by Iain Cameron
The back door was unlocked and they walked in. ‘Hello!’ Walters shouted. ‘Is anybody there?’
Walters stood leaning against the large table in the kitchen and listened. A minute or two later, she heard footsteps and a small woman walked towards her. She wore green-checked overalls, her hair was tied back in a bun behind her head and in her hand she carried a yellow duster.
‘Hello there. I’m Detective Sergeant Walters from Surrey and Sussex Police,’ she said holding up her ID. ‘This is my colleague Detective Constable Sunderam. The door was open.’
The housekeeper stood at the end of the table, eyeing the younger woman with suspicion written all over her face. ‘I’m Janet Grainger, the housekeeper here. How can I help you?’ she said, her lips pressed tersely together.
‘Janet, I’m here about the fire.’ The words tumbled out before she could stop them. Why else would a couple of detectives be visiting this remote farmhouse?
‘I thought as much, but I prefer Mrs Grainger, if you don’t mind.’
‘Who owns this place?’
‘He’s not in residence at the moment. He often goes abroad.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘I don’t think it’s any of your business.’
‘Mrs Grainger, need I remind you that I am a police officer and I’m investigating a serious crime. Your lack of cooperation may be hindering the apprehension of a murderer. You can either answer my questions here, or I’ll take you back to an interview room at Lewes and you can answer them there; your choice. Do you understand?’
Mrs Grainger pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘Murder you said. Who was murdered?’
She was tempted to say, ‘I don’t think it’s any of your business,’ but stopped. ‘We are conducting an on-going murder enquiry and believe whatever went on in the barn out there is connected to it. Now, let’s start with the owner’s name.’
‘David Frankland. This farm and the barn and the stables are all owned by him.’
She didn’t expect to hear his name. David Frankland; Daniel Perry’s boot man. The big Australian they’d interviewed in Gosport who came across as another hard, aggressive businessman, but now it appeared he was up to his neck in wine faking.
‘Where is Mr Frankland now?’
‘I don’t know. As I said before, he goes abroad a lot and often at short notice. I haven’t seen him for over a week. First I knew anything was wrong was when I saw details of the fire on the local news this morning.’
‘Have you been in contact with him these past few days?’
‘No, he doesn’t talk much to me. I come in two days a week, tidy-up, clean and then I go home to make my Robert’s lunch. I’ve got a key. I don’t often see him.’
‘Did you notice anything unusual going on in the barn?’
‘I know Mr Frankland moved one of his businesses here after the lease ran out on their previous place, but not much more.’
‘What does the business do?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t ask. All I saw was a bunch of young people coming in here first thing in the morning.’
‘I’d like to take a look around the house, if it’s ok with you.’
‘Be my guest, but there’s not much to see, a single man living in a big place like this. It’s not natural if you ask me.’
TWENTY-FIVE
Sally Graham picked Henderson up from outside his house in College Place and they headed north towards Westerham. He preferred using his own car when attending crime scenes as he often stayed longer than many of his officers and had all sorts of equipment and clothes in the boot. He didn’t mind this time as he didn’t feel much like driving and he knew Sally Graham was a decent driver.
‘What do we know about the victim?’ he asked.
‘As I said on the phone, he’s an estate agent and owns six offices in Central London, Surrey, Hertfordshire and Middlesex, all selling large country properties.’
‘Do we know if he has any connection with Fraser Brook?’
‘Not yet but the Surrey detective I spoke to, DI Blake…Do you know him?’
He nodded. ‘Aggressive, territorial and ignorant. He won’t be pleased when we turn up and start tramping over his patch.’
‘He was ok with me. He said he would ask his guys to keep their eyes open for Brook’s name.’
‘He probably said that to try and keep you in Lewes, but he’s a decent cop and if he says he’ll do something, he’ll do it. Mind you, if we do find a strong connection between our case and his, he’ll create a mighty fuss if we try to take it away from him.’
It didn’t take long to reach Westerham, a pretty Surrey village a few miles south of the M25. Landseer’s house was easy to spot as it was large, befitting an up-market estate agent, and replete with incident tape and numerous police vehicles.
Despite Surrey and Sussex being part of the same CID directorate, it didn’t do to blunder into another DI’s crime scene and walk around as if he was meant to be there. Instead, he sought out DI Blake. They found him in the living room, watching an ambulance crew zip the inert body of Charles Landseer into a body bag.
‘Hello, Eric.’
‘Ah, it’s you Henderson, and I take it you,’ he said turning to DC Graham, ‘must be the nice woman who called me.’ The smile was snake-like and at any moment, Henderson was expecting to see a forked tongue dart out.
‘What happened?’ Henderson asked.
‘What’s it to you?’
‘I’m sure DC Graham told you about the case we’re working on.’
‘I wanna hear it from you.’
The ambulance crew lifted the stretcher and they all stood back and watched as it moved out of the room at a slow, dignified pace.
‘We believe Charles Landseer may have been involved in a wine faking fraud case we’re investigating.’
‘How?’
Henderson explained the role he believed an estate agent would play and how it might be connected to wine dealer, Fraser Brook.
‘This is the name my guys have been keeping an eye out for?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good news. My tech guy out in the study found some stuff on the victim’s pc about Brook, but I tell you Henderson, I don’t care how much this dovetails with your case, you’re not fucking getting it. I’ve been sitting on my thumbs for the last couple of weeks thanks to that bastard McDowell. If I can solve this, I want to shove the result up his arse.’
‘Understood, but I’m not interested in taking your case. I’ve got enough on my plate as it is.’
‘As long as you know.’
‘Fine, so what happened?’
He sighed and turned to face him. ‘A woman who works for Landseer came round to his door as she was worried when her boss didn’t show up for work this morning. A neighbour had a spare key and they found him lying on the carpet. Bullet wound to the knee and one to the head.’
‘A bullet to the knee? What’s that about?’
‘Stop him running away, what the fuck do I know? I’ll wait for the post mortem and ballistics before I make any wild assumptions.’
‘Any witnesses?’
‘It’s a quiet street, so no, but a neighbour out walking his dog saw a car drive to the end of the road without its lights on, which he thought odd. I’m not sure I do, but it was around the time we think our victim was hit so maybe I should.’
‘What sort of car?’
‘Not a bloody clue.’ He turned to face the open lounge door. ‘Evans!’ Blake shouted. ‘In here, now.’
A minute or so later, a red-faced constable entered the room.
‘What took you so long, son?’ Blake said.
‘I was searching the garden for clues like you said.’
‘Tell the nice man here about the neighbour who saw the car.’
As Evans reached his notebook, Blake took the opportunity of the diversion to escape. Henderson heard him say something to a colleague before he disappeared out of the room, heading back to
the office, no doubt, to start the paperwork and effectively stake his claim on this case.
‘A Mr Hadley Youngman was out walking his Labrador, Bruce, at about ten-thirty last night,’ PC Evans said, ‘when he saw a car travelling along the road outside. He took notice as it was dark and the car wasn’t displaying any lights.’
‘Where was Mr Youngman when he saw this?’ Henderson asked.
‘He was walking past Mr Landseer’s house.’
‘So, if it was the killer or killers in the car, he’d just had a lucky escape.’
‘He realises that now, sir. His wife had to give a him a sedative when we told him.’
‘So, what did he see?’
‘As I said, he saw a car with three occupants inside drive to the end of the road and turn right.’
‘Still no lights?’
‘The lights came on just as they turned the corner.’
‘What sort of car was it?’
‘He knows about cars, does our Mr Youngman. It was blue or black, he wasn’t definite about the colour as it was dark, but he was sure about the make: a Range Rover.’
**
Walters walked past the housekeeper of Forest Farm, Janet Grainger and out into a small corridor. DC Sunderam followed behind.
‘Deepak, you do downstairs and I’ll do up. Look in suitcases, wardrobes and drawers for money, drugs, arms, you name it. Ok?’
‘Right sergeant.’
Most of the bedrooms looked unused except for a large one at the end overlooking the front of the house. It offered views out to an expanse of two fields either side of the driveway, the village of Loxwood to the left, and a panorama of fields and trees as far as the eye could see in the centre. The cupboards, drawer units and wardrobe contained the clothes of a tall man who bought with little regard to price. She found cashmere sweaters, linen suits and big name labels, but nothing incriminating.
She heard a car engine and rushed to the window, her heart pounding. It wasn’t the return of David Frankland but the red Nissan Micra she saw earlier, the housekeeper off to make her Robert’s lunch, or to warn her employer.
The floor was of unpolished floorboards that creaked as she moved, grey in colour, and looking as thick and substantial as railway sleepers. A Chinese-style rug covered part of the floor and she rolled it back and examined the boards underneath. She tried to prise them loose but they didn’t budge, and nothing about their shape or colour looked unusual.
Still on her knees, she reached for the rug to replace it when she noticed a small hatch low down in the wall, obscured in part by the bed. She pulled the bed away from the wall and bent down for a closer look.
There was a handle on the hatch, painted the same colour as the wall and making it hard to see at first glance. She turned it and opened the door and could tell from the sudden draught of cold air that it led into a small loft. She looked inside and waited ten to fifteen seconds for her eyes to become accustomed to the gloom before searching around for a light switch.
Expecting it to be chock-full of old suitcases and Christmas decorations, she was surprised to see three boxes, two blue suitcases and an aluminium briefcase. She reached for the briefcase and pulled it towards her. She sat down on the boards and popped both locks. Two neatly pressed shirts and a variety of toiletries met her gaze. She was puzzled as the contents didn’t square with the weight of the thing and realised there had to be something underneath.
She removed the clothes and put them to one side and her jaw dropped at what she uncovered: neat bundles of fifty-pound notes and twenties, packed three inches deep. She pushed her hand into the case. Her hand touched something metal. She was about to take out the money and pile it beside the shirts when she heard the noise of a car engine. It was most likely the SOCO team but she couldn’t risk the appearance of Frankland, so she closed the case and pushed it back into the loft space before squeezing back through the hatch, switching off the light and closing the hatch.
She ran over to the window and could see the top of a car, parked near the front door, and heard someone stomping around the house. She felt a wave of nausea. If this was David Frankland, a man suspected of kidnapping and murdering Harvey Miller, and a close confidant of Daniel Perry, he was likely to be armed and dangerous.
She brushed her clothes down to remove some of the dust from the loft and as quiet as possible, put the carpet and bedside unit back in their places. She walked into the hallway and was shocked to see David Frankland standing in front of her.
‘What’s going on here?’ he said.
‘I’m a police officer, Surrey and Sussex CID. I’m investigating the fire in the barn.’ She pulled out her warrant card and showed it to him. ‘I would like to ask you some questions.’
‘I fucking know who you are. What are you doing in my house? The fire was in the barn.’
‘We suspect…’ He pushed past her and walked into the bedroom.
‘You’ve been poking around in here haven’t you, the bed’s been moved.’ He strode towards her, his face cold and hard; her hand reached for the pepper spray.
Before she got there, Frankland punched her on the side of the head, and as she recoiled, another fist crashed into her belly. Punches rained down on her head causing her to stumble backwards. She raised her head for a moment and a fist came hurtling towards her, smacking her straight in the face. She blacked out and hit the floorboards with a thump.
Sometime later, she opened her eyes. Blood from her nose had splattered over her blouse, and two football teams were playing a cup match inside her head. Through the fog and the pain, she remembered Frankland, the go-bag with the money and the gun. She tried to tune out the throb-throb of her headache and listened for any movement around the house.
Someone was banging around downstairs, opening and closing cupboards, hurried footsteps across a stone floor. For a minute, there was nothing and she wondered if she’d imagined it, when there was a loud bang, the sound of a door slamming.
With some difficulty, she got to her feet. Her head started spinning and before she could move to the bathroom, she threw up on the floor. She wiped her arm across her mouth, smearing her blouse in blood, but it was already in such a mess she’d decided it was heading for the bin. With heavy slow steps, she made her way back into Frankland’s bedroom.
The bed had been left at an odd angle and the hatch door lay ajar. She stood by an open window and gulped down clean, fresh air, a handkerchief held to her nose to catch the dripping blood. Her head was thumping like a big bass drum and even though she knew it wasn’t, it felt twice its normal size. Leaning out, she could see the boot of the car below. The tailgate was open but she couldn’t see any sign of Frankland.
She moved to the hatch, dropped to her knees and peered inside. The suitcases and the aluminium briefcase were gone. She returned to the window and seconds later Frankland appeared carrying two suitcases. He loaded them into the boot and snapped the tailgate shut before heading back into the house. She froze. Was he coming back to finish her off? She listened hard but could not hear his footsteps on the stairs. To her relief, he appeared a few seconds later carrying the aluminium briefcase. He opened the back door of the car and placed it behind the front seats.
She retrieved her handbag and pulled out her mobile. ‘Control? DS Walters at Forest Farm in Loxwood.’ Her voice sounded nasal as if gurgling with a glass of water. ‘Suspect David Frankland is about to escape in a black Range Rover reg plate DAF 562. Request assistance.’
‘A patrol car is in the vicinity. I’ll redirect them to Forest Farm.’
Minutes later, the tall figure of Frankland appeared and walked to the car carrying a small package. He climbed in, placed the package under the passenger seat and started the engine. Glancing up, Walters spotted the welcome sight of a Police Volvo descending the small hill from the village, its indicator light flashing. With a screech of tyres, Frankland reversed and turned down the driveway.
Frankland could see the patrol car blocking his exi
t but it didn’t stop him heading towards it at pace. She watched, holding her breath for a few tense seconds as the Range Rover bore down on the Volvo. She was about to close her eyes at the hideous impact when Frankland swung to the left and bounced into the field. The police driver followed.
Walters couldn’t understand Frankland’s tactics. The field was surrounded by tall hedges and he appeared to be heading into the corner and certain capture. She suddenly realised the bushes over there were thinner and more sparsely spaced than the rest of the hedge, covering an unused entrance or an emergency escape route.
The police driver spotted Frankland’s intentions and tried to cut him off, but arrived too late and could only watch as the Range Rover sailed through the gap. To Walters’s astonishment, it didn’t hit the road and roar off towards Loxwood, never to be seen again. The car sailed through the air and when it landed, it skidded across the tarmac, made slick by heavy overnight rain, and smacked straight into a telegraph pole.
TWENTY-SIX
Within ten minutes of arriving back at Maida Vale, Fraser Brook had filled one suitcase with clothes and emptied the bathroom of toiletries. He then called a taxi. He put the suitcase in the hall and took a seat behind the antique writing desk in the sitting room, and removed a piece of lavender-coloured paper from a secret drawer headed, ‘Essential Items.’ One by one, he extracted the listed articles from various compartments including a large sum of money in Sterling and Euros, an unused credit card, his UK passport, driving licence and European Health Card.
He put everything into the attaché case, first making sure it also included his personal organiser as it contained all the information he needed to access his UK and Swiss bank accounts, not to mention friends all over the world, before zipping it closed.
A few minutes later he heard the familiar clattering of a well-used diesel and walked to the window to confirm it was indeed the taxi. While standing there, he looked up and down the road for idling or double-parked cars or people hanging around and doing nothing. Seeing none, he turned and headed into the hall. He picked up the attaché case in one hand and opened the front door with the other. With one final look around his beautiful house, he lifted the suitcase and walked outside.
