“G’day. I’m Shirley Callaghan. I’m sorry, but I’ve no idea who you are, or why I’m talking to you.” she laughed. Hayes loved Australian frankness; he even had to laugh at the bum’s rush he had got from Williams’ office.
Hayes guessed that Shirley Callaghan was in her late twenties. She had thick, fair, shoulder- length hair parted in the middle. He felt instantly attracted to her: the pretty, blue eyes, behind the glasses with thin blue metal rims, her healthy complexion, the small nose and full lips. It had to be her naturally bubbly and frank nature that had made an impact on him, because she was certainly not going to win any beauty pageants wearing that white lab jacket, jeans and comfortable, but sloppy low-heeled shoes.
“I’m Detective Sergeant Hayes from Scotland Yard . . .”
“Strewth, that’s bloody marvellous!” squealed Shirley. This was not the response Hayes was used to.
“I’m investigating the murder of Brent Russell . . .”
“Oh, yes” her delight turned to an appropriate sadness.
“In that connection we are trying to find out more about his friend, a Mr. Mickey Randolph. Mr. Williams said you would be able to tell me what projects Mr. Randolph was working on when he disappeared, and also that you could direct me to your cellars, where I can try to find a match for this” he held up the bag with the evidence.
She looked at the bag and thought for a moment. “Right. Listen. I was actually in the middle of something when the ‘figjam’ rang. Now I’m not blowing you off or anything, but if I take you to the cellars, you’re gonna need at least an hour trying to find a match. That’ll give me time to finish my stuff, and then I’ll show you what Mickey was working on. Does that sound alright?”
“Yeah, that’s fine” smiled Hayes. She led him off towards the cellars. “Does Mr. Williams like fig jam?” wondered a mystified Hayes
She laughed. “I’ll tell you about it later”.
When they got there, Hayes was aghast to see the size of his task. “Do you have a torch and an extra set of batteries?” he asked.
“You’ll find loads of torches and batteries over in the corner, there” she pointed “I’ll come and see how you are doing in an hour” and with that she left Hayes alone with over a million bottles of wine.
Fortunately for Hayes the number of different wines was nowhere near a million, and he had easy access to the majority of them. Still, there was no way of telling how large any given batch was; some were even negligible and clearly the remnants of a once larger production.
By the time Shirley came back he had more or less completed his fruitless search.
She sympathized with him and took him over to a different part of the plant. On the way he asked her how well she knew Randolph and Russell, “I stayed well clear of them – they were always cracking on to me, the perves” She changed the subject as they approached the new building.
“Basically you should think of this place as a kitchen with a freezer,“ said Shirley as they stepped into the research section. “Each crop of grapes from each vintage has its own peculiarities and it’s our job to work out which ingredients are going to work together. Of course the ‘baking’ can take several years. We also play God a bit; we tamper with acidity levels in the soil, and before long we’ll be manipulating the genes of the vines. That’s our ‘freezer’ down there” she pointed to what looked like the entrance to another wine cellar. “That’s where you’ll find the results of Mickey’s projects. I can show you some of his work notes, but it’ll probably all be double-dutch to you. No offence.”
Hayes looked at the notes briefly and confirmed her opinion. He wished he could ask just one educated question, but he was way out of his depth. He paused and tried to step back – mentally – for a moment, trying to scan the whole case for any detail that could be brought to bear in this location that was probably at the root of the mystery. “Russell made a comment to another passenger on his flight to London”, he checked his notes, “Quote: he was going to introduce a new wine which his vineyard had made, and he was excited about it because he thought they’d make a killing, unquote. That would have to be a wine that had finished ‘baking’ right?”
“Yeah, it would, but it wouldn’t be one of those wines” she replied, looking towards the cellar.
“Why not?”
“Because we never export experimental wines. We test them on the home market, and if they’re a success we put them into production.
Knowing Keane was a stickler for thoroughness, Hayes was obliged to ask, “Can I have a look at those wines, anyway? I need to be able to count them out – for my report, you see.”
“No worries. Give us a cop at that plastic bit again and I’ll help you check them.”
They set about the task and after just one minute, Shirley called Hayes over, “Here ya go”. She pulled out a bottle and gave it to Hayes. He took it back out of the cellar where the light was better, and held up his plastic scrap alongside the top of the bottle’s capsule. It was a match.
“Well, I’ll be . . . stuffed” said Hayes “What is this wine?”
“Let me just check this tag.” she held the tag up against a list on her notepad. “It’s a blend of Cab Sav, Merlot and Cab Franc, like a claret.”
“Why is there no label on it?”
“Well, first we have to see if it’s popular and then the marketing fellas come up with a good name for it, and then we make the labels.”
“Could there be other wines with this same capsule?”
“In theory yes, but in practice no, because Penrith like to market their wines as being individual, if not unique.
“Can I take three of these as evidence?”
“You’ll have to clear that with Mr. Williams”
Hayes thanked Shirley and gave her his card and details of his hotel, in case she should recall anything important. She helped him find his way back to Williams’ office and left him with a new word: Hooroo (goodbye).
He had to sign some papers for Williams, but otherwise there were ‘no worries’. The next step was to find out more about Randolph, so he took a taxi back to the police station in the city.
Hayes spoke to a number of officers at the station as no one person in particular seemed to be in charge of Randolph’s case. In fact, Hayes got the clear impression that no-one considered there was a case. Randolph had just “gone walkabout”, probably “to get away for some Sheila he’d knocked up”. Either that or he’d “skipped the country for some spiffy job abroad”. A man like Randolph would be in demand all over the world. It was plain to see: no signs of violence at his house, passport gone and car missing, too. He’d just done a runner.
So the Australian police were very laid-back about it, so much so that they gave him directions and the key to Randolph’s house, and said he could go and have a good “fossick” himself. That might well have been a personal insult that he wasn’t supposed to get, but he didn’t care; he’d got what he came for.
He took another cab ride and on the way stopped off for a bite to eat. By the time he arrived at the lonely house it was 4 o’clock in the afternoon and the meal, the heat and the lack of sleep were getting to him. He’d been dozing on the back seat of the cab, and he felt downright groggy as he paid the taxi driver, and asked him to come back and pick him up again around 9 o’ clock that evening.
There was something very eerie about stepping into a complete stranger’s house, in a country on the other side of the world, and not knowing if that person was alive or dead, or worse still: at home and dead! He looked immediately for any heavy object he could swing at anyone that might try to attack him. Embarrassingly all he could find was a rolling pin. He stalked cautiously around the single storey house, ready to ‘flatten’ any ‘nerdologist’ that might jump out at him.
He checked the garage and the shed to be quite sure. If anyone was hiding in the house and waiting to get him, they were either invisible or so small that he fancied his chances should it come to the crunch.
He woke with a start 2½ hours later. It was noticeably darker (almost dusk) and he was quite disoriented at first. Then he remembered where he was and immediately looked for a light switch. With the light on he made his way to the bathroom and turned on the tap to splash his face. A most evil-smelling thick brown liquid forced itself out of the tap. He stepped back in disgust. Well, at least that had done the trick: he was awake now! And thirsty! In the kitchen he found the fridge was still working, and there were a couple of cans of beer. He took one and drank straight from it. It was invigorating, just what he needed. But what time was it? It was 7 o’clock. Shit, thought Hayes. Keane would be arriving at work right about now and expecting his report.
He made a bee-line for Randolph’s office and started looking through every folder, and every bit of paper he could find. Yes, there was a pc that perhaps could tell him something, and yes there were some photo albums he’d spotted in the living room, but he was looking for something else. He wanted to find some written proof that Randolph had sent some of that experimental wine to London.
He looked and looked. He fossicked through everything, and finally after two hours he found it: two copies of two separate non-negotiable bills of lading. They were minor shipments appended to a major delivery of Penrith’s wines sent to the dock at Tilbury, with Brent Russell the assigned receiver. First delivery made at Tilbury on August 31st, second delivery on September 18th. Just 3 days ago! It would still be there! Hayes was jumping for joy. Mission accomplished! He had the wine, he had the documents that proved Russell and Randolph were involved in some illegal activity. He called the station immediately to report to Keane, but Keane could not be reached . . . he was in hospital!
Chapter 13
Monday, 21st September, mid-morning BST
Two hours before Hayes’ call, Keane had been on his way to work. He had got about 6 hours’ sleep and was definitely feeling the worse for wear.
The grinding traffic did not improve his mood. Eventually it came to a complete standstill. He looked at the 45 mph speed limit and snickered. After a few minutes he heard the inevitable sirens and saw the flashing lights in his rear view mirror. Vehicles that had stopped bumper to bumper now struggled to move over to make room.
Over his police radio he received the call for assistance from cars in his vicinity, and he had naturally responded affirmatively. There had been a serious car accident and possibly a shooting. He thought it best not to pull out in front of the ambulance as he had no siren, and his Roadster hardly looked the part of a police car.
The ambulance’s progress was painfully slow. As it passed, he saw there were two police cars in attendance. It did look serious. He slipped in behind the second police car. Ten minutes later they arrived at the scene of the accident.
It was quite a mess: a car in his lane had veered over to the other side of the road and hit an approaching van full on. Fortunately there was already another ambulance on the scene; the passengers in the car had been cut free and were being carried over to the first ambulance. The second ambulance was no doubt meant for the driver of the van. Two other police cars were already there when they arrived. One policeman was looking over the wreckage, whilst three others were trying to hold back the crowd.
As soon as Keane had pulled up, he sprang out, ran over to one of the policemen who had arrived just ahead of him and flashed his identification, asking, “Why have we got four patrol cars here, Constable?”
“There’s been a shooting, sir. A colleague’s been hit. I’m sorry, I have to see if I can round up any witnesses before they disappear”
“Yes, carry on, Constable.” Keane was shocked. For anyone to be shot was always a terrible thing. On the few occasions that it had happened to a fellow policeman, he could never escape the thought that it could just as well have been him.
He went over to the policeman who was searching the crashed car for evidence and identified himself. “What’s happened here, Sergeant?”
“There’s been a shooting, sir. I’ve found two bullet-holes so far: one in the window of the driver’s door” he said pointing to the ground where the cut out door lay, “. . . and one in the rear door on the driver’s side, here” he pointed again. Keane peered into the car and could see that the second (and lower) of the two bullets had entered through the back of the driver’s seat, and had probably hit the driver around the pelvis region.
“So the driver was shot twice.” stated Keane.
“I think so, but there were probably more shots. There’s blood everywhere. The policeman was bleeding from the shoulder. It could have been caused by the crash, but I think it was a bullet wound.”
“So the policeman was the passenger, then. I take it he was in uniform?”
“Yes, sir. Wait a minute. Did you say your name is Keane?”
“Yes.”
“You’re leading the Kensington murder case, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I’m pretty sure the driver was that fella Symonds who is under police protection; the passenger was definitely an armed officer.”
Keane was stunned. This didn’t make any sense at all. Symonds was not the intended victim of Russell’s murder; he was convinced of that. Why should anyone try to kill him now, and especially when he had a police escort?
“Thank you, Sergeant” was all he could say. He stepped away from the wreckage and tried to imagine what had happened.
From all appearances, Symonds had lost control of his car after he had been shot. The angle of the bullets was almost horizontal, so the shots could not have been fired from a building above ground level. The constant flow of oncoming traffic between Symonds’ car and the opposite pavement would have prevented a clear shot by a pedestrian on that pavement. So in all likelihood the shots must have come from a passing car. But how could the assassin achieve such perfect timing? How did he know that Symonds would be exactly there at that time? And again, why shoot Symonds? Was there something Symonds had been withholding? Was he involved? Was he Russell’s partner? Probably not, because if he were, then he would hardly have accepted a 24-hour police escort!
Keane could tell he would not be able to make any sense of it, while he was standing in the middle of the carnage. He saw the second ambulance was about to leave, so he jumped back into his car and decided to follow it to the hospital. He had no idea whether Symonds and the officer would survive, let alone be able to give him a statement. Regardless of that, he felt, above all, an obligation to be with them at the hospital and find out what their condition was.
The ambulance slotted into the traffic that was slowly passing the crash. It turned on the siren again and reached the hospital ten minutes later. On the way over to the hospital, Keane had called Jenkins and asked her to meet him there. On arrival, Keane parked his car and made his way up to the floor where Symonds and his guard were being treated. The doctors could confirm that both men would survive. The armed officer’s injuries were the least serious. He was in shock and had been sedated, but he would probably be able to leave the hospital after one night’s observation. Symonds was in a worse state and his operation would take most of the day. Keane was told he could not expect to speak to him for several days.
Jenkins arrived shortly after. Keane explained the situation and also gave her a short briefing of his trip to France. He concluded, “I want you to arrange for two armed guards to protect Symonds while he’s here. Let me know as soon as you have got a statement from Symonds’ guard. I’ll send Parker over to relieve you later this afternoon.”
With that Keane set off for the office. It was 11:30 by the time he got there. He went straight in to Angus’ office to break the news.
Angus listened intently without saying a word, then stared down at his desk with his the tip of his thumb and forefinger
held up to his lips. Keane stared at Angus, who remained deep in thought for what seemed like minutes. Finally Angus looked up and broke the silence, “Can we be sure that this murder attempt is solely related to the Russell case?”
“We have no reason whatsoever to believe Symonds is involved in any illegal activity, or that anyone has a motive to kill him – apart from the theoretical possibility that he was in fact the intended victim, when Russell was murdered.”
“And you don’t believe that”
“No sir. I’m now convinced that Russell was involved in some kind of crime, and it’s highly likely that his death was related to that.”
“Alright, let’s assume for a moment that it was Russell’s murderer who also attempted to murder Symonds.” Angus paused. “Now, that doesn’t make sense to either of us right now, because we are looking at it from the point of view of solving the mystery. Let’s look at it from the murderer’s point of view.” Another pause. “Apart from the murderer and our mademoiselle, Morgan, you must be the one person who knows and understands most about this case. I know this goes against the grain, laddie, but you are going to have to put yourself in the murderer’s shoes.”
To Make a Killing Page 11