Wake the Dead

by Dorothy Simpson

‘Do sit down, Mr Vintage.’

  ‘If I do I shall never get up again.’ Nevertheless, apparently unable to resist the temptation, he sat, slumping in the chair as if his muscles no longer had the strength to hold him upright. After a moment he straightened his shoulders and sat up a little, presumably to brace himself for the interview.

  ‘It must all have been a terrible shock,’ said Thanet.

  ‘Yes it was, of course. But it’s not just that. I’ve been working flat out for weeks now. It’s the busiest time of the year. It’s OK while you keep going, but when you stop it hits you, you know?’

  Thanet nodded sympathetically. ‘Pretty long hours, I imagine.’

  ‘I don’t usually get to bed till two or three and then I’m up again to get here and start work at 7.30.’

  ‘You actually make the wine?’

  ‘With some supervision from Zak – that’s Mr Randish, yes.’

  Zak, thought Thanet. What an outlandish name. Short for Zachariah, perhaps?

  ‘He’s the winemaker, I’m his assistant,’ Vintage was explaining. ‘He’s been training me for the last four years so in practice most of the time he leaves me to get on with it.’

  ‘Just the two of you make the wine?’

  ‘Yes. But he’s also the winemaker for another vineyard, at Chasing Manor, and he divides his time between the two. So a lot of the time I’m here by myself. It’s pretty hectic because we not only press the grapes from this vineyard but from a lot of smaller vineyards in the area. Most don’t have their own presses, you see.’

  ‘So you were here by yourself today?’

  ‘Zak was here for a couple of hours this morning, as usual, before going to Chasing.’ Vintage’s tone was guarded.

  ‘Anything unusual happen?’

  ‘No.’

  But he was lying, Thanet was sure of it. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Discussed yesterday’s work, today’s arrangements. Made one batch of wine.’

  What could the man be hiding? ‘Together?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was that usual?’

  ‘Not unusual.’

  It all seemed innocuous, but Thanet was still convinced there was more to it than this. It would keep, however. He pressed on.

  ‘And how long does a batch take?’

  ‘Two and a half hours.’

  ‘So Mr Randish left at – what? Ten?’

  ‘Nearer half past, I should think.’

  ‘And what time did he get back?’

  The routine during harvest was that Randish usually got back from Chasing Manor vineyard at about six, had a bite to eat and then came up to the press where Vintage was working. They would sort out any problems that had cropped up during the day and then work through the evening, sometimes together, but more often than not individually. Randish would divide his time between laboratory and office.

  ‘There’s a lot of paperwork, then?’ said Thanet.

  Vintage passed a hand wearily over his forehead. ‘Oh God, yes, you wouldn’t believe it. Everything, but everything, has to be catalogued for the Customs and Excise. If you sneeze, they want to know it.’

  ‘What sort of information do they require?’

  ‘They have to know exactly what happened, what date, what went where, how many ounces of sugar you used with each batch, how much yeast went in. They want to know every movement from tank to tank, every single fluid ounce you’ve got in there, how much you lost after fermentation when you rack a tank off, all your losses through the process.’ Vintage put his head in his hands. ‘How I’m going to manage to do all that as well as the winemaking, I just don’t know.’

  It certainly sounded a mammoth task for one man. ‘Perhaps you’ll be able to get someone in to give you a hand.’

  ‘Where from? Anyone who’d be of any use is working flat out at the moment, like me.’ He shook his head in despair. ‘Sorry, Inspector, not your problem, is it?’

  ‘You say Mr Randish usually divided his time between the office and the laboratory. What would he be doing in the laboratory?’

  ‘Checking sulphur levels, sugar levels, fermentation, Ph, acidity and so on and then noting it all down, putting it on computer.’

  ‘And would you see him during the evening? Would you have to go over to the laboratory or the office for anything?’

  A shrug. ‘Sometimes. Depends.’

  ‘And tonight?’

  ‘No. I had a lot of other things to do.’

  Vintage was holding back again. What had been going on? No doubt they’d find out, sooner or later.

  ‘So exactly what did happen this evening?’

  According to Vintage he and Randish had followed their usual routine. They had worked together from 6.30 to 7, doing the turnaround between batches, which involved a lot of manual work that always went more quickly if there were two of you. Randish then went across to the office and that was the last Vintage saw of him until 9.30, when the next batch finished. That was when he went to the laboratory and found him dead.

  ‘Did you go in?’

  ‘Just a couple of steps inside the door.’ Vintage grimaced. ‘I didn’t need to go any further.’

  He had gone straight to the phone in the office next door, rung the police and Mr Landers, then hurried down to the house to warn Mrs Randish of their arrival, and the reason for it. She had insisted on coming to see her husband’s body for herself.

  ‘I tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t listen. Short of physically restraining her, there was nothing I could do to stop her.’

  No wonder she was so upset, thought Thanet. The shock of a husband’s sudden death is enough, but to see him in that condition … ‘Did she go into the room, touch anything?’

  ‘Just a couple of steps, like me. Then she came to a dead halt, stood staring for a minute, then went outside and was sick. I’m not surprised.’

  They had then returned to the house, by which time Mrs Randish’s parents had arrived. They lived less than a mile away.

  ‘So that would have been, let me see, at about ten to ten?’

  Vintage thought. ‘Something like that, yes. And the police arrived about five minutes later.’

  ‘Did Mr Landers go up to the laboratory?’

  ‘Yes. He wanted to see for himself, as well. I don’t think any of them could believe it, really.’ This time Vintage anticipated Thanet’s question. ‘But he only went just inside the door, too.’

  ‘So no one actually touched the body?’

  Vintage shook his head.

  Thanet considered. ‘Was there anyone else working here this evening?’

  ‘No.’ Vintage pulled a face. ‘Drops me in it, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Should it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Did you have any reason to kill Mr Randish?’

  ‘No!’

  But again, it didn’t ring quite true.

  ‘Do you realise you haven’t shown the slightest sign of regret over his death?’

  ‘Haven’t I?’ Vintage rubbed his hands nervously together. ‘I don’t suppose it’s sunk in yet. But believe me, I’d rather have him alive than dead.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Purely selfish reasons. Because it really does leave me in a hell of a mess here. And also, in the long term, because I still had a lot to learn from him. He was a bloody good winemaker.’

  ‘I notice you don’t say anything about liking him or missing him as a friend.’

  ‘You don’t have to like someone to work with him.’

  No, but it helps, thought Thanet, glancing at Lineham who was to him almost indispensible. The sergeant was listening intently, making the occasional note. There was one other question that had to be put. Let Lineham ask it. ‘Do you have any further questions to put, Sergeant?’

  Lineham glanced down at his notebook, as if consulting it. ‘You say you were working here alone all evening, Mr Vintage. Did you see anyone else around, at any time?’

  ‘No! Oh, hang on … Yes
…’ Vintage stopped.

  It was obvious that he’d suddenly remembered, had said so without thinking and then had second thoughts. Why?

  ‘Yes, or no?’ said Lineham.

  ‘Yes,’ said Vintage reluctantly, aware no doubt that retracting now could lead to all sorts of complications. ‘I’d forgotten because it was early on, soon after Zak went across to the office.’

  Lineham waited expectantly.

  ‘Reg Mason came up. He’d been to see Mrs Randish, he said.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘A local builder. He’s been converting a complex of farm buildings on their land into holiday cottages.’

  ‘What did he want to see her about?’

  ‘He didn’t say. Why should he? It’s none of my business.’

  Thanet sighed inwardly. Vintage was not a good liar.

  Lineham wasn’t prepared to let the matter go. ‘So why did he come up to see you?’

  ‘Search me. Just to say hullo. Perhaps he just felt like a natter.’

  ‘So did he stay talking long?’

  ‘No, just a few minutes. He could see I was busy.’

  ‘Did you see him leave?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re sure he didn’t go into the bottling plant?’

  ‘No, he didn’t!’

  ‘The press is that stainless-steel machine underneath the open-sided shed at the far side of the yard?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you’d have had a clear view of the big doors into the bottling plant all evening. No one would have been able to go in or out without your seeing them.’

  Vintage laughed. ‘You must be joking! If I’d stood there beside it like a dummy all the time then yes, that would be true, I grant you. But I was all over the place, shifting things about, swilling out, hosing down, moving supplies of sugar, batches of waiting grapes, cleaning out some of the fermentation vessels in an adjoining shed … Shall I go on?’

  ‘I think you’ve made your point. So it would have been easy for someone to slip into the laboratory without your seeing them.’

  ‘Right!’

  ‘Did you hear anything, then? Cars arriving or leaving?’

  ‘If you’d heard the noise the press makes when the compressor comes on you wouldn’t be asking me that, either.’

  Thanet couldn’t make up his mind if Vintage was deliberately being unhelpful, or whether he was just trying to make it clear that although he had been alone here there had been ample opportunity for anyone else to get in if they had watched for the opportunity.

  Lineham glanced at Thanet. I don’t think we’re going to get any further.

  Thanet nodded. ‘Well, I think that’s all for the moment, Mr Vintage. We’ll need to talk to you again tomorrow, and you can make a formal statement then. But you can go home now, try and get a decent night’s sleep for once.’

  ‘Will I be able to go on pressing tomorrow?’

  Thanet shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, that’s out of the question.’

  ‘But I have to! We’ve got four batches booked in, from small vineyards, and more the next day. And the day after that! We can’t just not deal with them. This is these people’s livelihood, Inspector, they work all year for this. We’ve just got to go on.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Thanet repeated, ‘but I can’t have people tramping around all over the place tomorrow. The vineyard will have to be closed. But I do understand what you’re saying and I’ll do my level best to make sure you’re able to go on the following day.’

  Vintage compressed his lips but could see that it was pointless to argue. With an ill grace, he left.

  THREE

  Lineham tossed his notebook on to the table. ‘He knows more than he’s telling, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. But is it relevant? That’s the point.’ People were, Thanet knew, prepared to go to astonishing lengths to preserve their privacy and even in a murder investigation would tell the police only what they felt they ought to know. Understandable but infuriating. All the same, he was intrigued by Oliver Vintage. ‘I wouldn’t mind betting there’s more to his condition than just plain tiredness.’

  ‘He’s ill, you mean?’

  ‘Not ill, but … Well, I’d say he’s a man with a problem, a problem that’s really getting him down. And he’s having an especially hard time coping with it at the moment, because of the demands his work is making on him.’

  ‘You think Randish was the problem?’

  ‘Could be. If so, no doubt we’ll find out sooner or later.’

  It was, he thought, an extraordinary way to earn a living. Here he sat, in a dead man’s chair at a dead man’s table, trying to feel his way into a dead man’s life. If anyone had asked him why he did it he supposed he’d say, well, someone has to. And if asked to elaborate, even knowing that he risked sounding grandiose, he’d say that some of us have to try to balance the scales of justice, or evil would flourish unchecked and the world would descend into anarchy. His own contribution towards the struggle might be small, but it was what gave meaning and purpose to his life.

  ‘Pity they all went tramping into the laboratory,’ Lineham said.

  ‘I know. No doubt they’ll all have glass embedded in their shoes, so we won’t be able to eliminate any of them that way.’

  ‘Except Mrs Landers.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘So, what now, sir?’

  ‘We’d better have a word with Mrs Randish, if she’s up to it. Let’s go and see.’

  As soon as they entered the sitting room Thanet could sense the tension in the air. It showed in Landers’ aggressive pose in front of the hearth, chin thrust forward, legs apart and hands clasped behind his back; showed too in Mrs Landers’ worried expression and in the rigidity of Alice Randish’s back. Alice was still huddled on the edge of her seat as close to the woodstove as she could get, stretching out her hands to its warmth and rubbing them together from time to time. With her long fair hair falling forward to hide her face and her slight, almost girlish figure, she could easily have been taken for a teenager, Thanet thought. Her mother was still perched on the arm of the chair beside her.

  What had they been arguing about? Thanet wondered. ‘Mrs Randish,’ he said, ‘I really am very sorry to have to trouble you at a time like this. I mean that. But it would help us enormously if you could answer just a few questions.’

  ‘Can’t it wait till morning?’ snapped Landers. ‘I’ve sent for the doctor. Alice will need something to help her sleep tonight. I thought we’d take her home with us. The children too, of course. It’ll mean waking them up, but that can’t be helped.’

  ‘Daddy, do stop fussing,’ Alice said wearily, without looking up. ‘I told you, I’ll be perfectly all right.’

  Was this the cause of the disagreement? Thanet doubted it. Whether Alice should go or stay was surely not a sufficiently emotive issue. He said nothing, simply stood, waiting, and in a moment Alice did glance up.

  ‘Do sit down, Inspector.’

  ‘Alice …’

  ‘Daddy, please!’

  Thanet took a seat on the opposite side of the hearth, wishing that it weren’t so hot in here. Already he could feel sweat pricking at his back.

  ‘How old are the children?’ he said, hoping to break the ice.

  Landers answered for her. ‘Eight and six.’ He was still standing in front of the hearth, a physical barrier between Thanet and Alice.

  Thanet had had enough of this. ‘Would you mind taking a seat, sir? And if you’d like to stay –’

  ‘Of course I’m staying!’

  ‘Then I’d be grateful if you would refrain from interrupting. Otherwise I’m afraid I shall have to insist on seeing Mrs Randish alone.’

  Landers didn’t like it but with an ill grace retreated to a sofa at the far side of the room.

  Thanet guessed that Alice was an only child and had probably been both over-protected and over-indulged. He wondered how Landers would have felt if he knew that Randish had be
en knocking his beloved daughter about. That was a thought. Perhaps he had known. Somehow Thanet had to find out if there was any foundation for Louise’s suspicions and if there were, whether Landers had been aware of the situation.

  But not yet. Such delicate matters could not be rushed.

  He turned back to Alice. ‘Now, Mrs Randish, I understand that your husband was away for most of the day.’

  For the first time she lifted her head and looked at Thanet properly.

  Her eyes were astonishing, he thought, a deep cornflower blue, fringed with long lashes. Her features were regular, the bone structure delicate, its underlying beauty unmarred by the superficial marks of grief. She was aptly named, he thought, remembering Tenniel’s famous illustrations for Alice in Wonderland.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ she said. Her tone was heavy with despair and he felt a surge of pity for her.

  Be careful, said a small voice in his head. She could have done it herself. He had a lightning vision of the slender figure before him galvanised with fury, the flower-like face contorted with rage, that ladylike voice hurling imprecations at Randish. It would have taken no strength at all to sweep bottles, test tubes, flasks off the benches, to seize and hurl some of them at her husband.

  Thanet shook his head to clear it. He needed all his wits about him to tread the tightrope he always had to walk when interviewing a bereaved husband or wife. Statistics make it more than likely that you are talking to the murderer, but this can never be taken for granted. And you are in any case addressing a person whose private world has been destroyed for ever.

  Noticing that her lower lip had begun to tremble and her eyes to fill with tears he tried to make his tone as matter-of-fact as possible. ‘What time did he leave this morning?’ I hate this.

  ‘I don’t know. I was out on Rosie. My horse.’

  ‘And what time did he come back?’

  ‘Just before six, as usual.’

  Her voice was steadying, Thanet noticed with relief.

  ‘We always eat early during harvest, so that he can work right through the evening without stopping.’

  ‘So you had supper, and then?’

  ‘He left to go up to the winery, about 6.30.’

  ‘Did you see him again during the evening?’