by Iain Cameron
Red
Red
Wine
IAIN CAMERON
Copyright © 2017 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.
DEDICATION
For Mum and Dad, I owe them so much.
Also by
Iain Cameron
One Last Lesson
Driving into Darkness
Fear the Silence
Hunting for Crows
To find out more, please visit the website:
www.iain-cameron.com
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
About the Author
Also by Iain Cameron
ONE
The air in the rear saloon was heavy with the fug of sweat and beer, overlaid with the acidic reek of vomit. This surprised Chris Fletcher as he had taken the ferry between the UK and France many times before and didn’t think the seas were rough tonight. Whatever the reason, this crossing didn’t agree with some people and he decided to get out of their way for a bit and take some air on deck.
According to a leaflet he’d read in the past, most likely the time when his e-reader had run out of juice and his back-up paperback lay somewhere at the bottom of his rucksack, this ferry had been refurbished three years ago. By the look of the rust on the structure, the narrow walkways and the marked and scarred walls, the refurb didn’t do much good as the old tub was past its best.
He wasn’t a fan of ferries and looked back with affection on the days of Hoverspeed, a time when he and his father would often go to France so Dad could buy wines for the company he worked for then. To his juvenile eyes, travel had been an adventure; to walk up to that giant machine, its rear fans idling with malevolent intent and its rubber skirt slapping in and out of the waves impatiently.
When the mighty turbines started to turn, the hovercraft would rise majestically on a curtain of air and skim across the water faster than any ferry. Inside, the noise could halt conversations, the smell of fumes could make the anxious traveller sick and the bang it made when it hit some of the larger waves would scare many children older than him; but he didn’t care, he loved it.
He walked to a railing, close to the stern of the ship and gazed at the lights of Dieppe, small white dots retreating into the distance. Breathing in lungfuls of salt-encased air, thick with the moisture of the fast cooling day and tinged with a hint of funnel smoke and diesel, he stood there unmoving for five, ten minutes. The sound of movement behind him broke his reverie.
‘Hello Chris.’
He turned. Two men faced him. It was dark with no deck lights nearby, so he couldn’t see their faces, but he could tell that one was of average height and stocky, and the other tall and thin.
‘Can I help you? How do you know my name?’
‘You’ve been blabbing your mouth off, mate,’ the tall one said. He sounded young but sure of himself. The accent was London but he couldn’t say where.
‘What? What are you on about?’
‘Don’t come the fucking innocent with us,’ the stocky guy said. ‘We know you’ve been talking to people. You were seen yakking to the American investigator who’s been sniffing around Château Osanne, the place where you work. Or should I say, used to work. Ha, ha.’
‘How do you know? Who are you?’
‘What did you tell the American?’
‘I didn’t tell him anything.’
‘But you did speak to him?’
‘What is this? Yeah, I spoke to him, but it wasn’t anything–.’
‘Like, you were just passing the time of day, was you?’
‘No, I…I…’
Something whacked him on the back of the head and before he could catch a grip of the hand rail, his knees turned to jelly and he slumped down on the deck, warm blood dribbling down his cheek. He blacked out for a second, and when conscious again, he felt weightless, as if flying.
Chris struck the freezing water with a thump. The shock sucked all the wind out of his lungs, leaving him breathless. He clawed for air, his clothes and boots hindering his movements as they filled with water. Damn! Why couldn’t he wear trainers like everybody else?
He swam and swam but still couldn’t find air or relief from the dull ache building up in his lungs. He tried to swim harder, desperate for oxygen but realised only too late; his strokes were taking him down, not up.
TWO
Detective Inspector Angus Henderson, Surrey and Sussex Police Major Crime Team, signed the overtime report and added it to his groaning out-tray, the result of a decidedly productive afternoon session. He could never fathom how in the days just before he went on holiday, he sailed through admin like a hot knife through butter, while at other times it felt like walking through treacle.
Perhaps it had also something to do with him moving into a house following three years in a flat, something he hadn’t done since leaving his former wife, Laura, in Scotland and relocating to Sussex. He hadn’t made this move on his own, though, as his girlfriend Rachel Jones had also sold her apartment in Hove and they’d pitched in together to buy the house in College Place, so called as it was located down the hill from Brighton College in Kemptown
Rachel worked as a journalist at Brighton’s main newspaper, The Argus, and while his job interfered more often with their social life, the start of summer was a busy time for her, with a diary choc-full of country fairs, agricultural shows and village festivals. For Angus, it was the time of the year when he looked forward to spending some weekends aboard his boat, as the winter had been dreary with rain, high winds and the occasional Atlantic storm.
An hour later, he’d finished all his admin but rather than rest and admire the heaped out-tray, he left the office and walked into the Detectives’ Room. It was nearing the end of a long day for many, evidenced by drooping shoulders and bins filled to overflowing with brown plastic coffee cups and screwed up paper; so much for the Force’s attempts at encouraging recycling.
DS Carol Walters looked happier than some, which meant she had either got shot of a t
iresome boyfriend or had just met a new one. Henderson had been there too many times before, putting his foot in it by asking, so he said nothing. She would tell him in her own time.
‘Afternoon, gov.’
‘Hi Carol. How’s it going with the coastguard?’
She reached across her desk for a paper buried under an untidy pile. ‘It seems the coastguard, customs, the lifeboat service and everybody else who has anything to do with our part of the English Channel, are either out looking for a missing swimmer, or are tied up sorting out the freighter that ran aground near Shoreham a few days back.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Henderson said.
‘It’s not my fault, I’m only the messenger. It means I don’t think anyone will be free to look at our case until the middle of next week.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ he said banging his fist on the desk in frustration. ‘They could be landing the guns tonight for all we know and the coastguard and all the rest of that shower are too busy worrying about some idiot who’s probably sitting in a cafe drinking a mug of hot cocoa. How long is it since we spotted the van?’
She searched through some papers. ‘The report we got from the guy at the weighbridge is dated two weeks ago.’
‘Damn. We’d be in a better place if we hadn’t let them get away.’
‘They did crash through a closed level crossing barrier and miss getting smacked by a train by only a few feet. I’m sure you’d rather that than two dead cops.’
‘Yeah, but it doesn’t stop me wanting a more favourable outcome.’
‘You’re a tough man to please.’
‘So people tell me. Is there anyone else we could use on land?’
‘I don’t think so, as we don’t know the exact location where they’ll dock. It could be anywhere along the coast, which is why we need the assistance of our sea people.’
Henderson was about to let off steam when his mobile rang.
‘Yes?’
‘Hello Angus, who’s been pulling your chain? Don’t answer that. It’s the front desk here, in case you didn’t know. I’ve got a Mr Fletcher here to see you.’
‘Fletcher? I haven’t got any meetings booked for the rest of the day.’
‘All I know is he came in and asked to speak to a senior detective. He says it’s about something important, so I thought of you.’
‘Steve, you’re all heart, or are you still sore over the fifty I took off you at poker the other night?’
‘I’m a big boy, Inspector, I’m over it but don’t think I won’t win it back.’
‘No chance, the way you play. Give me a few minutes and I’ll come down and talk to him.’
Henderson put the phone back in his pocket and looked at Walters. ‘So, there’s nothing we can progress until next week?’
‘Nope.’
‘Right, first thing Monday, get straight on the phone and make sure they’re working on this. You never know, the smugglers might be delayed. Don’t forget,’ he said as he started to walk away, ‘the Highlands may be backward in some ways, but we get a decent phone service in Fort William and I’ll be checking up to make sure something’s going on.’
‘Trust me gov, I’m a detective.’
‘She says, as the shit hits the fan.’
Henderson walked downstairs to Reception. He pushed through the double doors at the bottom of the stairs and glanced over at Sergeant Steve Travis behind the desk. He nodded in the direction of a fifty-plus man sitting in a short row of institutional chairs, head down, looking at his hands and not at his phone as the others either side of him were doing.
Henderson walked towards him. ‘Mr Fletcher? I’m Detective Inspector Angus Henderson, Major Crime Team.’
The man looked up, stood and offered his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Inspector. I’m Dennis Fletcher.’
‘Is it something quick we can discuss here, or would you like the privacy of an interview room?’
‘An interview room, please.’
Henderson turned and looked over at Travis. ‘Steve, are any rooms free?’
‘Yep, use three. One’s busy and two’s being cleaned after a druggie threw up.’
‘They must have been given a coffee from the machine. Thanks Steve.’
Using his pass to open the security doors, he led Dennis Fletcher into the interview room and closed the door. He decided not to have a corroborating officer present and didn’t switch on the recording machines, but he could change his mind depending on what his visitor had come to tell him.
‘Would you like something to drink? I recommend the water.’
‘No, I’m fine.’
Dennis Fletcher had greying brown hair and sallow skin, giving the impression he didn’t get out much or kept away from the sun. He looked tall, an inch or so under six foot, and thin but stooped as if carrying a heavy weight, and by the look of his craggy features, the effects of his burden were etched there.
‘So, Mr Fletcher, what did you want to talk to me about?’
‘Call me Dennis, please. I’m just trying to think where to start.’
Henderson said nothing. He’d drummed into junior officers the importance of controlled silences when interviewing subjects, and if one of them had been sitting beside him now, he would have made sure they didn’t say a word.
Fletcher let out a long sigh. ‘I reported my son, Chris, missing last week.’
‘I see. How old is he?’
‘Twenty-seven.’
‘Ok.’
‘Yesterday, I had a visit from a police lady who said a body washed up on the shore near Newhaven at the weekend was identified as him, and could I come over and confirm.’
He bent his head and sobbed.
After a few minutes, Henderson said, ‘Did you identify him?’
‘Yes, I did. It was him; it was my son.’
‘I’m sorry for your loss, Dennis. It can’t be easy losing a child. Is there someone at home you can talk to; are you married?’
‘I was, my wife died two years ago.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Did Chris have any siblings?’
He shook his head. ‘He was an only one.’
‘Would you like me to arrange for someone to call round to your house to talk to you?’
‘That’s kind of you but it’s not the reason why I’m here.’
‘No, what then?’
‘I’m not happy with what your people are telling me about how my son died.’
Henderson remembered the ‘floater,’ the term used by police to describe bodies washed up on the beach, when the incident had popped up on the serials, a computerised system that listed crimes committed overnight in the region, a day or so ago. ‘Floater’ was a blanket description for a whole variety of deaths, ranging from those who fell off boats when drunk or in a storm, to those who got into trouble while swimming. In rarer cases, deliberate acts such as suicide, or criminals trying to dispose of a body.
This particular ‘floater,’ a young male, aged between twenty and thirty, had displayed all the signs of drowning and enquiries by local police in Newhaven traced his last movements to a cross-Channel ferry. The case hadn’t landed on Henderson’s desk as the investigating officers didn’t consider it to be a crime, but as a keen sailor, Henderson took an interest in anything occurring in the waters off Sussex.
‘Dennis, why do you say you weren’t happy with the explanation you received about your son’s death?’
‘Let me explain. I’m in the wine business. I own three shops in Surrey: Camberley, Bracknell and Wokingham, and Chris, when he was younger, would help me out with deliveries and serving in the shop. At the time, I thought he was doing it just to earn some pocket money, but it turned out he was really interested in wine. When he finished his A Levels, he signed up for a course in viniculture at Plumpton College, down here in your neck of the woods, and when the course ended he went over to France to work in a vineyard and learn the ropes. He hoped to open his own vineyard one day.’
‘What
sort of work did he do out there?’
‘He said he wanted to understand the business from the ground up, so he went as a hired hand and did anything and everything, from picking grapes to cleaning out the vats, but he loved it.’
‘Where did he last work?’
‘At a place called Château Osanne; it’s a few miles outside of Blaye, in Bordeaux.’
‘Ok.’
‘For the last few months he’d been telling me things didn’t look right. He said lorries were coming and going in the middle of the night and people were turning up who didn’t know anything about wine and looked more like gangsters.’
‘I see.’
‘He called me about a week ago and said he had discovered something big, something that would rock the world of wine, but he didn’t want to say any more on the phone. He said he had some leave coming up in about three weeks’ time and he would talk to me then. Two days before he died, Thursday of last week, he called. Short and sweet; he’d been fired for opening his mouth and he wanted to come home.’
‘That was all he said?’
‘Yes, it was our last chat together.’
‘You don’t have any idea what he discovered?’
‘No, he didn’t tell me.’
‘So, you don’t know if what he was talking about was a big deal, like adding anti-freeze to white wine, or something more trivial, like cheating on the declared alcohol levels on the label?’
‘What you’ve got to realise about Chris, he is, was, a very serious boy and not prone to exaggeration in the slightest. If he said it looked like something big and important, I for one believe him.’
‘Could you hazard a guess?’
‘I’ve been racking my brain, I assure you, but no, nothing jumps out. I mean the château where he worked is a mid-level vineyard, modern in its methods and with a state of the art bottling facility, but not one of the big players by any means.’
‘If we can return to your original statement. You said you didn’t feel happy with the explanation you received about how he died. What did you mean by that?’
