By the time she reached the courtyard, he was rummaging in the boot. He must have heard her footsteps, for he turned to greet her, a tentative smile on his face. “Hi, Grace. I went home to collect some gear for France. How are you? Had a good day?”
“Yes, I went out for lunch actually. With Emma Layzell.”
“And what was she after?”
“Nothing. I think she was just being nice because I’m new here.”
Sam snorted. “The likes of Emma Layzell are never just being nice. She was after something, I bet.”
“I’ll need to take your word for that. Emma has been perfectly lovely to me. I realise she probably wants to broker the sale of Rocque View, but I can’t blame her for trying to earn a living. Anyway, we can deal with that when the time comes.”
Grace made to walk away, but before she could take a step, Sam reached out and grabbed her. She felt the heat from where his hand encircled her wrist and pointedly stared until he released her.
“Look, I’m sorry. Sorry about slagging Emma off, sorry about hauling you back and sorry about that bloody kiss last night. I am sorry about everything, okay?”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s been a trying time for everyone lately. Let’s start again. Friends?” Grace cocked her head to one side and smiled.
Sam’s answering grin lit his face. “Okay, friends it is. Why don’t I buy you supper at the pub down the road? I need to be up before dawn for the ferry tomorrow, and we could both do with an early night.”
Grace knew she had to put any burgeoning feelings she had for Sam right out of her mind. This was a rough time for her on many different levels, so she knew she shouldn’t blame herself if she wasn’t thinking straight.
“Sure, that would be great.”
◆◆◆
Sam pointed to a blackboard. “Choose what you want to eat, and I’ll order while you grab us a table.”
Grace took a moment to scan the extensive menu. “I’ll have the fish and chips. And a glass of white wine, please.”
“Sounds good. I think I’ll have the same. Look, there’s a table over by the window. Go grab a seat.”
Grace did so and settled herself in front of the large picture window that looked out to the sea. Her gaze idly took in the dog walkers and families strolling along the beach. Some sunbathers were still relaxing on the sand, even though the heat had left the day. A young couple walked along the beach, the man’s arm draped around the girl’s shoulders as she held him tight around the waist. You couldn’t have blown a puff of smoke between them.
Grace wondered what Carter was doing. When would he have told her about his affair? Actually, would he have told her? She felt like such a fool and couldn’t help but wonder if she was about to make an even bigger fool of herself over Sam. The touch of his lips on hers had left an indelible mark that would take some time to forget. So caught up was she in her thoughts that Grace didn’t realise Sam had joined her until the squeak of the chair next to her being drawn across the wooden floor jolted her back to the present.
Sam sat down heavily with a thump. “Sorry, just a bit difficult to balance.” Grace laughed as she saw why Sam was so clumsy. His hands and arms were full as he balanced a bottle of wine tucked under one arm—wine cooler and all—and carried two glasses, knives, forks, napkins and sachets of condiments.
“Here, let me.” Grace reached across and started taking the cutlery and glasses from Sam and placing them on their table. As she took the final glass, her fingers accidentally grazed Sam’s, and she felt a bolt of electricity shoot through her. She felt herself blush a fiery red as she mumbled an apology.
Sam’s gaze was intent and direct. “Grace...”
Whatever he had been going to say was lost as a tall, dark-haired man approached their table. “Sam, good to see you. Are you going to France for Pete’s stag-do?”
“Yes, I am. You?”
The man’s laugh boomed out, causing a few of the other diners and drinkers to look their way, one showing more interest than the others. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, mate. A walk about St Malo, hitting a few of the French pubs, then lunch in the square followed by more pubs, a nice dinner and more pubs and an early lunch on Saturday—in a pub hopefully.”
The man glanced at Grace and then back at Sam, but Sam made no move to make the introductions.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Dave. I’m looking forward to a few of those pubs myself.” Sam’s tone was pleasant, but it was obvious the conversation was over, so Dave walked over to join a group of couples who sat drinking on the patio.
Grace didn’t say anything, and it was Sam who spoke into the silence. “Sorry for not introducing you, but we’d never have got rid of him. Dave fancies himself a bit of a ladies’ man, and he’d have been all over you.”
“Maybe I’d have enjoyed that!” Grace joked.
He shot her a look that took her back and caused her heart to beat a little faster. A look that said a lot more than he maybe intended. A wary look, which meant he didn’t know if she was joking or not. And if she wasn’t kidding, then where did he stand with her? A question Grace didn’t have the answer to.
A pretty waitress appeared and placed large plates of fish and chips in front of them. “Here you go. The bread’s on its way. Enjoy.” A second waitress took the place of the first and placed a platter of thinly sliced buttered bread triangles on the table.
Grace inhaled the smell of the freshly baked bread and hot food and smiled. “It smells great.”
“Let’s see if it tastes as good.”
Silence reigned for the next few minutes as they ate, the quiet only broken by murmurs and sighs of appreciation. Grace laid down her knife and fork while she savoured the tender fish and perfect chips, crisp on the outside and soft and fluffy inside. “This is delicious.”
Grace glanced around the room and, to her surprise, saw James standing at the bar in conversation with one of the waitresses. “Look, James is here.”
Sam didn’t look up from his plate. “This is one of his places, but I don’t hold that against the restaurant.”
Grace couldn’t help but smile at his accompanying grin.
A dark shadow fell over the table, blocking out the light from the window. Glancing up, Grace shivered as she recognised Ray Perkins. His eyes were bloodshot, and his face drawn. Sam inclined his head in recognition; a brief smile barely lifted his lips. “Ray, how are you?”
Ray leaned on the table, his hands heavy as if he needed the support. The alcohol on his breath was strong and fetid. “How am I? Where do you want me to start? Not as well as you two by the looks of it. All cosy, aren’t you?” He flicked a finger against the bottle of wine, making it rock precariously until Sam righted it. “Toasting your good fortune, are you? Got your greedy little paws on old Kate’s money and got bothersome Harriet out of the way. Bet you little bastards are well pleased with yourselves. Eh?”
“Ray, you’re drunk. I am truly sorry about what happened to Harriet, but she is gone, and we can’t do anything about that.”
“Yeah, she’s gone all right. Made me her heir in her will, she did. Nothing for you lot. But then you’ve got everything anyway, haven’t you? Harriet should have got Rocque View. That old bitch virtually promised it to her, and Harriet got her expectations up. I’ve got rights, and you owe me. Yes, you owed Harriet, and now you owe me. You better be careful, little girl, when lover boy goes off to France. Couldn’t help but overhear. All alone in that big house... anything could happen to you.”
With that, Ray lunged towards Grace, grabbing her arm and dragging her out of her chair. Sam was on his feet in a second, pulling Grace out of harm’s way and shoving her behind his back. Ray staggered and went to swing when his arm was caught from behind and brought down to his side. James had rushed over, and he held Ray secure as he softly spoke, “Mr Perkins, no need to make a scene. Come with me and let me buy you a drink, and we can have a nice chat.”
James mouthed, “You okay?” to Gra
ce, who nodded her head, her arms wrapped around her as she rubbed at the bruise Ray had made on her wrist. Ray Perkins hunched over, his shoulders slumped and visibly deflated as the fight left him. James put his arm around the older man’s shoulders and led him through a door. The sign above proclaimed it as the pool room bar.
◆◆◆
Sam held onto Grace’s hand, his thumb distractedly tracing a soothing path over the pulse points in her wrist. Backwards and forwards, he stroked as he put his arm around her and led her back to their seats. The other diners had stopped blatantly staring at them, but, from the furtive glances cast their way and whispered conversations, the argument with Ray was the talk of the evening.
“Are you okay?” Sam asked quietly as Grace settled herself down in her seat.
“I guess so. I’m just a little shaken. I don’t like confrontation, and he was just, well, just so aggressive.”
“Grace,” Sam began and then paused, carefully weighing his words. “I’m going to cancel going to France tomorrow. I didn’t want to let Pete down, but I can’t leave you alone—not after what has happened to Kate and Harriet. I also don’t like Ray’s threats about you being alone at the house. Probably all bluster, but better to be safe than sorry.”
Grace had started shaking her head almost as soon as Sam had started talking. “No, I won’t hear of it. You really want to go, I know that. And I’m not scared of some random threat. Ray seems harmless enough. I’m sure it’s all bluster. I’ll make sure the doors are locked and bolted, and I’ll have the dogs with me. What has happened to Kate and Harriet is appalling, but we don’t even know yet if they’re connected.”
As Sam made to speak, Grace held up a hand as if to force the words away. “No, that’s final. I won’t hear of anything else. I’ll even lock my bedroom door, sleep with my cell next to the bed and put the cops on speed dial. Does that suit you?” Grace’s tone was lighter now, and laughter lurked in her voice.
Sam filled up their almost-empty glasses and raised his in a toast. “You’re a sassy woman, Grace Howard, but I am going to have to make you promise that you’ll let the dogs sleep in the same room as you. Just to be safe.”
Grace raised her eyebrows. “I don’t think it’s necessary but okay. I agree.”
◆◆◆
In the no-man’s-land of the dark early hours of the morning, when midnight is a memory and dawn a far-off promise, Grace lay in a twilight haze. Neither in a deep sleep nor fully awake, she—or a remote part of her that had some consciousness—heard a noise. The night was silent and calm, so the sound reverberated through the house.
A distant part of Grace’s mind thought it might be the back door opening. It had a habit of sticking, and you had to give a hearty pull on the handle to prevent it from jamming. But that was ridiculous. For who’d be leaving the house at this time? It could only be Sam, but he wouldn’t be going to the harbour until first light. She couldn’t hear anything else, so with nothing better to distract her attention, heavy lids fluttered closed, and her slumberous breathing was the only sound in the room.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Emma Layzell was wide awake at 3:00 a.m. She had been calling him all night, but there was no answer. She had started off by leaving breezy messages. “Hello, lover, just wanted to say hi. Gimme a call.” This, after several hours and a bottle of wine, graduated to the demanding, “Are you avoiding me? I know what you’re up to, you bastard. You won’t get away with it.”
In her drunken haze, Emma had misdialled a couple of times as she scrolled the contacts in her address book. She couldn’t help but giggle at the thought she may have inadvertently left one of her irate messages on someone else’s voice mail. If she had, hopefully, they wouldn’t recognise her number. If anyone did pull her on it, she would find a way to laugh it off. She always did.
He’d warned her not to have his details entered into her mobile, but Emma had ignored him. The number she called him on was, after all, his secret phone. The one that only she used. A secret, just like their relationship. She hadn’t been stupid enough to put his real name next to the number. She didn’t want his name flashing up when he called her, just in case someone in the office was looking at her callers.
No, she hadn’t put his real name in her address book, but she’d had fun making up an alias. When they had first started seeing each other, they’d gone to Cornwall for the weekend. They stayed in a small out-of-the-way hotel, and to her amusement, he’d booked them in as Mr and Mrs Jones. Emma hadn’t even known that a hotel would take cash only and not ask for photo identification or at least a credit card. But then she’d taken a good look at the run-down establishment, and suddenly their laxness hadn’t seemed so far-fetched.
Her Mr Jones. That’s who he was. She hadn’t minded the frayed sheets and old-fashioned bedspread. Even the lack of a restaurant in the hotel hadn’t bothered them in the least. They’d breakfasted at a tiny cafe, simple in the menu and sparse in decor, but the fat bacon rolls, oozing thick Cornish butter, had been fantastic. Lunch was taken on the hoof as they explored the surrounding beaches and coves. Dinners were intimate affairs, snuggled together in the village pub, having a carb-fest of steak pies and batter-wrapped fish with proper, chunky chips. The white-painted, half-timbered building, with its sign swinging on an iron post, wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Du Maurier tale, which all added to the romanticism of their time together. All too soon, it had been back to Jersey and hurried meetings, and quick couplings as real life came crashing in on them.
Emma’s last message had been over an hour ago. She had resorted to hanging up when the voice mail message clicked on. True, he’d see at least a dozen missed calls when he looked at his phone, but he wouldn’t hear her increasingly slurred voice as the drink took hold.
She’d been listening to music on far too loud, but, as the nearest neighbour was a field away, who cared? Her small cottage lay on a quiet country lane. It had been screaming out for modernisation when she’d first seen it a few years ago. An elderly widow was selling up to move in with her daughter, who lived in England. Emma hadn’t officially listed the property. She’d simply raced home, calculated some sums and called her bank manager. It didn’t take long to persuade the old dear that the offer on the table was a good one given the condition of the cottage and the repairs required. Later, Emma could have kicked herself. The amount she’d offered was derisory, but she could have got away with offering a fair bit less.
The air quietened and stilled as the closing notes on the CD drifted into the air, and the loud click indicated that was the last song. Emma stood and yawned. She couldn’t be bothered changing the disk. Maybe it was time to call it a night. It was half-past three now; he wouldn’t call at this time. Emma turned to go to bed when she heard a car in the lane. However, it didn’t drive past but stopped right outside her door. It reversed into the open field beside the cottage, which she often used as an overspill car parking area when friends came round.
Curious, she crossed to the window and peeked through the venetian blind. An unmistakably male shape made its way to her door. The figure wore a jacket and had the collar up, but she just knew it had to be him. Who else would come here at this time of night—or was it morning? Emma opened the front door without a thought. Surprised, she kept her face impassive as she looked up into the face of her unexpected guest.
Emma automatically stepped back to let him in. “Bit late for a social call, isn’t it?” She couldn’t stop the words; they just tumbled out of her mouth without thought. She knew she better watch herself as she didn’t want to upset him.
“Indeed, but the matter couldn’t wait until the morning.” His voice was cold, and it chilled Emma. She guessed something had annoyed him, and she only hoped it wasn’t her.
“What do you want?”
He had moved across the room towards the fireplace and stood looking at the photos on the mantelpiece. He stared at one of Emma from a few years back. She stood on a cliff path, bundled up in a
heavy coat against the cold. Neither the weak winter sun nor the turbulent grey sea dimmed the glow of her skin or the sparkle in her eyes. She knew why. It was in the early days when she’d first met him, the lover who consumed her attention and lit a fire in her that the years had been unable to quench. Hence her rage at his treachery.
He turned at her question. “Your phone call surprised me. It isn’t often that happens.” His smile was wry as he continued. “However, if I were to define the emotion it most raised in me, it would be sadness.”
“Sadness?” Emma was confused. “What message caused you to feel sad?”
“Your last message, Emma. I don’t know how you found out about what I’ve been up to, but I can’t risk you being stupid enough to talk to anyone. So, believe me, that message really was the last one you will ever leave.”
Emma’s confusion grew, but it was fear that was uppermost in her mind as she looked into his face and, for the first time, realised that the eyes truly were the windows to the soul. For the eyes staring back at her were dark and cold and devoid of any discernible emotion. Why had she never noticed this before? He moved towards her, and she shivered as the air seemed to grow colder and she realised the predicament she was in. Beads of perspiration rose on the back of her neck, and she heard her voice shake as she spoke. “Look, you’ve got this all wrong. What I meant was...”
He advanced towards her, his eyes mocking as he held up a hand for silence. “Don’t say anything, for I am afraid I won’t hear. I am saddened that you have forced my hand, but really, Emma,” and here he quirked his head to one side as he gave her a long, considering look, “I thought you prided yourself on discretion, but I was obviously very, very wrong. You brought this on yourself.”
And with that, he reached out and pulled Emma towards him. Her gasp of indignation and surprise turned into a scream as savage hands encircled her throat and pressed hard, the gloved fingers cutting off her airflow, as all the while, the deadened eyes of her attacker stared, unblinking, at her. Emma struggled and tried to kick out, but her movements were ineffectual and weak. He simply laughed and forced burning fingers into her soft flesh, through to the bone of her windpipe.
Blood In The Sand: Betrayal, lies, romance and murder. (A Jack Le Claire Mystery) Page 12
