Blood Ties: Obsession, secrets, desire and murder (A Jack Le Claire Mystery)

by Kelly Clayton

  Le Claire kept a straight face. “How did Danny Gillespie get involved?”

  “We met him socially, and I got on very well with him.” The innuendo hung in the air. “I invited him to come along, said he didn’t have to participate fully. He could just be with me. Afterwards, he said the parties were too tame, not private enough, that confidentiality was a problem. He suggested the masks and started supplying the venues. The entry fee went up, as did the class of the clientele. The Jersey Evening Post would have enough material for a year if the guests’ details got out. We’ve entertained senators, local businesspeople and even an occasional honorary policeman.”

  “Whose idea was it to bring professional escorts in?”

  She jerked her head back. “How the hell do you know so much?

  He smiled. “Never mind, just answer the question.”

  “Danny organised them. Well, he gave me details of a guy in the UK, and we flew them over. Sometimes one of the girls we met through the agency would be up for a little extra pocket money.” Her eyes flicked to his face. “No one was forced into anything. I mean, I paid them well.”

  Dewar’s voice was dry. “So it was you who organised for multiple persons to have sex with people for money?”

  Lena’s eyes widened. “No! I mean, yes, but it was Danny, not me, it was Danny.”

  Le Claire stood. “Yes, he’s culpable, but you’re caught in the coils, Lena. There’s no way out for you.”

  #

  Dewar had made the call immediately. The manor’s housekeeper informed her that both Gillespies were in London and wouldn’t be back for at least a week.

  Le Claire had gone straight to Chief Wilson.

  “The Gillespie name is popping up too many times to be ignored. They are both in London, so I’d like to go over there, and I can deal with the Chapman situation at the same time.”

  “The timing is perfect. I know Gareth Lewis wants you to meet Chapman. I don’t think it is necessarily a good idea, but you must do as you think best. I’ll be supportive of whatever you decide. However, this Gillespie situation puts a new perspective on things. I’ll call Lewis and tell him our investigation has spilled onto his patch and ask him to provide whatever resources you will need.”

  “Thanks. I’ve got some bits to tie up here, but I’ll get myself booked on the first flight in the morning.”

  He headed back to his office. Dewar was still at her desk. “Come on in and bring the Gillespie reports.”

  She grabbed a pile of papers and rushed in behind him. “Did the chief okay you going to London?”

  “Yes.” He quickly checked his watch. “It’s late, so I’ll go online and book the flight myself. First, give me what we know about Aidan and Danny Gillespie.”

  She sat before his desk and spread her papers in front of her. “We know Aidan Gillespie is very rich. We don’t know how rich because Income Tax wouldn’t give us any info as we don’t have enough cause for them to go through the palaver of getting the approvals to release tax returns. We do know he initially made his money from private clubs in the UK.”

  Her pinched lips let him know the kind of clubs Adrian Gillespie was involved in.

  “He basically made a packet and started investing in other areas.” She flicked through the papers in front of her. “We’ve got transport, long-distance lorries and the like, restaurants, mainly fast-food chains, and latterly he got into real estate, buying up brownfield site land and rendering it fit for residential use.”

  “And neither brother has any record?”

  “Their names pop up here and there, but nothing has ever stuck. Danny runs the clubs now and is based at one in London. They don’t call them gentlemen’s clubs any longer; they are now just private clubs, and open to both men and women. From the reports, everything is apparently above board and well run. No real trouble with the local force.”

  He leaned back in his chair, rolled his shoulders and stretched his arms above his head. It was late, and he still had to book flights and get ready for what tomorrow would bring. “Okay. I’ll report back tomorrow on what I find.”

  #

  Irena could barely contain her excitement. She had the night off, and her lover would be here soon. She was primped, shaved, made-up and ready for him. She knew how he liked to find her and had followed his instructions to the letter – almost, that is. She ran into the bedroom to finish her preparations. When he had shown her this apartment, said it was for her, she had wanted to weep. It wasn’t fancy, and he said maybe the area wasn’t so great, yet it had seemed like a palace to her. The flat downstairs wasn’t even rented out, so she had the building to herself and could play her music as loud as she wanted. It was certainly a change from living in someone else’s house, relegated to one room. That she didn’t miss about Jersey. She missed Ana though. A stray thought, one she had often had, flickered through her mind. Ana wouldn’t understand her life right now, and she doubted her friend would approve of the decisions she had made. She had been his from the second she’d seen him and would do anything to keep him, anything at all.

  He’d said the place was well stocked, and it was. She took a see-through ziplock packet out of the bedside drawer, opened it and chose two small pills. She washed them down with a glass of vodka she’d poured earlier. They’d start working soon, as they did every night. He’d shown her this, taught her how the calming, floating feeling would help her rise above anything, anything at all. She should have taken the pills earlier; he liked her to be calm and fully relaxed when he arrived. She hoped they’d start working very soon. Later, he’d give her a little something special. They’d share the white powder and let the night, and the drugs, take over.

  The metallic click of the key in the door heralded the start of her evening, and her pulse quickened. She rushed into the lounge as he came striding in through the door. He held his arms open wide, and she ran into them. He held her close, and she knew all was right in her world.

  When he spoke, she marvelled at how the timbre of his voice made each nerve-end tingle. “Irena, I’ve missed you. Come on, let me look at you.”

  He held her at arm’s length, and the searing look in his eyes set her afire. She tried to move closer, but he kept her at bay. “Take it easy; let me take it in.”

  He ran his hand over her hair. She knew the long honey-blonde wig, with its caramel highlights, looked sleek, shiny and expensive. He’d bought it for her, along with a whole new wardrobe of clothes, when he had moved her to London. He’d shown her how he liked her makeup. Expensive foundation that made her skin look soft and peachy, dark eyes with a flick of liner and a pale pink pout. It was so different from how she normally looked, but if this was what made him happy, then she was okay with it. She pushed the thought away that there was something not quite right about being made to look like another person. She often wondered if that woman existed but brushed the thought aside.

  She tilted her head to one side and coquettishly asked, “What’s the verdict? You like?”

  She knew she looked good. The skin-tight bandage dress was a deep red that matched her high-heeled sandals. She couldn’t walk far in them, but she’d be spending most of the night on her back so wasn’t bothered.

  His grin was long and slow and very sexy. “Oh yes, however, I think you’d look even better without anything on.”

  She smirked. She knew exactly what he wanted. “Sit down, lover, this one’s on the house.” She pushed him backward, and he sank down onto the sofa, placed his hands behind his head and stretched his long legs in front of him.

  She ramped up the volume of the music that had been playing in the background, placed her hands on her hips and began a sensuous dance, grinding and thrusting toward him, never close enough for his outstretched hand to reach. She’d learned a lot over the past few weeks, and her erotic dance quickly got a reaction from him. He pounced, grabbing her and dragging her down to the floor. He was on her immediately, pushing her skirt around
her waist, thrusting his hand inside her flimsy, see-through pants. He was rough, and she tried to say something, she really did, but her limbs were heavy, and she was rooted to the spot. She tried to speak, but the words couldn’t escape past her dry throat. She closed her eyes, and a kaleidoscope of pulsating, spiralling colours continuously flashed. She tried to open her lids, but they were leaden. The wonderful, soothing numbness started to creep through her limbs, trapping her mind and coalescing her thoughts into one throbbing sensation. Him. Her heart was beating faster, a rhythmic, pill-induced tattoo that thundered through her head, devouring anything that took her focus from him, from the moment. He brutalised her body with savage thrusts, and all she could do was lie there and freely give all that he took.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Le Claire had wondered what he would feel walking into the Met again and was surprised that the answer was not much at all. The devil on his shoulder asked him if that was because he genuinely wasn’t concerned or if he was just masking feelings he preferred not to acknowledge.

  He sat in the modern reception, dreading the Chapman meet, wanting it over and done with so he could get on the trail of whoever killed Scott Hamlyn.

  “Jack! I didn’t know you were back in town.”

  He looked up and couldn’t stop his unbidden smile of welcome. DI Penny Powers was neat and trim in her black skirt suit, her dark, glossy hair was trimmed just short of her shoulders. She was a very attractive woman with satin skin, a generous mouth and sparkling eyes framed by long, thick lashes.

  “Pen, good to see you. What a surprise. I’m just here on a last-minute flying visit, so I didn’t have an opportunity to tell anyone I was coming over.”

  Their last meeting had been tense and awkward. He hadn’t thought he would ever see her again. He’d certainly promised Sasha that would be the case.

  She held his gaze for just a fraction too long. “And how are you, Jack? How is the wife?” There was an edge to her voice, which he knew he didn’t deserve. He had done nothing wrong. He chose his words with care. She couldn’t have known that he and Sasha had been on the verge of divorce.

  “She’s fine.” He didn’t want to talk about Sasha with her. He was uncomfortable and felt a disloyalty he hadn’t experienced in his previous encounters with Penny. The silence between them grew, and it made a mockery of the close friendship they had once shared. A friendship born of working in the same job, sharing the same ethics. One night had destroyed all of that.

  “I better be off, then. Bye, Jack.” Her voice was cool. He watched her walk away and thought how, on paper, the diligent Penny, a career policewoman, was a better match for him than pretty, spoiled Sasha, with her fierce temper and independent spirit. The loud voice booming in his direction shook him from his musings.

  “Le Claire, there you are.” He noticed that Gareth Lewis had retorted to the more formal use of his surname. Then again, this was a formal situation.

  “Good to see you, sir.”

  “And you. Now come on. You’ll want to get this over with. We had Chapman driven up here last night. It seemed easier than you going to the prison, especially as you’ve got a case to look into here.”

  “Thanks, how is he?”

  “Charming.” Gareth Lewis grimaced. “You know how he has the ability to appear the opposite of his psychotic inner self.”

  Le Claire knew indeed. His head was aching, and his nerves were tight, senses on full alert. He didn’t trust Chapman.

  They zigzagged their way through a labyrinth of corridors until they reached a heavy metal door, bolted from the outside and flanked by two uniforms. Gareth Lewis motioned toward the security measures. “I don’t trust him either. You go on in. I’ll be in the viewing area to keep an eye on proceedings.”

  The door opened, and he saw Chapman. He was seated on a plastic chair behind a matching table, and both were made from one-piece moulds. They weren’t taking any chances that he could break off something and try and harm someone, even himself. A woman in a tailored suit sat next to him. She was an attractive forty-something, and Le Claire figured this was one of their ploys to make Chapman look more likeable. Give him female representation; show him with women by his side. Play to the crowds and let them ask if she could really countenance defending the vile monster the prosecution would paint him to be. He had lost weight, was even looking gaunt. Le Claire wondered if it was another cynical move to make him appear vulnerable and ill able to cope with a long jail term.

  The woman spoke first. “I’m Abigail Larsen, Mr Chapman’s lawyer. I take it you are DCI Jack Le Claire?”

  He pulled out a chair and sat on the opposite side of the table. He wasn’t quite able to make eye contact with Chapman yet, couldn’t bear to see that self-satisfied, smug grin that had been on his face last time they had met. “Yes. What is this all about?”

  “Mr Chapman wished to speak to you. We have argued against it, but for the sake of his mental health, we have reluctantly agreed.” Her soft look at Chapman turned Le Claire’s stomach. He glanced at the viewing window, where Gareth Lewis would be observing. Mental health? What the hell was Chapman up to?

  Chapman’s eyes were downcast as he stared at his handcuffed hands, which rested on the table. His voice was quiet. “DCI Le Claire, thank you for agreeing to meet me. I am very grateful.”

  The tone was conciliatory, pleasant almost. The hairs stood up on the back of Le Claire’s neck. Something wasn’t right. His voice was harsh. “You asked to see me. What do you want, Chapman?”

  He raised his eyes, looked straight at Le Claire. “Why did you do it? Why lie? You said I told you about that girl, but I didn’t.”

  Le Claire exploded. “What utter bullshit is this? What are you trying to pull?”

  Chapman’s voice was shaking, his eyes pleading. “I didn’t do any of the terrible things you accused me of. I never said I hurt that girl, that April Baines. My lawyers are on the case, but I had to ask you, had to look into your face and ask how you could do this. Please tell the truth. Please.”

  Le Claire stood. He wasn’t being a party to whatever game was being played by Chapman and his lawyer. “I’ve had enough of this. I’ve no idea what you’re up to, but I’m not going to be your stooge.”

  Le Claire left the room. Gareth Lewis was waiting for him, his face a hard mask of granite. “What the hell was that all about?”

  “I have no idea, but what I do know is that he is playing us. Chapman never does anything without a good reason.”

  #

  Dewar ruffled her hair with one hand as she flicked through the notes she had made. Notes on a killer. Were Scott Hamlyn’s death and Laura Brown’s attack the work of the same person? Or was Laura simply the victim of a random crime gone wrong? The odds seemed remote. And if the same person was to blame, then what was the connection and the motive. Why?

  A loud cough dragged her attention away from the files. Hunter stood beside her, hovering by her shoulder. She looked at him; he looked back at her. He didn’t say anything. She knew he felt intimidated by her, God knew why. The exasperation rose, and her voice was sharp. “Yes, what is it? Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  His downcast eyes and fiery blush shamed her. “Okay, sorry. Let’s start again. We’ve got an unsolved murder, the boss is in London and I’m at my wit’s end. So what are you after?”

  “Sorry, but there’s a Lady Mallory in reception asking for the DCI. The desk sergeant told her he is away for a few days, but she won’t take no for an answer, nor will she say why she is here.”

  She answered the unspoken plea in his eyes and, with a heartfelt sigh, pushed her papers to one side and locked her computer monitor.

  “Okay, tell them to put her in an interview room, and it better be a nice one.”

  Dewar headed for the lift as Hunter called the front desk. She sniggered to herself as she heard him ask for a “nice” interview room. The desk sergeant would rip into him, but they’d all lau
gh about it later. Her mission in life was to toughen up Hunter. He had a good mind and a solid heart. He just needed to add some grit.

  She left thoughts of the young PC behind as she reached the ground floor and headed to the desk. The duty officer directed her to interview four. She hid a smile, for it was the better of the clinical interview rooms. Two women were waiting for her. Lady Mallory was accompanied by her granddaughter. The younger woman had obviously been crying; her face was blotchy and her eyes swollen and puffed. Grief lingered and came out at unexpected times. Dewar felt an ache of sympathy. She’d suffered loss herself, and that was why she’d ended up in Jersey.

  “Lady Mallory, how do you do, and Miss Mallory.”

  Lady Mallory was blunt. “Call me Eleanor, if you like; we’re not standing on ceremony, certainly not today.” There was an edge to her voice that triggered Dewar’s senses. Lady Mallory – she couldn’t think of her as Eleanor – sounded weary and on the verge of tears.

  She felt slightly out of her depth. She’d grown up in a council house, and meeting any posh people dragged her out of her comfort zone. She took a breath, shelved her inadequacies and retreated behind the wall of her uniform. “Thank you. How may I help you?”

  The two women, decades apart, shared a look that Dewar immediately recognised. Complicity. Whatever was the matter, they both knew about it. She tried to keep her voice gentle. “Ladies, how may I help you?”

  Lady Mallory looked at her granddaughter, direct and sharp. “Louise has something she wants to say, or rather, needs to say.”

  Louise Mallory was silent. She looked at her grandmother and whispered, her tone beseeching, “Grandma, I can’t…”

  Lady Mallory’s face contorted, and Dewar saw steel mixed with anger as she volleyed. “Yes, you can. We are not liars in this family or concealers of truths.”