Red Red Wine (DI Angus Henderson Book 5)

by Iain Cameron

  He walked into the bathroom and was immediately struck by how empty it looked. ‘This doesn’t look right,’ he said out loud. ‘I don’t see any of his shaving things or shampoo or anything.’ He strode into the lounge, his anxiety and anger rising.

  ‘Look, there’s no newspapers on the floor or fucking maps and dirty coffee cups on the table.’ He walked to the wardrobe and opened the door. Suddenly, he threw his head towards the ceiling and gave out a loud groan that came from deep within his chest, ‘AHHHH! He’s fucking scarpered. The little bastard’s pulled a flanker. This place is completely empty!’

  Kenny was standing on the other side of the room near the television, in a small seating area with two small settees, a coffee table and, directly in front of them, a large floor-to-ceiling window. Anyone sitting there could enjoy fine views of the Amstel River and out to the rooftops of old Amsterdam beyond. ‘Da take a look at this, it’s addressed to you.’

  ‘Whatd’ya mean it’s addressed to me? How can something you find in a hotel room in Amsterdam be addressed to me?’

  ‘I dunno but this is.’

  ‘Let me see it,’ he said thrusting out a hand.

  Kenny handed over a white envelope. Handwritten in capitals on the front of an Amstel Hotel envelope, their distinctive logo embossed in red script at the top, ‘TO BE OPENED BY ADDRESSEE ONLY - Mr James Bennett.’

  ‘Where the fuck did you find this?’ he said as he ripped it open.

  ‘Propped up beside the telly.’

  Bennett pulled out the piece of paper inside and unfolded it. It was written again on Amstel-embossed notepaper. The handwriting looked neat, in black ink.

  Dear Jim,

  Well done and congratulations! You found me.

  Oops, sorry, only kidding, no you didn’t. When I came to Amsterdam I booked two hotels, this one, where I knew you would look, and a cheaper one elsewhere. For a small fee, the staff were instructed to call me as soon as anyone came looking for me. As a result, I am long gone.

  Ta, ta, Fraser xx

  PS I wouldn’t like to be the one to tell Daniel Perry that I’d failed.

  Bennett crumpled up the letter in his fist and let out another anguished cry. He turned and punched the wall, cutting his knuckles and putting a large dent in the plasterboard.

  Bennett called Perry from the taxi. After checking out of their hotel, they travelled to the airport, the visit to Amsterdam curtailed as their continued presence no longer served a purpose. Perry was furious to hear they’d come close but the thief who’d stolen so much money was heading for destinations unknown. He also reminded Bennett several times that if he had moved faster in the first place and got over to Amsterdam quicker, none of this would have happened.

  Bennett was moody and uncommunicative as the Airbus 380 cruised above the North Sea. His eyes were shut but he was not asleep as the occasional transport of his whisky glass from table to mouth testified. Kenny sat in the window seat leafing through the in-flight magazine.

  ‘We could hire a private detective,’ he said through pursed lips.

  ‘Sorry Da?’

  ‘You got cloth ears? I said, I think I’ll suggest to Perry we engage the services of an international detective agency to track Brook down. There’s no way you and me can hunt all over Europe for him. What if it costs fifty or a hundred grand, it’ll be worth it in the long run if they find him.’

  ‘Good idea Da, that whisky makes a good job of oiling your brain cogs.’

  ‘You’re a cheeky sod son, but this time I think you’re right.’

  THIRTY-ONE

  The surprise of the day when the team arrived at Fraser Brook’s Fine Wines in Chelsea, had to be the non-appearance of Fraser Brook. At first Henderson was led to believe he would be in later or was engaged on some errand, not that he could think of anything to detain him on a Sunday morning unless he was religious. When Brook didn’t show up, two hours after the shop opened, he came downstairs to the sales area and talked to Sam, the assistant manager.

  ‘When you said earlier Brook had things to do, did you mean today or generally?’ Henderson asked him.

  ‘More generally I suppose.’

  Sam Wilson had fair hair, long at the front and short at the back, a round slightly podgy face and looked stocky in build, a school rugby player, perhaps, gone to seed.

  ‘You said he was due in today. Is he coming in today?’

  ‘I dunno–’

  ‘Sam,’ Henderson said raising his voice, ‘is he or isn’t he?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Does he usually work Sundays?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. I think we’re getting somewhere. Where is he? Did you phone him and tell him there are police swarming all over his business? He’s not ill is he?’

  ‘No he’s not ill. He’s just not–’

  ‘Sam,’ Henderson said thumping his fist on the counter, almost pulverising the shop’s little credit card authorising terminal. ‘You may not realise but we’re not here to find Mr Brook’s unfiled VAT returns or to see if he’s been fiddling Customs.’

  ‘No? Then what are you here for?’

  ‘To find out who murdered three people.’

  ‘What…murder…I…’

  ‘I’m not looking for Mr Brook because I think he’s a murderer, I’m concerned he might be the next victim.’

  Sam stepped back and slumped on the stool behind him. ‘I…I didn’t know, I didn’t think all this was…so serious.’

  ‘It’s serious all right. I believe Mr Brook is in real danger. Where is he?’

  Sam went on to tell him about the visit to the shop on Friday of Jim Bennett and his son, Kenny. Sam was a natural storyteller and Henderson could visualise Jim Bennett stomping up and down inside the shop, his face set in a scowl, while Kenny stood quietly at the back, his mind in another place. He explained that when Bennett asked him where Brook lived, he really didn’t know as his boss didn’t reveal his address to anyone.

  ‘Fraser never talked about his house, the area where he lived, or invited us there. Now I think about it, he probably avoided talking about it as if he didn’t want anybody to know where he lived.’

  ‘Maybe he didn’t, but we’ll get his address from the local council and send someone round to take a look.’

  ‘You can do that?’

  Henderson nodded. ‘You think he scarpered because of what Bennett wanted to talk to him about?’ Henderson asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sir?’

  He turned and saw DS Carol Walters halfway down the stairs. ‘Sorry to interrupt, sir, but you need to come and see this.’

  ‘Ok, Carol. Give me five minutes.’

  He turned back to Sam. ‘Where would Mr Brook scarper to?’

  ‘I really don’t know and that’s the truth.’

  ‘Does he have access to an apartment abroad, is there a friend or relative he often visits?’

  He shook his head ‘I don’t know. I wish I did but Fraser said he would contact me when he found somewhere.’

  ‘Do you know what Bennett wanted to talk to him about?’

  ‘I have no idea, but it didn’t look like a friendly chat.’

  Henderson climbed the stairs at the rear of Brook’s Fine Wines. In many ways, Brook’s behaviour didn’t surprise him, any sane man would do the same after hearing that a close associate had been murdered, most likely by the gang they both worked for. It didn’t stop him wanting to grab Sam by the neck for not telling him sooner, but he could also understand why he wanted to protect his employer.

  Upstairs, a wide open area had seven desks, filing cabinets, photocopier; all the accoutrements of a small office. This room was the financial and administrative hub of Brook’s wine business, a busy wine shop here in Chelsea and a growing web-based business operated from a large warehouse in Hammersmith.

  Walters and the team of four were taking the place apart, paper by paper, invoice by invoice, and so far they had bagged a sizeable amount of infor
mation about the wine collections Brook bought from large country houses and the auctions he frequented to sell the wines. Walter sat behind one of the desks, a small file opened in front of her.

  He took the seat opposite. ‘What have you got there?’

  She looked up. ‘Ah, hello sir.’ She flipped over the front of the folder. ‘It says insurance on the cover but what’s inside didn’t look like cover notes and certificates to me when I first spotted it. It’s full of emails between Brook and that estate agent who was murdered, Landseer, and our old friend, Daniel Perry.’

  ‘Let me take a look.’

  He skimmed through an email between Brook and Landseer, looking not only at the content but also the language. Yes, it was about all the money they had made at auction, and yes, it was clear they were close business associates, and so one line on the whiteboard back at the office could be changed from dotted to thick black, but it was also about thieving. He grabbed another couple for comparison and it was obvious that Brook and Landseer were using the wine auctions to steal money from Daniel Perry. He sat back, amazed at their audacity, or perhaps naivety; Perry was a dangerous man to cross.

  The pennies dropped in his head like counters on a Battleship board. Perry had obviously discovered what was going on, and here was the reason why Landseer was killed and Brook bolted.

  ‘Why is the file called Insurance?’ he asked the sergeant.

  ‘I think Brook compiled it as his insurance in case they were on to him and he had to run.’

  ‘Like now.’

  ‘Yes, like now. I suppose a call to Sam or Anders and they would hand the file to us; he’s included enough in here to bring Perry and his team down.’

  **

  The trip to Brook’s shop in Chelsea this morning had interrupted a fine sleep, much required after a late night boozing with his sociable neighbours. Taking advantage of the recent dry weather, drinks had been served out on the patio before they all sat down to an equally liquid ‘supper.’ They didn’t get home until after two.

  Henderson picked up the thickening wine-faking file and stretched. With a sigh, he walked out of his office and headed into the Detectives’ Room.

  He could see pleased looks on the faces of DS Walters and DS Wallop, their morning’s activities had been most productive, but he decided to keep their powder dry for a few minutes.

  ‘What’s the latest on PC Quinlan?’ he said when everyone in the room had quietened down.

  ‘He took a bang on the head when woke up inside the wardrobe and tried to stand, and still feels off-colour from the anaesthetic,’ DC Sunderam said, ‘but there is no lasting injuries.’

  ‘At least he didn’t need to go far to receive treatment,’ Walters said.

  ‘I’m pleased to hear that he wasn’t badly hurt. Is he back on duty?’

  ‘No sir. He’ll be off for the next few days.’

  A few officers, including Walters, groaned and no wonder, looking at the bruises on her face.

  ‘What about our patient, David Frankland, the reluctant escapee?’

  ‘He’s none the worse for his ordeal,’ Sunderam said. ‘He was heavily sedated to aid his recovery before being kidnapped, and doesn’t have a clear recollection of what went on afterwards.’

  ‘Just as well,’ Walters said. ‘I’d have nightmares about lying down on a busy road with lorries thundering by.’

  ‘Just think if the sedative had worn off,’ Phil Bentley said. ‘A confused half-dressed man wandering around the countryside; doesn’t bear thinking about.’

  ‘It couldn’t happen to a better person,’ Harry Wallop said.

  ‘What about our hospital abductors. Any news there?’

  Sunderam shook his head. The young man could do a sad face better than anyone in the room. There had to be a good use for such a talent, but at the moment he couldn’t think what it might be. ‘I’m afraid not, sir. None of the cameras could give us a clear shot of their faces.’ He looked around for Phil Bentley. ‘Phil, do you want to talk about the hunt for the car?’

  ‘Sure. They were driving a dark green Volvo estate. We picked the reg up from the hospital car park CCTV.’

  ‘Good work,’ Henderson said.

  ‘Thank you sir. We traced it to a Graham Sullivan and to cut a long story short, he’s the admin guy at Daniel Perry’s company. All the cars and vans used by the business are managed by him. He reported the Volvo stolen on the day of the abduction.’

  ‘No doubt he reported the theft some time after they realised the rescue mission had gone pear-shaped.’

  ‘You’re probably right, sir.’

  ‘Sometime soon,’ Henderson said, ‘Essex Police will be called out to a burned out shell in Epping Forest.’

  ‘They need to check there isn’t a couple of bodies inside,’ Walters said. ‘Daniel Perry doesn’t tolerate failure. Either that, or two frightened guys will have made their way to Spain or Morocco.’

  ‘Harry, what news from Landseer Properties?’

  ‘The search of their offices didn’t reveal anything to move this case forward, but that was before I found out this little gem. I called one of the detectives on the Landseer murder team and he’d just received the ballistics report on the bullets removed from the victim’s body. If you remember, DS Walters saw a gun in an attaché case first seen in the attic of David Frankland’s house and subsequently recovered from his crashed car. We sent the details of our gun to Surrey and as suspected, their bullets match our gun.’

  ‘Whoa!’ was all Henderson could say as everyone began to talk at once.

  ‘Frankland’s bad week just got worse,’ Sally Graham said.

  ‘Yeah,’ Phil Bentley said, ‘he might be getting out of hospital, but he won’t be out of jail for a very long time.’

  ‘Brilliant work, Harry, well done,’ Henderson said. ‘Are they sending down confirmation?’

  ‘Yep. They’ll send it and the guy I spoke to, DS Stevenson, would like a word with you. He’ll call you in the morning.’

  Henderson tried to suppress his delight at this excellent bit of news. It was the first piece of real, solid, tangible evidence in this case; everything else, their assumptions about relationships and actions, the perpetrators and their presumed guilt or innocence, mere supposition based on whatever facts they had to hand.

  ‘That will make our conversation with David Frankland flow a bit easier,’ Henderson said. ‘When do you think we can interview him, Deepak?’

  ‘Today is Sunday.’ He paused for a moment, thinking. ‘I would say the hospital will release him about Wednesday.’

  Henderson could rely on Sunderam’s assessments of patient recovery times, as he didn’t use his experience and gut feel as many officers did, but his own medical knowledge. His father was a heart surgeon and his son at one time was heading for a career in medicine before finally opting to join the police.

  ‘This is better, I feel at last we’re making progress. Put out an all-ports alert to find Fraser Brook before he ends up like Landseer. I want a warrant prepared for the arrest of James Bennett, Kenny Bennett and, I never thought I’d get to say this, Daniel Perry.’

  THIRTY-TWO

  The plane landed on time and the passengers arriving into Heathrow on the Amsterdam flight made their way into the airport terminal. Some rushed to make important meetings, others sauntered with the air of people who had little idea of what they would do next.

  The queues at Passport Control were light and they passed through quickly. Despite the lax drugs policy of the Netherlands, Customs focussed their main resources on targeting big players, and Jim Bennett and his son reached the Arrivals Hall without molestation. In spite of the obvious temptation, Bennett didn’t bring back any dope.

  Bennett saw Hal as the automatic doors opened and the weary travellers were faced with a large crowd of friends, business colleagues and taxi drivers, as if they were celebrities and these were their fans. Hal nodded. It wasn’t hard for the Russian to spot them, not that Bennett’s
ever-present black leather jacket and Kenny in his Red Sox gear were so distinctive among bright tracksuits and garish jumpers and jackets, but Hal was six-foot-six and occupied the standing space of two ordinary men.

  ‘I know Perry wanted an update,’ Bennett said to Hal when they approached him, ‘but I thought he’d wait until I’d been home for a shit, a shower and something to eat.’

  ‘Boss wants to see you now,’ Hal said.

  Hal strode out to the car park, the two sullen travellers walking some way behind. They couldn’t keep pace with the Russian’s big legs while pulling their small cases, made heavier with the whisky Bennett bought in Amsterdam. Hal climbed into a Mercedes 4x4 and by the time he found his shades and put the exit ticket in a place where he could easily find it, Jim Bennett and Kenny had clambered in to join him.

  ‘This is a better class of transport than the old Volvo you usually drive, Hal,’ Bennett said.

  ‘I agree. The big Volvo car is lying low for the moment.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You need to ask boss.’

  Little conversation flowed between them as they made their way east. Bennett didn’t feel sociable after the debacle in Amsterdam, and Hal didn’t know much English. Traffic around London and the M25, was busy even for a Sunday evening, when he imagined most people would be at home sleeping off a big Sunday lunch. It didn’t surprise him as everywhere he went in London these days was busier than he ever remembered.

  An hour and a bit later, they drove into the car park at DP Building Supplies in Barking, closed at this time of the day. The only other car there, beside two of the company’s vans, was Perry’s light blue Aston Martin.

  Bennett and Kenny walked into the shop. The lighting was dim with only the security lights burning. They headed towards the little office Perry often used when he visited the branch, but a shout from the Manager’s office redirected them.