Black Quarry Farm

by Iain Cameron

  BLACK QUARRY

  FARM

  Iain Cameron

  Copyright © 2019 Iain Cameron

  The right of Iain Cameron to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission in writing of the copyright owner.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  To find out more about the author, visit the website:

  www.iain-cameron.com

  For my brother David

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  About the Author

  Also by Iain Cameron

  ONE

  On the far side of the vineyard, blackbirds were helping themselves to a feast of immature Pinot Noir grapes. They rose in panic as a car drove along the driveway, its tyres rumbling over the loose pebbles. The blue Vauxhall Insignia stopped close to the farmhouse door and the two occupants got out.

  They both stretched and yawned, as if they’d undertaken a long, tiring journey. In fact, they had only travelled the twenty or so miles from Crawley, and had taken a break halfway at a rose-covered country pub for a long lunch, accompanied by a pint of real ale for him and two small glasses of wine for his wife.

  John Beech stood in the afternoon sunlight, admiring the view. He was a slim man, although the slight bulge around his midriff hinted at too many client lunches and trips to a pub near the office, winding down after another hard day at the coal face. With a sigh, he popped open the boot of the car and unloaded the suitcases. He was closing the lid when the front door of the farmhouse opened and a tall woman strode out towards them.

  ‘Hello there!’ she said in a loud voice that John thought would not be out of place at a hunt or county show. ‘You must be Mr and Mrs Beech. I’m so pleased to meet you. Welcome to Black Quarry Farm.’ She reached out and shook both their hands.

  ‘I’m Melissa Holland, but call me Mel, everyone else does. I’m the housekeeper and general dogsbody around here. If you bring your bags, I’ll show you the house.’

  Aged around forty, Mel had long fair hair tied back in a ponytail. She had a prominent nose and ruddy complexion suggesting a woman who liked the great outdoors, mucking out stables or undertaking exhilarating country walks with a lively dog.

  They were instructed to leave their bags in the hall as Mel began a guided tour of the house. The kitchen was at least twice the size of the one in the Beeches four-bed detached in Milton Mount, and stacked floor-to-ceiling with modern Neff appliances. A large, central, mahogany-topped breakfast bar dominated the room. Several large windows, all open, offered uninterrupted views over long rows of vines, and filled the air with the strong scent of roses and honeysuckle.

  John’s wife, Lara, said she thought the kitchen was marvellous, making him think it was only a matter of time before he would face a demand to replace theirs, despite it being only six months since they last decorated. The house was owned by the well-known industrialist, Simon Radcliffe. John was disappointed to learn he was staying at his villa in Spain. He was a popular guest on late-night chat-shows and financial segments on BBC News, and after reading his book, John wanted to meet him.

  This wasn’t the only reason for coming to Black Quarry Farm, as he and Lara both liked wine and, over the years, had visited numerous vineyards in Bordeaux and Burgundy. What better place to find that lost spark in their marriage than in a field full of grapes, with a village nearby boasting several pubs serving good food and a wide selection of beers?

  **

  John and Lara arrived back at the farm around eleven-fifteen, following a short walk from the New Moon pub in the nearby village of Nutley, where they had enjoyed an excellent evening. They’d eaten a tasty meal in the restaurant and, after moving into the bar, been entertained by a local folk group.

  Lara headed into the house to make them both a nightcap while John stayed outside to have a smoke. On the way back from the pub he couldn’t help but notice how much clearer the night sky was here than in Crawley. He often stood out in the back garden there, winter and summer, clutching a whisky and staring at the heavens, but he couldn’t see much as it was obscured by light pollution from Gatwick Airport, the M23 motorway, and the bright streetlights on their road.

  Ten minutes later, he was starting to feel chilly so decided to head indoors. He stopped for a moment to take one last look around. Despite the darkness, he could still make out the shape of the large barn where the grapes were pressed and the wine bottled. Beside it, two tall fermentation tanks, the condensation glistening in the cold, white moonlight. Behind them lay the smart barn conversion where the owner stayed when in the country, offering fine views over rows and rows of vines standing sentinel, resembling ghosts of the Roman legions that once marched over this land. With a shiver at both the night chill and thoughts of ghosts from a bygone age still haunting this place, he turned towards the door, headed inside, and closed it behind him.

  John downed the nightcap Lara had left for him on the coffee table before heading upstairs. He found her in bed, reading one of Ian Rankin’s Inspector Rebus crime novels. He didn’t object to her taking a book to bed, far from it, as it could spark an interesting discussion, but he was convinced all the blood and gore between the pages did nothing to put her in the mood for a serious workout between the sheets. Now, with several pints of Harvey’s Best inside him, it was just what he fancied doing. Ah well, there was always tomorrow.

  He soon fell into a deep sleep. He was jerked awake after what felt like only a few minutes by a repeated elbow in the ribs. When he opened his eyes, he was surprised to see he wasn’t in his bed at the house in Crawley. He squinted at the clock: two-thirty.

  ‘John, are you awake?’ Lara asked.

  ‘This is a recording, John Beech is unavailable at the moment, please leave a message after the tone.’

  ‘Stop messing about, you idiot. A strange noise woke me.’

  ‘What sort of noise? A fox, an owl?’

  ‘No, it was a sharp, creaking sound. Like a window or a door being opened.’

  He paused for a few seconds to listen. ‘I can’t hear anything. It might be the branches of the trees moving around in the wind. There are quite a lot of them around h
ere. We are out in the country, after all.’

  ‘I know we are. I think I’ll get up and check.’

  ‘You’ll do no such thing. This is an old house. It’s bound to make some odd noises, at least ones we’re not familiar with. If you investigate every creak or squeak you hear, you’ll be up and down like a bloody yo-yo all night and neither of us will get any rest. Go back to sleep. This is a holiday after all.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Goodnight; again.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  Moments later, they were both asleep.

  A short time later, the bedroom door eased open and two men wearing black clothing crept in. If John or Lara had been awake, they might have heard the metallic ‘ting’ as the Uzi brushed against the zip of one of the men’s Berghaus fleece. With only a slight nod to his companion, both men opened fire on the sleeping couple.

  TWO

  ‘Where would you like this box, mate?’ said a guy with tattoos covering both arms.

  The householder leaned over and looked at the card stuck to the side of the box. ‘The living room,’ he said.

  Detective Inspector Angus Henderson sighed and looked up at the ceiling in despair. All boxes had been marked with their ultimate destination. Perhaps the ability to read wasn’t a requirement for employment with a household removal firm. While looking up, he noticed once again the large circular watermark, the result of a leaking bath in the flat upstairs a few months back. Yet another piece of work to add to an ever-expanding list.

  Buying any property was always a compromise, but despite a growing catalogue of remedial works, and his new flat being smaller than the house in College Place, he loved it. It was in a great location and it would be easy to heat and maintain, once he’d done the necessary. If working away for extended periods, he wouldn’t have to worry too much about being burgled as it was located on the first floor, and access to the whole building, including the garages on the ground floor where he parked, was secured by a gate.

  Henderson and his former partner, Rachel, had sold the house they once shared, split the proceeds, and, with the addition of a substantial mortgage, he had bought this new flat. He liked the College Place house and Kemptown, the area where it was located, so he had decided to stick around, but the house held many memories and was too large for a single man.

  When they’d first moved into College Place, they’d made cups of tea for the removal guys and given them a decent tip at the end. They had done a power of work, shifting the furniture, clothes and equipment of two people, enough to fill a sizeable three-bedroom property. Now, the movers had completed the job faster than he could locate the coffee machine, find a power socket, and make a hot drink.

  He bade them farewell and closed the front door. He stood there for a moment and surveyed the scene before him, trying to decide where to start. Everything had been put into packing cases supplied by the removal company, and despite trying to keep like items together, he was bound to find some boxes with a mix of various items or kitchen equipment mixed in with his collections of DVDs.

  He regretted splitting up with Rachel. He knew part of the problem, the main part of the problem, was down to him. He went into every new relationship holding something back. It was a sort of self preservation mechanism: he didn’t want to fall head over heels in love with someone only for it to come apart when he took charge of a large murder enquiry. Some cases could be solved within a week and leave no lingering resentment, while others could take weeks of draining investigative work. This would often leave him shattered at the end of each day, coming home close to midnight, while the frequent isolation chipped at his partner’s self-esteem and increased their feelings of loneliness.

  He started unpacking in the kitchen, not only in an effort to empty the boxes, but also to find the coffee machine. The room had been remodelled only two years before with all new worktops and appliances. The black cupboard fronts, black and white tiled floor, and white worktops gave the room a clean, modern look which he didn’t like. To him it felt cold and clinical, reminding him of Brighton Mortuary. If there was sufficient money left over in his budget, he would change it. He wouldn’t take the final decision now, but leave it until he’d been living there for a while. Once everything had been unpacked and the kitchen had taken on a more lived-in feel, he would see if he still felt the same.

  An unfamiliar noise startled him. It took a second or two to realise it was the doorbell. He wasn’t sure if it was the one outside his apartment or the main door downstairs. The place was equipped with a sophisticated door entry system, but like everything else, it would take time for him to learn how it worked.

  He opened the door to find a woman standing there holding a bottle of wine. She had shoulder-length sandy-coloured hair, an attractive face, and was wearing a bright floral summer dress.

  ‘Hello there,’ she said in an accent Henderson thought came from somewhere in the north of England. ‘I’m Sharon Connor. I live in the flat above. Welcome to Burlington Street.’ She held out the wine bottle.

  ‘Pleased to meet you. Angus Henderson,’ he said shaking her hand.

  ‘Ah, a Scotsman. My ex came from Glasgow, but I detect something softer. Edinburgh, maybe?’

  ‘A bit further north, Fort William, but I spent some time in Glasgow.’

  Henderson took the proffered item and invited her inside. ‘It’s a bit of a mess, as you can imagine.’

  ‘I’ll stay for a minute, but I won’t keep you as I’m sure you want to get on.’

  Henderson directed her into the kitchen, otherwise she might think he hadn’t done any unpacking.

  ‘I’ve been to Scotland several times, visiting his relatives. I’m sorry to say, every time I went there, it seemed to be pouring with rain. I was never out of my waterproof jacket.’

  He laughed. ‘It does rain a lot, but the people are a lot more friendly than down here.’

  ‘They are as long as you don’t talk about football, the Scottish government, or the police.’

  Henderson held up the wine bottle she’d brought. ‘Is it too early for this?’ he said, looking at her.

  ‘Oh yes, save it for later. You of all people need to keep a clear head otherwise you may find the soap inside the DVD player.’

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Yes, that would be lovely. Black, no sugar.’

  Five minutes later they were seated around the kitchen table. It wasn’t as big as the one he used to have in College Place, but big enough for a man living on his own.

  ‘So, what do you do, Sharon?’

  ‘Live on my ex’s money if you hear him tell it. No, I’m a part-time theatre nurse at the Royal Sussex. He says I’m only playing at it, but I come home at night tired enough.’

  ‘I’m sure you do. I’m guessing the divorce was recent?’

  ‘Why? Do I sound bitter?’ she said, smiling.

  ‘No, not at all,’ Henderson said, grateful to see Sharon didn’t take offence. ‘It just sounds as if it happened recently.’

  ‘It was only two months ago, in fact. At the time, I was livid when he ran off with another woman, but I’m over it. What about yourself?’

  Henderson’s phone rang. He glanced at the screen. ‘Sorry, Sharon, I have to take this. Work.’

  She nodded.

  He listened before retrieving a pen and pad from the drawer; with luck they were some of the items he’d unpacked earlier. He jotted down an address. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ he said.

  **

  Henderson followed the long driveway towards the house at Black Quarry Farm. The operator from Lewes Control hadn’t mentioned it was located in a vineyard, and for a moment it brought a semblance of normality to what sounded like a diabolical murder.

  He didn’t know much about growing grapes, nor making wine, but the plants looked healthy enough, sprouting plenty of leaf growth with bunches of purple berries hanging underneath. He could see the appeal of what was becoming a rich man’s
pastime, now that buying football teams was the exclusive preserve of the super-rich. Once the plants were growing, they could be left to soak up the rain and sunshine while the owner put his feet up, sampling some of the wine made the year before.

  Driving closer to the house, he could see all the elements of a major crime scene: numerous police cars, a SOCO van, and the pool cars used by detectives working with him at the Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team.

  He’d called ahead to DS Vicky Neal and instructed her to meet him at the scene. She had arrived before him as she didn’t have to extricate a chatty Sharon Connor from her kitchen. He was sorry their conversation had been interrupted as he liked her sparky approach and her devil-may-care attitude. They’d made tentative arrangements to do the same thing again soon.

  ‘Morning, boss,’ DS Vicky Neal said as Henderson approached the open front door. ‘How’s the house move going?’

  ‘Everything’s in and nothing’s broken as far as I can see.’

  ‘I had visions of you getting the call to come here halfway through the move, and having to leave the removal people to bring everything in and close the door behind them. Not a good start to living in a new house.’

  ‘They managed to unload everything from their van without a problem, but I wouldn’t trust them not to drink my whisky or leave the front door wide open. What have we got here?’

  They walked into the house, towards the stairs, and started to climb. ‘A couple from Crawley in their early 40s arrived yesterday for a one-week break. In the night, initial indications are two gunmen turned up and shot them both.’

  ‘They’re both dead?’

  ‘Yes sir, they are.’

  Henderson walked into the bedroom at the back of the house. It was a large room with oak beams across the ceiling, and a wooden-framed bed reinforcing the rustic look. The pathologist was leaning over, examining the female body in the blood-splattered bed while a photographer snapped pictures. When the flash fired, it gave the two inert occupants in the bed a ghostly look, like the opening scene of a shocking horror movie.