Bleeding Heart: Clytemnestra Stone Series, #1

By R M Nicholls

“I was never charged with my father's murder.” My voice echoed around the bare room. 
“Well, lightning ain't gonna strike you twice.” 

An action-packed thriller set in Hawaii. 

When 'Ness' Stone is found next to the bloody corpse of her film star ex-boyfriend she knows that no one will believe her innocence. Most people already believe that she murdered her own father to inherit his billions. The real murderer is hunting down witnesses while the police and media circle around Ness like hungry sharks, She must find the truth before it kills her. Hawaii has never been so deadly.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R M Nicholls
• Release date: Dec 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781519907271

Book preview

29 JUNE, KEKAHA, ISLAND OF KAUAI

It was still night when I opened my eyes. A white light dazzled me for a second, then the night folded softly intact around my body. I hugged the darkness to me like a child clings to a blanket, as if it could keep me safe. A helicopter stuttered over the roar of the surf, its searchlight cutting a deep powdery blue across the black sky. It took me a while to remember what had happened and to understand that it was real. The flaking wood of a fencepost felt rough against my back, and I was aware of sandy dirt under my hands and leaves brushing my face. I was curled up under a bush, facing the highway which runs along the beach, but wasn't exactly sure how I got there.

I could see police cars broadside across the road fifty yards or so away. There was no traffic waiting: this was night-time in Kekaha, nobody was going anywhere.

I looked at my hands. At first I couldn't see anything at all. I think I still hoped there would be nothing to see. Then the light from a slow-cruising police car slid over my skin in a blue and white shaky pulse. Instinct screamed at me to run. There were bloodstains on my hands, blood under my fingernails mixed with the dirt and sand that streaked up my arms. Then just as quickly - shamefully quickly - the panic subsided. This wasn't my blood. I tried to remind myself that it was his blood, and that I should care about that, but all I could feel was relief. I checked my wrists and arms: no marks at all, no bruises, hardly a scratch on me. The helicopter light swung overhead again and I decided to move.

I have trouble with waiting. When I know how something is going to end I prefer just to skip to the finish, even if all I can see is catastrophe speeding towards me. I watch movies on fast-forward. I finish sentences of idiots, because even if I'm talking like an idiot at least I'm doing it quickly. I have to get the stupid things said already, get bad movies ended, get myself to jail immediately without passing 'Go'.

There was a chance I could get away, if only I could escape being spotted by the helicopter. This was going to be on the front page of every newspaper in the world. If I could stay out of it, I should. When I heard in April that I'd won one of the women's lottery places for the Hawaii Iron Man I stepped up my training and I’d never been faster. I knew I wouldn't win Iron Man; there were plenty of women out there who were faster than me. I just wanted to race against the best. Outpacing a few middle-aged police didn't seem like a reach.

I waited for the light to swing back out to the beach, rolled through cracking twigs and leaves, and was on my feet in under a second. I hared away from the beach, using every ounce of adrenaline in my system to push myself. At this point I don't think the police were even aware of my existence. I ran into a driveway, almost into someone's garden. Once around the corner I would have been out of sight from the police, if not the helicopter. I could have made it over the fence at the back of the yard, into the next garden, and then in the street beyond within just a few more seconds. It was pitch black; the lights from the police car and the helicopter and the torches danced at the edge of my vision, but they didn't penetrate this far. I was focused on running, my feet pounding into the ground in a full sprint.

So I didn't see the chicken.

If I were to tell any local in Kauai that I fell over a chicken they would just shrug and laugh, like it's a conventional hazard. On Kauai, tripping over a chicken is up there with shoelaces and banana skins. It seems there are more chickens roaming around than people; they've been living wild on the island since Hurricane Iniki upended a chicken farm in ‘92. My foot caught against this bird. I don't know what it was doing in the middle of the driveway; maybe the lights confused it. Then it went flying through the air, squawking and flapping, and I flew too, cursing and flailing. The helicopter light swung over to me. A police officer less than fifty yards away yelled: There's someone over here! Stay where you are, ma'am!

I sat as still as I could, after I'd finished untangling my legs, and waited. I hadn't been much of a fugitive.

Two officers were scrambling over the rocks towards me, climbing fast, filled with intent. I was bound to be a huge disappointment to them. The glare from a flashlight dazzled me for a moment, then, Ma'am, did you see what happened here? The officer was panting when he reached me. Other police collected around, waiting to hear what I was going to say. For a series of split seconds camera flashes on the beach illuminated a crumpled mass of bloody clothes. I knew that I was seeing Scott's body, but couldn't make sense of the outline. It didn't look human any more.

He hated being photographed, I told them. He said it made him feel like ... a piece of meat. I choked against the urge to vomit.

Did you see what happened here, ma'am? the officer persisted.

I was there, I replied. But I'm not sure what happened.

What's your name?

Ness.

Your full name, please, ma'am.

I sighed. Clytemnestra Stone. The police officer brandished his notebook. I spelled slowly: C – L – Y – T – E – M – N – E – S – T – R – A. Stone. No, C – L - and so on. It usually takes two or three tries. Those who get it straight away want to talk about the Oresteia with me. Back then I hadn't read it on principle; I resented Aeschylus for putting ideas into the head of my clearly impressionable mother. Unfortunately, in the time it took to convince an enthusiastic Classicist of this, I might as well have spelled my name a dozen more times. Half a page of the police officer's notebook later, he nodded, saying, Got it.

Are you hurt? the first policeman asked me.

It's his blood. This is all Scott's blood. My voice sounded unfamiliar. Then I started crying.

Is there anyone we can call for you? Family?

No, I don't have any family.

Friends?

I paused for a moment. No. I don't think I have any friends either.

They looked at me like I was a jellyfish washed up on shore. It was compassion mixed with disgust. Every half-decent person has friends and family, I know that.

#

I seemed to have been at the police station for days, though in fact it was less than twenty-four hours. They had scraped under my fingernails, combed my hair over a paper for stray fibres, asked me to strip and given me a white paper jumpsuit to wear. Their questions all blurred into one. I should have thought about getting my story straight, but I just answered their questions without even trying to remember what I'd said the previous time they’d asked.

Then things went quiet for a while. They asked me to wait in a room which I recognised from a hundred US police dramas: four chairs, a table, a mirror at the end of the room, buzzing fluorescent lights overhead, and no windows. I don't know why an American interview room should feel so distinctly different to those in London. Even the smell, the disinfectant and all the things that the disinfectant was supposed to cover up, was strangely the same, but augmented. This felt more like a film set. I was half-expecting Vincent d'Onofrio to walk through the door. I shifted on my chair and the jumpsuit rustled; I felt naked. My head drooped towards my forearms on the table, but then I recoiled as I saw the rusty brown smudges running up from my hands. They hadn’t allowed me to wash yet. Scott’s blood had dried. Tiny flakes had fallen on to the pale grey table where my arms had been resting. I shivered and closed my eyes, leaning my head on my shoulder, slumped on the hard chair.

Miss Stone?

I sat up abruptly. Yes. Can I go yet? I'm so tired.

Miss Stone, I'm Detective Gold. A woman sat opposite me. Her oversized shirt rode up as she sat down and her half-knotted man's tie pushed off at an angle. I wanted to lean over and straighten it for her, but I was the one in the paper jumpsuit so I kept my hands to myself. She reminded me of Charlie Chaplin: pale with jet-black hair, and a studied innocence conveyed through huge brown eyes. Her partner stood by the wall, watching me with an unblinking intensity. Detective Gold nodded an acknowledgement to him and turned to me, her posture casual, rocking back a little in her chair. Then, as if we were continuing from some briefly interrupted conversation at a suburban dinner party, she said, So, Clytemnestra, how'd you come by that name? Is it a common name in the UK? We don't get so many Clytemnestras on Kauai.

My Mother was reading the Oresteia... The Aeschylus, not the Euripides.

I have no idea what you're talking about.

Thank Christ for that.

So the name...?

She found the name in this play she was reading; I think it was just a passing idea, I can't believe that she was serious. My dad told her not to be so daft. They argued... Apparently he told her that she had no business being a mother if she couldn't be a grown-up. Then she collapsed. She died a few days later. Pre-eclampsia, nothing to do with having had an argument, but still... I was born by Caesarean, just before she died, and he named me Clytemnestra because he felt bad about having a row with her. He was soft like that. People never realised that about him. If she'd lived I'd probably have been called Sara or something, which would have been great.

Detective Gold laughed quietly, I'm called Sara. It's an okay name, I guess. Did you kill Scott Southwell?

No. I did not. I've been saying it all day; I did not kill him. I held her gaze.

So why were you running?

I was frightened. I didn't want to be involved.

We found an empty bottle near Scott's body.

Yes, that was Scott's hip-flask. I had some too. For one brief moment I could see his face perfectly in my memory, laughing just before he took a pull on the whisky. That's the last thing I remember. Scott was drinking from the bottle. Then someone grabbed me and put something over my head. I fought, got free and went towards the road. There was a car... And there were men fighting with Scott. I think I... I think I fainted, but I don't usually faint.

There was a snort from the other side of the room. Gold's partner snarled at me. Fainted? Sure. And you made sure to faint off the road, behind a bush, out of sight of the police. The raw hostility in his eyes surprised me; he seemed to be trembling. I wondered if all murders made him this angry. Perhaps we had more in common than he realised.

Gold leant forward, watching my face intently: Do you think you may have been intoxicated? Passed out drunk?

Well, I’ve been drinking more than I'm used to lately... Maybe I guess. I shifted in my chair and the paper suit rustled again. Can I get my clothes back?

No. They've have been sent out. Forensics. She was still leaning in close to me, and I saw a change in her, like she'd finally seen what she'd been looking for in my eyes, So, your memory of what happened – do you think that might have been affected by how much you had to drink?

Maybe.

In a soft voice, her head tipped slightly to one side like an inquisitive bird. Could you have imagined those other men on the beach? Could you have killed Scott and forgotten how it happened? Did he try to hurt you? He had a reputation with alcohol... We have an independent witness. She tells us that you had a public argument with Scott's fiancée early yesterday morning. He was going to marry someone else. That must have made you angry.

No, not angry. I must admit, it came as a bit of a surprise. But... I was telling the truth, though I knew it wasn’t going to sound convincing, ...she was more than welcome to him. I know you don’t believe that. I know that if you’re a woman all you’re supposed to want is a man. Right? I saw Gold’s smirk despite herself. I mean, like how getting married is the happy ending at the end of every movie. But that wouldn’t be my happy ending. I’m not looking for some nice guy to make it all okay.

Gold’s partner walked over from the corner and leant in to me. That was a pretty speech. And it would be real convincing if you weren’t covered in your boyfriend’s blood. Look at your hands!  Tell me again how you weren’t jealous.

Okay, I need a lawyer, don't I? I didn't kill him.

Gold put a hand on her partner’s arm. She seemed to give him a warning look before turning to me. You're free to leave anytime, Miss Stone. You're just answering our questions, that's all. You're not under arrest, and it's your right to consult a lawyer. However I'd like you to stay on the island. She saw me flinch. Is that a problem?

I have issues with... not being able to leave. I need to keep moving.

I understand that you've been part of a homicide investigation once before, Miss Stone. I don't know if it's so different in England, but you're in the United States of America now. A young man died and I couldn’t care less about your 'issues'.

I nodded. She knew who I was. I know. I'm sorry. Can I have some clothes to leave in? I want to leave now.

Oh, we'll find you something.

There was a gentle amusement in her smile. I knew that 'something' wasn't going to make me look good.

Gold stood up to leave the room. Her partner muttered to her in a harsh whisper intended to carry, How come she got a visa anyway? I thought we didn't let felons in?

I was never charged with my father's murder. My voice echoed around the bare room.

Well, lightning ain't gonna strike you twice.

The door clanged as it shut, and then there was the click of the lock.

26 JUNE, FOUR DAYS EARLIER, EN ROUTE TO LAS VEGAS

Omigosh, I love your blouse, it's just awesome, really y'know, ethnic. Where'd you get it?

My forefinger stroked my iPod volume up a notch as I answered, Nairobi.

Wow, that’s just so cool. I'd love to go to Asia. She didn’t notice my wince as she burbled on, You’re from Europe, right? How long have you been travelling?

Two years. Another notch on the iPod. Take a hint, lady. A guy across the aisle from me glared; he wasn't enjoying listening to my second-hand music, but my friendly neighbour was oblivious.

How come? she asked. Are you rich?

This is the trouble with choosing the window seat. If a lonely person grabs the aisle, you’re a captive audience. I pointed at my ear, hoping to communicate that I couldn't hear her, and didn't plan on doing so any time soon.

I closed my eyes and drifted into a music-induced coma.

Excuse me, ma’am? We’re coming into land. I need to ask you to... The steward’s face was close to mine; he must have been trying to wake me for a while. He gestured to my headphones with an apologetic smile. Regretfully I switched off my music and then closed my eyes. I didn’t want my neighbour to start talking again. I was mentally running

through what I was going to do in Vegas, who to see first, what questions to ask, scanning through a play-by-play in my head. As soon as the plane landed I stood up quickly. My neighbour immediately started talking to me, and I sensed the eyes of the man who’d been watching me from across the aisle. Silently I edged forward. A couple of people muttered at my impatience, but I didn’t care because I’d left my neighbour behind. From the skybridge to the passport queue I barely broke my stride.

My rucksack was already circling slowly on the belt as I reached baggage reclaim. It was overstuffed and stained, and looked sadly out of place amongst all the Louis Vuitton fakes. It had seen a lot of action over the past two years. Some of the places I’ve been to you’d get your throat slit for carrying one of those Vuitton bags. With my jeans and rucksack I could usually pass unnoticed as just another backpacker. I swung it on to one shoulder.

The doors to Arrivals hissed open.  A dozen or so people scanned my face and then looked past me, wishing I’d been someone else, someone they loved. I looked up for the ‘Taxi’ sign and headed straight for the rank.

Where to, lady?

The Bellagio.

His eyes met mine in the rear-view mirror and I saw that flash of recognition that I’ve learned to dread: the slight widening of the eyes, the pause where he or she decides whether or not to say something. I closed my eyes, feigning sleep yet again. I’d been faking coma for the best part of four hours now, and couldn’t wait to get into a hotel room and shut the door on the world.

When I opened my eyes again I saw breasts, huge ones, right in front of me. GIRLS DIRECT TO YOUR ROOM read the billboard that slid by. The truck pulling the billboard slowed in traffic while the taxi pulled forward, and the giant image of a semi-naked woman was again right against my window. Surely those breasts couldn't belong to a mere girl? Neon blinked impotently into blinding sunlight on either side of us as the taxi crept along through traffic. The people on the sidewalk were smartly dressed. They could be just staggering out of a casino after a long Saturday night or strolling to church with their conscience as spotless as their best clothes. Hard to tell in Vegas.  I knew it wasn’t far but the traffic was gridlocked.

The driver turned and looked over his shoulder at me I know you. You’re that chick. So how’s it feel to kill your own father? Hey, don’t get me wrong. I wish I’d killed mine. And yours was a son of a bitch, am I right? That’s what people say.

Is it? Look, we’re barely moving in this traffic, I’d rather walk. Here’s the fare. I threw some notes on to the passenger side seat as I slid out.

Hey, what about a tip? Hey! Then the inevitable, Bitch, muttered just loud enough for me to hear before I shut the door and stepped on to the sidewalk.

It was relatively quiet now, but soon the party crowd would wake up and everywhere would fill with noise, a garish neon tangle of bastardised culture, pulsing lights and crapulous crowds staggering towards their next date rape. I started to jog up the Strip, but it was hard going. The heat was debilitating; my mind was losing its edge. I hadn't trained for a couple of days: this weakness was punishment for my shirking. I picked up the pace, running towards the pyramid of the Luxor, a landmark I could keep my bleary eyes on as sweat poured into them. My feet pounded the pavement. I went past a giant concrete sphinx, then pelted over a series of footbridges. People stared at me as they lumbered along. They moved in herds like elephants trudging slowly towards better grazing. I heard a kid's adenoidal voice whine behind me: What's she running for?

Men rattled hooker cards all along the Strip, and the billboard went by again. GIRLS DIRECT TO YOUR ROOM! This girl just wanted a room. The air was tinder dry and my legs were starting to give way beneath me. Ornamental lakes and fountains on either side belied the red desert they were evaporating into. I remembered Dad telling me, in one of his eco-warrior-paranoiac-survivalist rants, that Vegas would completely run out of water within the next ten years. I needed to get inside. Humans weren't meant to live in this environment.

At the Bellagio there was a queue at the desk. I don't queue. If there's a line then I move on. So I wandered around, first checking out the Chihuly garden in the lobby, breathing in the blissful aircon, then ambling through the slot machines. But in the cavernous gloom, with machines 'pinging' everywhere, I got disoriented and kept walking past the same ones over and over. Time is suspended inside a Vegas casino: no windows to see the sun's journey; the buffet open twenty-four hours so you can't even measure the day by meal times. We do it to al-Qaeda sympathisers, and then us capitalist running dogs choose to do it for our vacations.

I walked up a few perfectly polished wooden steps. There was a separate section, partially hidden behind a golden Art Deco style partition. A Bellagio employee was standing at the entrance.

Can you tell me...? I began.

I'm sorry, madam, this is the high-limit lounge.

I saw myself through her eyes; her perfectly made-up face was impassive as she took in my sweat-soaked hair, stained T-shirt, jeans that hadn't seen a washing machine since New York, and overstuffed rucksack that I'd hauled across three continents. It was a credit to her training that she didn’t call Security.

Oh, I wasn't intending to play right now. I want to get a suite here. If I give you my American Express Black card and two hundred dollars cash for your trouble, could you please get me checked in and bring me back a room key?

An Amex Centurion card? Certainly, madam. I'll just get my colleague to cover for me.

Thanks. There was a queue at the desk. I rummaged in my pocket, dumping my filthy rucksack and battered empty plastic water bottle on the floor next to her impeccable high heels. Here's my black card, and the cash for yourself.

I know she didn't truly believe me until she held the cold aluminium in her hot little hand. She gazed at it, her face transfigured with awe, like she was looking into the face of God. If you would like to have a drink at the bar to the side of the Casino, I'll arrange for you to be checked in, and I'll have someone take these things... she gestured towards the detritus around her, ...to your suite right away. Welcome to the Bellagio, Miss Stone.

I walked back across the Casino floor. As I approached, the barman placed a coaster in front of me with a flourish, as though this was the beginning of a magic trick.

Still mineral water, please.

He winked at me, Always with the mineral water. You know this is Vegas? We're all supposed to be having fun here... Wanna go crazy and have some ice with that? He turned his back to get my order.

I wondered what he meant by 'Always': I'd only just arrived. Then I noticed that the guy next to me, the only other person at the bar, had ordered the same. He raised his glass, and I saluted in reply. I recognised him straight away. Scott Southwell was not just a film star; he’d gone supernova last year with one of those comic-book spin-off movies. I saw the movie dubbed into Finnish when I was in Helsinki. I don't speak Finnish, but Scott Southwell was so attractive that I could watch him quite happily all day without listening to a word he said.

The hostess returned with my black card and hotel pass key. You are in Suite 23-080. If you could just sign here. Please do let us know if you need anything, Miss Stone. It’s a pleasure to have you with us at the Bellagio.

I was aware of Scott sitting almost within touching distance, and the awareness was pricking my skin, which quickly caused a dull ache of longing. I'd been alone for months, and he was so beautiful. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him running his fingers through his hair. He had noticed me too. I could feel his eyes on me. My cheeks were getting hotter, and I wondered if he could see the blush growing there, see the fluttering heartbeat at my neck. He was fidgeting on his stool, stirring his iced water. I wanted to hold the tension of that moment a little longer, to let it build, but I knew that if I didn't give him a sign soon he would go. So I looked up and smiled. He looked quickly away and then back to me. Our eyes locked. Then he scooted over the empty bar stools to sit beside me.

Is Miss Stone your real name, or do you just use it to check into hotels?

If I told you my real name you'd die laughing. Call me Ness.

He smiled, displaying dentistry worth a Somali pirate's ransom. Okay. I'm Scott, by the way.

I know. Can I be frank with you? I mean, I will be anyway, but it's always nice to have permission. And I know that honesty isn't the usual way of these things.

Sure. Actually, I like frankness. It's a very attractive quality. He hit me with the boyish grin again.

I took a deep breath. I knew that this was a stupid thing to do, but I wanted to do something stupid. That thing with the taxi driver. It happens all the time and I should be used to it, but it always shakes me up. I gave him a sidelong glance that I hoped looked flirtatious: Well, Scott, to be attractively frank... I'm not going to get into any kind of relationship with you because I'm trying to avoid relationships with other human beings. It's just policy, nothing personal. But I'd quite like to have sex with you.

Would you still respect me in the morning? Scott laughed, totally unfazed. I'm sure women offered him sex all the time. I think they would have done even if he wasn't a film star. I'm kind of homeless in Vegas right now. I had to come down here for some family stuff, and I haven't checked in anywhere. And you've got a room...?

Don't you love it when a plan comes together? I flashed my room number at the barman and we walked to the elevator.

You're too young to have watched 'The A-Team', surely? That was more my era.

I watched the remake, I caught his amused smile. But on a plane, so that doesn't count against me, right? Your era, indeed, you're not that old.

They lie about my age in my publicity, you know. I noticed how his