Black Quarry Farm

by Iain Cameron

  He walked to the door and unlocked both locks. He pulled the door open and looked out, and saw the delivery driver heading back to his van.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  ‘Sorry mate, I thought you was out.’

  ‘No, the apology is all mine. I was upstairs in the loft. I didn’t hear you ring.’

  ‘No worries. I’ll start bringing the stuff in.’

  Saunders stood in the kitchen, trying to look like an unconcerned householder, as three bags were deposited on the floor. When he’d lived with Irene, the delivery driver had often to make two or three trips back and forth to the van, the result of having two football-playing boys in the house. Now, he could make do with a lot less.

  Saunders didn’t consider himself a foodie, and if not for a couple of recipe books he took wherever he moved, he wouldn’t cook a thing. Back in the day, he would often take clients to expensive restaurants. He loved the looks on their faces when they saw the décor, and how their expressions would change into shock when they spotted the prices on the menu. He knew more about wine and spirits than food, and as long as his guests drank themselves silly and had the time of their lives, he didn’t give a toss about how much it cost or want he ate.

  The delivery driver left, and Saunders locked and bolted the door behind him. He walked to the front window, peered out, and was pleased to see the guy didn’t pull out his phone and call someone.

  In a slow, methodical manner, he began to empty the shopping bags. He put the dried food in the cupboard and the chilled items in the fridge. He hadn’t always been a Steady Eddie, able to take his time over things like a retired old geezer twenty years his senior. Now, it seemed, he had all the time in the world, but if he ever let his guard drop, the clock would suddenly stop.

  In one of the bags, he found the newspaper he’d ordered, The Daily Telegraph and threw it on the table. In the past, he hadn’t been a reader of newspapers, and any time he did it was more than likely The Daily Mirror or The Sun. Now, with time on his hands, he would select the thickest one he could find.

  With everything now in its proper place, he looked at the clock: lunchtime. He opened the cupboard and pulled out a can of beans, one he’d only put in there a couple of minutes before. He opened the can, put the beans in a pot, carried it over to the cooker and turned on the heat. He stirred the beans slowly, making sure they didn’t burn. Despite not being able to cook much, he could always make a decent plate of beans on toast. Trouble was, with such a limited repertoire at his disposal, this was what he cooked almost every lunchtime.

  A few minutes later, he sat down to his meal. He pulled the newspaper towards him and opened it out. He didn’t give a toss what politicians thought about Britain’s future relationship with Europe, as in his opinion they were just a bunch of self-serving gasbags, out to stroke their big egos and to line their own pockets. He liked it when Britain was a member of the European Union, because in his old job they made full use of few customs checks.

  When he’d had his fill of all the political squabbling and disagreements, he turned the page. The next couple of pages were filled with more of the same, so he turned to the next without reading. Away from the big political story of the day, the paper now focussed on home news. He devoured the lot: a stabbing in London, a train jumping its rails at Clapham, a postal worker convicted of stealing parcels from the sorting office where he worked.

  He left his seat and boiled the kettle. A few minutes later, he made another coffee. He was enjoying himself. He hadn’t read a newspaper for a few days and wasn’t one who could sit for the whole evening in front of the television. He admired his ex-wife, as she could spend hours reading a romance novel on her Kindle. When it had come to an end, she would tell him something about the story before moving on to find another one.

  He returned to his seat and resumed his perusal of page five. He was partway through an article about a shooting at a house in Sussex, situated in the middle of a vineyard, when alarm bells started sounding off in his head. He searched the story for any references to the location of the farm, and almost fell off his seat when he found it: Black Quarry Farm in Nutley.

  The coffee cup slipped from his grasp, spilling its contents over the table and smashing into a hundred pieces on the unforgiving flagstone-covered floor. Despite the noise and the mess it created, it didn’t disturb the concentration of the man seated at the kitchen table.

  Less than a minute later, he pushed his chair back, left the kitchen and climbed the stairs. He pulled two suitcases from underneath the bed and laid them both down on the duvet. In the first one were clothes he hadn’t bothered unpacking when he first arrived. He removed everything from the wardrobe and shoved them on top of the other clothes.

  In the other suitcase were several neat rows of money bricks. Each brick contained ten thousand pounds in fifty-pound notes. The money was neatly stacked and looked new, as if issued by a bank, but the notes inside the bundles were grubby, some retaining traces of cocaine where they’d been used for snorting.

  He piled jackets and shoes on top of the money and, after clearing out the bathroom, added his toilet bag. He closed both suitcases and, one at a time, carried them downstairs. For the next few minutes he strode around the house making sure he’d picked up everything. Satisfied, he headed upstairs, into the main bedroom, and stood at the side of the window. Behind the open curtain, he carefully scanned the road outside.

  He examined the windows of each of the houses opposite, looking for a face in the shadows or glass reflection. If spotted, he stared at the image for some time making sure it came from a set of spectacles, and not a pair of binoculars or from someone adjusting a rifle sight.

  He ducked below the windowsill and crossed to the other side and did the same. The house was in a quiet cul-de-sac in a housing estate in Godalming, Surrey. The location was important, one way in, and one way out. He knew this could work against him, as a small group of pursuers would find it easy to trap him, but this weighed less than the stress and problems of drive-through traffic. It was still a risk, but one he was willing to take.

  He hurried downstairs. He hefted the suitcases outside to the car one at a time before shutting and locking the front door. He opened the boot of the car and placed the suitcases inside. Without a backward glance or a knock on the door of a neighbour to tell them he was leaving, he got in the car, started it up and drove away. Where he would sleep tonight he didn’t know, but it would be in a place where he could pay with the cash he had with him.

  He had used a credit card to book the house at Black Quarry Farm and now knew what he was dealing with. He also knew if he didn’t keep one step ahead, his fate would be the same as that of John and Lara Beech.

  EIGHT

  DI Henderson and DS Neal drove into Black Quarry Farm and headed for the car park. It was busy with a mixture of staff cars and those belonging to visitors. On a tour, people could see the vineyards, the fermentation shed, receive a talk on how wine was made and sample the finished product in a specially built tasting room. The fifteen-pound tour fee wasn’t the main attraction for Radcliffe, however, but those who would linger after the tour and buy something from the shop, or take a meal in the restaurant above the visitors’ centre.

  ‘The murder of two people doesn’t seem to have made much of a dent in their business,’ Neal said, looking over the car park as they walked towards the shop.

  ‘I suppose some people would’ve had the tour booked for months.’

  ‘Even still.’

  ‘You wouldn’t fancy it?’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘It takes all sorts. Some folks get off on the notoriety of a place. Look at tourists who visit the Tower of London, for example. The bricks there are soaked in blood.’

  ‘I suppose. Don’t you think this place reeks of money?’ Neal said as they joined the path leading towards the shop and main entrance. ‘No expense spared. I don’t know much about wine, but even looking at the fencing system around the fields w
here the vines are grown and covering, what did he say, two hundred acres? It must have cost tens of thousands.’

  ‘Radcliffe isn’t short of a few bob. Have you looked him up on the web?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘You should. When he was Chief Executive of Zenith Energy, he was paid a salary of, would you believe, twelve million a year.’

  ‘God almighty! It sounds too much for one person to spend.’

  ‘I agree, and although some of it is made up in share options and bonuses, you can be assured he trousered plenty.’

  ‘You bet and didn’t someone say he headed the company for over ten years?’

  ‘He did. I guess we should be thankful he hasn’t ploughed his money into developing a spaceship to Mars or building an electric car, as some fat cats have done. There’s a successful wine business on this site and not a derelict farm, with jobs for over fifty people.’

  ‘True, but I’m thinking what good twelve million would do for areas crying out for some investment, such as drug rehabilitation or child abuse prevention in places like Glasgow or Manchester.’

  ‘Who said life is fair?’ Henderson said. He pushed open the door of the shop and walked towards the desk.

  ‘Good morning,’ said the young woman with ‘Lily’ on her badge. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Yes, we have an appointment with Brian Faulkner,’ Henderson said.

  ‘Who shall I say is here to see him?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Henderson and Detective Sergeant Neal.’

  ‘If you give me a moment, I’ll let him know you’re both here.’

  While waiting, Henderson looked around. The shop evoked the feel of the wine department in the likes of Harrods or Selfridges, or an up-market delicatessen. There were bottles on display, gift sets, cakes, glasses, and a range of beers and gins. In addition, a try-before-you-buy tasting area, a charcuterie selling meat, and beside it, a bakery selling fresh bread and pastries.

  ‘This is such a nice place,’ Neal said. ‘I wouldn’t mind shopping here.’

  ‘That is if you can afford the prices.’

  ‘It’s because we have higher production costs than the frogs across the Channel,’ a deep voice behind him said.

  Henderson turned.

  ‘Brian Faulkner, Farm Manager. You must be the detectives from Sussex Police.’

  ‘Detective Inspector Henderson and Detective Sergeant Neal,’ Henderson said.

  The DI shook the proffered hand. It felt rough, a man more used to digging trenches than signing invoices. He was in his mid-50s with thinning grey hair, combed-back, and with a ruddy complexion suggesting he spent a lot of time outdoors.

  ‘Is there somewhere we could talk?’ Henderson asked.

  ‘Sure thing. Follow me.’

  They walked through a door at the back of the shop and filed past warehouse racks containing products Henderson recognised as being sold in the shop. At the end of the store room, Faulkner opened another door and led them into a small office.

  The farm manager took a seat behind an untidy desk piled with papers, and the two detectives took seats beneath a window looking out over the vineyard. Not a bad view in anybody’s book.

  ‘What did you want to talk to me about?’ Faulkner said. ‘I’ve already given my statement to two of your detectives.’

  ‘Before we get on to it, can you tell me what you do around here?’

  ‘I suppose so. I used to farm cereal, you know, wheat and corn, but when the guy who owned the land didn’t renew the lease, I applied for a job here.’

  ‘It’s a bit of a change, this sort of farming, I would imagine.’

  ‘It is, and it isn’t. Sure, we don’t have a big field full of wheat with every stalk the same. With vines, each plant is different, and whatever we need to do, be it planting, pruning, and at times, picking, we do it by hand. Most of my work is making sure the right people turn up at the right time and have the best tools and equipment available to do the job.’

  ‘Where do you get workers?’

  ‘Specialised agencies. I didn’t know this until I started here, but there are itinerant vineyard workers, people who travel across the world looking for work. They do this due to the difference in seasons between the northern and southern hemispheres. For example, when it’s summer here, it’s winter in Australia and New Zealand. So, when we really need people, at harvest when we’re bringing in the grapes, loads of Aussies and Kiwis come over here.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘I also make sure any machinery we have here, tractors, pumps, pipes, and everything else, is maintained and in good working order.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Now, the reason we’re here is to check out one or two inconsistencies in the statement you gave my officers.’

  ‘Such as?’

  Henderson laid Faulkner’s statement on the desk so the man could see what he was looking at.

  ‘You told my officers that the night the Beeches were murdered, last Saturday, you were in Lewes with your girlfriend, Gemma Stevens, eating a meal.’

  ‘That’s right. There’s nowt suspicious about it. Gemma’s been divorced for two years, and I’m single. It’s not as if we’ve been cheating on anyone.’

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting you were, sir. Now, going back to the statement, you said you drove back to her house in Maresfield around ten o’ clock, and you left there at two-thirty in the morning.’

  ‘I can’t be exact about the times, you understand. When you’re out with a woman like Gemma, you don’t look at your watch every five minutes.’

  ‘We don’t expect you to. The times you gave us are good enough for me.’

  ‘So, what’s the problem, then? I got back here about three and went straight to bed. There was no one there to verify it, but I was told by your people it wasn’t an issue.’

  ‘According to some of our witnesses, if you weren’t working on Sunday you would, more often than not, stay the night with Miss Stevens.’

  He laughed. ‘What’s this? The police taking an interest in my love life?’

  ‘Your coming back to the farm suggests to me you had something else to do.’

  ‘Something else to do? Don’t be daft. I didn’t leave her house until half-two and by then I was knackered. I couldn’t have done anything else if I’d wanted to.’

  Henderson took the folder out of DS Neal’s hands, placed it on in the table, and opened it.

  ‘If what you are saying is true, how do you explain this?’ Henderson said, removing one of the photographs and turning it round for him to see. ‘This is your car, in Uckfield, at twelve-thirty on Sunday morning.’

  This discrepancy only came to light when one of his officers was talking to a friend, a uniformed cop who was investigating a serious assault in Uckfield the same night. Lying on the PCs desk were a variety of CCTV pictures. Glancing down, the detective spotted the distinctive Hummer H2 Roadster with the unforgettable licence plate, GUN 47, belonging to Brian Faulkner. The detective remembered it as he and a colleague had spent a good few minutes looking it over when they were at Black Quarry Farm.

  Faulkner’s mouth quivered, as if about to say something, but no words came out.

  ‘Must have been someone else driving,’ he said a few moments later, in a voice lacking conviction.

  ‘Did you report it stolen? I know we haven’t seen anything on our system. Am I right, DS Neal?’

  ‘Yes, sir, you are.’

  ‘It hasn’t been nicked,’ Faulkner said. ‘It’s outside if you wanna take a look.’

  ‘If it wasn’t stolen, how else do you explain someone else driving your car without your knowledge?’

  ‘I…I don’t know.’

  Henderson removed another picture from the file. ‘This looks like you behind the wheel.’

  The expression on Faulkner’s face told Henderson everything he needed to know.

  ‘Mr Faulkner, telling my officers lies not only wastes police time but pisses me off, and when I’m pissed of
f I’m more likely to throw you in a cell than talk to you. Understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I shouldn’t need to remind you, this is a murder investigation and if I don’t hear the truth now I’ll charge you with obstruction.’

  Faulkner let out a long sigh. He’d been rumbled and he knew it.

  ‘There’s this guy who lives across the road from Gemma, Barry Wilkinson is his name. Gemma says he fancies her, like. He’s always staring at her out of his window, and he’s there when she walks to the local shops. He hassles her and asks her to go out with him. He drinks at this club in Uckfield. I waited for him to come out, as I wanted a quiet word.’

  ‘Are you sure this was all you were planning?’

  ‘Yeah, I wanted to warn him off, like, make sure he knew Gemma was mine and not his.’

  ‘He’s in hospital with a fractured nose, perforated eardrum, and a couple of broken ribs. I don’t call that a quiet word.’

  ‘The discussion sort of, you know, got out of hand.’

  ‘I’ll say.’

  ‘Wilkinson, he starts getting arsey wi’ me, saying he was a better man than me and all this crap. I gave him a thump, to shut him up, like, but he kept at it, telling me I was a loser, my car was a heap of shite, I had a small dick, all of that. So I thumped him again.’

  The detectives left the vineyard twenty minutes later, leaving a contrite Brian Faulkner to await his fate. Henderson would report his findings to the officer investigating the Uckfield assault and let them decide what action to take. If Faulkner was in a position to offer them an insight into the Beech murder, he might have used the opportunity to gain some leverage on the impending assault charge, but he didn’t.

  A new criminal conviction to add to the one Faulkner already possessed could push Simon Radcliffe over the edge and encourage him to sack him. This would be unfortunate, as it looked like he had a good job in what was a successful and growing business, although Faulkner’s victim, Barry Wilkinson, might have a different take on the situation.

  ‘Do you think we heard the full story?’ DS Neal asked as they returned to the car.