by Iain Cameron
Perry was sitting behind the scratched wooden desk where Kevin, the manager, usually sat, biting his nails; never a good sign. There was no smart suit today but a yellow Pringle sweater and snazzy blue shirt and the lightly greyed hair, cut every three weeks, coiffured to perfection.
‘The intrepid travellers return. Take the weight off, the pair of you.’
They took the two seats opposite the desk.
‘I’ll come straight to the point: you couple of tossers have fucked-up big style. Brook jetted off with over three mill of my money and you don’t have a clue where the fuck he is.’
‘We nearly nabbed him.’
‘Nearly doesn’t cut shit in my business. Show me the letter he left.’
‘I binned it.’
‘Tell me what it said.’
Bennett did as he was told while Perry sat back in the chair listening. ‘So, what do you propose we do next?’
They both started talking at once, trying to tell him about the private investigator idea they had come up with on the plane.
‘Hal, take Kenny out to the drinks machine and get him a drink while I have this conversation with his pa.’
Hal went out with Kenny and shut the door. Perry leaned over the desk and pointed a finger at him.
‘If you’d gone out to Amsterdam when I said you should go, none of this would have happened.’
‘Of course it bloody would. Brook’s been planning this for a long time. I mean, he’s been nicking money for years, he needed to have some idea how he was going to get away with it if the bubble burst.’
‘It doesn’t matter if Brook had a plan or not. We were right on his tail and you let him go. Makes me think you deliberately let him go. Maybe you’re in the scam with him; I remember times when the two of you would go into a huddle, thick as thieves.’
He remembered too, but it was about cocaine, not money.
‘Why the fuck would I let him go?’ Bennett said. ‘He and Landseer nicked my money, same as yours.’
‘Maybe you wanted a bigger share.’
‘Don’t be daft. Are you doubting my loyalty?’
‘I don’t doubt you’ve got it, but you’re loyal only to one person, Jim Bennett. You don’t give a toss about the organisation or what I’m trying to build here.’
Hal came back into the room and closed the door.
‘Where’s Kenny,’ Bennett asked.
‘He’s watching TV,’ Hal said.
‘So what is your great plan to find Brook?’ Perry said. ‘I’d like to hear it.’
He explained the idea of the PI and why he believed the cost would be irrelevant, given the amount of money they would gain in return. ‘Hang on a sec,’ Bennett said. ‘This place doesn’t have a TV. What have you done with Kenny?’
He smelled a rat and rose from his seat, automatically reaching for his piece in the shoulder holster, but it wasn’t there. They didn’t give him time to go home and get tooled up.
Bennett leaned over the desk, his face red with anger. He pointed an accusing finger at Perry. ‘If you think I’m taking the fall for–’
Hal wrapped something around his neck and pulled tight. Oh no, not his fucking trademark cheese wire. Perry’s face flitted in and out of focus as he pulled at his neck, desperately gasping for air.
**
Some time later, Jim Bennett woke up. The fog in his brain worse than the nastiest hangover and the thump in his head like the crappiest ’flu symptoms. A spasm shot through him and in an involuntary action he opened his eyes and without warning, a bucket of water was thrown over him. Water dripped into his eyes making it hard to see, but when he did manage to focus, his clothing was ripped and electrodes were attached to his skin.
He screamed and shook in panic. He could take beatings, water boarding, be deprived of water and food, but he hated the thought of being electrocuted. He feared electricity with all the rationale of an agoraphobic or a hydrophobic; there was no childhood incident to recall, no recurring nightmare that nagged at his subconscious, no scary Doctor Who adventure to spook him. It just did.
‘Ah, I see you’re with us again, Bennett,’ Perry said. ‘You will see Hal has attached some wires to your chest and balls. They are connected to the alternator and battery from a forty-four-tonne DAF truck. You think he’s just some thick Russian, only good for bashing people’s heads in, but let me tell you, he’s a genius with car engines. If I turn this little handle here...’
Bennett screamed as an electric jolt surged through his body. He shook and shivered, fear gripping his senses like a vice.
‘What do you want from me?’
‘I want to find out if you’re working with Brook.’
‘No, no I’m fucking not,’ he bellowed.
Perry reached for the handle and turned it, causing Bennett to spasm and shake.
‘I’m not working with Brook,’ he said but it came out more like a wail as his voice sounded cracked and thin. ‘It was him and that crooked estate agent, Landseer. I swear.’
‘I believe you. I was just testing.’
‘Me or the kit?’
‘You.’
‘I passed, yeah? Let me go.’
‘No way. You fucked up more than once and I don’t tolerate fuck-ups. This is payback time and you must know by now, as I’ve heard you say it about me more than once, what a sadistic bastard I can be.’
‘I never did–’
‘Don’t lie to me, Bennett. It was never ‘Daniel’, ‘Mr Perry’, or ‘boss’, it was always ‘Perry’. You’re an insolent bastard. How you ever progressed to Colour Sergeant in the Army I will never know.’
He began to turn the handle with a determined look on his face, but this time the rotating handle didn’t stop. ‘This is for switching off the alarm at Uckfield and letting that PI into our warehouse,’ Perry said, ‘this is for selling coke to Brook when I expressly banned drugs; this is for allowing Brook to go to Amsterdam when you could have caught him sooner; this is for your insolent attitude to me...’
It turned and turned and turned until he could take no more; he blacked out.
He woke up some time later, with no idea of how much time had passed as it was dull in this place and it didn’t look much different from before. He was still attached to electrodes and the infernal device was still there, ready and willing to torture him, but with no sign of Perry or Hal.
He moved, trying to get more comfortable when he realised the ropes holding him didn’t feel as tight as they once were. He twisted his wrist and gradually could touch the end of the cord wrapped around his hands. Gripping the end through two fingers he pulled as hard as his constraints allowed, but the tension in his fingers caused unbelievable agony in his damaged muscles and tendons and he had to stop and restart a few minutes later.
He tugged the cords for what felt like half an hour and pulled out about four inches, but still it wouldn’t give. Sweat poured down his face hampering his concentration and he was as thirsty as a camel in the desert; he should have kept his mouth open when they threw the water at him, he thought bitterly.
He steeled himself for one final effort and pulled through the pain. Sweat dripped down his face and neck as he pushed himself harder and harder until finally the cord slackened and his hands fell free. He slumped forward, exhausted.
For a few minutes, he massaged life back into his wrists and then untied his feet. Light was coming in from a pair of open double doors. With no other exits visible in this, an abandoned factory, he walked towards the doors, staggering unsteadily with all the finesse of a Friday night drunk. Outside and away from the putrid odours of his own body fluids and oil, he gulped down air like a drowning man and a few several seconds later, tried to orientate himself.
Across from where he stood, he could see in the dim light a row of workshops, and rising up behind them in the distance, two tower blocks, but still nothing looked familiar. There was only one way out of this place as there was a wall to his left, so with uncertainty blunted by pai
n and exhaustion, he started walking.
From the shadows a voice said, ‘You made it, Bennett, well done. Hal you owe me fifty big ones.’
Bennett began to run, but his movement felt stuttered, as if the ground was smeared in treacle. He heard the noise of a suppressed shot and he fell headlong into concrete. His left leg had been hit but he knew the bullet came from a handgun and not a limb-damaging SA80 or Armalite, it could be patched up. He tried to get to his feet but a boot caught him in the back of the neck forcing him face down.
‘We’ve toyed with you long enough,’ Perry said. ‘This is what happens to useless fuck-ups like you.’ He heard the metallic squeak of a trigger being pulled.
THIRTY-THREE
Henderson took a seat in the interview room beside DS Walters. Facing them was David Frankland and his brief, Dominic Shearer. Frankland didn’t look too bad for being in a car smash and then being left lying on a country road, except for a few marks and bruises on his face and walking with a crutch.
‘Good morning Mr Frankland; Mr Shearer.’
He went over various items of housekeeping as Walters started the recording machine.
‘I’m glad to see your move from hospital to Lewes nick went without a hitch,’ Henderson said, ‘or the reappearance of your two escape buddies.’
‘For all they say about NHS food, it was ten times better than the slop they serve in Lewes, and those two men weren’t my buddies. I don’t know who they were.’
‘Two men you didn’t know tried to kidnap you from hospital? Give me a break. If they were your enemies, they would have left you in the middle of the M25, not on a quiet country road.’
‘My client has said he didn’t know the men, Inspector, that should be the end of it.’
‘I’m not bothered one way or the other, Mr Shearer. I can hardly charge Mr Frankland with trying to escape from custody while being sedated, can I?’
‘Quite so.’
‘No, I’m not concerned, there are plenty of other items down here on this charge sheet that will give Mr Frankland loads of time to get used to the food in the prison service.’
‘I do not agree with your analysis of the current situation. Unless you can show more evidence than you currently have, I insist you release my client without further delay.’
Henderson looked him straight in the eye. ‘In case you haven’t read the charge sheet, item three is the assault of two police officers at Forest Farm, or didn’t you see it? I don’t think even Mr Frankland would have the gall to try and deny it.’
Shearer opened and closed his mouth but no words escaped.
Henderson turned to Frankland. ‘Mr Frankland, at the heart of this investigation is the wine-faking business operated by you, Daniel Perry and James Bennett from premises in Uckfield and, later, the barn at the side of your house in Loxwood. I’d like to know how it all worked.’
‘What wine-faking operation?’
‘DS Walters, let Mr Frankland see the pictures.’
‘For the record,’ Walters said, ‘I am placing a series of photographs in front of Mr Frankland that show the inside of a warehouse on the Bell Lane Industrial Estate, Uckfield.’
She laid out the pictures taken by Harvey Miller of the Uckfield warehouse and Henderson watched as the colour drained from Frankland’s cheeks.
‘Where the hell did you get these?’
‘A source. How did it work, what was your involvement?’
He took a final look and pushed the pictures back towards Walters. ‘All very interesting, I’m sure, but bugger-all to do with me.’
‘So, you are denying any participation in this wine-faking business, and also denying you received financial benefits from its operation?’
‘I told you, mate I know nothing about it.’
‘Mr Frankland–.’
‘Inspector, I think my client has made it perfectly clear. He is innocent of these charges.’
Henderson reached for another file and placed two pages in front of Frankland, at the same time saying what he was doing for the tape. It was a list of bank transactions with several highlighted in yellow.
‘This is a print-out of one of Fraser Brook’s bank accounts where he deposited the money he made from selling wine collections, including fakes from this business that you deny knowing anything about. The items in yellow are marked ‘Frankland.’ When we took a look at your bank account, Mr Frankland, you know what we found?’
He shook his head.
Henderson passed another couple of sheets of paper over to the lawyer and his client.
‘There, sitting in your bank account, are the exact amounts Brook transferred. There’s two hundred thousand in the first sheet alone. Now isn’t that an amazing coincidence?’
‘Bloody hell,’ Frankland exploded.
‘I’m sure there is an innocent explanation for all –’ Shearer said but a hand clamped on his arm from Frankland stopped him.
‘Where the hell did you get this?’ Frankland asked.
‘We found it when we searched Brook’s shop in Chelsea,’ Henderson said almost casually, wanting to make its discovery appear accidental. Brook was in enough danger already without alerting the gang to the ‘Insurance’ file’s existence.
Lawyer and client talked in low voices. Shearer said something to him and Frankland looked up to the sky and sighed. He turned to Henderson. ‘You got me there mate, I can’t explain it.’
‘So, people you don’t know come and try and rescue you, and other unknown people deposit large sums of money into your bank account? As a plot for a book it belongs in Alice in Wonderland, not a crime novel or thriller.’ Henderson slapped his hand on the statements, exasperated at Frankland’s continued obstruction. ‘This money came from the wine-faking business, didn’t it?’
Frankland smiled. ‘When you put it like that, it does sound a bit flaky.’
‘Flaky? It’s bloody preposterous,’ Henderson said. ‘Look mate, we’ve got enough evidence here to take this thing to trial and get a conviction, and make no mistake, we will. If you tell us how the process worked, it will work in your favour when the case comes to trial.’
Frankland leaned over to Shearer and said something. Lawyer and client had a quiet discussion for a few minutes before Frankland turned to face the detectives.
‘Ask away.’
‘How did it start?’
He stopped to take a drink of coffee. ‘It was my idea. I come from New South Wales, an area full of vineyards and I saw how rich folks fawned over bottles with old labels and were willing to pay fancy prices for them. I quit the Army and came over here and started working for Daniel. When I found out he owned a couple of vineyards, the idea just grew from there.’
‘Daniel Perry did what, financed it?’
‘No, I did.’
‘C’mon, you don’t expect me to believe that? In some of the other financial records we recovered from Brook’s shop, we can prove large payments came from Perry to Brook, presumably to finance purchase of the wine collections, and later, a larger payment going back the other way. We’ll need more time to match them to specific auctions but we’ll get there in the end.’
Frankland whispered something to his brief that had Shearer shaking his head.
Frankland said, ‘Perry financed it.’
‘The main beneficiaries are who: you, Jim Bennett, Daniel Perry, Fraser Brook and Charles Landseer?’
‘Nah, it was me, Jim Bennett and Daniel Perry. Brook and Landseer got twenty grand each for every sale.’
‘Sounds a bit mean when you guys were sharing a couple of hundred grand.’
‘In hindsight you might be right. The slimy bastards started stealing.’
‘Who? Brook and Landseer?’ Henderson said, feigning innocence as he already knew.
‘Nicked about three mill, the bastards.’
Henderson whistled. ‘Three million pounds and you didn’t notice?’
‘When you say it like that it does sound a bit careless, I suppose
, but we had other things to worry about.’
‘That may be so, Mr Frankland but we cannot ignore how you dealt with one of the thieves, Charles Landseer.’
‘Before we cover the final charge, Inspector, I would like ten minutes with my client.’
He looked at Walters, who nodded. ‘I fancy a coffee.’
‘Me too,’ Henderson said. ‘Fair enough Mr Shearer. We’ll stop for ten minutes. Interview terminated at 16:34.’
Henderson instructed the PC standing outside the interview room door, additional security in case Frankland’s break-out boys tried their luck here, to bring some refreshments for Shearer and Frankland. The two detectives climbed the stairs up to the second floor and walked into the Detectives’ Room where they knew they could find a decent coffee machine.
‘In the space of thirty minutes,’ Walters said, ‘he moved from looking like a gangster, confident of being released, to a convicted murderer waiting to be hanged. I couldn’t believe his faked innocence over money hitting his bank account, and even his aborted hospital rescue.’
‘Frankland was probably pressuring his brief to get him out of here, and, scared of facing Perry and telling him bad news, the brief told him what he wanted to hear.’
‘I don’t understand why, he would know that assaulting a copper would give him a couple of years at least. How did he expect to get off? Was he going to suggest that me and Deepak beat up one another? You can still see the bruises on my face, the bastard.’
‘His brief knew about the ballistics report and our intention to charge his client with Landseer’s murder. Even to prove possession of the weapon would give him four or five years. He should have come into that interview aiming to strike a bargain, not deny everything and make us lay out the case, sheet by sheet. If he’d given me Perry on a plate, I’d maybe go easy on one of the charges.’
‘You’re right, he should have.’
‘Go and talk to Phil Bentley. Find out the latest about the hunt for Perry and Bennett.’
