Sounds of childish voices were coming from the next room, interspersed with the odd scream and shout, and Adamson quickly shut the door. “Sorry, they go a bit crazy and have a mad half hour after they’ve eaten.”
“You don’t seem surprised to see us. Why is that?”
The man in front of him seemed taken aback by his comment. “Well, no. I mean, I’m surprised you bothered following up. I’m sure the girl was just being overanxious.”
Le Claire asked, “What’s the problem?”
“Our au pair has done a bunk, got her last wages and took off the next day. I was away doing some work in London. Luckily, my wife was back and took the call from the nursery to say the kids hadn’t been picked up. We checked out Irena’s room – virtually everything was gone.”
Dewar’s tone was neutral, but impatience lit her eyes. “Looks like she skipped out on you.”
“I know, but she has a friend who has called a few times to see if I had heard anything. She even turned up here on Sunday. She’s a sweet little thing and seemed pretty worried. She said she was thinking of calling the police about her friend being missing. Irena probably just didn’t tell her she was taking off, but now the poor kid seems really concerned.”
“Okay, understood. We aren’t here about that, but we’ll pass a message to our colleagues.
Adamson looked confused. “Oh, right. Well, how can I help you?”
Dewar’s voice was soft. “We don’t want to distress you, but we have a few questions to ask about your friendship with the late Scott Hamlyn.”
His face sagged. “Ah God, poor Scott. Do you know what happened? Was it an accident?”
“We are investigating a suspicious death.”
“Murder? Jesus.”
Le Claire was direct. “We didn’t say that, it is simply classed as suspicious until we learn more. I understand you had a disagreement with Mr Hamlyn a few days before his death and that it turned physical?”
He held out his hands in supplication. “You’ve got me bang to rights. I was really upset to hear about what happened to Scott. However, it doesn’t erase that we had a nasty argument, and a few punches were thrown.”
He lifted up the front of his T-shirt and exposed his lightly tanned stomach, which was covered in several purplish bruises. “Scott caught me a couple of corkers.”
“What did you argue about?”
A wry smile accompanied his words. “What do men ever argue about? A woman – my wife, in fact. Look, Scott and I had sunk a few pints. He was talking about his relationship with this girl he was seeing, saying he wanted to marry her. I was only trying to be helpful, said not to rush things. That maybe he should live with her for a while. I mean, he hadn’t known her long.”
“And he took offence?”
“Yes, but that’s not what the fight was about as such. Scott got defensive, said he knew what he was doing. If he’d left it there, we’d have been fine.”
“What happened?”
“Scott went nuts, laid into me, saying what did I know about relationships, that I had a part-time marriage, and she stayed away because I was a lousy husband. Then he said she was probably seeing someone else. Only the words weren’t so polite. That’s when I said maybe we should talk outside. We went into the lane by the back of the pub, and I smacked him. He hit me back; we traded a few ineffectual blows and then went storming off in different directions. I was going to call him once I’d cooled down, but then it was too late. I never got a chance to make it up with him.”
“Out of interest, why did he say that about your wife?”
“Beth works abroad. She’s a director in a trust business. The money is brilliant, but she works away for three weeks at a time and is then back for a couple, then off again.”
Dewar looked at the toys scattered around the kitchen, the childish drawings stuck to the fridge door. “That can’t be easy.”
“It isn’t, but we’re doing this for our future. I run a small property management company. It does okay, but it brings in nothing near like what Beth earns. That money tips us into a very comfortable lifestyle. Financially, it’s fantastic, but it totally sucks from a personal level.”
“Where were you last Saturday evening?”
“What! Are you for real? That’s the night Scott died. I wasn’t at Gillespie’s party, if that is what you’re asking.”
“Where were you?”
“Here with the kids. I don’t have an au pair at the moment, do I?”
“No alibi?”
“Not unless you count a four-year-old and a two-year-old.”
Dewar changed the subject. “You’d known Scott Hamlyn for a while?”
“Sure, we hung about at school but lost touch when Scott went to England to go to university. I bumped into him a few years after he was back, and he did some of the legal work in setting up my business.”
Le Claire stepped in. “You say you had a property business. What exactly do you do?”
“I’ve got two lines. One is straightforward sourcing and management of rental properties for local and foreign owners, you know, rent collection and the like. The other side, which is growing, is looking after empty properties. Either those that are up for sale and we make sure they’re looking tip-top for viewers, or where the owners are out of the island. We check the properties on a regular basis, make sure they’re secure, that the utilities are working and collect the mail. It’s just general maintenance and security, really. I’ve started doing a bit of work in London as well.”
Le Claire looked around the room, took in the chaos. “How do you manage without childcare?”
“The kids are usually at nursery for most of the day. Costs a fortune, but it’s worth it. Any work trips to London have to wait until my wife is home.”
“So you had no more contact with Mr Hamlyn after the night you fought?”
“Yeah, more’s the pity.”
Dewar asked, “We didn’t see you at the funeral. You didn’t attend?”
He looked a little shamefaced, and his words were defensive. “I couldn’t go, could I? The little one had an upset tummy and had to stay off nursery. I didn’t have anyone who could babysit for me.”
“Okay, we’ll be in touch if we have any more questions. No need to see us out.”
They left him standing in his kitchen. As they buckled themselves into the car, Le Claire was pensive. “What do you think?”
“Seems plausible. That was some bruise.”
“Yes, but we need to take a further look at him. He was obviously at odds with Hamlyn.”
“Yes, looks like they really went for it. I don’t know if you can make up that easily with a friend after something like that.
“He’ll never know now.”
Chapter Fourteen
Le Claire’s feet and hands were bound tight with rough rope. His eyes were uncovered but of no use in the heavy and impenetrable dark. Initial disorientation gave way as his survival instincts took over. He kicked both legs up and came into contact with what sounded like heavy wood; kicking out to the side met the same obstruction. There was no sound, just the heaviness of an unnatural silence, the air was dense and fetid, and that’s when Le Claire realised he was trapped. Panic rose and his body bucked as he kicked out, his feet battering against his prison walls. To no avail. The silence grew heavier as he recognised there was no escape. He opened his mouth to scream…
He sat bolt upright, the bed clothes twisted and coiled about him, evidence of his disturbed sleep. Sasha lay on her side, dead to the world. He always swore she could sleep through a hurricane. She certainly hibernated through the vicious storms that often hit the island. To his disgust, he was covered in a fine sweat, physical evidence of his nightmare, the content of which was fading fast. All that remained were tiny wisps flitting through his consciousness, too quick to grab hold of. He’d woken with a jolt and still felt unsettled now that he was wide awake. Probably best he didn’t reme
mber what he’d dreamed of.
With surprise, he saw that the clock on the bedside table said 11:50 p.m. They’d gone to bed around an hour ago, made love, lazy and slow, and drifted off to sleep. He drew back the covers and headed for the bathroom. He couldn’t sleep and needed to wash away the sweat that clung to him.
After a quick shower, he threw a towelling robe over his nakedness and padded into the kitchen area. He flicked the switch on for the kettle and busied himself getting a mug and the fixings for a cup of milky coffee. He closed the wooden door of the overhead cupboard a little too quickly, and it slammed shut, the noise even louder in the quiet stillness of night. The sound jolted him back into his dream; recollection came fast. “Christ!” He braced his hands on the counter and hung his head, trying to block the images, the thoughts. He’d dreamed he was trapped, buried alive, but that hadn’t happened to him. It had happened to April Baines. The very name, whispering through his mind, was enough to open the door to an onslaught of memories.
The kettle beeped and switched itself off as it reached boiling, the noise registering at the very back of his mind. He ignored it and, without thinking, without making a decision, reached into the cupboard for a clean wineglass, sought the opened bottle they hadn’t finished earlier and poured the remainder of the red wine into the glass. It was half-full, and he downed it in one, tipping his head back as the blackberry aroma and peppery taste filled his senses. He reached down to the wine rack, chose another bottle at random, opened the screw top and poured a full glass. He greedily drank a long draught whilst he picked the bottle up and moved to the seating area. He thumped down onto the sofa and sat there, glass in one hand, the bottle of wine in the other.
He hadn’t thought of April in weeks, and part of him despaired that he could even find a moment’s peace after what had happened to her. She’d been a fifteen-year-old from the care system who no one bothered looking for as they branded her just another runaway. But she hadn’t run. She’d been taken. Defiled, used, beaten and ultimately murdered. Colin Chapman was rotting in a prison cell awaiting trial for the abduction, rape and murder of several girls, April included.
But Le Claire knew he was the one who had really killed her. His rage, his uncontrolled response to Chapman’s taunting as he’d chased the bastard through the half-abandoned industrial zone had put an unconscious Chapman in a hospital bed. Three weeks later, a laughing Chapman had told him about his last victim, the one no one knew about. April Baines. She’d been dead for weeks, buried alive in a wooden packing chest, but she’d been alive the day he caught Colin Chapman. Le Claire felt the bile rise in his throat and chased away his guilt and the sight of what had lain in that makeshift coffin with the rest of the wine in his glass.
“Jack, honey, are you okay?”
Sasha stood in front of him, her eyes heavy with sleep, dark hair mussed. She’d thrown on the denim shirt he’d been wearing earlier in the evening, her long tanned legs uncovered. She held the front of the shirt closed, and he had a glimpse of golden skin. Even in despair, she still drew him in. Her eyes flicked to the bottle of wine, and he saw from the tightening of her lips that her concern was fast fleeing.
“You get out of bed and sit here alone, at gone midnight, drinking? Is that what you’ve been doing whilst we’ve been apart?”
“I had a bad dream, couldn’t sleep.”
“I just knew it. You are having the same dreams. Well, you should’ve had some hot milk, not half a bottle of bloody Pinot.”
“Don’t start, Sasha, just don’t, okay!” He knew he snapped, he knew he was shouting her down, he knew she didn’t deserve it, but he couldn’t help himself. She visibly drew back, an expression of hurt on her face. Her eyes looked straight into the very heart of him.
“How much longer, Jack? How much longer will you let this eat away at you? You need to talk to someone. If it can’t be me, then you need to see a professional. You went to see someone when it first happened, but you gave it up.”
“Yes, because going on and on about it doesn’t do me any good. I just need to cope with it, and I do.” He looked at the empty wineglass in his hand. “Well, most days I do.”
She didn’t say anything for a moment, and when she did the words came out as if rehearsed. It seemed as if she had been planning on saying them for some time. “Hiding isn’t coping. Blocking isn’t coping. Running away from your emotions definitely isn’t coping. You’ve put what happened into a little box in your mind and closed it shut, but every now and again it sneaks out and catches you unawares. I love you, Jack, but living with you became unbearable.” She went quiet, simply stared at him. She opened her mouth to speak and then obviously thought better of it as her lips clamped shut. When she eventually spoke, her voice was quiet, but it reverberated with hurt. “We know what happened. You turned to someone else—”
“I told you a million times, nothing happened.”
“Maybe you didn’t sleep with her, Jack, but you emotionally invested. You talked to her when you wouldn’t talk to me. You were with her when you should have been with me.”
“We worked together…”
“Stop it. I told myself not to bring it up again. That I should just believe you when you said that you never slept with her, but it hurts. It bloody hurts that you could talk to someone else and not to me.”
“Sasha…”
She held her palms up as she backed away. “I’m going to sleep. I can’t talk about this now.”
He let her go and poured another glass of red. It was all he was fit for tonight.
Chapter Fifteen
Ana had dumped her backpack in her office and was just about to collect Buster, the Le Claires’ dog, for his early morning walk when her mobile rang. It was an unknown number. Her heart flipped when she recognised the voice asking for her. “This is Ana. How are you, Ben?”
“I’m good. You?”
She was sure he’d be able to tell she was grinning as she spoke. “Yes, I am well. Did you want something?”
“Well, I wondered if you would maybe like to meet up tonight, perhaps grab a movie and a pizza or something. But you’re probably busy. Are you? Busy, I mean?”
The words rapidly tumbled over one another, and strangely his display of nervousness made Ana grow confident. “Yes, I’m free, and that would be lovely.”
“Great, that’s brilliant and makes what I have to say next much easier. I thought perhaps I might pop in for a coffee?”
“Oh, I’m sorry; I have to walk the dog. I’ve got to leave now.”
His voice was smooth and flowed like melted chocolate through the line. “Perfect, I’ll join you. I’m parked outside.”
He was outside? Ana stood and peered into the antique mirror above the fireplace and checked out her reflection. She’d need to brush her hair, maybe some lipstick and a bit more eyeliner. Be calm.
Buster – he never would answer to Edward – was waiting for her, peering through the glass kitchen door, barking and running in circles when he saw her. She could barely open the door for him pushing forward to nuzzle her. The little dog had come to know that when Ana was here, one of the first things she liked to do was to walk and then feed him. She figured she was fast becoming one of his favourite humans.
Elizabeth was leaning against one of the cabinets waiting for the whistling kettle to boil. “Good morning, Ana. Edward is ready for his walk. Edward, come and say good-bye to me. Edward? Oh, for the love of God, Buster, come here!” The little dog immediately ran across the kitchen, planting wet, slobbery kisses on the immaculate Elizabeth, who didn’t seem to mind at all. “I do wish Jack hadn’t starting calling him Buster as a puppy. Edward is such a lovely name.”
Within seconds, Ana had his lead on, and an excited Buster was trying to race toward the gates. She saw the car as soon as they exited onto the public lane. Today Ben was driving a mud-splattered Land Rover. He was leaning against the driver’s door, watching for her, grinning as he waved them
over. “I thought maybe we could drive down to the beach. So who is this?”
“This is Buster.” Ana bent down and scratched the head of the little dog, who was bouncing and clamouring for attention. “But won’t he get your car dirty?”
“I don’t think it could get any dirtier! This is one of the manor cars. I’m using it today to collect some freight we have coming into the airport.”
She smiled and carefully settled Buster onto the backseat and climbed into the front.
As the silence lengthened, her mind started thinking of what she could say. Nothing came to mind, zip. She could hear Buster panting as he lay in the backseat. Worryingly, she could also hear the excited little yips he usually made when he chewed on something; she hoped it wasn’t the car seat.
Ben saved her from having to be the first to speak. “I checked with our housekeeper – she has a dog – and apparently we’ll still be in good time to walk on the beach and let Buster off the leash.”
“Oh, that’ll be lovely.”
The long stretch of beach was one Ana hadn’t been to before. She saw it laid out in all its glory as the car wound its way down the steep, curved road. Ben glanced over at her. “St Ouen’s Bay. It’s got some of the best surfing in Europe. You ever been surfing?”
“Believe it or not, I’ve not been to this beach before as I don’t have any transport. I’ve definitely not been surfing. I’m not a strong swimmer.”
“We can fix that if you like, just takes practice and gaining confidence. And don’t worry about where you’ve yet to see. Jersey may be only nine miles by five, but there are a multitude of hidden bays and small, secret lanes. I’ve been here a few years now. I oversaw the redevelopment at the manor and got to see a bit of the island on the weekends. I’ll be happy to show you around.”
Ana felt her pulse quicken at how he spoke; as if they would see each other more, a lot more. But was he just saying it? He was good-looking, sophisticated and, from the looks of his clothes and usual car, reasonably well-off. What did he see in her? She was working but not earning great money; she shared a house and couldn’t afford a car. She dressed okay but certainly couldn’t run to spending much; if it wasn’t for the odd waitressing job she took, she’d barely be making ends meet.
Blood Ties: Obsession, secrets, desire and murder (A Jack Le Claire Mystery) Page 10
