Red Red Wine (DI Angus Henderson Book 5)

by Iain Cameron

  **

  DC Sally Graham spotted the chubby, middle-aged man walking behind Fraser Brook, but didn’t think anything of it. When Brook’s van came headed away from lock-up, she started the dirty, nondescript Ford Focus and followed.

  ‘See, what did I tell you?’ Phil Bentley said from the passenger seat. ‘Watching Brook’s garage was a better bet than sitting in a posh burger bar all day watching his shop.’

  ‘How right you were, Mr Bentley. Go to the top of the class and award yourself a Jelly Baby.’

  They crossed the Thames at Putney Bridge and drove though Battersea.

  ‘Where’s he going?’ Bentley asked.

  ‘If I knew the answer, Mr Bright Spark, there would be no need to follow him, would there?’

  ‘What I mean is, heading in this general direction, where do we think he’s going; you tetchy mare.’

  ‘Take a butcher’s at the map and give it your best shot.’

  They drove on a section of the South Circular for a few miles before Brook took a right into Keswick Road.

  ‘It’s the A3 then,’ Bentley said, a smug look on his face.

  ‘Let’s just enjoy the day out and see where he takes us, keep all the one-upmanship for the office.’

  They continued along the A3 through Wimbledon. The road was fast, three lanes on one side and three on the other, but instead of bland, concrete culverts and nameless industrial estates, common to many motorways, the trees and bushes of Richmond Park were on the right, with the expanse of Wimbledon Common on the left.

  Sally Graham wasn’t a book-thumping liberal, going on endlessly about the destruction of natural habitats and the desecration of the Green Belt, but areas like this where the car took precedence over people, and roads like this sliced their way through such a beautiful landscape, made her sad.

  ‘Are you going to Seb’s birthday booze-up tonight?’ Bentley asked.

  ‘Are you asking me out on a date?’

  His face reddened. ‘No. I’m only doing, what’s it called…making conversation.’

  ‘I intend to. Depends when we finish here. Where’s he having it?’

  ‘Druid’s in town.’

  ‘I thought so but wasn’t sure. I’ve never been there.’

  ‘Yeah, but you’re not much of a boozer, are you? Early start and out with the binoculars, more like.’

  ‘Don’t mock my hobby, it’s very interesting. No, I used to go out boozing but I don’t do it any more as I don’t like paying money to drink some gut-rotting chemicals that make me feel like crap the following morning.’

  The traffic moved fast and it was easy to follow Brook’s van, clean and bright in a sea of dirty white vans and ugly lorries. A few minutes later they arrived in Guildford, a place she knew well as she often enjoyed shopping there.

  ‘You’ve got to watch the one-way system around here,’ Bentley said. ‘Get in the wrong lane and we’re stuffed.’

  ‘I know, I’ve been here before. Trust me.’

  ‘In driving, oh I do.’

  ‘What nothing else?’

  ‘I…I didn’t mean that.’

  ‘C’mon, what?’

  She couldn’t turn to look at him as they were in the middle of town with cars and buses all around, but she was sure he was blushing again.

  ‘I better call in,’ he said picking up his phone.

  Brook took the left hand lane, the A281 to Horsham, and she followed four cars back. The three lane highway of the A3 was long forgotten as they bumped and twisted along roads with missing bits of tarmac and numerous pot-holes.

  Bentley finished the call. ‘Henderson says we’re only to follow Brook to his destination and report in. On no account are we to stop and take a look in the house or pub or whatever he’s heading to. He also said, if we can get a result and find where this new wine-faking lab is, you and me can award ourselves a pub lunch and charge it.’

  ‘Great. I quite fancy a plate of scampi and chips, a change from the tuna salad I often buy from the canteen. Brook doesn’t look like a criminal, more like a lawyer who reads your granny’s will or gets you to sign the papers when you buy a flat.’

  ‘It’s the quiet ones you watch, although the DI says it’s not Brook we need to worry about, but the company he keeps; like Daniel Perry.’

  ‘I’ve heard all about him.’

  ‘What do you think about the boss moving in with his girlfriend?’ Bentley asked. ‘Are you the soppy romantic type who thinks it’s lovely he’s found happiness after divorce, or do you wonder why it took them so long?’

  ‘The second one, although I never thought it would happen.’

  ‘Were you in the sweep?’

  She shot him a look but he was laughing.

  ‘Had you there, Sally. Why do you say you didn’t think it would happen?’

  ‘Some guys, when they get divorced, feel they need to move in with a woman right away as somehow they can’t live on their own–’

  ‘Like me, you mean.’

  ‘If the cap fits, Phil. The boss is at the other end of the scale, if you ask me. He’s a guy who could happily live on his own, so moving in with Rachel is his choice.’

  ‘I think I know what you’re getting at.’

  ‘When I say he can live happily on his own, it’s with the proviso there’s a good canteen at work or an Asda nearby, as I believe he’s not much of a cook.’

  ‘How do you know? Been up to his flat have we? A cosy late night supper was it?’

  ‘If I wasn’t driving, I’d give you a slap, Phil Bentley. For your information, Rachel told me.’

  ‘Careful down here,’ he said, nodding at the road ahead, ‘there’s a couple of roundabouts to negotiate, but I’m betting he heads to Horsham.’

  ‘Hold your peace back-seat driver. I can handle it.’

  ‘Whoa, did you see that? He’s not going to Horsham at all, he’s heading to Loxwood.’

  ‘Where’s Loxwood?’

  ‘It’s a big village to the north of Horsham. You must know it. Phil Collins used to live there.’

  ‘Who’s Phil Collins?’

  TWENTY

  Harvey Miller parked his car in the shelter of a tall hedge, confident it couldn’t be seen from the house. He waited until it got dark, Brook’s van long gone with what looked like the same sort of wine cases he’d spotted in Uckfield. He thought of calling DI Henderson, but the chances of getting them to raid this place, Forest Farm in the village of Loxwood, without any concrete evidence, were zilch. He put his phone on silent and secured it in his pocket, zipped up the light jacket and began to climb the fence.

  His progress across the field was sheltered on the left side by a broken fence intertwined with a thick, thorny hedge, while on the other, facing the farmhouse, the field was open and without obstacles. The lights of the house in the distance twinkled, its outline discernible at the top of a small rise, but did little to illuminate the way ahead; in many of the windows the curtains were closed and in those that weren’t, the lights were off.

  The dampness of the grass caused him to slip on occasion, and once or twice his foot got caught in what he thought was a rabbit hole. This made him think whoever owned the farmhouse didn’t keep animals or grow crops, but kept the field for his kids to play, or as a buffer to hide the house from nosey neighbours.

  Ten minutes after starting out, he drew level with the farmhouse about fifty feet to his right. On flatter, drier and firmer ground, he stopped to catch his breath. He knew from his earlier recce there was a large stable block on the other side of the house, but he couldn’t hear the sound of horses. He edged around the silhouetted house, looking and listening for a slumbering hound about to emit a loud bark, or any movement from inside the house.

  Moving clear, he could now see the profile of the large barn into which Brook had disappeared earlier, and again exited carrying heavy boxes. This convinced him he had found the new site of the wine-faking lab. He stood squinting in the faint moonlight, but little penetrate
d the canopy of trees rising up at the back of the property on a shallow slope.

  The barn itself was large and unlit, and the long shadows it cast made it look menacing. If the laboratory had been relocated here, this building looked as good a place as any to become its new home. It was isolated and no one would notice the coming and going of technicians and Brook’s wine van.

  He decided not to head directly towards the barn and risk standing on a child’s squeaky toy or stumbling into a row of bins, and instead he made his way through an unkempt back garden to a five-bar gate separating it from the land beyond. He climbed over and to his surprise the field was filled with young spikes of corn. He felt the cobs; small and immature, but even the south of England didn’t get the same amount of sunshine as the southern United States where the cobs at this time of year would be twice as big.

  Using the cover of the field he approached the darkened building from the northern end. His senses were heightened at the risk he took in coming here, but he didn’t get his reputation, firstly as a tenacious reporter, and latterly as a dogged investigator for nothing, and besides, he wanted payback.

  He heard scratching and scrabbling, causing him to hunker down on his knees, below the height of the corn stalks. Hearing it again, he realised it was coming from the wooded area to the left, most likely a bat or owl moving through the branches, or a fox or cat digging under the leaves to find the source of some strange scent they had just detected.

  He moved slowly around the back of the barn looking for a door which would allow him to utilise some of the tricks he’d picked up over the years, and from his new burglar friend, Billy Rush. A concrete path ran alongside the back of the barn making the going easy and giving him a few inches in height, although it was so dark he almost failed to notice the window. He moved back to take a closer look and could see it was blacked out, not by curtains or blinds as he couldn’t see any tell-tale wrinkles or folds, but by paint. He searched around the edge of the window, looking for a chink of light, but couldn’t find any.

  He felt around the wooden frame until he found a small gap where the wood had expanded either due to excess moisture or a bad painting job. He removed a screwdriver from his jacket and inserted it into the gap. He eased the screwdriver blade back and forward causing the gap to widen, and slowly worked it closer to the locking arm. A minute or so later he was there. All he had to do now was give it a big thump and with a bit of luck the arm would pop up, the window would open and he would be able to see inside.

  He didn’t care if he made a mess of the frame and they suspected that someone had been snooping around, as it wouldn’t be spotted until morning, and by then they would all be in jail. His plan was to take a quick look inside and if it was kitted out as he expected, he would high-tail it back to the car and call DI Henderson. There would be no heroics and no photographs, and no two guys kicking the crap out of him up a dark alley. If the wine-faking lab had been relocated here, it would be up to the cops to deal with it.

  He took a deep breath and was about to apply the pressure when he heard a loud swish. Before he could look round, an excruciating pain shot up his right shoulder, forcing him to release his hold of the screwdriver and fall to knees in agony. A boot smashed into his midriff, then another, and another until he slumped to the ground.

  **

  Henderson drove around the park that gave Queen’s Park its name, trying to find a parking space. He used to have the same problem when he lived in Seven Dials, but the new house in College Place had a designated parking spot. Only one, mind you, and it was often a point of negotiation, not to say contention, whether he or Rachel had the use of it.

  The call from Phil Bentley to tell him that he and Sally Graham had arrived at Fraser Brook’s destination, Forest Farm in Loxwood, came at four-thirty. He instructed them to withdraw, but as it was still light, he decided he wouldn’t go up there until later. It was now nine o’clock with thick cloud cover, and dark, so he hoped DS Walters had finished her evening meal and was prepared for an evening stake-out.

  He eventually found a space, vacated by a young guy and his girlfriend heading out for a night on the town in a boy racer Astra. As usual, Walters wasn’t standing there waiting for him and rather than sit in the car like a stalker or a PI casing out the nearby apartment of a divorcee, he walked to the door and rang the bell. A few seconds later, she buzzed him up.

  ‘You’ve decorated since the last time I was here,’ he said, walking through the hall.

  ‘It started after I had a leak in the kitchen. I repainted in there but it made the rest of the flat look shabby, there was no way I could leave it. I had to paint it all.’

  ‘You’ve got the place looking good. Perhaps you could come down to our house sometime and give me your estimate?’

  ‘Don’t even joke. Do you have any idea how much I hate decorating?’

  She pointed him in the direction of the lounge. ‘Take a seat. I’ll only be a few minutes. You did say we wouldn’t be there all night?’

  ‘I did. My plan is to go over there and take a look. If someone is there and it looks as if they’re not moving, I’ll call in the guys I’ve got standing-by to watch the place. If it’s deserted, we’ll take a look around. If we find what I think we’ll find, I’ll call in the SOCOs and we can go home.’

  ‘So whatever happens, I don’t need a sleeping bag, flask of coffee, a bottle to pee in; any of that stuff?’

  ‘Nope,’ he said shaking his head. ‘You have the word of a compulsive liar.’

  She returned a few minutes later, decked out in a fleece, gloves and woolly hat.

  Henderson laughed.

  ‘What’s so funny? I don’t like feeling cold.’

  ‘When I was parking the car, a young couple were heading out into town. He was wearing a t-shirt and jeans with no jacket, and she a short skirt and not much else. You look like you’re prepared for a polar voyage.’

  ‘Yeah, but they’re probably going to boogie all night in a hot club, while I’ll be sitting in a cold car or walking around a dark house out in the sticks.’

  He stood. ‘Don’t say I don’t take you to all the best places.’

  They walked to the car, and after a bout of to-ing and fro-ing as the car behind, which wasn’t there when he arrived, had parked mightily close to his rear bumper, they set off for Loxwood.

  ‘How do you like the new offices?’ he said as Walters fiddled with the radio, trying to locate a station with music to suit her ever-changing mood. He didn’t know what it might be tonight, but long experience had taught him where women were concerned, certain questions weren’t worth the asking.

  ‘It’s much better than Sussex House what with all the new furniture, and bits that don’t come off on your hand as they used to, and there are more interview and meeting rooms. I miss being close to town though, and having a supermarket right there on the doorstep. On balance, the advantages outweigh the disadvantages. What about you?’

  ‘I’m with the advantages outweighing the disadvantages. Is it a generally held view? Do most of the other detectives feel the same way?’

  ‘Yeah, I think so. You know what our people are like, if they’re unhappy about something they never stop talking about it.’

  ‘I do. What about Gerry Hobbs? For the last couple of weeks he’s been walking about with a face like fizz; a half-chewed caramel as my brother would say.’

  ‘I’d like to meet him, your brother, he sounds funny.’

  ‘He is, or should I say, was. Ever since he became an estate agent the barrack-room humour has gone out the window. Now, it’s all about house prices and letting potential.’

  ‘Gerry’s sour face has nothing to do with the new offices. His youngest just started nursery and his nutty wife thinks because Gerry laughs and jokes with one of the teachers when he drops the lad off, he must be sleeping with her.’

  Henderson laughed ‘Maybe he is and she found out.’

  ‘I don’t think so, he’s not the type.’<
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  ‘I think the one big disadvantage of the new offices is being so close to the top brass as they can drop by any time they like and see what you’re doing. When we were in Sussex House, I could lie and say I had something important to do and miss another riveting finance meeting or a seminar on how to use PCSOs more effectively, but not now.’

  ‘Poor you.’

  It didn’t take long to reach Loxwood, nor to find Forest Farm as the property was situated on the outskirts of the village, the house sign clearly prominent. It was obvious the house was occupied, they could see the glint of car windows in the driveway and several rooms in the farmhouse were lit.

  He drove past the front drive and parked in a lay-by. The presence of a strange car at this time of night was unlikely to raise the hackles of the local Neighbourhood Watch Nosey Parker, as Forest Farm was outside the village, there were few neighbours and the road wasn’t busy. For any car that did go past, it would be hard to spot them as the drivers would be concentrating on negotiating the sharp bend, and the high hedges at the side of the road blanketed Henderson’s car in shadow.

  ‘What now?’ Walters asked.

  Henderson fell silent for a moment. ‘We’ll give it until eleven and if the farm still appears to be occupied, I’ll call in the overnight team. If everybody leaves because their work for the day is finished, or they’re heading out to the pub, we’ll go up to the house and take a look around. When that’s done, we’ll go home. How does that sound?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘So, why the disappointed look? Is this little recce into the countryside messing up a big date with someone new, or are you missing your favourite programme on the box?’

  ‘No, nothing so important. But if I’d realised we were going to be here for a while, I would have packed a flask of coffee and some biscuits.’