Red Red Wine (DI Angus Henderson Book 5)

by Iain Cameron

  The taxi driver took his luggage and placed it in the boot. At the same time, Brook took a look round, at the street, at the parked cars, at the row of houses, his house nestling in the middle as if being hugged on both sides. He shook his head at what he was leaving behind and climbed into the taxi.

  He didn’t feel vindictive towards Perry and his associates for causing this, he’d known one day it would come to this. He felt scared and apprehensive, of course, but not vindictive. However, his attitude would change if he discovered that Landseer had been murdered. Inside a filing cabinet at his office above the wine shop, he’d compiled a file of incriminating evidence, and all it would take was a simple phone call to Sam or Anders and they would all be put away for life.

  Maybe then, he would return and live here, but no, he couldn’t kid himself. Daniel Perry was a vicious, devious thug and took offence at the merest sign of betrayal. With several million pounds at stake, it wouldn’t matter if Perry, David Frankland and Perry’s big Russian ogre, Hal, were all locked away in Belmarsh, Perry knew enough people that could locate him and kill him. He knew he could never return.

  Five minutes into his journey to Heathrow, his phone rang. He looked at the display: Jim Bennett. He pressed the red button and ended the call. He would answer it at some point in the day, as he needed to confirm the reason for him being hounded, but not yet.

  He had no clear idea where he wanted to go other than a quick flight to Europe, so he took the advice of the taxi driver and stopped outside Terminal Five. He knew British Airways were the sole user of the terminal, but with their network, they could take him anywhere in the world. Once inside the spacious building, he searched for a sales desk and while waiting his turn in the queue, his phone rang. Again it was Bennett and again he refused to answer it.

  ‘Hello sir, how can I help you?’

  ‘The board says you have a flight to Paris at twelve fifty-five, are there any seats left for little old me?’

  ‘Let me take a look sir,’ she said tapping the keyboard with long, red nails. He looked at her face while she waited for the screen to load. A pretty face with neatly trimmed hair, but way too much foundation and mascara, her way of countering the harsh lighting and the skin-drying air-conditioning of this cavernous building, he assumed.

  ‘I am sorry sir,’ she said, her ruby lips moving in a way that mesmerised him, ‘the flight is full. There’s another flight to Paris at fifteen ten, or an earlier one at thirteen-oh-five from Terminal Two.’

  ‘The second flight’s too late and I don’t want to go to another terminal. Rome, what about Rome? I think there’s a flight at one thirty.’

  She checked Rome. ‘Sorry sir. That flight is full as well.’

  Mentally, cracks were beginning to appear. What if he couldn’t get away? Stage One of his Big Getaway Plan and he can’t go anywhere. Focus Brook, focus.

  ‘Amsterdam? What about there?’

  He’d been to Amsterdam many times before, for business and pleasures of the flesh, and knew the city well. It was low on his preferred list as Bennett knew he liked the place and might be tempted to follow him there, but if he could find a flight an idea was hatching in his mind how he could thwart his pursuers. ‘When’s the next flight?’

  ‘The next one is at thirteen fifteen, and…let me see. I can give you a seat in Economy or Business. Which would you prefer?’

  He felt like leaning over the counter and giving those radiant, red lips a kiss, but he restrained himself and instead handed over his shiny, new, unused credit card.

  Clutching his boarding card, Brook stood in a long line of passengers, waiting his turn to be fondled by an acne-scarred man from Security. Once through and standing air-side, doing up his belt and laces, his stress levels took a dip and nudged below the ‘anxiety’ point for the first time that morning.

  Even if Bennett traced him to this airport, he wouldn’t know which terminal, and even if he managed to strike lucky and chose Terminal Five, he would be searching the cafés, gift shops and pubs on the landside section of the terminal without any hope of success. If he was on the ball and bought a ticket to anywhere as Brook had done, it was possible they could meet, but Bennett wouldn’t be armed as he would have had to pass through security to go airside, and Brook could call the cops if things turned nasty.

  On reflection, Amsterdam didn’t make such a bad choice, he mused as he sipped a glass of cool, but not cool enough, metallic tasting Chablis in the V-Bar. Cocaine would be plentiful and the nightlife would be very interesting indeed, plenty of leather and latex from what he remembered. Worth a one or two day stopover at least.

  His phone rang. It was Bennett, and again he diverted it to voicemail. At twelve-thirty, he walked to the departure gate and took a seat in an empty row at the back. He took out his phone, and after first checking to see if Bennett had left any messages, which he hadn’t, he called Landseer Properties.

  ‘Mr Brook, I’m so glad you called,’ Miriam said, her voice tearful and gasping. ‘George, our handyman, went round to Mr Landseer’s house, as you suggested. When he got no reply, he asked a neighbour to help him. They tried looking in the windows but all the curtains were shut.’ She sobbed, big heaves of air suffused with mucus-filled sniffing. ‘The neighbour used a spare key to open the door and they found Mr Landseer lying in a pool of blood on the living room floor. He’s dead,’ she wailed. ‘He’d been shot in the head.’ She started to wail again and after offering some words of condolence, Brook ended the call.

  Landseer was dead! His suspicions were spot-on. Perry somehow had discovered their scam and the bastards had hit Landseer first. He felt vindicated in his decision not to go to the shop this morning; he now knew Bennett was there to kill him. Thank God for the evacuation plan and thank God for clever young Sam; he would send him something in appreciation.

  At one time, he used to like Landseer. They’d even been lovers for a short period, but eventually Brook had seen him for what he was: a greedy self-satisfying grub of a man who thought only of himself. He mourned his death not as the passing of a friend, but as the end of a scheme that had made him rich and could have made him even richer if only it had been allowed to continue. It was an impure thought, but he supposed with Landseer dead, all his money would now become Brook’s. He tipped an imaginary glass of champagne at the heavens in appreciation.

  His flight was called and he joined the queue of backpackers, businessmen and a few lads intent on a riotous couple of days merrymaking. He handed over his passport and boarding card and walked towards the aircraft. His phone rang.

  ‘Hello Jim, how are you?’ Brook said.

  ‘I’m fine Fraser,’ Bennett replied. ‘I’ve been trying to contact you all day. Where have you been?’

  ‘I had to go and see a customer who wanted their wines valued. It happens from time to time, and I always turn my phone off as I don’t want any interruptions while they are talking about their precious collections. What did you want to talk me about that was so urgent?’

  ‘It’s not so much me, Perry needs to see you. He wants a chat about a new idea he’s got. It’s designed to make you both pots of money.’

  ‘What little idea is this?’

  ‘You’ll need to speak to him personally to find out. All he’s asked me to do is to pick you up and take you over to see him.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Where are you now? We can come and give you a lift.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary–’

  ‘What’s that fucking noise in the background?’ Bennett said, his voice raised. ‘You’re at the bloody airport, you sod.’ Brook heard a muffled sound as Bennett put his hand over the mouthpiece to speak to someone. ‘He’s at an airport, Heathrow probably. Let’s go!’

  ‘I suppose the idea that Perry wants to talk to me about is the same idea you spoke to Charles Landseer about, Jim?’ Brook said.

  ‘You fucking shit Brook, you and Landseer stole from us and now you’re gonna pay, like he did.’


  ‘You won’t find me, you animals.’

  ‘We want all the money back, every last penny. You’re–’

  Brook terminated the call and turned the device off. He walked onto the aircraft and headed into Business Class, locating his large comfortable seat, unfolding the complimentary newspaper and looking forward to the short flight across the North Sea, safe in the knowledge that he would never see Jim Bennett again.

  It couldn’t have been planned better if he’d tried. The most Landseer knew about the money was that it was held in a Swiss bank account. If they’d tortured him before killing him, which they likely had, they were now aware of this. They would also know the majority of large Swiss banks were located in Zurich and assume that’s where the stolen money would be. With luck, they would also assume he was heading there and hop on the next plane to Switzerland.

  He’d been to Zurich once before when he set up the accounts, and never needed to go back there as he’d been given electronic access. All he required was the internet, which he could get from any internet cafe or the laptop in his suitcase. In any case, Zurich and the rest of Switzerland closed at ten o’clock, and for a partying night-owl like himself, it was much too sedate.

  It helped his cause that a Zurich flight was scheduled to leave twenty-five minutes after the Amsterdam flight. Perry being the selfish and greedy man he was, would expect Brook to head to the place where the money was kept, and wouldn’t hesitate to send Bennett there after him.

  He stuck his glass out for another top-up of champagne from the handsome steward with the wavy black hair and deep blue eyes. The money, he knew, would not last forever but he would devise a way of selling the house and the business without revealing his whereabouts and that surely would be enough.

  If the worst came to the worst, and he managed to spend all the money, he would learn French or Italian and start working in the local wine trade, but what fun he was going to have along the way.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Henderson arrived at the office at the usual time, seven-thirty, but parked at the back of the car park, sparsely filled on a Saturday. When he woke up that morning, he still felt a bit under the weather and used the walk to his building to gulp in big lungfuls of unsullied air.

  Climbing the stairs was slow progress, making him feel like a man twenty years older, and it was relief when he arrived at his office. He couldn’t be bothered walking into the Detectives’ Room to make a coffee and instead, took a seat behind the desk and started reading a report left there by his boss.

  Ten minutes later, DS Walters walked in.

  ‘Morning, Carol. How are you? If I can be indiscreet, you look a bloody mess.’

  Most of her face was bruised, with heavier discolouring around one cheek and her nose, which also sported a line of white tape across the bridge, and much puffing around the eyes.

  ‘It looks bad but I’m getting used to it. The only thing that’s broken is my nose, thank God, but it hurt like hell at the time. How about you? Are you feeling any better?’

  ‘Forget about me, you shouldn’t be here. You should be at home in your flat in Queen’s Park, your feet up and breakfast news on the box.’

  ‘I tried that but I got bored,’ she said. ‘In any case, we’ve got a murder case to solve. How are you feeling? You look as bad as I feel.’

  ‘Thanks, and here’s me thinking I was getting better.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘I thought I’d start a new fashion trend: singed eyebrows and hair cut to the bone with no frizzy bits. I couldn’t face going out to the barbers so Rachel trimmed it.’

  ‘She’s done a good job, it suits you. No lung damage from the smoke?’

  ‘Ach, a bout of coughing now and again that makes me sound like a forty-a-day man, but not much. The fire seemed to be burning so fast it didn’t really emit much smoke, but I inhaled some foul chemicals. Every so often I can still taste them.’

  ‘Let me get you a coffee. The flavour of that stuff will overpower anything.’

  ‘Hang on a minute. Have you seen Deepak? How is he?’

  ‘He’s been a lucky boy, if you ask me. He turned and found Frankland behind him. Before he could react, Frankland smacked him in the face and he fell on the settee, just missing whacking his head on the edge of a metal lamp table.’

  ‘That could have been serious. Is he back on duty?’

  ‘He is, and looking none the worse for his ordeal.’

  ‘Pleased to hear it. How’s Frankland? Was he badly injured in the car crash?’

  ‘Not enough for my liking. He has concussion, facial injuries and suffered head injuries from a couple of loose objects that were lying on the seat of the car.’

  Henderson leaned over and looked at Walters intently. ‘I want Frankland, Perry, Bennett and the rest of that crew locked up and on trial for the kidnap and murder of Harvey Miller. I’m not letting any of them get away with it. Perry can try to be as slippery as he wants, but I’m having him. When can I speak to Frankland?’

  ‘Not yet, maybe in a few days. I’ll keep calling the hospital; I’ll let you know when they think we’ll get some sense out of him.’

  ‘Is he under 24-hour guard?’

  She nodded. ‘He is.’

  ‘We need to get him out of hospital as soon as possible. There are questions he needs to answer and I’m conscious that time isn’t on our side, as Perry has the money and contacts to do a disappearing act.’

  ‘I’m on the case, sir, quit worrying. I’ll go and get that coffee.’

  The team briefing started at nine prompt. For once a full house; either the ghoulish attraction of seeing a bashed-up Walters and the boss with a homemade haircut, or they believed there was a lot to catch up on.

  Henderson coughed to clear his throat. ‘We’ve been working on the scenario that wine merchant Fraser Brook bought large wine collections from country houses. To do this, he needed to have a contact in a country magazine or an estate agent; someone who could identify suitable properties. Yes?’ He looked around. Lots of nods and eagerness. His team could see light at the end of the tunnel. If only he shared their enthusiasm.

  He handed out an A4 copy of an article printed from the web. ‘On Thursday night, an estate agent with six offices in the London area was killed by a bullet to the head at his house in Westerham. His name is Charles Landseer, a mid-fifties seemingly respectable man, but his firm, Landseer Properties, deals with the buying and selling large country houses. A visit to the scene yesterday by Sally Graham and myself confirmed he was a known associate of Fraser Brook, our suspect wine dealer.’

  Henderson stopped to take a drink.

  ‘It looks like an assassination to me,’ Henderson continued, ‘but there’s more, Surrey have a witness. A neighbour walking his dog near the property saw a car driving along the road with its lights off around the time of the shooting. In it, he could see three men, and described the car as a dark-coloured Range Rover. You will recall, DS Walters and myself saw a dark-coloured Range Rover leave Forest Farm on the night of the murder, and the car which crashed into a telegraph pole when we captured David Frankland was a black Range Rover.’

  Henderson stood at the whiteboard and tapped the picture Harvey Miller had taken of the inside of the wine lab at Uckfield. ‘From conversations DS Walters had on-site with the Fire Investigation Team and Phil Bentley’s subsequent follow-up, I’m convinced the wine lab moved from Uckfield to Forest Farm. With their business now a pile of blackened wood, why did they kill Charles Landseer?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Deepak Sunderam said, ‘they decided to pack it in. They set fire to the business and killed all those who knew about it. Landseer first, and, if true, then Brook will be next.’

  ‘Perhaps, but the fire is increasingly looking like an accident.’

  ‘The appearance of Harvey Miller triggered this,’ Walters said, ‘so when he turned up for a second time, maybe they thought Landseer was the source of his information.’

  ‘Whichever way we look at
it,’ Henderson said, ‘Fraser Brook looks to be next on their list.’

  ‘We must have enough to arrest him,’ Phil Bentley said. ‘We could kill two birds with one stone, if you excuse my metaphor.’

  ‘It’s just what I’m going to do. Carol, prepare a warrant for Brook’s arrest and a search warrant for his wine business. I want to turn that place upside down and find some firm evidence of his involvement in passing off fake wine bottles, something this case has been sadly lacking.’

  ‘Yes, gov.’

  ‘Do we have enough to arrest Perry?’ Sally Graham asked.

  ‘Not yet,’ Henderson said. ‘When David Frankland comes out of hospital and we throw charges of assaulting DC Sunderam and DS Walters, possession of a firearm and the deaths of Harvey Miller and Charles Landseer at him, I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t give up Perry.’

  ‘What about the people who worked at Forest Farm?’ Phil Bentley asked. ‘Did they turn up for work the day after the fire?’

  ‘I forgot all about them. Carol, did you see anyone when you were over there?’

  ‘Nope. They either saw what was happening from the road and turned back, or one of the gang called them and told them the barn was kaput.’

  Henderson wrote something in his notebook. ‘We’ll talk to Frankland about that as well. This case just keeps getting bigger. Not only are we trying to close a wine-faking business and solve two, possibly three murders, it would be a rich bonus if we could get our hands on the people-traffickers as well.’

  ‘Now, on the subject of Fraser Brook…morning ma’am.’

  ‘Morning everyone,’ CI Edwards said walking towards them. ‘I see a few bashed faces around the room. How are you both doing?’