Blood On The Rock: Treachery, desire, jealousy and murder (A Jack Le Claire Mystery) Read online

  BLOOD ON THE ROCK

  Books by Kelly Clayton

  The Jack Le Claire Mystery Series

  Blood In The Sand (2015)

  Blood Ties (2016)

  Blood On The Rock (2017)

  BLOOD ON THE ROCK

  KELLY CLAYTON

  Copyright © 2017 by Kelly Clayton

  First printed in this edition 2017

  Published by Stanfred Publishing 2017

  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 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: 978-0-9934830-4-2

  Book design: Polgarus Studio, www.polgarusstudio.com

  Cover design: Kit Foster Design, www.kitfosterdesign.com

  For Grant, thanks for being so patient.

  Much love, forever and always.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Jersey, Channel Islands

  Yet again Drew Portland thanked the lucky stars that undoubtedly shone down on him. He raised his glass of champagne in a grateful toast to the slowly darkening night sky. This was his first proper drink in days as he was recovering from a disgusting bug of the worst kind. He’d felt fine earlier, but the nausea had come back a couple of hours ago, and he’d had the indignity of being caught throwing up as she arrived. The night was warm, but a chill overtook him, and suddenly he was cold, shivering.

  He sank back in his chair. The sunset blazed across the horizon, and, sitting at the prow of his boat, it was as if he were anchored in the middle of an empty ocean, floating in isolated splendour, and not berthed in one of St Helier’s private marinas. Gentle waves rocked the boat as rhythmic vibrations reverberated through the polished wooden deck. He checked his watch; almost time to go home. He sighed at the thought; home was what paid for his champagne, his boats, and his lifestyle. Not that he wasn’t grateful—he was—although sometimes he needed solitude.

  The shrill beep of his mobile jolted him out of his musings. He knew who it would be but read the text anyway. Can you talk? No, I can’t, was his immediate thought. Everything was in place, and it was all going to be okay. He’d call later.

  He heard her behind him, footsteps clacking against the metallic stairs. She smiled as she fussed over the table, reaching out for the empty bottle of fizz to clear it away.

  “Leave it. I’ll do that later.” He didn’t mean to be sharp, but impatience echoed in his voice. He tried to make up for it. “I’ll probably have another drink anyway, and then I’ll hide the evidence, eh?”

  “How are you feeling now?” He could tell she was concerned, and hated how her disapproving eyes flicked to the glass in his hand. His head had been down the loo when she’d arrived so he couldn’t blame her censure, no matter how much it stung.

  “I’m fine. It’s nothing. I’ve been a bit under the weather this week. You better be off. It’s not right for you to be seen here.”

  The night had grown cooler, and she pulled on a patterned woollen poncho that stopped short of her hips and jammed a baseball cap on her head. He watched as she made her way to the lower deck. She was certainly a good-looking woman but a whole pile of trouble. He hoped she was worth it. Only time would tell. He heard the sound of her footsteps as she left the boat and hopped across to the dock. She came into sight again, and he couldn’t help himself as he admired her tight jeans-clad ass as she disappeared along the walkway heading in the direction of town.

  A sharp pain shot through his abdomen, and he bent over, clutching at his stomach as vicious, hot spasms attacked his gut. His flesh burned as the damned bug took hold of him again. He’d felt like crap all week, had started to feel a bit better with fewer bouts of vomiting and diarrhoea, but now it was back in full force.

  A metallic creak disturbed the silence. Someone had crossed the walkway that anchored the boat to its berth. Soft footsteps sounded on the lower deck. Placing a hand on the table to steady himself, he turned and called out, “Hello, who’s there?”

  He looked across the marina and saw she had turned back at his voice, which must have carried in the night air as she walked away from the boat. He could make out her features as she stood in the pool of light from one of the old-fashioned lampposts that illuminated the dock. She looked puzzled, and he wondered if she had seen whoever had walked onto the boat. He waved her away with an impatient flick of his hand. She turned and did as he bade.

  Christ knew who was here to see him. He wasn’t in any fit state for company. With an aggrieved sigh, he pushed away from the table and headed to the stern and looked over the railing to the lower deck. There was no one there. All he could hear was the sound of the waves as they gently lapped against the hull. However, there was a small wooden box sitting on the deck. One that hadn’t been there before.

  He recognised it at once and smiled as he made his way down the stairs, holding tight to the railing, ignoring the aches in his very bones. It was the same gift he had received the week before. The markings etched into the wood had given the game away, and, as suspected, the lid slid back to reveal a bottle of Château Margaux. He carefully removed the bottle of wine from its packaging and checked the label. It was a 1988 and one he’d drunk a fair amount of over the years; he figured the value would be around £350.

  A note fell out. The writing was in block letters. A LITTLE THANK YOU FOR YOUR HELP. Someone apparently liked him, and he had a damned good idea who it was. He’d helped them plenty. He idly wondered what courier they had got to deliver the wine at this time of night.

  He flicked his tongue out and ran it gently over his lips in anticipation. No, he didn’t feel great, but what harm would one more drink do? Even he baulked at opening a bottle like this when he was on his own—and for no good reason—however, it was only the ’88. The 1996 would have set someone back the better part of £600, so it wasn’t that extravagant. He mentally hushed the devil on his shoulder that whispered he had forgotten where he came from.

  He headed back to the foredeck, grabbing a wine glass and a bot
tle opener from a lacquered cabinet, and quickly dispensed with the foil and cork. There was a satisfying gurgle as he half-filled the glass. He knew he should let the wine breathe, one of the many titbits he’d picked up that had taken him further away from the boy he had been and the company he had run with. He didn’t care about the niceties tonight, and there was no one here to call him out for being uncouth.

  He raised the glass, swirled the deep red liquid and saw the legs form, vertical lines of heavy, dark wine. He sniffed the aroma—black cherry and spearmint—and could almost taste it. His stomach lurched, but anticipation had him buzzed, and he drank deeply, the rich wine cascading down his throat, warming and invigorating. He gagged. Perhaps it hadn’t been so smart to drink when he wasn’t feeling great.

  His stomach spasmed, and he bent over; sharp, stabbing pains ripped at his insides. He choked out a ragged breath and grabbed at his throat as his windpipe tightened and burned. The glass fell from his hand and smashed into tiny pieces on the deck. His vision blurred, yet he could still see the shards sparkle in the moonlight. He stumbled, placed a steadying hand on the table, but his arm wouldn’t work, wouldn’t cooperate, and he lurched to the side. He collapsed to the deck, knocking the bottle off the table. As the wine spread a dark stain over the deck, he cursed his weakness and greed. His heart was racing, and a layer of sweat covered his entire body. He rolled over onto his back. Paralysis was seeping through his limbs, and his chest exploded in an arc of pain.

  Through the horror of the moment, he heard a noise—footsteps. Thank God, someone was here to help. A figure moved out from the shadows and stood over him. His brain was slowing, closing down. He couldn’t think why they, of all people, would be here. He struggled to speak the words that were crowding his mind yet couldn’t escape. Eventually, he rasped his plea. “Help me, please.”

  The laughter floated on the breeze. “No, I won’t be doing that. I’m here to make sure tonight is the end of it. I’ve been watching you. I hope you enjoyed my gifts.”

  Comprehension flooded his senses, and a visceral fear took hold. He couldn’t speak, could barely move. He strained, reaching out a trembling hand, which fell to the ground. No assistance was offered. Drew heard the familiar laugh as a hand plucked the note from the table.

  His world, his awareness, his very being shrank as everything around him was blotted out by the thunderous tattoo of his furiously pumping heart. He tried to move his legs, but his limbs were frozen; all feeling gone. As his heart gave one last blast, a bitter regret washed through him. He had so nearly had it all.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Sophie Ginelli glanced over her shoulder as she quickly crossed the small deserted car park at the side of the marina. She wore a cardigan with a cowled hood that covered her head, and she had pulled the sides closer together to conceal her face. The marina was new, like so many things on the island, and Diane had given her precise directions on where to find the Louise II. Her friend had also told her that Drew Portland had long had the habit of disappearing on one of his jaunts for days on end, and she had heard he had got worse recently, so she was grateful he was in Jersey at the moment.

  She took in the sight in front of her and briefly closed her eyes. The sleek motor-yacht had a gleaming black hull that blended with the darkening sea. All trim curves and expensive leather that screamed money. Whose bloody money was the point?

  She took a steadying breath; she needed to remain calm and see this through to the end. The marina area was lit by globe lamps atop evenly spaced knee-high stone mounts, interspersed with mock-Victorian lampposts. There was no one else around, and the other boats lay in darkness. If things were still how they used to be, she’d bet that the majority of these expensive playthings were rarely used. She had to keep calm. She couldn’t blow this.

  The small access gate at the stern of the Louise II was open, and she stepped onto the narrow metallic walkway that led to the lower deck. She waited at the bottom of the steps and called out, “Drew? May I come up?” She paused for a beat and raised her voice. “Drew?”

  There was no answer. She held tight to the rail and climbed the steep steps, emerging on the upper deck. She glanced around the empty dining and lounging area and headed to the prow. She saw his feet first, then the rest of his body, inert. In slow motion, she took in the slack features, the dribble of spittle that fell from the side of his mouth. And she screamed.

  #

  DCI Jack Le Claire had left an early night, a warm bed and a willing wife and sped into town, heading for one of the fancy new marinas. The first-on-scene officer had immediately put in a dispatch, and the Chief had called Le Claire, telling him to handle any sensitivities. He’d soon find out what that meant, no doubt.

  He parked in the marina car park and caught his reflection in the rear-view mirror. He ran his hands through his hair. No matter how short he had it cut, there were always a couple of errant strands that stuck up. His jaw was stubbled with a dark shadow, but it would have to do. He’d already shaved once today and wasn’t going to do it twice.

  He took in the busy scene in front of him. An ambulance was parked up; its back doors wide open with two paramedics waiting outside. There was also a marked police car and his detective sergeant’s vehicle. Yellow tape had already been put in place to cordon off access to the entire marina. Halfway along the berthing slots was what he assumed was the actual crime scene. The area surrounding the boat was yellow-taped, and several uniforms were on the dock. He considered for a moment whether this was a boat or a yacht. He never quite knew the distinction. What he did know was that the elegant vessel in the berth in question would have cost a fortune.

  Dewar was one of those waiting by the docks, and as she came rushing to him, he could see the apology in her eyes.

  “Sorry.” She gestured to her clothing. “I was out when the call came.”

  “Yes, I guessed that.” He had to admit DS Emily Dewar did look entirely different out of uniform. Her cap of short dark hair wasn’t quite so neatly brushed. It was a bit wild, actually, and she had more make-up on than usual. There was a load of dark stuff around her eyes, and she had stained her mouth with a pinkish lipstick. She was dressed in an extremely un-police officer-like short skirt and a frilly top. She even wore high heels. She certainly wasn’t dressed for a crime scene. She’d been working out more recently, had even been going to yoga with his wife, and it had paid off. She looked slim and toned. A few of the uniforms were throwing her distinctly appreciative looks, and he had to resist the protective urge to ask them what the hell they were looking at.

  Her colour had risen. “I got changed at the station and was going on a night out when the call came in from the chief’s office to meet you here.”

  He had too much on his mind to be overly bothered by his DS’s choice of outfit. “Okay, what have we got here?”

  “I’ve not long arrived. Hunter was one of the first responders. He’s over there with the woman who called in the incident.”

  Le Claire saw PC Hunter talking to a pretty young woman who was sitting on a wooden bench. Hunter loomed over her as he was hitting six feet, but his youth, pale blond hair and boyish features took any menace out of the situation. A blanket, presumably from the ambulance, was wrapped around her shoulders. He thought for a moment, then decided to leave the witness interview to the uniforms. “Okay, let’s get on board and see what we’ve got.”

  #

  A crime scene investigator was waiting by the mooring. He held out sealed bags containing protective plastic overalls and shoe covers. Le Claire pulled the baggy outfit on top of his clothes, as did Dewar. He smiled when he saw she had discarded the high heels and slipped her bare feet into the shoe covers. Her look was nonchalant and unconcerned, but he knew she’d be burning with embarrassment. He had to give her credit. She was off duty and could easily have asked them to call someone else in, but she’d have known there would be suspicious circumstances if she and Le Claire were to be involved.

  The bo
at was moored alongside the dock and connected by a small steel walkway. Le Claire stepped onto the lower deck, which moved beneath his feet, and his stomach dipped and lurched. He wasn’t comfortable on the water, nonetheless he had to get a grip—they were hardly on the high seas. A waiting uniform directed them up the flight of stairs to the top deck. They passed a cosy seating and dining area, and the smell of expensive, smooth leather fragranced the sea air.

  Le Claire wasn’t in the habit of messing about on boats, so he took in his surroundings with care. The stairs opened onto a wide deck that circled the wheel room with padded chairs dotted around. However, it was the front of the boat that caught his attention. Dr David Viera, dressed in protective gear, was hunched over the body of a man. Le Claire nodded a brief hello as Viera stood and moved to the side.

  Le Claire didn’t miss much, and he saw the look Viera gave Dewar. He’d been curious about the obvious attraction between his surly DS and the young doctor for some time. That speculation would need to wait for another day. The matter in hand was the man at his feet.

  He was on his back, arms to the sides and legs bent, as if his knees had given way and he had collapsed. He looked to be in his forties with an expensive-looking tan and sun-bleached hair. A table had been over-turned, and a small side unit held a champagne flute. An empty bottle of champagne lay on its side on the deck along with a similarly drained bottle of wine. The contents from the latter had spilled out and stained the decking. A wineglass had broken, and small pieces of glittering glass were scattered underfoot.

  Dewar’s voice came from behind him. “Looks like he had a bit of a drinking session.”

  “Yep, it does. Viera, any comments at this stage?”