Blood Rights (A Jack Le Claire Mystery)

  BLOOD RIGHTS

  KELLY CLAYTON

  Copyright © 2019 by Kelly Clayton

  First printed in this edition 2019

  Published by Stanfred Publishing 2019

  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: 978-0-9934830-7-3

  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,

  You never fail me

  and your love gives me strength

  CHAPTER ONE

  The leaves muffled Karl Englebrook’s heavy footsteps as he navigated his way through the dense woodland; his leaves, his trees, his land. He repeated the words aloud, let them run through his mind like a hypnotising chant. He was safe and secure. The danger was almost over, on multiple fronts. He’d fenced off access to the woods and the estate, and to hell with the braying parishioners who demanded access to his property. They’d have to take him to court again, and they’d realise what legal support he could buy with a Goliath wallet. Of course, it wasn’t the woods they wanted to traipse through so much as they wished unfettered access to the historic Jersey round tower that took over where the woods ended, standing sentinel over the bay he called his own, even though no beaches were classed as private in Jersey. He’d erected barriers and blocked walkways to make it as difficult as possible for people to wander onto his meadow and beach. Yes, his.

  He shivered. It was a beautiful day, but only narrow slivers of sun permeated the thick foliage overhead, casting dappled patterns on the leaf-strewn ground. The woods were damp and chilled. He hurried. There wasn’t much of a window to do what had to be done. He’d be having a challenging conversation soon after, but he wanted everything finished. It had to be today.

  The path was more accessible now, the plants and bushes sparser. He was almost there. Ahead, the trees thinned out, and probing slithers of sunlight sought passage through the tree branches. Farther on, he could see the wildflower meadow that surrounded the tower. The metal handles of the petrol cans dug into his palms, the rusted edges rough against his flesh.

  It was a long time since he’d done any manual work. Sharp, jagged pains shot up his arms, and he stopped, setting the two petrol cans on the ground. His palms were dotted with tiny specks of rust, and there was a small cut in his flesh where a stray ragged edge had taken its toll.

  He considered the cans; two might be overkill for what he needed to do. His excuse for this excursion, and what would be the resultant mess, was that he found an imaginary pile of rubbish, fly-tipping at its worst, on yesterday’s regular walk and, enraged, had decided to rid the estate of this outrage.

  He left one can by the base of a large oak. He could nip back and get it if he needed. There wasn’t much evidence left to show what they had been up to.

  He was much faster now, having dumped half his burden. He strode ahead, relieved when he reached the meadow.

  The tower came into sight, proud in its roundness, tall tapering walls reaching high. These historical fortifications originally protected the island from attack by the French. Later, the WWII German occupying forces appreciated their defensive benefits, and the towers were pressed into use once more. Now they formed parts of grand homes or were used to house art exhibits, and even rented out as trendy holiday lets.

  When he’d bought the manor years before, the meadow had been an ugly mass of weeds and scrubland, and the tower a sad reflection of its glory days. His garden designer had created the wildflower meadow, a haven for birds, bees, butterflies and goodness knows what other wild creatures; a conservation specialist had worked his magic and held the tower’s years of decline at bay for a little longer.

  Then the hordes had come, attracted by the newly created beauty. Sunday walkers, holidaymakers and local historians, picnickers, obsessed lovers and bloody dog-walkers. His lawyers had probed the land deeds and found a cunning way to block the access the public had been enjoying for decades, perhaps longer. They’d been turfed out, turned away, and wire fences erected. He’d enjoyed complete and utter privacy, and his long-running court battle with the Free Access to Lamourier Tower and Beach action group was about to reach its conclusion. He’d won the main case and would win the appeal. Or so he thought. His lawyers believed the decision would be in his favour.

  A sense of relief flooded through him but was short-lived. Before the final decision, which was due by the end of the week, the jurats who would sit on the appeal wanted to access the right of way and see for themselves the validity of his lawyers’ arguments. The jurats also said they wanted the right of way open to the public for seven days to gauge the reaction and impact. That was a blow. One that had him scuttling from the house. There was too much stuff that was private that he kept from prying eyes at the tower. He couldn’t lose. The fencing would be removed, and his land would be invaded, no doubt led by a jubilant Riley Jones, the leader of that scurrilous group. And to think he’d treated him like a son since he was a boy.

  If the appeal court found in favour of Riley and his mob, that gave him a bigger headache than a general loss of privacy. His immediate problem was the impending access to the land. He couldn’t risk someone snooping around. He had to clear the tower, and soon. Just in case. In any event, it was all over. His circumstances had changed, thankfully, and he no longer needed this distraction in his life. Fun though it had been.

  He stilled as a latent tension gripped him. The tower door was ajar. Who the hell was trespassing? The land wasn’t open until tomorrow. More to the point, what had they seen? His heart hammered. He couldn’t afford to be found out now.

  He put the petrol can down and climbed the steps, pushing open the creaking, heavy wooden door. He stopped. Then heard the voice.

  “I saw you creeping out of the woods. Come in and shut the door.”

  Ah, his partner in crime, if one could call it that. “I’m glad you’re here? We need to talk.”

  “What are we going to do? What if they win? Where would we run things from?”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to talk to you about, but there’s always someone else around. We need to finish this. It’s over.”

  If this weren’t such a serious matter, the open-mouthed look of horror would have been comical.

  “What the hell are you talking about? We made plans, and I’m holding up my part of the bargain. No, this isn’t over. No way.” The emphatic denial hung in the air.

  He took a step forward but stopped at the look of rage and held his hands up in supplication. “You knew, right from the start, that this was only ever going to be temporary. My life is back on track now. It’s been a crazy time, but it must stop. Now help me get this stuff outside. I’m going to burn everything. By tomorrow, this land will be open, and the jurats will be sniffing around as well. Everything needs to be gone before they arrive.”

  “Look, this is crazy. You’re having a knee-jerk reaction. We can move everything. I’ll get my car.”

 
He reached out and grabbed an arm before they could reach the door. “You aren’t listening to me. Where would we move everything to? There is too much here. It’s finished. I’ve made my mind up, and that is final.” He heard the sharp authority in his voice but didn’t care. He’d started this, and it was up to him to close it down.

  “You’ve got to be kidding. What about me? I won’t stand for this.”

  His bark of laughter exploded into the stillness. “Oh, do shut up. Give me a hand to move this stuff, or sod off. I’m in a hurry. I need to call Sotheby’s in an hour.”

  A tilted head, and puzzled eyes locked on to his. “What for?”

  He sighed, stepped closer. “I’m tired. I want to sell the whole collection. I should have done so ages ago. The major houses are interested in hosting the auction, but I need to see who can put on the best show before I make my decision on who to go with. If I’m going to do this, I need it done properly.”

  There was silence for a moment before everything blew up. “You can’t. You know that’s impossible.”

  He’d had enough of this. His voice was cold, and his words final. “What I do doesn’t concern you. I’m selling, and that is that. Now help me shift this stuff.”

  He moved up the wooden ladder to the mezzanine platform he’d instructed be built a year previously. He bent down and grabbed the nearest box and dragged it to the top of the ladder. Christ, it was heavy, but he wasn’t going to show any weakness. He looked down. His partner didn’t move, simply stood there, staring at him with arms hanging and mouth agape. He felt no guilt. What he owned was his to do with as he pleased.

  “Look, everything has changed. There’s so much going on. No one knows about the deal between us, and they never will. I’m looking at everything afresh. If my lawyers successfully defend the appeal, which you must understand I have to do, then I’m not going ahead with the deal. I’m not sure I want the land built on.”

  “That’s going to cause problems—you know that, don’t you?”

  “Look, don’t play the innocent here. If only people knew the real you.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “We both know you’ve got secrets. Be a shame if they came out. Now let’s get on with this. If that appeal is upheld, we’ve both got something to lose. You more so than me. Let’s get this place cleared.”

  He carefully navigated the top rungs, then reached up and tilted the crate towards him. He balanced the base on the ladder and, moving onto the next rung, slid the heavy load along the ladder itself. He was almost at the bottom when a hand grabbed his leg.

  The pleading voice took him by surprise. “Please. I beg you, don’t do this. You promised.”

  He shook his foot, irritated at being restrained, and took a step back. He missed the next rung, and his stomach lurched. He crashed to the ground, landing awkwardly on his back. Looking up, he was horrified to see the heavy crate and its tumbling contents heading towards him. He rolled to the side but wasn’t quick enough. He couldn’t smother his anguished scream, couldn’t escape the piercing pain.

  He lay still for a moment, opened his eyes, and then recoiled. The look that met his was shocked, yes, but there was something else there that chilled him to the core. “Help me up. Don’t just stand there. Oww.” He held a hand to his head, trying to numb the vicious, sharp blasts of pain. When he removed his hand, he saw it was covered in thick smears of blood.

  There was no move to help him, just a slow, measured backing away. He pushed himself up to sitting, astonished at the effort it took. He tried to stand, couldn’t, and collapsed with a thud. “For Christ’s sake, give me a hand, will you?”

  There was no answer.

  “Look, I can’t move this stuff now. You’ll have to do it. Get everything outside and the fire going. When the evidence is gone, you can run to the house and get someone to help me. Hurry, please.” Jesus, his leg was in agony, and his head was thumping. A trickle of blood snaked past his eye, and he quickly brushed it away.

  “I told you. This isn’t over. I don’t want it to be. It can’t be.”

  He shook his head, opened his mouth to tell them to do what he bloody said and stopped. Perhaps he needed another tactic. “Okay, maybe I was hasty. Let’s get the stuff outside at least. Get your car and come in off the track. No one will see you.”

  The laugh was harsh. “This isn’t stopping. It can’t.”

  He put his head to one side and considered not so much the words, but how they were said. There was panic here. “Have you done something stupid? Does anyone else know about this? I could bloody strangle you. Now get me some help. Get one of the gardeners. They’ll do as I tell them, and we can get the fire going.”

  His accomplice slowly headed to the door, bending to pick up the petrol can.

  “Good idea, get it outside. Ready to go.” He always won.

  Blank eyes stared at him, as trembling hands undid the lid of the can and, lifting it high, sloshed the contents around the entire ground floor—and him. “What the fuck are you doing? Making your stupid point, I suppose. How do I explain this? I reek of the damn stuff. You fool.” His voice faltered, and he was disgusted at the spittle that shot from his mouth.

  “For once, just once, why don’t you shut up? I’m not one of your minions. I’m in too deep; some promises can’t be broken, you bastard.”

  The canister flew into the corner of the room, hitting the thick stone wall, the clanging sound a metallic echo.

  A satisfied smile brightened the set face as probing hands fumbled along a high shelf. He drew in a shaking breath. That was where they kept candles. Candles and matches.

  The shadowed figure was framed by the doorway, the bright outside light obscuring features. A rasp, an acrid smell, and a flickering flame held him immobilised. His partner threw the match directly at him. He tried to move but could only shuffle backwards, his hands slipping on the petrol-doused floor. Flames erupted, on him, around him. He heard the latch fall as the heavy door closed; the key turned, locking him in. The pain was unbearable. His head ached, and his eyesight started to blur. He screamed in terror.

  ◆◆◆

  Chloe Marsden fumed as she searched for her brother-in-law. She had to speak to him, and it wouldn’t wait. He continued to be ridiculous and stubborn about Riley. Yes, they had different viewpoints, but Kurt had now banned Riley from the house. Kurt had gone too far this time. She trudged through the woods towards the meadow and tower that overlooked the beach that was causing all this discord. She sniffed. At this time of year, the leaves always smelled of smoke. She choked as something caught at the back of her throat, and her eyes smarted. Her vision cleared, and she could see across the woods to the meadow. She froze. Her heart hammered and she ran ahead, careless of the branches that whipped past her, pulling at her clothes and scratching her face.

  She was in the open and faltered as the view in front of her broke into a million pieces and then coalesced into one horrific image. The tower was on fire. The blaze snaked from the slit windows as smoke bellowed. The heavy wooden door had burned off its hinges, the interior a mass of dancing flames intertwined with the dense smoke.

  She pulled her phone from her pocket as she ran. The meadow was dry—this could spread. She stopped to punch in the emergency services number, and then something caught her attention in what was left of the doorway. She moved forward, the phone by her ear. The wind shifted, causing the smoke and flames to change direction. She could see into the tower. A lumpen mass by the door pulled her closer.

  The voice was efficient. “Emergency Services, how may we help you?”

  She saw a dark shape; it drew her in. She screamed. A primaeval howl that carried across the bay.

  Chloe collapsed in a heap as the shifting flames revealed Karl Englebrook’s fire-ravaged face, his unseeing eyes trapping hers, a charred hole where his mouth had once been.

  CHAPTER TWO

  DCI Jack Le Claire sniffed appreciatively as he entered the kitchen
, where a multitasking Sasha brandished a wooden spoon in one hand and scrolled through her phone with the other. Fresh from the shower, he trod lightly in bare feet as he crept up behind her. A light caress and a whispered, “Smells gorgeous. You, and the pasta sauce,” caused his wife to turn around, drop the spoon, discard the phone and hug him tight.

  “Ah, I’ve missed you today. You left when it was still dark, and I didn’t get to kiss you good morning.”

  “You better make up for that now.” He pulled her close as his mouth sought hers and gently teased her lips with his own. He pulled back, taking in her makeup-free face, dark hair pulled into a high ponytail and her loose top and workout pants. “Did you go to yoga?”

  “No, I didn’t have time after work. I was going to let dinner simmer and get a quick practice in, but as you’re home on time, we can eat earlier. I can always work out tomorrow morning.” She flashed her eyes; a seductive glint appeared. “Fancy a glass of wine? Loosen us up a bit.”

  “On a Tuesday night?” He thought about it for a second. “Sure, why not? Make it red for me. What were you looking at online? More houses?” His voice teased.

  “Well, we should hear about the mortgage soon, so I thought I’d get a head start and look at what’s on the market. Mind you, the first issue is what parish?”

  “Well, I’m a St Mary’s boy, and you’ve always been a Gorey girl. It’s funny to think that we’ve never chosen a property together in Jersey before.”

  He realised that the simple statement covered a lot of their past. They’d met in Jersey, and Sasha followed him to London when he joined the Met. Married life began in a small flat in Camden Town. He’d insisted they live off their salaries, with no help from either set of parents. They’d moved somewhere better once he got promoted and started a straight-arrow trajectory to the top, then it all came crashing down. Sasha returned to their island home, their marriage in tatters and his career on the brink. He wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t followed her. Where would they be now? He brushed the thought away. They were reconciled and happy; their recent miscarriage had only drawn them closer together, making them a complete, unbreakable circle. Now all he had to fix was buying a house and moving out of the property paid for by his father-in-law.