by Iain Cameron
His exit from the small car was ungainly; he was a big guy. It wasn’t a patch on the monster Jeep he drove back home with doors big enough even for him to alight with some level of dignity. He walked over to an entry phone cut into one of the stone gate pillars and pressed the large ‘call’ button.
‘Hello?’ a voice said in English a few seconds later.
‘Hi there,’ he said. ‘I’ve been looking around for some wines and I heard you guys make some good ones. I was wondering if I could come in and take a look round; maybe do some tasting and buy some?’
‘This is private property, we don’t allow visitors.’
‘Ah shoot, I wasn’t aware.’ He thought for a second. ‘Is Chris Fletcher around? He told me I should check you out.’
‘Wait a minute,’ he said.
Miller could hear muffled voices in the background before the same voice came back on the line. ‘Someone will come out to see you.’ There was a static burst, then silence.
A few minutes later, footsteps approached. A man wearing blue overalls and carrying a shortwave radio walked towards him. He was a big man, a touch over six foot and well-built, large arm muscles much in evidence with both sleeves rolled up.
‘G’day. You say you know Chris Fletcher?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You American?’
‘Yes I am. You Australian?’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Harvey Miller. What’s yours?’
‘Are you a journalist?’
‘Nope.’
‘How do you know Chris?’
‘We met in a bar and started talking. He told me he worked here and what fine wines you produced. I came along to try some, if I like ’em, I’ll buy some.’
‘Chris no longer works here. He quit his job a couple of weeks back and went home to the UK. Where are you billeted?’
‘I’m at the Hotel Gambetta in the centre of Bordeaux.’
‘I know it. We’re a private organisation here and don’t normally offer tours, but if anything changes, we’ll contact you at your hotel. How long are you staying in Bordeaux?’
‘Until Friday,’ he said, the first day that popped into his head.
‘Goodbye, Mr Miller.’ The big Aussie turned and headed back to the rear of the château.
As a thick-skinned investigator, he had experienced rejection many times before, but something about the man’s abrupt manner and attitude riled him and set his suspicions racing. He returned to the car and stared at the château for several minutes, a plan forming in his mind. It was too early to accuse Château Osanne of any wrongdoing, but if they treated customers the same way they treated visitors, it made him wonder how they’d managed to pay for all this real estate.
**
Around three in the afternoon, Harvey Miller drove into Blaye, the warm, spring sun straining the little car’s puny air-con system. He parked the car in a space close to the dramatic walls built by Vauban to protect the town from sea attack, and searched for a bar. The Bar de Sports was just as it sounded, a bar dedicated to sports with memorabilia on the walls and football match on the television. A place where someone like him, who loved all sports, could spend a happy afternoon without looking once at his watch.
At four-thirty, fortified by several cold beers and a ham baguette, made with chunks of real ham and thickly-cut bread, he drove back to Château Osanne and parked in a lay-by with a decent view over the front gates. He had done stakeouts before, stalking criminals who claimed their innocence or politicians rumoured to be on the take, but he knew little about vineyards and how they operated. He had no idea if the people inside toiled on a regular nine to five, or started work when the sun rose and went home at sunset.
By six, the French radio stations with their strange brand of Euro pop, and the English-language rock stations that faded in and out as if broadcasting from Mars, annoyed and frustrated him in equal measure and forced him to turn the radio off. He could handle rock, but what sailed his boat was country music and he couldn’t care if it was as old as Hank Williams or as young as Lauren Jenkins.
He closed his eyes, trying to still the voice in his head that was saying, ‘Harvey, what the hell are you doing here,’ when he heard the gates of the château whirr open. A large Citroen passed with a middle-aged man inside, wearing a shirt and tie and looking to the world like the accountant or the export manager; no good. He needed to meet another shop-floor worker like Chris.
A few minutes later, a battered Peugeot 206 drove out, making him sit up, but alas, it went the other way. He decided he would only follow a car if it was going towards Blaye. He’d done a fair amount of driving and map-reading in the area and there didn’t appear to be many settlements in the direction the Peugeot was heading, and knowing his luck, he’d end up following the car up a dirt track to the family farmhouse.
His patience was rewarded minutes later when a Citroen Saxo approached the gate, and he could tell from the car’s position on the driveway it was heading the way he wanted. When it passed, he started his car and followed. They were on the main road to the town of Blaye, a couple of miles away, and providing the Saxo didn’t stop or turn off anywhere, he could afford to keep his distance.
The Saxo drove into the centre of Blaye with Miller’s car close behind. They were travelling along the Cours Vauban, Miller glancing occasionally around at the great man’s masterpiece, cold and grey in the overcast light but still dominating the town, when the target suddenly swung into an empty space between two parked cars. He realised it wasn’t the Saxo driver’s way of trying to shake off his tail, but simply the French way of driving and parking, as he’d seen it done several times before. Miller drove past and found a space further up the road, but by the time he reached the Saxo the driver was nowhere to be seen.
From here, several bars and shops lay in his line of vision and assuming the driver had parked close to the place where he intended to go, Miller walked over to the nearest bar. The guy wasn’t there, easy to spot as he had been wearing a yellow top and his hair was gelled and spiked at the top. By the third bar, he struck lucky. He was sitting in the corner with three friends. Miller bought a beer and wandered over.
‘Excuse me, monsieur. Do you speak English?’ Miller asked him.
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Good. Can I have a word with you?’
The man smiled. It was the easy smile of someone comfortable in his own skin. He spread his arms wide.
‘No problem, monsieur. Go ahead.’
‘If I may, I would like to speak to you in private,’ Miller said. He pointed to an empty table near the door. ‘We could sit over there if you like.’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t see why not.’
The man edged around the table as his friends eyed the stranger with languid suspicion and continued to follow their movements over to the empty table. They both sat down.
‘My name is Harvey Miller,’ he said shaking the man’s hand. ‘And you are?’
‘Pierre Lafrond. Are you a journalist or a private investigator?’ He spoke excellent English with only the hint of a French accent, which was just as well as Miller’s French was terrible.
‘I’m a friend of Chris Fletcher. Do you know him?’
Lafrond leaned back in his chair as if considering a difficult question. ‘Sure. He left the château a few weeks back to return home to England.’
A waiter began cleaning the table beside them. Miller turned to him. ‘Excusez-moi, monsieur. Deux bières, s’il vous plait.’
‘No problem.’
They made small talk until the drinks arrived. Miller took a long sip before leaning closer to the Frenchman.
‘I was up at Château Osanne this afternoon and they told me the same as you: Chris left his job at the château and returned to England. Do you know anything more?’
Lafrond shrugged. ‘There were rumours he was sacked but I do not know what for. You see, he also did some work in the office but I do not know what he did ther
e.’
‘What’s it like working at the château? Are they good employers?’
Lafrond turned to look at his mates and gave them a thumbs-up sign. From the corner of his eye Miller watched to make sure it wasn’t a prearranged signal for them to come over and hustle him. When they didn’t make a move, he relaxed.
‘What can I say? They are English and not so laid back as we French, always want it today; pressure, pressure.’
‘Why the urgency? Everyone says the wine business is slow moving.’
‘We are working on a big contract at the moment and need to get the cases out.’ He finished his drink and stood. ‘I must get back to my friends, monsieur. It has been nice talking to you and thank you for the beer.’
Miller sat for a few minutes finishing his drink before rising up from his seat and leaving the bar. More on a whim than on any pre-conceived plan, he searched for bottles of wine from Château Osanne in a couple of wine shops, but couldn’t find any.
He returned to his car and drove to Bordeaux and his hotel, his mind on a hot bath, his iPod playing some country music and his hand gripping a large scotch. He was unsure if it had been a successful day or not, or if it added to his sum knowledge of wine fraud, but Château Osanne was the only lead he had. Chris Fletcher had told him of his suspicions, but either because he was too scared, or was playing the American until he pulled out his wallet and handed over some of Robert Wilson’s money, he hadn’t said any more.
Chris Fletcher was gone and by the sound of it, he wasn’t coming back. It was time to nurture some new contacts like Pierre Lafrond. It wouldn’t meet with the approval of the big Aussie in blue overalls at the gate, but this was a bridge he would cross when he came to it.
FIVE
Henderson flicked over the final page of the post-mortem report and sat there mulling over its implications.
‘Morning gov.’
He looked up to see DS Walters standing there. ‘Morning Carol, come in.’
DS Carol Walters took a seat in the visitor’s chair facing Henderson’s desk.
‘How’s the move going?’ she asked.
‘Not bad. I didn’t have a lot of stuff, and where we had duplications, like toasters, we generally settled on Rachel’s things as mine were a bit older than hers. I’m pleased to say the mover’s big packing cases are now officially empty and ready to be returned.’
‘Well done both of you.’
‘We had to, as we’ve got nowhere to store them.’
‘You should count yourself lucky you don’t have a garage or a garden shed. I know loads of people who, when they move, put boxes and bags of things out there and when you look years later, they’re still sitting there, unopened. What did you want to see me about?’
He picked up Chris Fletcher’s post-mortem report and handed it to her. ‘Take a butcher’s at this.’
Like most detectives, she read the first page for a summary of the pathologist’s findings, and flicked past the detailed medical examination, photographs and exhaustive descriptions of injuries, and focussed on the conclusions at the back.
‘Our cute pathologist doesn’t mince his words,’ she said after a few minutes.
‘You think Grafton’s attractive?’
‘Not only me, Sally Graham thinks so too.’
‘Doesn’t the work he does, cutting up dead flesh, and his more traditional sense of style, put you off?’
‘What, like the old Austin Healey and the tweed jackets he probably buys from the family tailor?’
‘Yeah.’
‘No, not at bit. I like a man with a unique identity, but I must say the casual way he writes and talks about serious injuries and organs is spooky. It wouldn’t make for good after-dinner conversation.’
‘What do you think about our victim?’ he said.
‘When I first saw it on the serials I thought, uh-oh, another drunken sod who thinks it’s a good idea to try and walk along the hand rails, but–’
‘Rawlings throws a spanner into the works with the head wound.’
‘As a seafaring man yourself, don’t you think he might have received it aboard the ship, or when he fell overboard?’
Henderson shook his head. ‘I can’t see it. If he jumped off a hand rail or accidentally tumbled over the side, there’s nothing sticking out of a ship’s hull to create a head wound like it.’
‘He could have hit his head on something aboard the ship, felt disorientated and tipped over the side.’
‘I’d thought of that one myself, but I just don’t see it.’
‘Which leaves, someone must have smacked him over the head and chucked him in the water.’
‘Now that sounds a lot more plausible, and makes me think there’s something going on here.’ He took back the report and stood. ‘I’ll go up and see Edwards and find out if she’ll give her approval for a murder investigation.’
Walters pushed her chair back. ‘Does this mean we’re going to France? You know I love the place; the wine, the food, the skinny men, but not necessarily in that order.’
‘In this age of budget restraints? Don’t forget, the only reason we moved here to Lewes is because they closed Sussex House to save money. She’ll likely tell me I need to conduct interviews via Skype or email, but don’t you worry, I’ll be asking the question.’
His boss was in a meeting when he reached her office. Henderson took a seat outside and waited. In terms of a space-grab, Chief Inspector Lisa Edwards had done all right. Sussex Police Headquarters was located in an elevated position, overlooking the rooftops of the East Sussex town of Lewes.
With a population of 16,ooo, Lewes was not only the administrative centre for the county and the home of Sussex Police, but it also had its own Category B prison. For most towns, this would be sufficient fame, but Lewes was arguably more renowned for the bonfire celebrations that took place every 5th November. Guy Fawkes’ failure to kill the protestant King James I with explosives hidden under the Houses of Parliament was celebrated annually in the town, in a spectacular procession of banners, period dress, firebrands and a cacophony of noise attracting over 80,000 visitors.
The headquarters complex was fronted by the Queen-Anne styled Malling House, but tucked to the side and the back were a multitude of other buildings of various ages, sizes and shapes, many topped with a metallic forest of satellite dishes and aerials. The Major Crime Team were located in a large modern block at the rear, and Edwards, to her credit, had nabbed a corner office with an open aspect and plenty of room inside for holding meetings and berating the incompetent; just as she was doing now to two ladies from accounts.
The crestfallen bean counters trooped out minutes later and Henderson decided to wait a little longer and allow her to cool down. It was not to be, as seconds later the cry of, ‘Angus, in here,’ rang out, forcing him to rise from his comfortable seat on the leather settee.
‘Morning boss.’
‘Not a good bloody start is it, after these two prats messed up my expense claim. It’s thrown me into overdraft.’
‘I must admit, I’m reasonably savvy on financial matters, having emptied all my savings accounts and negotiated a new mortgage, but I can’t help you there.’
Her mood softened. ‘Did the move go well?’
‘It did, we’re in now and everything works, although we did have to manage without a phone or broadband connection for a couple of days.’
‘How about Rachel, has she settled in?’
‘Yes, but she hasn’t had to live with me during a murder investigation yet; until now.’
‘A neat dovetail, Angus. Why haven’t I heard about this one already?’
‘You might have seen something on the local news over the weekend about a floater recovered near Newhaven? They said he was a passenger from the Dieppe-Newhaven ferry.’
She nodded. ‘I heard someone say something about a big stag party. I assumed it was one of them.’
Henderson reiterated the story told to him by Dennis Fletcher, and
outlined the main findings of the post-mortem report which he laid out in front of her.
Five minutes later she looked up. ‘Chris Fletcher’s father thinks he was murdered as a result of something going on at the vineyard where he worked, and Rawlings comes out with one of those, ‘on the balance of probabilities’ verdicts. It’s a licence for detectives to put two and two together to make five.’
‘It’s a bit more than a balance of probabilities, I think. Look at the head wound.’
She turned to look at the photograph. ‘The tox report said he’d been drinking but not much?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You don’t think he maybe got into a fight with the stag party boys, they shoved him against something solid and he bashed his head?’
‘If so, he would have had more bruises on his face. One heavy smack to the back of the head suggests an attempt to debilitate him before someone chucked him over the side.’
‘I’m forced to agree, when taken in conjunction with the bruises on his arm.’ She slapped her hand down on the report. ‘We need to investigate. I’m not saying we open a Murder Book and staff up, but I want you to conduct preliminary investigations. I’m still keeping an open mind, as the bruises may have happened hours before from something unrelated. Looked at separately, Fletcher’s death looks innocent, put it together with his father’s complaint and it looks like murder.’
He nodded. ‘Fair enough.’
‘See if you can find something concrete to corroborate what we have and if you do, I’ll re-evaluate the situation, but not before.’
‘Ok.’
‘I assume some of the work has been done already as I imagine uniform have interviewed passengers and talked to the crew.’
‘You would think so but I’ll check.’
‘Set up a small team, four or five, no more. Anything else?’
