BLOOD
IN THE
SAND
KELLY
CLAYTON
Copyright © 2015 by Kelly Clayton
First printed in this edition 2015
Published by Stanfred Publishing 2015
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-0-9934830-1-1
Books by Kelly Clayton
The Jack Le Claire Mystery Series
Blood In The Sand (2015)
Blood Ties (2016)
Blood On The Rock (2017)
Blood Rights (2019)
Other Books
Cyber Sisters (2018) – Co-author Grant Collins
Fortune’s Hostage (2018) – written as Julia Hardy
For Grant
Forever and always
My love, my heart, my life.
CHAPTER ONE
If Kate Avery had wanted to die, she couldn’t have picked a better day. Her bills were paid, and she’d finally updated her will, no easy task for a childless widow of a certain age. The gardener had even been the day before. The large plot, bordered by curving wide beds, overflowed with trees, from weeping willows to palms, lush flowers and thriving plants in every hue of nature.
Kate sipped a glass of wine as she relaxed on the wide balcony that ran the entire length of the first floor of her beach house. Leaning back, she rested her head against the padded cushions of her chair and admired the view. As she looked past the turquoise water of the swimming pool and across the expanse of manicured lawn, her aged eyes fixed on the sea, which was visible beyond the high garden wall. The property separated from the beach by only a narrow coastal road. From her vantage point, Kate had an uninterrupted view of the bay, all the way to the lighthouse, which stood sentinel on its rocky outcrop.
The last of the sun’s rays sparkled off the water; diamond-sharp pinpricks of light, almost blinding in their intensity as they dazzled and shimmered with the undulations of the waves.
Kate lazily tracked a lone sailing boat as it drifted along the horizon. She adored this view—the sea an ever-changing, living canvas that made her a little fanciful and dreamy.
The setting sun slowly sank deeper, a hot, fiery ball almost too bright for the eyes to bear. The entire sky resonated in colour and blazed in a bleeding kaleidoscope of crimson red, orange and yellow. The sky was momentarily lit by streaks of fire until, all too soon, the vibrancy faded and only dusk and the approaching night remained.
She sighed with pleasure at the beauty and simplicity of nature and poured herself another glass of red wine, suppressing any twinge of guilt. She was seventy-eight years old and had surely earned the right to do as she pleased when she liked.
She leaned over the round glass table, wincing as her joints ached a little, and pulled across the plate of cheese and biscuits she’d put together earlier. She’d have a little bit of supper then do her bedtime check of the doors and windows before snuggling into bed with her current book.
Kate’s senses were befuddled by the wine, her hearing dulled with age. A prickling at the back of her neck was the first indication that she was no longer alone. She turned around, just as the intruder’s dark-clad arm snaked out and restrained her in a firm, tight neck hold. Too shocked to move, Kate was immobile for mere seconds, but as she recovered her senses enough to struggle, she felt a sharp, flashing sting in her abdomen.
Her attacker held her tight as the injector pen was depressed and liquid rushed into her bloodstream. A familiar cloying smell polluted the air. She knew it was insulin, which meant she was in real trouble. Her blood sugar level would be relatively low anyway, as it had been hours since lunch and just about time for dinner.
The panic alarm! Her eyes flicked towards the open doors. Could she reach her bedroom and activate the alarm? Why hadn’t she kept it with her?
She cursed her naivety as she struggled, vainly trying to dislodge her attacker’s hold. She was running out of time and could almost feel the insulin rushing through her bloodstream.
Within seconds, her glucose levels were dropping in reaction to the massive insulin dose. The familiar signs came one after the other. First, the tingling in her mouth, numbing the tongue, then the light sweat coating the back of her neck, followed by the slowing of brain function, the disorientation. All this took mere seconds, and Kate knew it would be minutes before she lost consciousness.
She may be seventy-eight, but still had more to experience. She’d yet to see her nephews’ children marry, had never held their yet-to-be-born grandchildren in her arms. Kate didn’t want to die.
Through the dense fog that pervaded her mind, past the dark cloud that was her consciousness, one thought forced its way to the distant part of her that retained a modicum of awareness. Samuel. Never particularly religious, she now clung to the hope that she would see her beloved husband once more.
Her attacker easily picked her up and held her tight in their lethal embrace. In the next moment, she was lifted higher and suspended over the balcony. Her vision blurred, and her confusion wouldn’t allow her to process what was happening.
“I’m sorry, but there are no options left.”
The voice was distant, barely recognisable, but she knew who it was. She tried to speak; her mouth opened and closed, but she had no words. Her brain lost power, and her thoughts slowed. Insulin worked fast.
Strong arms threw her over the balcony with a vicious shove, and in her last conscious moments, Kate saw the terra-cotta patio tiles loom closer before awareness fled.
When the last finally came, Kate Avery didn’t know where she was or what was happening. Her thought process slowed and stuttered as the insulin flow to her brain dulled her senses even further. It was never a good day to die.
CHAPTER TWO
Dressed in dark jeans and a casual T-shirt, Detective Chief Inspector Jack Le Claire sat hunched over the desk in his cramped office. The case files were piling up fast, and he needed all the time he could get to review the incidents that had occurred in the past week.
He’d just turned thirty and knew he was considered young for his position, and so felt the urge to work that bit harder to show the doubters that the confidence in him was justified. Although classed as the new boy, this island was still his home. He ran a hand over his jaw, wincing as he felt the rough stubble. He hadn’t shaved this morning, and now he was paying the price.
Perceptive eyes reviewed the digital files, and he let out a sigh as he noted little of interest. Jersey was hardly London. A dark part of him recognised that he was bored; he missed the thrill of working homicide and the knowledge that he could make a difference in the everyday savagery of the city streets. Perhaps he should have stayed in London, brazened it out and carried on doing what he knew he was best at—being a bloody good homicide detective. He brushed the thought aside. He had left London for a reason and wouldn’t go back—the memories wouldn’t let him. He’d made his choice, and now he just needed to accept it. But he was policing in an almost paradise—was that his destiny?
He typed in the case number that corresponded to a thorn in his side. There had long been r
umours that unlicensed gambling rings were operating, frequently shifting location and always one step ahead of the local police. There were rough elements involved and, recently, signs that London syndicates were pushing their way onto the scene. Scanning the latest updates posted by the officer in charge, he sighed in exasperation. Nothing-these guys never took a misstep, always covered their tracks and threatened anyone who came into contact with them as evidenced by a local hotelier they’d invited in for questioning. There were suspicions that he was allowing his property to be used for after-hours gambling. When he came in to see the police, his eyes were black, his arm in a sling and his mouth firmly shut.
He moved on through the latest files. One of the cases caused him to take a second look. An elderly widow had died unexpectedly. The initial police report was due to be sent to the coroner later that day. The cause of death was massive trauma to the brain. The woman had taken a huge dose of insulin and fallen from her first-floor balcony.
After he read the routine report, Le Claire clicked through the images of the balcony that the old lady had fallen off. There was a close-up of the table, littered with the debris of a quiet evening at home–well-thumbed glossy magazines sat alongside a bookmarked paperback, an open bottle of red wine paired with a used glass and an untouched plate of cheese and biscuits. An uncapped injector pen lay beside its lid. His mind was still processing the images as he clicked on a shot of the balcony from the garden. And then he stopped and went back to the previous image. He enlarged the sizing, bringing the injector pen into sharp relief. Where was the needle? The top of the pen was empty. A needle would need to have been attached to administer the insulin. Disliking loose ends, he emailed his DS to check and see if any of the other images showed the needle. It had probably fallen to the ground.
◆◆◆
Grace Howard paced the small airport arrivals area. Her flight from New York had landed in London at dawn. A short car journey between airports and a trip across the English Channel had brought her to the island of Jersey, where she now waited for the promised car to meet her. Usually an avid people-watcher, Grace had little interest today. All she wanted to do was get to her hotel with as little hassle as possible. Frayed nerves dimmed her enthusiasm.
Belatedly, she realised she didn’t know the details of the car company booked by her aunt’s lawyer. She would give it ten minutes and then get into one of the waiting cabs. She was exhausted, grieving and not in the mood for hanging around.
A tall man walked in, and something about him grabbed her attention. She took in the athletic build and broad shoulders before she noticed what he was carrying. A wide smile lit his face when he saw her, making his eyes crinkle and his high cheekbones rise even farther. His eyebrows lifted in enquiry as he indicated the sign in his hand. The name board was a tattered piece of A4 paper, her full name written in block capitals with what looked suspiciously like a fading magic marker. Her eyes focused on the man holding the name card, and she momentarily held her breath.
He was young, maybe in his early thirties, with mussed-up dark blond hair. Startlingly blue eyes, a strong, classical nose and a full mouth certainly meant he drew his share of attention. Still smiling, he walked towards her. “Miss Howard, I presume?” he asked, his tone more flirtatious than Grace would have expected from a professional driver.
He took her luggage, and they headed outside to the car park. Given the small size of the airport, it was a bare five minutes before he escorted her to an old but immaculate, bright red Jeep Wrangler.
She couldn’t contain her surprise, and her laughter rang out. “This is your car?”
“I beg your pardon. This happens to be a 1989 Wrangler, lovingly restored with original parts. What on earth is funny about that?”
“Well. I didn’t mean it was funny ha ha, just funny strange. I guess if I had thought about it, I would have expected the car company to send a sedan or something—but it’s fine. It’s no problem.”
“Ah, I’m afraid I should have introduced myself properly. I’m Sam Avery. Kate’s late husband was my Great-Uncle Samuel. I’m named after him, though you probably guessed that by now. Kate was an amazing woman and meant a lot to my family, and we share your loss. Please accept my deepest condolences.”
“Thank you. I can’t believe she’s gone.”
Sam opened the passenger door and offered his arm to her. She took it gratefully as she eyed the running board she’d need to hop onto to get into the car. She held on and jumped up, slightly stumbling as a jolt of electricity shot through her at his touch. Sam grabbed her by the waist to steady her, and Grace felt a searing heat where his hands lightly held her. Her nerves must be shot to pieces. She drew a self-conscious hand over her hair, trying to smooth what she knew was a sleep-mussed mess.
She settled into the passenger seat as he started the car and headed out of the airport.
“Is this your first visit to Jersey?”
“Yes, it is.” She took a steadying breath and continued, “Although I have heard a little about it from Aunt Kate on her visits to the States. Actually, this is the first time I’ve been out of the US. After college, I went straight into practice.”
“Practice? Which is it? Doctor, lawyer or accountant?”
“Nothing as useful as a doctor, I’m afraid. I’m a private client tax lawyer.”
“Ah, yes. I recall Kate mentioning it.”
“And what is your line of work?”
“I’m a property developer. We run projects in the UK, as well as on the island. My grandfather and Samuel started the business, and now it’s my dad and me.”
“The island seems pretty small.”
“I guess it is. Nine miles long and five miles wide; however, we do have a population of 100,000. Jersey is a huge melting pot. People come here from all over the world: British, French, Portuguese, and Eastern European and farther afield from Asia and even a few Yanks.”
“Well, you’ve got one more Yank for a few days.” Grace stilled as she thought about the reason for her trip.
◆◆◆
Sam sneaked a quick glance at his passenger. He had recognised her straight away. She looked a little like the young Kate did in her wedding photos. They shared the same thick honey-blonde hair and heavy fringe, although Grace’s hair waved past her shoulders while Kate had preferred a short bob. Grace’s mouth was full and quirked up at the sides as if smiles came easy to her. Her hazel eyes looked tired after the long journey, but that didn’t detract from her appeal.
If anything, the fatigue and grief gave Grace a fragile air, and Sam had an impulse to protect her from the trials of the next few days. He shook his head to brush away that notion—he hardly knew the girl, and he had enough on his mind as it was. He certainly didn’t need any distractions.
◆◆◆
The Jeep wound its way through a tree-lined valley, the road curving in a tight spiral. The farther they travelled, the more built-up it became with whitewashed terraced houses and tiny pastel-coloured fishermen’s cottages jumbled together. At the bottom, they turned onto the coast, and Grace marvelled at the narrow two-lane roads, low buildings and slower pace of traffic. There was a continental vibe, with restaurant tables spilling onto the pavements, all set around a small harbour. No wonder Kate had loved living here.
They travelled on in silence as the Jeep moved inland.
Sam took a sharp turn to the left, and they started a steep descent. The air grew heavier as the sun was hidden behind the arches of tree branches that interlocked over the road.
Grace gasped as they rounded the corner. The horseshoe-shaped bay had a pristine white sand beach, a perfect surround for the turquoise waters that gently lapped the shore.
“St Brelade’s Bay. Truly one of the wonders of the world, or it should be.”
A few moments later, Sam turned his car to the right and entered the grounds of an imposing hotel building. Parking in the free space nearest the entrance, he jumped out and, to Grace’s surprise, came round t
o the passenger door and offered her his hand to get out of the car. She momentarily froze at the fury of sparks that set her whole body alight. The flash of desire unsettling, out of place, and inappropriate, to say the least.
As soon as she exited the car, she quickly moved away, although she could still feel the heat of his flesh.
“I’ll grab your bag, Grace. Let’s get you checked in.”
◆◆◆
Le Claire stifled a groan as his office door banged opened. Detective Sergeant Dewar pushed her way into the room, balancing files, two Styrofoam drink holders and a paper bag of something that smelled hot, baked and fattening. His irritation fled as he breathed in the aroma of roast coffee beans.
Dewar had a rounded face with a stubborn chin. Of average height, she wasn’t skinny but nor was she fat; she was toned and muscled, her chestnut hair chopped short. And she had the potential to be one of the best—if she’d think things through a little more. That would come in time.
“Afternoon, sir–I better set this lot down before I have an accident.”
“Here–let me help.” Le Claire took the cups from her, sure that one would be a filter coffee for him–the other would be an extra-strong tea for Dewar.
She settled herself in the chair in front of his desk and, opening the bakery bag, handed him a napkin-wrapped cheese-and-ham pizza slice. “I thought you might not have had time for lunch, sir.”
He hadn’t. “Thanks. Now, what have you got for me?”
Dewar had just bitten off a chunk of her own pizza and hastily swallowed. She opened the file she had brought in. “I looked at the incident report and all the related images. I also spoke to the attending officers, but the needle had definitely been removed from the injector, and there was no sign of it on the balcony.”
Blood In The Sand: Betrayal, lies, romance and murder. (A Jack Le Claire Mystery) Page 1
