◆◆◆
Grace was reading on the porch when Le Claire and Dewar drove up. She rose to greet them, an anxious look on her face. “Is there news?”
“I’m sorry, there’s nothing new. We’ve come about a different matter.”
Noting her confusion, Le Claire glanced at Dewar, indicating she should get on with it. “What was your relationship with Emma Layzell?”
She didn’t hear the past tense in Dewar’s question. “Emma? She has a buyer for the house. We chatted a few times. I don’t mean to be rude, but what is this about?”
Le Claire recited the same words he had uttered so many times in the past. All that differed was the victim’s name.
“I am sorry to tell you that Emma Layzell was found dead this morning.”
Grace paled and slowly shook her head. “Oh God, that’s awful, just awful. We had lunch only yesterday. I had no idea she was ill, none at all. Or was it an accident? I’m sorry, this is just a lot to take in.”
And there’s about to be a lot more to handle, thought Le Claire.
“As far as I know, Miss Layzell wasn’t ill. Or at least I can categorically state she did not die of natural causes. We believe Emma Layzell was murdered.”
“What? No!” Shakily, she reached out a hand to grab on to the chair behind her. Steadying herself, her wide eyes met Le Claire’s, and her voice was hoarse as she said, “Another one? I thought that didn’t happen here. That’s what everyone keeps telling me. Oh, God, I feel sick.”
Dewar moved quickly and helped her to sit back down, pushing her shoulders forward until she was staring at the ground. Le Claire knew Dewar would sense his irritation and grimaced as she rolled her eyes at him.
Le Claire waited until he felt she’d had enough time to rally herself. “We do have a few more questions, so just let me know when you’re ready.”
She looked up, eyes a little wild and unfocused. “Of course, please forgive me.”
Le Claire indicated for Dewar to begin, thinking she may have a gentler touch.
“How did your relationship with Miss Layzell start?”
“Just after I moved into the house. She came to discuss Rocque View. Hearing that Sam and I had inherited the place, she figured we’d be looking for a quick sale. I soon put her straight and said we weren’t looking for a buyer, not at this point at any rate.”
“And she took that as final?”
“No, not really. Emma telephoned a few times, even turned up here. Then she called yesterday and asked me to lunch.”
Le Claire questioned, “Why did you agree to meet? I mean, you said she was still pressuring you about the house.”
“To be honest, I miss my girlfriends, and I’m a little lonely. She said she knew what that was like. She was friendly. In any event, and actually—I guess this was a bit strange—she didn’t talk about the house at all. We just chatted in general about our lives. It was a really nice, friendly lunch.” Suddenly, there was a hitch in her voice. “I thought New York was bad, but at least you expect it there. I can’t believe this bump in the sea has one murderer on the loose, let alone several.”
Le Claire didn’t look at his colleague, but he sensed that Dewar’s eyes had shot towards him. How many killers? That was the question.
“Thank you for your time. It is very much appreciated, and we’ll let you know as soon as we hear anything regarding your late aunts.”
Her eyes were bleak as the two turned to leave. “Wait. I just thought, I mean, I know it won’t be important, but I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea.”
Le Claire turned. “About what?”
“Emma didn’t want to list Rocque View and then find a buyer. She had one in place already. For quite a while, I think.”
Le Claire’s face was impassive. “Thank you, Miss Howard. All information is appreciated, no matter how insignificant it may seem.”
Once they were back in the car, and en route to the station, Dewar spoke, “Sir, that was interesting, about the existing buyer. Whoever is interested seems really keen. Emma Layzell approached Mrs Avery, the executor and Grace Howard. She wasn’t giving up—and nor was this buyer you mentioned.”
“The property angle is intriguing. It ties Emma Layzell into something Kate Avery owned and Harriet Bellingham coveted. Then again, this mystery lover interests me. Could be a straightforward crime of passion. Let’s get back to the station.”
◆◆◆
Richard and Susannah Avery had just witnessed their dearest friends’ youngest daughter get married. The bride, a vision in white lace and froths of tulle, was an old girlfriend of Sam’s. As the happy couple made their way up the aisle, Susanna clutched Richard’s hand and whispered, “That could’ve been Sam.”
Richard wearily shook his head at this old argument. “And I’m glad it wasn’t. That girl has never had an original thought in her life. Sam’s well out of it.”
“But they made such a lovely couple.”
“They were teenagers, Susannah. Leave it be.”
Susannah looked hurt. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you lately. You were in a foul mood this morning.”
“Don’t keep going on. It gets tiresome. I told you I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
“Please don’t be like this—not again.”
“Don’t start on me today.”
“I’m sorry, darling—don’t be mad.”
When Richard said nothing, she smiled and continued, “I can’t believe you never came to bed and fell asleep on the sofa. You must be aching today. Guess that’s why you are grouchy.” Her smile was conciliatory.
Richard turned and, rubbing the back of his neck, agreed. “Sorry, love. I obviously didn’t sleep well.”
Exiting the church, they made the short trip by foot to the nearby hotel where the wedding breakfast was being held.
◆◆◆
Grace was in the garden with the dogs when Luca de Freitas headed round the side of the house.
“Grace, how are you?”
“I’m fine, Luca. You?”
“All is well with us. I just wondered if Sam was around?”
“Afraid not. He’s gone to France and won’t be back until tomorrow.”
Luca looked anxious and stood there as if he didn’t quite know what to do or say next. With a sigh, he turned to walk away. “I’ll be off, then. See you later.”
Grace reached out and laid a hand on his arm. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, yes, no problem. It’s nothing really.”
◆◆◆
The man stood by the harbour and gazed out to sea. The crashing waves held his attention as they swept past in their never-ending ebb and flow.
The call had come the evening before. He only had days left. The clock was ticking. Anxiety clutched at his stomach in sharp, piercing jabs. He had thought there would be more time. Gambling... Jesus, what a bloody fool he had been. Spiralling deeper and deeper into debt. The crowd he’d been running with had been too rich for his blood. Pity he hadn’t realised before it was too late that the answer wasn’t to borrow money from someone with an open wallet and a sly smile. Not for the first time, he cursed his London connections.
His plan had been so simple: own Rocque View and find the bounty. The prize that was his by right, by birth. He could pay off his debts, save the business and be set for life. But he needed no interference. It was laughable when he thought of the heartache that would have been prevented if only the old property had been used to its full potential long ago.
But the damned moneylender had toppled that particular house of cards. The reference to cards was ironic, and he smiled despite himself. Never play on credit and, dear God, never borrow from the house. There was no way he could afford to pay him back right now. He stiffened his resolve. He had done too much to give up now. If he couldn’t have the right to what was his legally, then he’d have to get it by stealth. After all, a bit of larceny was nothing, not after what he had done already.
His
phone rang. Noting the number, he sighed and contemplated what to do. He looked around to make sure no one could overhear. “Yes?”
“Where have you been? I’ve been calling for hours.”
Yes, he thought, I am well aware of that.
“I’ve left loads of messages. Didn’t you know it was me? I know you’re a bit busy today.”
He sighed. Of course, I knew it was you. Why the hell do you think I never answered?
“Sorry I haven’t been checking my phone. As you say, I’m busy today. So what can I do for you?”
The voice on the other end of the phone rose. “Do for me? What can you do for me? I want you to do what you need to and get what is ours.”
“I’ve got it covered. You don’t need to do anything. Absolutely nothing at all is to be done. Just leave it to me.”
◆◆◆
The wedding party milled around the large terrace that overlooked the beach. The very beach on which the newlyweds were currently cavorting and posing as they had their photographs taken. Their guests sipped the free champagne, not caring how long the happy couple took in having their every smile and loving caress recorded for posterity. As more and more people arrived, the chatter rose to a loud buzz.
Richard Avery walked through the throng of guests to join Susannah, who was chatting with the bride’s parents. As he gently swept an arm around her waist, Susannah leaned back into her husband’s embrace. She smiled at him, and he could see she was desperately projecting all she felt for him, all they meant to each other, in her glance. Richard smiled back as he flirtatiously leaned over and took a long sip of champagne from Susannah’s glass, his eyes never leaving hers. Susannah’s smile was wide. “You were gone ages. Where have you been?”
“I just had to take a quick call about the Blair rebuild.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Absolutely. They go on holiday tomorrow, and Steve just wanted to have a quick chat.”
An attractive brunette joined their group. It was the bride’s eldest sister. She looked pale, and her mother leaned out to touch her arm. “Sally, what’s wrong? Has something happened?”
Sally’s voice was shaky. “Oh, Mum, it’s terrible. I’ve just heard that Emma is dead. Emma Layzell. She sold my flat last year.”
Sally’s voice had carried to the rest of the group, and there were shocked exclamations all around.
Susannah was the first to find her voice. “That is awful news; there seems to be tragedy everywhere you look these days.”
Richard’s voice broke across the others. “What happened?”
Sally turned watery eyes towards him, her voice was hoarse. “Murder, they said she was murdered.”
Sally’s mother gasped. “Another one?”
Their loud conversation had drawn others into their circle. A couple over from London for the wedding were trying to figure out what had happened. One of the guests answered the question in their eyes. “Someone’s been murdered. There was another one last weekend. It’s just unbelievable.”
The speaker trailed off as he realised who was within earshot, looking abashed as he glanced towards Richard. “Sorry, didn’t want to gossip but... you know.”
He shrugged, his mouth a thin, tight line as he acknowledged the apology. “Sure.” His voice was abrupt. As he looked at the gossip’s crestfallen face, he continued. “Really, I do understand.” Turning to the visitors, he said, “Some family members have recently passed away. One was murdered, and the police have reopened the investigation into my aunt’s death. Apparently, it’s common knowledge. I’m sure you can appreciate that it’s all a bit stressful at the moment.”
Richard’s voice was almost drowned out by shocked gasps as he revealed that Kate Avery’s death may not have been an accident.
Inquisitive eyes stared; people were desperate to find out more. But they didn’t dare ask, not in front of the Averys. The crowd around them dispersed, leaving Richard and Susannah with the bride’s parents.
The father spoke. “I can’t believe they think Kate was murdered as well. Did you guys know this Emma? Are the deaths connected?”
Susannah shook her head. “Definitely not. I doubt if Kate or Harriet ever met Emma.”
“You knew her?”
“Not really, did we, Richard?” As her husband slowly shook his head, Susannah continued, “Sam went out with her a few years back. We met her once. It wasn’t anything serious.”
“Wait, was she the divorced one?”
Susannah had the grace to blush. “Yeah. I know I shouldn’t have been so judgmental, but I want Sam to be with someone who doesn’t have any baggage. Anyway, they only had a handful of dates, so all my worry was for nothing. I can’t believe she’s dead. Can you, darling?”
Richard said nothing as Susannah continued talking to her friend. He just stared out towards the sea. His hand trembled, just a little, as he held his champagne flute, and he hoped that no one saw.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Grace came in from the gardens as the landline phone rang. She wasn’t in the mood for talking, so she let it go to the answering machine. Then she heard the voice coming out of the machine. “Hey, Grace, it’s James. Just calling to see how you are. I’ll try again...”
“Hi, James. I’m afraid I was screening my calls. It’s been a tough day.” Her voice wobbled, and she burst into tears.
“Grace, what’s wrong?”
She couldn’t stop crying. Her breath was ragged, and the more she tried to get the tears under control, the louder she sobbed. She could hear James’s compassionate voice trying to soothe her.
“Oh, James, it’s awful. Do you know Emma Layzell, she’s an estate agent?”
“No, can’t say I do. Why? Is something wrong?”
“She’s dead, James. She’s dead.”
“Did you know her well?”
“Not really. I’d only just met her. She had a buyer for Rocque View. Obviously, I’d said we weren’t looking to sell. We had lunch yesterday, and afterwards, I thought she was someone I could become friends with. And then today, to hear she’s dead. Murdered. It’s crazy, just crazy.” Her voice trailed off in bewilderment.
“Murdered? Do the police think it’s the same person who killed Harriet?”
“I don’t know, I guess it’s early days yet. They certainly never hinted at anything like that.”
“Is Sam there?”
“No, he’s in France, coming back tomorrow.”
“Right. I’m coming round, and I’m not taking no for an answer. I’ll bring a takeaway and a bottle of wine.”
“I’d be rotten company. It’s a lovely thought, but I’ll be fine on my own, so you don’t need to do this.”
“I may not need to, but I want to. I’ll be with you in under an hour.”
“Okay, if you really want to. I’ll see you then.”
As she hung up, Grace reflected that maybe some company wouldn’t be a bad thing. Someone to talk to and take her mind away from this nightmare she was living in.
◆◆◆
Le Claire’s shift had officially ended a while back, but he’d worked on, reviewing the evidence to date and trying to make sense of three brutal murders. Apart from a loose connection to Rocque View, he didn’t really have anything else to tie the cases together.
When his eyes started to sting, he realised he’d been reading for far too long. Grabbing his jacket, he left the office and drove back to his apartment.
As he navigated the narrow country lanes towards his parents’ home, he reflected that the dirt and grime of lowlifes and crime rarely touched people like them. People who had enough money to live in a protected bubble. People like his parents and their friends had no idea of the subculture that ran through and beneath society’s respectable veneer, including on this island, where kids casually popped banned substances as if they were downing an illicit beer or wine. In his day, they’d get hauled over the coals for a few drinks and coming home worse for wear; now the kids were mo
re likely to end up in A and E from a bad batch of something bright and shiny and costly.
As he turned into their private road, he figured his parents would be out. They were dinner party people, and, as his mother had said they didn’t have guests this weekend, he hoped they’d be visiting friends. This was good because they’d have hangovers tomorrow, and neither of them would be in the mood for haranguing him about his wasted life.
He reached for his zapper, and the tall electric gates slowly slid open. The approach to his parents’ house was long and straight, the drive bordered by rows of trees that screened the house and garage block, and therefore his apartment, from sight.
As the house came into view, his heart sank. His mother stood in the open doorway, waving good-bye to a woman who was about to get into her car. That was all he needed. Sasha.
Le Claire had been playing telephone hide-and-seek with his estranged wife for a couple of days. She was seeking, and he was definitely hiding. He’d now ignored several increasingly irate voice mails from her. He guessed she’d taken matters into her hands and had turned up here looking for him. She’d have met no resistance from his mother; she’d always thought pretty, polished Sasha an ideal match for him. Maybe she had been a match for the man he had been, but they certainly weren’t the perfect couple now.
She would soon be his ex-wife, all connections severed if he ever got round to signing the damned divorce papers. He hadn’t deliberately ignored them. He’d just forgotten—that was all. He had a lot on his plate.
As he got his defence ready, Sasha walked towards him, and for a fleeting moment, time shifted, and he saw her as she used to be—or more correctly, what he had thought her to be. She was smiling, any trace of rancour missing from her beautifully made-up face. Her dark hair fell in soft, expensive waves and brushed her shoulders. She was tall and slim, her athletic figure the result of hours of running and yoga classes. It seemed as if the angry look she so often cast his way was gone, and she was just the funny, warm girl he’d fallen in love with. The girl with melting, chocolate-brown eyes whose love he had returned a thousandfold. He felt an ache inside him for the loss of all they had meant to each other. But the light must have been in his eyes, for as she got closer, he saw the same glare of disappointment and bubbling rage that had now replaced the easy looks of love.
Blood In The Sand: Betrayal, lies, romance and murder. (A Jack Le Claire Mystery) Page 14
