obsession, secrets, desire and murder (A Jack Le Claire Mystery) Page 9
