Somehow, I already knew that the new series would start before I managed to finish this story!
I haven't been idle, as I know you've been waiting. However, I spent some time plotting out the next couple of chapters to make sure they made sense to me (as well as, hopefully, to you). So the next chapter won't be far behind.
Am loving series 4 already! And, dare I say it to all you Richard/Camille fans, the chemistry between Humphrey and Camille is definitely growing... ;-)
Usual disclaimers apply, and many thanks as always to my lovely reviewers, guest ones included.
Chapter 21
Humphrey's sleep was fitful. As he tossed and turned, sweating in his bed, his dreams were full of images that often haunted him during a difficult case – of running and running and never being quite fast enough to catch someone or something undefinable. Blurred faces and words flashed in front of his inner eye with such speed that he was unable to make sense of them. And, all the time, he kept stumbling towards some unknown goal, his heart pounding and his legs heavy and awkward.
At one point, he had a perfectly clear vision of Camille ahead of him, looking back over her shoulder, but with the same expression of bemused contempt that had been on her face on the day they had met. Sally laughed at him briefly; he could distinctly hear her familiar light peal of laughter, with no specific edge of cruelty. Against all logic, Selwyn Patterson leaned across his desk, looking at Humphrey very seriously, before being replaced with the smiling face of Donata Lawrence from the old photograph. This faded to be replaced by an image of the current Mrs Lawrence's tear-stained face, but only briefly as Humphrey awoke with a jump and a distinct feeling that he was missing something fundamental.
He sat up, letting out an involuntary groan at the thumping in his head. He felt hot – hotter than normal – and his heart seemed to pound in sympathy with the pulsing pain in his leg.
"You OK there, Humphrey?"
Josh stuck his head through the archway leading into the kitchen area. For a moment, Humphrey gaped stupidly at the man, having forgotten about his overnight guest.
"Oh – er, hi. Um…yes." He moved his leg experimentally and winced. "I think I've picked up an infection in this leg though. I keep forgetting about the antibiotics."
Reluctant to remove it completely in case he made matters worse, he lifted the top of the tight dressing that covered his lower leg from knee to ankle. As the gauze lifted away, he could see that the top of the gash looked swollen and discoloured.
Josh grimaced. "Don't ask me to do anything, I'm rubbish with blood. I hope you don't mind but I'm just making myself a coffee. Want some?"
"Thanks." Humphrey carefully replaced the bandage and got out of bed, shuffling towards the kitchen in the t-shirt and shorts he normally wore for bed. "Sorry about that, I'm a terrible host at the best of times. Did you sleep well?"
"Yep, not too bad. Mind you, I'm used to sleeping pretty much anywhere."
Rather annoyingly, Josh was looking as fresh as a daisy. His hair was wet and slicked back from his face and he was wearing swimming shorts with a towel around his shoulders. At Humphrey's enquiring look, he explained: "I've just been for a morning swim. It's beautiful – you're very lucky to live here."
Humphrey shrugged, feeling irrationally pleased. It was true that each morning, as he went out onto his balcony and saw that extraordinary view, he thanked whatever deity it was that had put him in the way of this post. If Patterson ever gave him the push, there was absolutely no way he would go back to London now. He couldn't bear the idea of that damp, grey place…
At the thought of the Commissioner getting rid of him, he sobered immediately. He didn't think Sir Selwyn was the vengeful type, but for everyone's sake, he needed to solve this case as quickly and as discreetly as possible.
Josh passed him a cup of coffee. Humphrey took a gulp of the hot liquid and grimaced at the bitter taste.
"No good?" Josh gave him an enquiring look, not remotely insulted by his reaction. "I'm not great at coffee – Jules is always complaining that I make it too strong or something…"
"No, it's not that." There was an odd taste in his mouth; his tongue felt dry and too big. He had a feeling that nothing would taste right today. Even his stomach clenched and tried to expel the small amount of liquid he had taken. He took a deep breath in through his nose to repress the nausea and then shivered despite the heat.
"You look a bit crap to be honest." The journalist was looking concerned now. "Don't you think you see a doctor?"
"Later. I need to get to the station first."
Josh shrugged. "Up to you. Anything I can do to help?"
"No – though actually, wait a minute. Yes, there is something you could do if you don't mind coming in with me."
"Sure." Josh disappeared into the bathroom.
Humphrey chucked away the rest of his coffee, retrieved a cold bottle of water from the fridge and downed most of it in one go. It seemed to clear his head enough for him to be able to wash and get dressed in good time for Camille.
When she arrived to collect him, he was able to summon up a brisk, airy manner before she could ask him how he was feeling. "Ah, excellent, Camille. Let's go to the station first; there are a few things I need to check out. Josh is going to help out."
Face professionally blank, she led the way to the jeep. He limped after her, fiddling with his mobile as he went. Hopefully he still had her contact details saved…ah, yes, there they were...
Camille gave him a curious look as he began, rather laboriously, to type out a text on his smartphone. "Who are you contacting?"
"Serena Hope. She's a forensic pathologist at UCH." He paused, frowning in thought before typing again. "Um – she and I developed quite a friendship over the years."
"Oh, did you?" Her voice was flat and deliberately disinterested, but he caught the slight edge to it even so.
"Not like that! Only that we kept coinciding at crime scenes. Well, it was like that at the Met – every detective had his pet pathologist, someone that we all hoped would be on duty at the right time."
The silence was telling. In the back, Josh snorted but said nothing.
"I should add -," he continued, carefully, "- that she's in her sixties and very much looking forward to retirement next year…when she'll be moving to the Cotswolds with her husband and several dogs."
There was another silence before she said. "And why would I be interested in knowing that?"
He glanced at her quickly; her face was straight but her lips were twitching.
"I can't imagine," he replied, drily. "But anyway, I want her to dig up Masters' post mortem report for me. Let's see if there was anything specific that caused that heart attack."
He clicked on the 'send' button and looked around at Josh. "I was wondering how you felt about digging through about half a tonne of ratty-looking paperwork to try to find something of interest? Fidel has probably made a start, but there's a lot to check."
The journalist looked a little pained but nodded. "OK, I'll give it a go. Can you fill me in?"
Humphrey explained about Ernest Nieto and the pile of invoices and other paperwork that had been boxed up the previous day. He was just finishing as they arrived at the police station.
Fidel was already at his desk. "Bit of news, boss! Interpol just rang. They've picked up Nieto and the Le Fondre boys at Pointe-a-Pitre airport, just about to check in on a flight to Miami. They're bringing them back right now – should be here by six."
"Excellent." Humphrey rubbed his hands together just as Dwayne came into the station. "OK, listen up. First of all – Fidel, Dwayne, meet Josh Lawrence. Josh, meet Fidel and Dwayne. He's given us some useful information and I've brought him here to help with something else. We have a clear suspect in the Masters' case – sorry, I mean Emilia. Well, both… And there's more than one suspect…"
He stopped and shook his muzzy head, trying to clear it. His shirt was already stuck to his back and he felt hot and shivery. Dimly, he was aware that his junior officers were staring at him in some confusion.
"Um, sorry." He tried again. "We have three possible suspects. Let's have a look at this."
Camille brought the noticeboard out, with its pictures of various Lawrences, alongside Donata and Law. In the absence of a photograph, he grabbed a post-it note, scribbled 'Jonathan Masters' on it and stuck it on the noticeboard, drawing linking lines to Clive Lawrence and Jessica Law.
"OK, so Jessica Law and Clive Lawrence were both victims of attempted blackmail by Jonathan Masters, who may or may not have been murdered in Britain. I'm trying to find that out. Law has the motive and the opportunity to kill him, or arrange his death from here. The means is yet to be established. Lawrence too." He frowned. "As for Emilia…someone wanted to stop her passing on her information to Josh. Who? Law again has motive and probably opportunity and means. And I suppose Lawrence also has the opportunity, unless he has an alibi for Saturday night, and possibly the means…but the motive? No." He shook his head firmly. "Clive Lawrence would never kill his own daughter. He loved her too much."
"I was about to say the same," Camille commented. "You could see it in their faces – they were utterly devastated when we visited them yesterday."
Humphrey glanced over at her and caught Josh's expression as he did so. The young man was standing quite close by, staring at the group picture of his younger self with his mother, father and brother with the oddest expression on his face – a strong emotion that Humphrey couldn't decipher. Humphrey considered him for a moment before saying, rather tentatively. "Josh? You OK?"
Josh didn't respond for a moment. When he did, he seemed to visibly shake himself out of his trance. "Yeah, sure. Sorry."
"No, I'm sorry. It must be difficult to see your mother again," Humphrey suggested. Even as he did so, it came to him that the expression he had interrupted on Josh's face had been one of confusion…as if something about the family photo didn't quite make sense to him.
"It's OK. I have my own copy of that photo." Josh stepped closer and tapped on the image of Ernest Nieto. "Is that the man I need to investigate?"
"Yes, and he's our third suspect. He had the means and the opportunity to kill Emilia at least, but what's his motive? Greed, I suppose, if he had been trying to squeeze money out of Sir Selwyn. He wouldn't want Emilia spilling the beans to a journalist."
"Seems like a flimsy reason for killing someone in cold blood," Fidel commented, frowning at Nieto's photograph.
"But he is a killer," put in Camille. "He has no respect for human life. I sensed that about him when he kidnapped us."
"Unless he didn't mean to kill her."
They all turned to look at Dwayne, who'd made this observation. He shrugged. "Well, it's a risky way to kill someone, isn't it? Speedball isn't an automatic death sentence. He couldn't know that she would die from the heroin once the cocaine had worn off – plenty of people get lucky and don't. I think he – or she – did it to make Emilia incapable of speaking to anyone. The death was…well, an unfortunate accident. Though if it is Nieto, he probably didn't care all that much."
"And the other drug - Eddie's joint?" Camille asked.
"Yeah, well I was thinking about that." Dwayne folded his arms; a familiar characteristic when he was about to declaim something. "Those two that Eddie saw in the lounge – the man that resuscitated her and the woman who called for help. I mentioned them before. I still think it's odd that they were so alert and ready to help Eddie after being at an all-night party of drink and drugs. This is what I think. Either one of them was the murderer or, more likely, they were planted there by the murderer to make sure Emilia didn't manage get the information out when she came round from the speedball. Then, when Eddie found her and realised she was dead, the man jumped up to take over the resuscitation. In the process, he could have left traces of the joint that he'd already stolen from Eddie's pocket earlier, on Emilia's mouth and fingers. Eddie would have been too dazed to have noticed what he was doing. Meanwhile, his accomplice was drawing attention away from him and onto her by calling for an ambulance – and probably doing so quite loudly."
Humphrey stared at him. "You might just have something there. The question is, who were they? We could look through the guest list again, but I don't think we had a witness statement from anyone who claimed to have tried resuscitating her, did we? It's more likely they just drifted away in all the commotion – I wonder why? Dwayne, try ringing the paramedics – see if they remember anything. And also the emergency number operator – did that woman identify herself? Fidel, show Josh that box of papers we retrieved from Nieto's house – both of you see if you can find anything useful. Camille, contact the Commissioner and request an emergency search warrant for the Lawrences' house."
As the team got to work, he sat down at his desk, feeling a little dizzy and out of breath. He felt as if he were staggering through warm water, but even more so than usual in this humid part of the world. There was no doubt that something was badly wrong with him, possibly the antibiotics weren't strong enough, and he would be a fool if he didn't consult a doctor today. But equally, he feared leaving the case unsolved for too long – the ancient instincts that every good cop had were telling him that someone else was in grave danger and that the killer might strike again very soon.
His phone vibrated and he opened up the new text, smiling at the message.
It's been a while, Mr. G. I'm a very busy pathologist but for you I can find the time. Leave it with me. SH.
The smile dropped from his face as he looked up at the board again. What was he missing? He was absolutely convinced that Jonathan Masters' death hadn't been natural, but who would have had the opportunity? His eyes roamed from face to face, considering…before stopping on one face in particular. His eyes flickered quickly from that to another face…and then back again…
"Sir?" It was Camille, breaking into his reverie. "Sir Selwyn is leaving the permit with his PA, so we can pick it up on the way to the Lawrences."
"OK." He got up, putting on his jacket. "Fidel, ring the Commissioner's office again and tell them that I want additional permission to look at Mr Lawrence's bank accounts, and then contact his banks. I want financial statements for all his accounts, business and personal, for the last – um, let's say three years. Dwayne, any luck with the paramedics?"
"Nah, boss. They remember some man bending over her and stepping out of the way when they arrived, but they didn't get his name or anything out of him, and he didn't tell them anything."
"OK, thanks Dwayne. Leave that for now – what I want you do is get over to Hotel Sainte-Marie International and see if you can spot Jessica Law. Don't approach her yet, just stand by and keep an eye on things. Camille, you're with me."
The signed permit was presented to them by the immaculately turned-out PA. They saw no sign of the Commissioner. On the way to the Lawrences, Humphrey broke the silence in the car.
"I know you're worried about me. Truthfully, I'm a bit concerned too – this feels like more than just a minor infection. After this visit, I'd like you to drop me at the hospital."
She gave him a relieved smile. "I didn't like to say anything, but I'm glad. I've been so worried."
He felt a warm feeling at her words. OK, yes, they might just be the words of a caring colleague, but he was fairly sure by now that Camille's feelings ran deeper than that. Whether the two of them were entirely on the same page he couldn't tell, but he felt more hopeful than he had just a couple of days ago. Even if Camille was still in love with Richard, she would move on eventually, and she didn't seem entirely repulsed by him.
He opened his mouth to reply, but his phone went at that moment. It was Fidel.
"Sir, we've found something useful in that pile of papers. Nieto appears to work – or have worked - for the Lawrences as a gardener. We've found three invoices and they look genuine – he's itemised the work done. It's all basic maintenance stuff – pruning trees, weeding, mowing the lawns and so on."
"OK, thanks for that. And the banks?"
"Yes, we've got the emergency permit and I'm just about to contact them to request the statements. I will have to go there to see them; they won't allow them to be taken away. That's just the Sainte-Marie banks – the international ones are trickier."
"That's OK, let's start with the personal bank accounts here. I have a feeling we're going to find what we're looking for. Also, I want some background on Ernest Nieto 's movements over the last few years – now we have the right name, let's see what we can find out about his travel history….thanks."
Camille gave him a curious look. "Are you nearly there? I just have a feeling that you're about to get your break-through moment – you know, that moment where you go all crazy and weird and talk to yourself, and then you call everyone together in one room."
He smiled at the description. "Is that how you see it? I suppose I must look a bit odd… Anyway, I just might - I think it's nearly there, but there's something I need to be sure of first."
"Something here?" she asked as they pulled up at the Lawrences' house.
"Hmm, maybe."
Emma Lawrence was home, not looking overly pleased to see them, but reasonably polite. "Clive isn't here. He's gone into town to see the funeral directors with Selwyn. He told me you would be coming and I'm to let you have access to everything. I don't see what good it can do, but you're welcome to try."
Humphrey gave her an understanding smile. "I'm sorry to have to bother you. We often have to ask difficult things of people, but it's often just to eliminate suspects. We'll be as quick and unobtrusive as we can. By the way, where is Eddie today?"
She gave him a sharp look as she led them in. "Out with friends somewhere, I'm not quite sure where. Do you need to see him?"
"Not right now. We'd like to take a look at Emilia's bedroom and also the office. We might need to look at the computer – is it password-protected?"
She looked surprised. "Yes, but I can give you the password if you need it."
After a moment's hesitation, she scribbled it down on a scrap of paper before taking them up the stairs and into Emilia's bedroom. She nodded a little awkwardly and left them to it.
It was a typical teenager's bedroom, perhaps a bit neater than most, but with the usual obsessions on prominent display. In Emilia's case, this appeared to be sport of various kinds; she had a signed photograph of Andy Murray on her desk, a poster of the England women's football team hung on the back of the door, and various paraphernalia from the 2012 Olympics displayed on a large board on the wall – tickets, programmes, badges, a t-shirt and so on. He wondered whether she had a similar sized collection in her bedroom in Britain. The room had a very homely feel to it, but then he supposed she spent a fair amount of her time here, including all of the holidays. There were various photographs taken of her with friends here on the island, including one of her dressed in tennis whites and holding a trophy.
Humphrey could tell fairly quickly that they were unlikely to find anything of interest here. He looked at Camille, who had turned on Emilia's laptop and was scrolling through her files, but she shook her head – there was nothing relevant on there.
"OK, let's try the study."
Emma wasn't anywhere in sight when they left the bedroom and went back down the stairs, so they tried a couple of doors and found the study on the third go. It was a pleasant room, perhaps one of the nicest in the house. The house was surrounded by gardens, but the sunny study was situated towards one end of the long white building, overlooking a pretty section of land leading down towards the clifftop. They could see the shimmering gleam of the blue sea in the distance.
Clive Lawrence seemed to be excessively neat; the few paper-based files he kept were carefully numbered and filed away in a cupboard. Humphrey felt it was unlikely he'd find anything here after a period of so many years, but he flicked through a few of them, trying to get an idea of what the man kept here. It was harder than usual to focus; he could feel the beginning of what promised to be a severe headache and his brain felt sluggish.
Camille, meanwhile, logged into the computer and started browsing. There was a safe and he wondered whether he should have asked for the combination, but Mrs Lawrence might have baulked at that.
Suddenly, there was a loud blaring sound from the open window that made Humphrey jump.
"It's the ferry from Guadeloupe," Camille replied without looking up. "It always arrives at 10.25 and sounds the horn just before entering the harbour. You probably wouldn't hear it from your house, on the other side of the bay, or from the station."
"No, but… I have heard that sound before." He walked over to the open window and looked out at the carefully tended flower beds right below, wincing at the bright sunshine. His head was thumping and he felt wretched, almost flu-like. "I just can't quite picture when it was…"
She interrupted him. "Now this is interesting!"
"What is it?" He walked across the study to lean over her shoulder and she pointed at the screen. She'd opened up some kind of accounts spreadsheet.
"It looks like a record of personal expenses. Mostly household things, bills and so on, but they also include money spent on flights. Look – you can see a large payment going out to Virgin Airlines a couple of weeks' ago, which is when they last flew here from Britain. And now – look." She scrolled back up the spreadsheet. "Here's the beginning of this year. There's a payment to Virgin for a flight on 2nd January, but then there's another one – much bigger – on the 14th January."
"So? Perhaps one of them flew back earlier?"
"Yes, but…" She pointed at a couple of adjoining lines. "Look – a payment to a hotel in London for the 2nd to 5th January. Why would any of them be staying in a hotel when they've got a house in London? And then another payment on the same date, 2nd January, just described as 'cash for expenses'."
"Twenty thousand," he murmured, looking at the line. "That's a lot of cash."
"Where does Clive Lawrence get that kind of money from?" she wondered. "I mean, I know he was high up in the diplomatic service, but even so. He's got two children to get through private school, he has two houses and probably other properties… The job doesn't pay that well, does it?"
"An inheritance, perhaps? Although -," he added, frowning, "- Josh said that when his grandmother died, she left all her money, which he described as 'not an awful lot', to her four grandchildren. What was it he said – that his dad had other money?"
"Perhaps it's her money – Emma's," Camille suggested. "We don't know much about her family, do we?"
"No, we don't, that's true," he said, slowly. He straightened up, perhaps a little too quickly, as the room swam alarmingly and black spots appeared in front of his eyes. He felt a cold prickle of sweat trickle down his spine and a by-now familiar stab of nausea.
He closed his eyes, trying to clear his vision. Two faces seem to dance in front of his eyes, and suddenly, he knew what it was that had been nagging at him for so long.
"Sir?" Camille's voice seemed to come from far away. "Humphrey, are you OK?"
He opened his eyes and turned to face her…before his vision went black again and he felt himself falling forward onto the carpet in a graceless heap.
"Humphrey!"
He opened his eyes again; his cheek was squashed against the rough wool of the carpet, but he could see her anxious face from out of the corner of his eye, upside-down as she bent over him. The angle looked funny and he would have laughed if he had the time or energy.
"Jessica Law," he told her, solemnly. And then promptly fainted.