“Did any unfamiliar person contact or try to contact Madame Chaboulet or anyone at the château?”
“Oh, Inspector it is a year ago, I really can’t . . .” she interrupted herself as a thought came to her. “There was one rather peculiar call which I took; it was for Evelyn” Keane’s eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed slightly. “Evelyn was my sister” explained Madame Fourcard, and then repeated, “Evelyn Chaboulet was my sister” Keane decided to nod, so that she could see that ‘dense’ though he was, he had got the point.
“It was a foreigner speaking fairly poor French; he could have been Italian. I think he was expecting Evelyn to take the phone, and perhaps he thought I was her because he spoke in a rather informal manner.” Madame Fourcard paused briefly as she was struck by a thought. She then dismissed it and resumed her expression of suffering tediousness, “When I asked him what his business was with Evelyn, he said he had spoken to her about changing the supplier of bottles and corks and would like to speak to her again. I informed him that he must be misled as we were quite satisfied with our current suppliers and told him to refrain from calling again. And naturally we never heard from him again. I mentioned it to Evelyn and she said she was thankful that I got rid of him. So you see, inspector, although it might have been ‘out of the ordinary’ it was perfectly harmless.”
“I have one final question: Can you enlighten me as to the nature of the errand or business your sister was attending to prior to her death?”
Although Keane had not thought it possible, Madame Fourcard turned even colder, “Inspector, my sister’s death has done irreparable damage to our family’s and this château’s reputation. I will not allow anything to further tarnish her reputation.”
Keane decide to walk the tight-rope, “Madame Fourcard. The man who killed your sister has killed again. As long as he is on the loose, the murder of your sister will not disappear from the headlines and other people’s lives will be at stake – including yours. I am within my rights in asking . . .”
“Yes, inspector, I see I will not be able to shake you off.” She paused and drew a deep breath. “My sister never married, and in the years before she died, she did become easy prey for charming men who were after status and wealth.” Madame Fourcard paused again and reluctantly admitted, “My sister was on her way to meet her beau, when she died.”
“Can you tell me anything about this man?”
“We both knew she could not see him for who he was, because she was simply dazzled by him. I tried to find out who he was, but she told me nothing, as she knew I would not approve.”
“I need any detail you can give me.”
“I never met him or spoke to him” she answered, looking away from Keane for the first time. “According to Evelyn, he was very handsome. A big, strong, exciting man who was in the wine trade. ‘The wine trade’. That’s what they call it in California, Chile, South Africa and Australia. He was from Chile.” she paused and regained her steely stare, “That really is all I know.” she concluded.
As Keane did not protest, she immediately took the opportunity to regain the upper hand. She rang a tiny bell lying on the piano and a servant instantly stepped in with the promised refreshments – for one. She glided gracefully over to him saying, “It would be very pleasant to partake of your meal on the terrace.” She offered her hand (as noble ladies would do hundreds of years ago, but he did not stoop to kiss it). He merely it took it gently and said “Thank you for your courtesy and your generosity, Madame Fourcard.”
“Bon chance, Superintendent Keane” she said with a faint smile, before she turned and left the room.
Chapter 11
Sunday, 20th September, afternoon
Jenkins had received the call from Angus in the late morning, and by lunchtime she had the shop owner, a Mr. Adrian Foster, going through the folders with mug shots. She was crossing her fingers that he would not point out any one, as she was sure the killer was a newcomer.
First folder, fourth page, “That’s him!” said Foster.
“Are you sure?”
“Look at him! There can’t be many people who look like that?” answered Foster.
Jenkins looked. It was Lenny Waltham. She could see what he meant: Waltham’s left ear was bigger than his right, but his right eyebrow was somehow half an inch higher than the left. The bent nose confirmed that she was looking at an ex-boxer. She had heard of him; Connolly had picked him up for questioning less than 6 months ago.
“I should have known it. He went straight for the most expensive item we have, the 42-inch flat screen. No questions. He couldn’t get out again fast enough.”
“I think, sir, he was probably aware of the fact that your shop does not run credit cards through an electronic check.”
“That’s as maybe. When am I going to get my set back?”
“I’m going to put out an order for his arrest immediately, Mr. Foster, and we’ll let you know as soon as we have anything for you. Thank you, for your trouble” Jenkins led him out.
Jenkins called up Connolly and Hassan and about three hours later, they led a hand-cuffed Waltham into the interview room.
“It’s a sorry state of affairs when a man can’t even fly his pidgins in peace” complained Waltham as he slumped onto the wooden chair.
Connolly unlocked the cuffs and replied “We’re not going to be discussing the technicalities of illegal gambling today, Lenny. Empty your pockets on the table.”
The deflated suspect did as he was told. Hassan delved into Waltham’s wallet with gloved hands and removed two credit cards, while Jenkins looked through the remaining items. He read aloud the name on both the cards, “Brett Russell. Have you been looking after these for your friend Brett, Lenny?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“He liked his TV set, did he?”
“Yeah, it’s a good’n.”
“The Brett Russell who owns these cards was murdered in Kensington last Tuesday evening” Waltham looked up in horror, “Where were you last Tuesday evening, Lenny?”
Neither Hassan, Connolly or Jenkins were of the opinion that Waltham was the murderer or even an accomplice, but they knew they would get the truth out of him faster, if he thought he was in serious trouble.
“Nah, nah, I didn’t even know the fella . . .”
“But you have met him?” suggested Jenkins
“Nah, nah, you got it all wrong . . .”
“Knocking off tourists is not your usual game, Lenny” provoked Connolly
“Leave it aht, will ya’. I didn’t knock him off. I just found the stuff, didn’t I”
“Lenny we’ve got a dead man and you in possession of his credit cards – and his ring; it’s time to cough up” said Jenkins
“Alright, alright. I found the stuff in a plastic bag.”
“Go on.”
“I was down on the Chelsea embankment and I saw this plastic bag’d washed up. Looked funny, cos it ‘ad a knot in it. So I opened it up and there was this wallet inside, ‘n’ a ring, ‘n’ a passport, a stone and some keys. I reckoned someone ‘ad tossed it in finkin’ it’d sink, but it came back up cos a the air trapped inside like. Well, there were two cards in the wallet and I took ‘em out. Weren’t anyfing else a value in it, so I took the cards and the ring and I put the rest back in the bag and threw it in the river again. I knew it would sink this time cos a the ‘ole in it.”
“Describe the plastic bag”
“Just yer average black plastic bag, y’know for rubbish.”
Jenkins, Connolly and Hassan looked at each other, and they knew full well he was telling the truth. They could conceivably drag the Thames, but what would be the point? Fingerprints would be out of the question and there was apparently nothing that they could use to trace back to the killer. And not in their wildest dreams could they see Lenny injecting an exotic poison into someone’s tongue – he would probably miss and inject himself in the effort. And Lenny as an accomplice? This professional killer would not leave such loose ends.
Not making sure the bag didn’t sink was perhaps as careless as they could expect him to be.
They would of course go by the book and take the prints off both cards and Russell’s ring, but they knew it was futile.
Connolly and Hassan concluded the interview and the arrest of Waltham. It was a decidedly dejected and sheepish Jenkins that had drawn the short straw to make the call to Keane.
*********
Keane’s lunch at Château Plencque had been unforgettable. The cheeses were exquisite, the red peppers and radishes a perfect compliment, the fresh bread tasted strong and natural and the wine was a chapter for itself. Yet the crowning glory was probably the thrill of enjoying this repast at the very location of the wine’s origin, whilst witnessing the birth of future wines. Keane could not resist paying a visit to the cellars before he left, to make sure he had a memento with him.
He had left around two o’clock, and the first call from Jenkins came at around four o’clock, as he was passing through the Cognac district. Somehow it didn’t disappoint him. He simply hadn’t let the original news get his hopes up. In a strange way he felt vindicated that his trip to Bordeaux had been more fruitful than the sudden rise and fall of an otherwise clear cut link to the murderer.
The second call (from Angus) came a couple of hours later, as he approached the Loire district. Angus had received the results from the phone company’s records. It turned out that no calls had been made from Marie Passant’s flat while she was staying there, and the handful of calls that came in were from Omar Khater or calls mistakenly made by acquaintances of the previous tenant. It was another dead end. So Angus decided to cheer up Keane with detailed highlights from his round of golf.
All this meant that Keane could once again focus on his own discoveries: The murderer had previously attempted to woo (for want of a better word) the owner of a famous French château. In fact not just any château, he had apparently selected Château Plencque. Why? And why did he first woo her, then murder her? Was it in order to murder her that he approached her? Had he been hired by a rival château? Keane decided to reign in his fantasy – these ideas were beginning to sound too much like Hayes’ ideas. No, his guess was that this man was working on his own, and his plan had turned sour. But what was his plan? It would have had to bring about a lucrative conclusion for him in some way. Was he just a common blackmailer? If he was, how could that tie in with Russell’s murder?
And so he continued to speculate all the way to Paris and Elaine’s flat. It frustrated him immensely that the nearest parking space was never less than 200 yards from her doorstep; all the more so in this case, where he had so much to deliver to her.
At least he didn’t have to wait out on the street for Elaine to buzz him in; the door to the street was never locked. He made his way up the stairs to the first floor, which of course in France was referred to as the second floor; ‘c’est logique’!
“Daddy, it’s you!” shouted Elaine as she answered his knocking and opened the door. She seemed very surprised to see him. “Mummy called to say you were coming, but I thought you would be here earlier. I thought you’d given it a miss”.
“Of course not, dear. Can I come in and put this down?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, come in.”
He placed his deliveries on the dining table and gave her a hug. “How are you, dear?”
“Oh, I’m fine” came the prompt response.
Keane looked around, “Is Linda here?”
“No, she’s visiting her parents this weekend.”
“She’s travelling light I see” said Keane looking over at the luggage on the floor in the corner of the room. “You should take a leaf out of her book: come home occasionally and put your mother’s worries to rest.” Keane smiled warmly to his daughter. She smiled back, but seemed somewhat distracted.
“That’s typical of Linda; I’ve been getting on at her to empty those cases ever since we moved in.”
“Look Elaine, I would love to stay longer, but I’m sure you’ve got lectures to prepare for, and I’ve got an early start tomorrow and there’s still a few hours driving ahead of me.”
“I understand, Daddy.”
“As soon as this case is over we’ll come and stay for a few days and take you out to all those restaurants and museums you keep telling us you can’t afford to go to.” He moved over to the doorway.
She came over and gave him a long, tight hug. “Bye, Daddy. Kiss Mummy from me, and tell her thanks for the Red Cross package.” she looked as if she was suppressing a tear or two. Perhaps Jenny was right. Perhaps Elaine was finding it hard to live away from home for the first time, but just wouldn’t admit it.
“I’m going to have a word with, Robbie. He’s been neglecting you, and I’ll tell him in no uncertain terms how many suitors I had to fight off just to get into your flat!”
“Oh, Daddy!” she smiled and gave him a friendly push out of the door, “Drive carefully!”
“Bye, dear” he smiled and waved going down the stairs. On the way back to the car it was his turn to get tears in his eyes.
Chapter 12
Monday, 21st September, early morning BST
Knowing that his flight would be arriving in Adelaide shortly before midnight local time, Hayes had optimistically hoped to stay awake throughout the 23-hour flight. He’d done well until 14 hours into the flight, when he gave in and asked a stewardess to wake him after 3 hours. This she did, but he fell asleep again minutes later and slept another 4 hours. So by the time he arrived at his hotel, he was wide awake and cursing his feeble will power. Even watching old episodes of “Skippy” at 3 in the morning didn’t help. He decided to try and pick up some choice Australian expressions from the TV, and ‘bored shitless’ was the first he noted. Finally he managed to nap for a couple of hours.
He arose to a beautiful Australian spring morning. He left the hotel in good time after ‘brekkie’, but the Monday morning traffic was not as bad as he had anticipated, and the taxi delivered him at Penrith Winery a good hour before his scheduled meeting with Trevor Williams. So he took the opportunity to wander around the areas that were accessible to the general public and get an impression of the winery.
At 10 o’clock precisely, Hayes was led into Trevor Williams’ office. It didn’t help Hayes’ enquiries that Williams was the spitting image of the Kevin Kline’s character “Rod McCain” in the film “Fierce Beasts”. Williams was in his late 50’s, 6 foot tall, heavily built, greying hair brushed back and held in place with grease. He had thick, square glasses, grey steely eyes, and a thick moustache. He was wearing an untidy, dark grey suit with a dark red tie.
“G’day!” welcomed Williams with aggressive, unequivocal gestures, as he leant over his desk to shake Hayes hand.
“G’day” replied Hayes very uneasily. Being an amateur actor he loved to mimic people’s voices and mannerisms, but he knew had to stay in character for this interview. “I’ll get straight to the point, Mr. Williams. We think Mr. Randolph, and the fact that he has disappeared, are somehow tied up with the murder of Mr. Russell.”
“I see.”
“Could you tell me anything about their relationship?”
“Well they weren’t poofters for starters. Couple a’ root rats they were. Single, the lucky bastards. They were good buds. It was Mickey who got Brent in here. Good thing, too. Brent did a good job for us. Still, washed-up cricketers are ten-a-dozen down here. It’s gonna be a tougher job replacing Mickey, if he don’t come back.”
“What exactly was Mr. Randolph’s job?”
“He was a genius, that’s what his job was. Bloody genius. He could make good wine out of bad wine; table wine into fortified wine; wine into whisky!”
“But what did he actually do? What was he responsible for?”
“Mickey was in charge of the research team that makes our new wines, and he’s made us some real beauts over the years, I’ll tell ya’.”
“Can you tell me what he was working on when he disappeared?”<
br />
“No idea. You’d better talk to Shirley” Williams buzzed his secretary and summoned ‘Shirley’.
“Er, there was one final thing” rushed Hayes, realizing that his interview was coming to an abrupt end. He took out his evidence. “We found a part of a wine bottle capsule in connection with our investigations, and we are trying to find which wine it comes from.”
Williams grabbed the plastic bag out of Hayes’ hands. “Good bloody luck, mate!” he laughed
“Would it be possible to look at the wines you produce here?”
“Talk to Shirley about it, and let me know if you find out anything about Mickey” concluded Williams, shaking Hayes’ hand with one hand, and showing him where the door was with the other.
Once outside the office, Hayes took a seat and waited five minutes for ‘Shirley’ to arrive.
To Make a Killing Page 10