Blood In The Sand: Betrayal, lies, romance and murder. (A Jack Le Claire Mystery)

by Kelly Clayton

  She furiously shook her head, short, sharp motions, but remained silent as tears welled up in her eyes.

  “I don’t know what is going on. Mum just said that Dad had come in to see you, and he had a confession to make. Can you tell us what this is all about?”

  This suited Le Claire perfectly. He would have been on his way to see Susannah Avery later in the day to work out what she knew about her husband’s extramarital activities. A cheated wife could resort to extremes, do things they would never have thought themselves capable of.

  “Of course, we can talk in one of the interview rooms. Follow me.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The small room was bare apart from a laminated table and four plastic chairs, with matching grey-painted walls and no window. Le Claire could see that Susannah Avery, even in her distress, found it all a little beneath her to be in such surroundings. She grimaced at the moulded plastic and pointedly swept her hand across the seat, wiping away imaginary dust and crumbs before carefully sitting down. Le Claire’s hackles rose, but he dampened them down. Behaviour like this reminded him of his own mother and her superior attitude—and that was enough to colour his judgment against anyone.

  Sam Avery sat down beside his mother. He half-turned towards her with an anxious look before facing Le Claire. “What can you tell us? Why is my dad here?”

  Dewar had followed them into the room and quietly took the chair next to Le Claire. He flicked a glance her way, commanding without words that Dewar start the conversation.

  “Mr Avery came to see us to provide some information on an open case.”

  At the Averys’ puzzled looks, Dewar continued, “He had something he thought we would want to know regarding Emma Layzell. He said that they were lovers and that it was him she’d repeatedly been calling just before she died.”

  There was a heavy silence, and then Sam Avery exploded, shattering the quiet. “That’s a bloody lie. How dare you speak about my father like that? Mum, don’t listen to this crap.” He was halfway out of his chair when Dewar laid a restraining hand gently on his arm.

  “Mr Avery, please, we are only repeating what your father told us.” She took a breath. “So I take it you were unaware of your father’s relationship with Miss Layzell?”

  He quickly glanced at his mother, who was sitting still, her face devoid of any discernible emotion. “This is nonsense, and I won’t believe a word of it until I speak to my father. But what I can say is that, no, I didn’t know about any relationship, as they did not have a relationship.” He spat the words out, and his anger seemed to fill the room.

  Le Claire soothed, “Sam, I understand your concern. However, we have to take seriously what your father said to us. Mrs Avery, given the changed circumstances, I have to ask you again if your husband was with you in the early hours of Friday morning.”

  She took a moment before she looked directly at Le Claire, and when she did, it was with an icy glare. “I already told you. My husband was with me all night, in his rightful place, which is in our bed. May I see him now?”

  Le Claire had no reason to detain her. “Your husband may have one visitor. We’ll have to ask him if he would like it to be you.”

  She shot him a sharp look, and Le Claire continued for the hell of it. “I often find that the wife is never really the last to know. They pick up on subtle changes signalling that something is wrong in their marriage. Did you? Were you aware that your husband was sleeping with Emma Layzell?”

  She flicked a look of distaste towards Le Claire. “There is nothing wrong with my marriage, and I would thank you for leaving my business alone.”

  Le Claire simply smiled as he opened the door and indicated for them to exit before him. He’d leave Susannah Avery to her illusions about her wedded bliss, but the second her business overlapped with his, he’d be on her.

  ◆◆◆

  Grace was in the garden, an open book lying unattended on her lap and a cup of coffee by her side. The air was cooler, but she had experienced an urge for fresh air to blow away the cobwebs and clear her mind. She had been waiting for Sam to come back—or at least telephone—for the last couple of hours. Now she wasn’t so sure she wanted to hear whatever he had to say. Grace had no idea if she could trust him or his parents, and she felt the weight of the last few weeks settle around her in an almost overwhelming wave of pressure.

  The noise of a car pulling in front of the house abruptly dragged Grace from her thoughts. She recognised the flash of red. Sam. As he walked towards the front door, she raised a hand and called. “Sam, over here.”

  He was pale and crumpled, with a defeated look she hadn’t seen on him before. She laid a consoling hand on his arm. “What happened? Is everything okay?”

  He shook his head, simultaneously shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t know, Grace. I really don’t. We weren’t able to see Dad. He sent a message that he doesn’t want either of us having to see him in custody.”

  “Custody? What on earth is going on?”

  “Apparently, Dad confessed that he was having an affair with Emma Layzell. I mean, what bloody rubbish is that? The police seem to think that he could be in the frame for Emma’s murder. Even more rubbish.” Sam swore as he kicked a stone that lay by the side of the flower bed, the break in his voice betraying his struggle.

  “Oh, Sam, I don’t know what to say.” Without any premeditation or thinking it through, Grace moved and pulled Sam towards her, her arms settling lightly around his shoulders as she hugged him. She knew it was a mistake the moment she felt the searing heat of his body as his arms reached out and he pulled her hard against the length of him. Startled, she looked up and opened her mouth to protest. Head bent, his lips settled against hers, and he kissed her. Really kissed her. There was no hesitation or restraint in the way he almost devoured her. And Grace was with him all the way.

  Her head was abuzz, and all she could think of was his body against hers, the soft touch of his mouth and the gentle caress of his hands. She pressed against him, demanding, wanting more, as his hand ventured farther across her ribcage and reached higher until settling firmly around her breast. Grace pulled back with a gasp. “Sam. No. This isn’t right.”

  He stilled but didn’t move away. He simply rested his brow against hers, his hot breath fanning her face. “I would say I’m sorry, but I’m not. I can’t even promise it will never happen again. All I can say is that maybe my usual controls aren’t in place.”

  Grace knew she was equally to blame and couldn’t act the injured innocent. “It must be awful to think of your dad being treated like this.”

  Sam’s sigh was deep and heartfelt as he leaned closer towards her. “The problem is that deep down, I know it’s true. Why else would he say it? Dad was sleeping with Emma Layzell. I could believe him capable of anything right now, anything but murder, that is.”

  ◆◆◆

  Le Claire was tired. Dog tired and pissed off, to be more accurate. Richard Avery was sticking to his story. According to him, he was an unfaithful, cheating swine, but he wasn’t a murderer. All this was delivered in the smooth tones of someone who was clearly unrepentant that he was no doubt about to break his wife’s heart and shatter what remained of his marriage. Le Claire didn’t like the man, but that wasn’t enough to charge him. He couldn’t pin anything on him—not yet. Le Claire decided to let Richard Avery cool his heels in the cell overnight. They could still charge him with assault on an officer, but neither Dewar nor he had the stomach for that, especially as they knew they had taunted him into losing control.

  Shrugging on his jacket, Le Claire left his office and took the stairs to the exit. He was going to go home early, cook something relatively healthy and collapse in front of the TV with a beer. He could almost taste it.

  The doors to the station opened, and two uniforms came in with a struggling man held tight between them. They were obviously keeping him upright by the way his legs kept giving way; an overwhelming stench of alcohol surrounded him and fo
uled the air. Le Claire thanked whoever was up there that he was years past being called to drunken disturbances. This one looked a handful, but it wasn’t his problem. He flicked a rather-you-than-me look at his beleaguered colleagues as he walked past them.

  The drunk stopped struggling and looked straight at Le Claire. “Hey, Mr Fancy-pants hotshot, you found out who killed my Harriet yet? No, you don’t have a clue, do you, little rich boy? We all know about you. You’re playing at being a copper till Daddy pops off and you get the loot.”

  Le Claire ignored the two smirking beat cops and turned to their prisoner. “Ray, you look a little worse for wear. Is that why we have the pleasure of your company?”

  The younger of the two policemen stepped forward. “We picked him up in town, sir. He was causing a disturbance outside the Angel’s Rest wine bar.”

  Le Claire grimaced. The Angel’s Rest was many things, but the dive wasn’t for angels, and it was no trendy wine bar.

  “What sort of disturbance? An argument or something more physical?” Ray Perkins looked the sort that was no stranger to using his fists.

  “There was a disagreement with another man. It was verbal but turned into a fight just as we turned up. As Mr Perkins appeared to be the aggressor, we thought it best to remove him from the situation.”

  Ray seemed to get a grasp of what they were saying and defended himself. “Too right, I was the agress-agress—whatever you said. He was a prick about my Harriet. A load of bullshit saying whoever killed Kate Avery did for Harriet as well. It’s the talk of the town. There’s no connection. My Harriet had nothing in common with that tight old bitch.”

  Le Claire ignored his rant and walked towards the doors. “Why don’t these nice gentlemen escort you to one of our rooms, where you can sleep it off?” He called over his shoulder. “Sergeant, look after our guest here. Hold him overnight, and I’ll see him first thing in the morning. Get him sobered up.”

  ◆◆◆

  Once outside, Le Claire called Dewar. “It’s me. Cooper is booking Ray Perkins, probably for drunk and disorderly and disturbing the peace. Get down to the cells and find out whatever you need to run a bloody good search on him. The background reports I asked for are taking too long—go and kick someone’s ass. Say it’s from me. There has to be some dirt in someone’s past. Let’s make sure it’s not in their—and our—present.”

  Le Claire could almost hear Dewar’s unuttered sigh. Yes, this was really grunt work, but it needed to be done, and he trusted her to do it right.

  Instead of heading straight home, he decided to grab a beer and some supper at a pub. He was in no mood for cooking tonight.

  Le Claire headed for The Foxes as if on automatic. It had been a favourite haunt before he’d left for London. As he recalled, the beer was cold, the food edible and the clientele left you alone. Perfect.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  An hour later and Le Claire regretted his impulse. The pub no longer served proper meals, so he’d eaten two anaemic looking hot dogs while he stood at the bar nursing his lager. At least that was nice and cold.

  A thumping cacophony was coming from the small raised stage, where three long-haired, spotty teenagers were belting out whatever today’s version of music was. Apparently, they had fans; mini-skirted girls, who looked barely legal, were jiggling in front of the stage, smiling faces shiny with sweat.

  He was getting old. Looking around, he saw a woman stick her fingers in her ears and laughingly shake her head at her companions as she made to leave. Sasha.

  Le Claire took a second to reach a decision as he downed his drink and followed his wife out the door.

  “Sasha, wait.”

  She turned. Her dark hair was caught back in a patterned scarf, exposing the long, elegant lines of her neck. Her natural smile faltered as she realised who had called her name. “Hey, Jack. What are you up to?”

  “Just catching a beer after work. You?”

  “The same. Look, I’m in a hurry. The next bus home leaves in five minutes.”

  “I’ll give you a lift. Come on.”

  Sasha looked as if she would refuse and then shrugged and walked with him back to his car. They exchanged a few words, but the silences were longer than their conversation. They made inconsequential small talk as the car travelled the relatively short distance to Sasha’s house. She’d bought the place when she first returned to Jersey, when she’d walked out and left him alone in London. Or it was more accurate to say her father had gifted the house to her. No doubt he couldn’t contain his pleasure that, in his eyes, his precious Sasha had seen sense and dumped her loser of a husband.

  The house was light and airy, tall and narrow, stretching to three floors. Le Claire pulled into the carport attached to the side of the property. He switched the engine off, and half turned in his seat to face Sasha.

  Her smile was soft. “How are you really doing, Jack? You look stressed.”

  “I guess I am. We’re no nearer finding the killer, and I’ve got irate senators in my way. All they seem concerned about is that dead bodies are bad for tourism.”

  There was silence, and he saw Sasha flick a wary glance his way. Her question was hesitant and ended on a plea. “Jack, how are you really? Talk to me.”

  There was no point in pretending that he didn’t know what she meant. Banished memories came rushing to the surface. His voice was raw and cracked slightly. “How do you think I am? I killed that girl.”

  Her rebuttal was swift. “It wasn’t your fault. We’ve been through this a million times. Everyone agreed that none of the evidence pointed to Colin Chapman having abducted another girl. You couldn’t have known; no one knew.”

  Regret and anger, and maybe a little self-pity, battled for supremacy. Anger won, and the words burst forth. “No one knew because April Baines fell through the cracks of a stressed social system. At almost fifteen she was out roaming the streets and branded yet another runaway. No one reported her missing; no one cared.”

  “Please don’t put yourself through this again.” She was all but begging, and he could see the compassion in her eyes.

  His own eyes were bleak. “But she wasn’t a runaway. Chapman had her locked away. He repeatedly raped her and left her broken and bleeding, tied up in a chest that he nailed shut. And then he buried her alive.”

  His voice wavered, and Sasha reached out and held his hand, her firm grip comforting and so familiar. “Don’t torture yourself.”

  The images, usually firmly locked and bolted in his subconscious, came thundering back. As if watching a movie in slow motion, his mind tracked his pursuit of Colin Chapman through the maze-like industrial estate where the serial abuser and murderer had carried out his evil business; he could almost feel Chapman’s savage blows as chase gave way to vicious confrontation. He still carried the scars on his body to this day. The scarring in his mind was more profound, and even he didn’t know its depth.

  Le Claire had defended himself, but his ultimate aim was to subdue his assailant and keep on the right side of reasonable force. And then Chapman had started the taunting, his foul words conjuring the atrocities he had unleashed on his young victims, and Le Claire lost control. His angry fists silenced the smirking Chapman; it took three weeks for Colin Chapman to regain consciousness.

  He continued as if she had never spoken. “When he came round, the bastard was gleeful as he told us about April Baines. He knew we’d be too late—and we were. So how do you think I am? This will never leave me.”

  He recognised the raw, broken edge in his voice and pulled away from Sasha’s touch. He didn’t want her pity, but Sasha held on tight. “Take care of yourself, Jack. You need to let this go; you couldn’t have acted any other way. And you’ll get whoever has done these recent murders. That’s what you do. Thanks for the lift. I better go.”

  Sasha turned and put her hand on the door handle, and he caught a wistful glance that flitted across her face. Before she could open the door, Le Claire covered her hand with his. Sa
sha turned, and the words he had been going to say stopped in his throat. Then he remembered: actions really do speak louder than words.

  “Jack, what—”

  He acted instinctively and pulled Sasha into his arms, his mouth covering hers, teasing and coaxing a response. After a slight hesitation, Sasha relaxed and met him kiss for kiss, caress for caress.

  He had a compulsion to pull her closer, to lose himself in her embrace—to forget everything except the warm body pressed against his.

  She pulled away, just a little, and stroked a trembling hand across his face, her thumb tracing a pattern across his stubble-roughened jaw. “Oh, Jack, this isn’t the answer.” The sadness in her voice was all too clear.

  He felt all the old emotions rise to the surface, crowding out the recent, bitter memories. His entire body felt on fire. His wife was a heartbeat away from him, and that was too far. He pulled her closer, moving awkwardly within the confines of the car, the space far too restrictive for what he wanted to do. He pulled back, a little breathless, and whispered, “I want to come in with you. Let me stay the night?”

  “No. That’s a terrible idea.”

  “You don’t miss us being together? A bed is one place our compatibility was never in doubt. Please, Sasha, I want you so badly. I need you.”

  He saw the indecision on her face; she looked into his eyes, and he recognised the moment she weakened and desire overruled her. “Okay... but it can only be for tonight, Jack. This doesn’t change anything.”

  He didn’t care; right now, all he wanted was the moment, so he followed her into the house.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The morning traffic had been a nightmare, and Le Claire was unusually late as he walked into his office. He’d left Sasha lying in bed just as the sun had risen. He’d left her with a hot kiss and a confused look. How did they get here? All thoughts of London—and the past—had been firmly pushed back into the mind box labelled “do not open”.