Red Red Wine (DI Angus Henderson Book 5)

by Iain Cameron

  ‘The victim worked at a vineyard near Bordeaux. It would be helpful to go over there and speak to local police and the other employees.’

  She shook her head, her expression tense. ‘If I had a pound for every time the Chief Constable or ACC said, ‘cost saving’, I could retire.’

  Henderson expected this but nevertheless felt disappointed. ‘Surely we’ve achieved our target with all the civilians replacing officers, closing buildings like Sussex House, scrapping old pool cars, and all the rest?’

  ‘The chief reckons it will take another two years for us to reach it. Until then, he says, we have to work more and ask for less, and this includes trips overseas.’

  **

  Henderson walked downstairs into the open plan area where the detectives were based. It was filled with light coloured desks, flat screen computers and a carpet still retaining that ‘new carpet’ smell. It didn’t look as homely as Sussex House as there were no marks on the wall, no odd aromas emanating from the small kitchen and no continuous noises from squeaky and broken chairs, but he was sure it wouldn’t take long.

  He found DC Sally Graham, DS Walters and another new face, DC Deepak Sunderam, and called them into his office.

  They settled around the meeting table, larger than the one he had in Sussex House, while he summarised the findings of the Chris Fletcher post-mortem report and re-iterated the Chief Inspector’s warning about incurring unnecessary expense.

  Henderson got up, walked to the whiteboard and picked up a pen. He wrote and underlined ‘Chris Fletcher,’ and turned to face them. ‘We can’t go to France and talk to local police or the people at Chris’s former place of work, what else can we do?’

  ‘Review the interviews done by uniform,’ Sally Graham suggested.

  Henderson wrote it on the board. ‘I suspect they talked to a few crew members and some of the passengers, but as the ferry didn’t turn back or broadcast an alert, I don’t expect anybody saw anything. We need to talk to them again, look at CCTV, ask staff if any aggro went down or if someone got drunk and started throwing their weight around.’

  ‘We should call local police and talk to people at the vineyard,’ Walters said.

  ‘I agree,’ Henderson replied.

  ‘Hang on a bit though before you write it up, sir,’ Deepak Sunderam said. ‘If Chris Fletcher was killed because of something he found out at the vineyard, as his father thinks, if we call the vineyard it will alert them to our interest.’

  Aged twenty-two, Deepak had come to the UK from India as a child, and had the blackest hair Henderson had ever seen. He came to them from Surrey Police, as the CID sections of both Surrey and Sussex had been merged to save money. It was part of the Home Secretary’s attempt to make UK police forces more efficient, but just because it looked good on paper didn’t mean it was acceptable at ground level, and it would take a few more appointments like this one to make it work.

  ‘Whoever calls the vineyard,’ Henderson said, ‘needs to make them believe we’re investigating a floater and trying to locate his family, and gauge if they sound concerned or are cagey about answering our questions.’

  Henderson turned to the board and wrote, ‘call vineyard’ and below it, ‘make contact with local police’. ‘We need to find out if anything suspicious has been going on at this vineyard.’ He stood back and looked at the sparse list. ‘Any more?’

  ‘Research the owners?’ Sally Graham suggested.

  ‘Yep,’ Henderson said, writing it down.

  ‘I need to find out more about wine,’ Walters said, ‘I know bugger all about it, except how to drink it.’

  ‘Me too,’ Sally Graham said, ‘but forget the drinking part, I can’t stand the taste.’

  ‘C’mon people, concentrate,’ Henderson said. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I’m thinking,’ Deepak said, ‘if someone pushed Fletcher overboard, it has to be someone on-board the passenger ship. If so, their name will be on the passenger list.’

  ‘It would,’ Henderson said, ‘but we’re not talking here about a small hotel with thirty or forty people, these ships can hold five or six hundred people.’

  ‘We can still use the list,’ Walters said, ‘to cross-refer any suspects we bring in. By rights, they have to be there.’

  ‘I wouldn’t place too much store by that,’ Henderson said, ‘until we know if the shipping company records every name accurately. I suspect they don’t and if someone turns up with cash and say, an Italian ID card, they would let them travel.’

  He turned and wrote something to that effect on the board.

  He turned back to face them. ‘Are we done?’

  There were a few nods so he put the pen down and retook his seat. ‘To tasks,’ he said. ‘Sally, you and Deepak take on the ship interviews. Read through whatever Newhaven have done and then go down to the port and talk to the crew of the cross-Channel ferry.’

  They both nodded.

  ‘Carol, as you speak French, I want you to take on the calls to the vineyard and the local police.’

  ‘Mais oui, monsieur.’

  ‘Since I’ve got the contact with Dennis Fletcher, I’ll take on the role of building a profile of the victim. Deepak, I also want you to find out anything you can about the owners of the vineyard. Any questions?’

  Henderson looked at each of them in turn but there were no takers. ‘Great,’ he said standing and collecting together his papers. ‘Let’s get started.’

  SIX

  Late on Friday night Harvey Miller headed back to Château Osanne. He drove past the building and warehouse complex and parked in a lay-by about two hundred yards further on.

  The day before, Miller had waited outside the château for most of the morning. At lunchtime, he’d followed two workers to a bench overlooking a beauty spot nearby. Both lads were English and they had been working at the château for several months. Unlike Pierre, they knew Chris Fletcher well.

  On Chris’s last day at the château, the boys had witnessed a stand-up row between Chris and the vineyard manager. What had alarmed them more was not what they were arguing about, Chris refusing to do something, but the attitude of three men known to be close to the château’s owner. As soon as Chris walked away, they collared the vineyard manager and an animated discussion followed with much gesticulating and angry faces, and it was clear they were talking Chris.

  These men did nothing in the way of wine making or moving boxes, but were only interested in making sure delivery vans were loaded and went out on time, and ensuring that the perimeter of the winery was secure. This was an odd concern in this part of the country, they said, as even the French guys could not recall the last time there had been a break-in or an assault on a vineyard worker, here, or anywhere else in the area.

  A little of the jaundiced journalist still remained with Miller after twenty years of pounding the Philly crime scene, and he treated their sensationalist reports with the tiniest pinch of salt. They were painting the worst picture to explain away the hurt they felt about their friend for upping sticks and deserting them. He was no amateur psychologist, but he’d heard enough bullshit statements made under an adrenaline rush, the fog of booze or a cloud of resentment to think otherwise.

  Like Chris, they hinted about something odd going on at the château, evidenced by the number of secret meetings taking place whenever the security people were in town, but admitted they didn’t know what it might be. The boys gave him the names of everyone they knew at the vineyard and told him most of the strange activity took place at weekends, Friday and Saturday nights.

  It didn’t sound like much to go on but enough to keep his interest alive, and now, under the cover of darkness he hoped to have a look around the site and maybe get inside and find out what was going on. He set off from the lay-by and in the shadow of thick gorse bushes, he began to climb a small hill overlooking the château.

  Despite wearing decent walking shoes, the light sweater and chinos were the warmest things in his suitcase, and were
found wanting for a night-time hill climb in May. It didn’t take long for the chilly night air to seep through, and by inadvertently walking into gorse bushes which were all around, his arms and legs were soon full of scratches.

  At the top, he sat down for a few moments to catch his breath before moving to the edge to look down on the château. To his astonishment, the rear of the building was bathed in the bright sodium light from a number of large lamps fixed under the roof of the warehouse. It looked nothing like one of the sleepy wine businesses that dominated the local area, as this part of the château, which couldn’t be seen from the road, was bustling with activity.

  Two white vans were being loaded, and Miller could tell from the colour of the licence plates they both came from the UK. There was a logo on the side of the vans, but even though he was now more used to the artificial light, he still couldn’t pick out the detail. He had to get closer. Taking care not to loosen the rocks or scree dotted around the hillside, he edged his way downhill and knelt behind a large rock.

  From his new position, it was not only obvious they were loading boxes into the vans, he could now see they were cases of wine, each bearing the logo of the Café de Paris, a nationwide chain of French bistro-style restaurants in the UK. Printed above the logo, the silhouette of a leaping grey wolf, which he assumed to be the château’s logo.

  Plenty of people were working which put the bullet into his idea of getting inside the compound to snoop around. A couple of men were loading boxes into the vans while three other guys were leaning against the perimeter fence watching proceedings and having a smoke. On two fishing trips to Scotland he had visited two whisky distilleries, where lighting-up was strictly banned and enforced, as it was a bloody stupid thing to do with all the alcohol fumes around, but he wasn’t so sure about a winery.

  If fences could ever be interesting, this one was. It was at least three metres high and made from small-gap chain-link, with the top bent inwards and stretched between tall concrete posts. It ran all the way round the perimeter of the buildings and provided no discernible holds for a burglar or nosey private investigator to climb. It seemed to him a strange choice for a vineyard with nothing to steal but extremely heavy barrels of immature wine, and something more often found surrounding a cigarette warehouse or a depository of used bank notes.

  In the twenty or so minutes he’d been there, the scene in front of him hadn’t changed and while it didn’t seem to be advancing his investigation one inch, his body temperature had dropped several degrees and now he was freezing his butt off. The call of the hotel beckoned, the comfy armchair at the back of the lounge beside the radiator and the lovely Nicole to serve him a steady supply of Jack Daniels. Fortified with some Tennessee whiskey, he would try and work out his next move, as it wasn’t so obvious from where he was crouching at the moment.

  In a final attempt to salvage something from an unproductive evening, he decided to note down the licence plates of the vans. He had a contact in the Metropolitan Police, and perhaps finding out who owned them would tell him something useful. To do this, he needed to move closer.

  Peering out from behind a rock, he could see a row of bushes at the bottom of the hill. From there, he would be able to see the licence plates of the vans, but it was only half a metre from the fence and would greatly increase the risk of being seen. He waited a few moments until the two loaders were inside the van and the smokers were engrossed in conversation, and scrambled down the slope as quietly as he could.

  The bushes were thinner than they looked from above, and if it wasn’t for the presence of the van, he could be easily seen by the men at the fence. He quickly wrote down the licence plate numbers and looked for an escape route. There was an exposed gap of about five or six metres before reaching the shade of a building, where he would stop a few moments to catch his breath. From there to the road it was open ground and he had to hope that the bright lights would dazzle the vision of onlookers and give him the appearance of a black shadow.

  He took a couple of deep gulps of cold night air and ran. He made it to the cover of the building without being seen. His heart was thumping from the exertion and his own fear, but now, standing out of sight, he relaxed. A few minutes later, he walked to the edge of the building’s protective shadow, and after a quick look round, started to run.

  Almost immediately, a shout went up. ‘Intruder! There!’ He looked behind him and although the detail of the faces was obscured by bright lights, everyone had stopped working and was looking his way. He tried to run faster, difficult as the ground was uneven and boggy, and further up the slope where it was less slippery, loose stones and big rocks made the going treacherous.

  He could see the road up ahead and the closer it was, the more it diminished the effect of the bright security lights for his pursuers. He heard shouts, some in English, some in French, but there was no mistaking their anger or their intentions. He kept running.

  By luck, the lay-by where he’d parked the car was on the northern side of the château, meaning he didn’t need to run past the gates, important now as he could hear the sounds of car doors slamming and engines revving. The car lay directly ahead and with shaking hands he fumbled for the keys. He grabbed the door handle, yanked the door open and jumped into the driver’s seat. Without buckling up or adjusting the heating and air-con controls as he habitually did, he started the engine and with a spin of wheels on the loose gravel, drove off.

  With the château’s lights receding from view and no cars on his tail yet, he decided to get off the road as he knew his little car could never outrun the big Shoguns and Range Rovers he’d noticed parked in the grounds of the château. The little car whined and rattled as it touched 100 kph and he almost missed the turn-off to the beauty spot where he had met the two lads yesterday. He stamped on the brakes and swung the car hard into the corner, almost losing the back end as a large metal signpost grew larger in his vision. Fifty metres or so further on, he entered a parking area, killed the lights and brought the car round in a half-circle to face the way he had come.

  Twenty or thirty seconds later, two dark 4x4’s raced past on the main road, their rear lights bouncing and weaving as they slowly faded into the distance. Once they were out of sight, he gunned the engine and drove back to the main road. Executing a turn a little less frantic than the one he did earlier, he headed off in the direction of Bordeaux.

  As he sped past the open gates of Château Osanne, he glanced over to see all the lights blazing like a Christmas tree, but mercifully, no more 4x4’s came rushing out from there to chase after him. Forty minutes or so later, he made it back into Bordeaux without incident.

  He’d utilised the time spent driving to try and cool down and reduce the pounding in his chest, making him feel that his first cardiac arrest was but days away, as his daughter often warned. He also used it to try and understand what had just gone down. He had been chased from the château like a fox that was terrorising their chickens, but for what? Watching a couple of guys load some wine boxes into the back of a van?

  The hotel didn’t have its own parking, which wasn’t surprising as it was located smack-bang within the pedestrianized area, so he drove into an underground car park close by. Bordeaux city centre was served by an electric tram service and he was surprised to find such a convenient car park as he would have expected a ‘park and ride’ space somewhere out in the suburbs, a scheme he’d noticed operating in many other European cities.

  He exited the car park and walked across Place Gambetta. It was ten after midnight with little traffic, except a few taxis and buses. In daylight, he liked walking this way as he could gaze up at the beautiful stone archway which marked the start of the pedestrianized area, a relic of a bygone age standing alongside modern glass-fronted shops and cafes lining both sides of the street. Tonight, he passed underneath with barely a glance, his mind fixed on a large glass of JD.

  The sign for his hotel glowed in the distance and he enjoyed the warm evening air, a welcome chang
e from the chill of the hill. He crossed to the other side of the narrow street to take another look in a trendy clothes shop where a cream leather jacket had taken his fancy. It was expensive, but the hell with it, he thought, he would buy it in the morning.

  On the point of crossing Rue de Ruat, only a few yards from the hotel, a young man appeared from nowhere and approached him. ‘Excuse me mate, do you have a light?’ he said in English.

  Miller stopped as the man was standing in front of him, blocking his path. ‘Sorry I don’t–’

  A hard blow struck him on the shoulder and his whole body turned to jelly. Before he could fall, strong hands grabbed him from behind and dragged him into the darkness of a side street. They threw him into the goods entrance at the back of one of the shops and two sets of fists and boots started laying into him.

  Blows rained into his face and kicks were aimed at his legs and genitals. He was so busy protecting the remains of his good looks, he failed to anticipate a low one in the stomach, knocking the air out of his lungs, leaving him helpless and unable to protect himself.

  Due to the rapidity of the attack, it took several moments to consider fighting back, as he was a pretty useful street fighter when the situation demanded it, but it was too late. They had him in a corner, too busy trying to parry the blows to retaliate. He tried to twist away to protect his face, but anything he did proved useless, they just kept coming.

  He was on the point of blacking out when it stopped. Someone dragged him to his feet and pushed him against the wall. A face came close to his, hard to see with his puffed up eyes, but he could smell stale tobacco and garlic. He peered through slits. The guy had a rough, lived-in face and spoke gruffly with a regional English accent he couldn’t place.

  ‘We don’t want no fucking people like you snooping around our patch. Get the fuck out of Bordeaux tomorrow or you’ll get this.’ He pushed a long steel blade up against Miller’s nose. With a flick of the wrist his septum would disappear, just like a coke addict. He held the knife there for a few seconds before it disappeared.