“Very well.”
Angus had done this kind of thing with him before, with mixed results. “Answer me these questions: Who are you?”
“A South American”
“Why did you kill Russell?
“To get him out of the way.”
“Who is a threat to you?”
“Marie Passant, Morgan Keane.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“I will kill Passant. I won’t kill Keane because he’ll just be replaced. I have to delay him until I’ve finished what I’m doing. I have to put him off the scent” concluded Keane as he raised his eyes to meet Angus’ gaze.
“How will you do that?”
They both knew the answer: “Create a diversion, confuse him.” Keane and Angus paused, before Angus eventually continued.
“So that would explain the attempted murder on Symonds, wouldn’t it? You’re you now, by the way.”
“Yes, I suppose it would. At least, I can’t think of any other explanation right now.”
“In that case, our next steps are clear. First of all, I’m going to assign this shooting case to Fairburn. Secondly, I want you to focus 100% on the Russell murder. I want you to identify a suspect and a motive within 24 hours, and I want him arrested within 48 hours, and certainly before he hurts anyone else. I’ll give you any resources you need, and I’ll keep the press off your back – they’ll have the track dogs out right now as we speak. But YOU have to deliver our man, Morgan. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Right, get on with it.” concluded Angus and he picked up the phone to call Fairburn.
Keane got back to his office feeling highly ‘motivated’, as the Human Resources people liked to call it these days.
On entering his office, the first thing that met his eyes, was the fax copies sent from Hayes that lay on his desk. He read the short note confirming that the capsule stemmed from a special wine that Randolph had developed and shipped over to England to be collected by Russell.
Keane was over the moon. He called Hayes to get the full story, then he brought him up to speed on the morning’s events, the news from Bordeaux and the ultimatums he had just been given.
Keane concluded, “Ian, you can’t possibly get back here in time to help us, so I want you to try and find out more about Randolph. Try and find him, and at the least, try to find out what he and Russell were up to. Alright?”
“Too right, sir! I mean: Yes, sir” Hayes was only too pleased to prolong his stay, and he was sure there was more to dig up on Randolph.
Keane called in Parker, Connolly and Hassan. “Who knows how to get to Tilbury Freeport?”
“I do” replied Hassan.
“Good, you’re the driver. We’ll be using the siren.”
Chapter 14
Monday, 21st September, early afternoon
Keane explained everything to them on the way, though Hassan did have his mind mainly on the road.
When they got there, the Freeport turned out to be a vast, anonymous area. No doubt it was easy for lorry drivers and regular visitors to find their way around, but it took them an extra frustrating ten minutes to find the office where the port authorities were located.
Once inside the building, they were soon directed to the relevant clerk, a Mr. Turnbull, who was standing behind the counter, all ready to receive his next customer. He was about 33 years old, and of average height and build. He had a bloated, round face with blue-grey eyes ensconced behind small, rectangular metal-rimmed glasses. He had tight, small lips, and his ears had disproportionately large lobes. He was wearing a tawdry brown suit that was one size too small for him, and his thick neck was straining on the buttoned collar and tightly knotted tie. To Keane he looked for all the world, like a boxer on a leash.
Turnbull listened to Keane’s explanation of his business, and after a couple of minutes he stated: “Yes, we have received the two shipments referred to in this copy of the bill of lading. I can also confirm that both shipments have been collected.”
“What!?” exclaimed Keane.
“The first shipment was picked up on the 31st of August and the second on the 18th of September.”
“By this man?” Keane showed him Russell’s picture.
“Yes” he answered definitely, and then added, “That is to say, that’s the man who collected the first shipment.” Turnbull was beginning to realize someone was in trouble, and it was almost definitely him.
Keane glowered at Turnbull. “This man died on the 15th of September. I seriously doubt that he came back three days later to settle unfinished business.”
“Oh no, this is awful. I, er, . . .” he looked at his papers again, and there was no denying the fact: it was his signature on the release form. “But his papers were in order!”
Keane wanted very much to let the man know, how his incompetence had directly hindered the clearing up of a murder, and how this killer, who was now at large, had almost killed again this very morning. But he knew it would not bring him any closer to catching his man. Keane began clutching at straws in a desperate attempt to leave with something positive: “Look, is there any chance that some of the shipment is still here?”
“That would be most irregular. I can direct you to where we kept the shipment” offered the meek clerk.
“Yes, why not.” sighed Keane.
Turnbull made a phone call, and a few minutes later a forklift-truck operator came into the office. He was a lanky lad, no more than 22 years old, who went by the name of “Phil”. His red tee-shirt and slack, blue jeans hung limply on his narrow shoulders and hips, respectively. The scrawny beard, pasty complexion, long, brown, unkempt hair and Adidas trainers did nothing to convince the onlooker that this was an exemplary athlete. He said nothing at first, but simply led the way over to the warehouse in question.
Once inside, he finally spoke, struggling to make his sentences coherent. “They were all stacked up ‘ere. Fact, we’ve still got some a main shipment over there”. He pointed to a very large system of shelves that were full of boxes. “Them other boxes that bloke picked up, wuz ‘ey important, like?”
It annoyed Keane that whenever this young man spoke, his gaze was either focussed 2 feet below Keane’s chin, or swung a foot to the left or right of his head for half a second, before returning to its “navel base”.
Keane’s deep and general frustration got the better of him, and he let it slip out in a broadside at the hapless young man, “Look, sonny, those wine bottles could have solved a murder! In fact, you delivered them to the murderer!”
Connolly, Parker and Hassan looked at each other. “Sir!” said Parker “I think we ought to . . .”
“Murderer!!” squealed the operator. “Jesus Christ! Jesus H. Christ! You stupid, bloody idiot!”, Phil was rambling to himself.
Connolly tried to calm him down, “It’s ok, he won’t be coming . . .” Keane stepped between Connolly and the young man, and signalled for Connolly to be quiet.
“What’s up?” asked Keane, his eyes fixed like a laser beam on to the man’s every gesture.
“Jesus Christ” whimpered the man again. “I went and knicked a bottle, didn’t I! From a bleedin’ murderer! ‘Ow wuz I to know? I didn’t think he’d miss it. Jesus!” The young man was falling apart before them.
“Take a grip, man! Where is that bottle?” Suddenly Phil went quiet.
“Look, “Phil”. You’ve already lost this job and you’re looking at worse, if you don’t tell me right now!” Keane was not in a mood to be messed with. Phil led them off to his locker. It was completely stuffed with trophies from all kinds of goods that had been received at the warehouse. He pointed to the bottle which Keane had been so desperate to find.
Keane took a handkerchief and lifted the bottle out carefully. He immersed himself in an instant analysis, while the others stood idly by. Connolly and Hassan were looking at each other, and keeping an eye on the operator; Parker was trying to catch a glimpse of the treasu
re over Keane’s shoulder.
“Er . . . Connolly. Read this gentleman his rights will you, and get him out of here.” Keane took the bottle over to a window to get some more light. He held it as if it were a new-born baby. Now Parker and Hassan were both looking over Keane’s shoulders, wondering what to make of the find. It looked like a common or garden wine bottle, dark green glass, a capsule on top, but no label.
Keane felt underneath the bottle and turned the bottom to the light. The centre of the base rose steeply inside, and he could make out the following symbols fashioned into the glass, radiating around the circumference of the base:
mm X 07 SG 8 75 & 3 55
He looked at it knowing that something was not right. And then it came to him: that shade of green glass, the gently rounded shoulder of the bottle - this was a French wine bottle! Not an Australian!
“Parker, Hassan, give me a pen knife.” Parker obliged. “Hold the bottle firmly” Keane instructed Parker.
Keane very carefully cut away the black, plastic capsule, and there below it was another capsule! Even before he had completely removed the fake capsule, a familiar black symbol caught his eye on the side of the maroon metal capsule: a lion atop a castle, the symbol of Chateau Latour! On removing it completely, his assumption was confirmed by the top of the now bare maroon capsule. “Chateau Latour!” he breathed out loud, triumphantly. And again he set to work with the knife, this time on the metal capsule, slitting it along the side. Peeling it away he found just what he was hoping to find. Holding the bottle up to the light, he could see through the glass neck a four-digit number imprinted on the side of the cork: 1961!
Keane put the bottle down on the nearest table and, smiling broadly, pronounced simply and quietly, “We’ve cracked it.”
Parker and Hassan needed a little more convincing and began to ask questions. Hassan was the first to venture:
“Is it a smuggling job, then?”
“Yes, that’s right.” said Keane. “Russell and Randolph have been smuggling a rare, very expensive French Bordeaux wine into the country.”
The apparent self-contradiction of this theory struck Keane, at the same moment he uttered the words. Parker then asked the obvious question, “How did they get hold of so much rare wine?”
A grimace of self-disgust and frustration crossed Keane’s face. “Because it’s not genuine, Parker.” answered Keane. He paused. “I think there’s more than one ‘bloody idiot’ around here.” He looked up at his two anxious colleagues, “I mean me”.
Keane explained: “Randolph has been producing a wine that could pass for an old classic. Russell has been selling them on the QT to restaurants, who always charge a fortune for such rare wines. That, by the way, explains why Russell had to wear a mask. It’s a brilliant scam, really. Even if the restaurants did discover the wine was a fake, they wouldn’t tell us because it would get out and that would ruin their reputation. This is basically a case of pure and simple fraud.”
“Now look at this bottle”, continued Keane. “The label is missing. The dust and cobwebs are missing. The original packaging is missing. That is where Marie Passant comes in. If we want to find her, we have to start looking for an excellent forger. And where is she now? Has she left the country? Has she gone back to France or Canada? Or is she still assisting Russell’s nemesis?
Well, now we also have a credible motive for Russell’s murder: greed. Russell and Randolph were on to a good thing, and the killer wanted it all to himself. But who is he? Parker, make sure we get good descriptions of our killer from Turnbull and ‘Phil’”
“Superintendent, how do we catch him, now he’s got what he came for?” asked Hassan
“That’s it!” shouted Keane. “That’s it! That’s exactly how we catch him! Brilliant!”
Parker and Connolly were again one or two steps behind Keane, so he explained, “He’s got the second shipment of wine. He probably still has some of Russell’s stock. What’s he going to do with it?”
“Sell it like Russell did . . .” answered Hassan, and Parker finished the equation, “. . . so we set a trap to catch him the next place he tries to palm off some of his stuff!”
Chapter 15
Monday, 21st September, late afternoon
Everyone was elated. Keane, Jenkins, Parker, Connolly, Hassan. Hayes, too. They had phoned to him, even though it was 2 am in Adelaide. He was awake, of course, and he unwrapped one of his three bottles to reveal the same illustrious capsule and cork that Keane had found.
But they still had to catch their man. And even though the description of the killer provided by the new witnesses matched that of the mystery man who had contacted Madame Chaboulet, laying a trap for their man was going to prove harder than they initially had anticipated. There were hundreds of restaurants in London. Thankfully only a limited number of these were likely to have clientele who would cough up big money for a rare claret.
Symonds would have been just the man to assist them in selecting probable target restaurants, but that was out of the question. It was Angus who came to the rescue. A food critic, Kay Windham, was a good friend of his wife. Half an hour after a brief chat on the phone, Angus received an e-mail from her with a list of 32 likely restaurants and another 15 outsiders.
So far, so good. However, they were still on what Blinky would have referred to as a ‘sticky wicket’. What they had to avoid at all costs, was any visible police presence, at exactly those restaurants which the murderer probably had singled out as likely ‘customers’. At the same time, they had to ensure that any telephonic enquiries to the restaurants were taken just as seriously as they would have been, if the Police had turned up in person. Furthermore, they had to be completely certain that no word got out about the enquiries they were making. And time was of the essence. Who could say when the killer would call it a day and decide to move on? Or worse still, attempt another sacrificial killing to divert attention again?
Keane and Angus decided that they would have to make the calls, using their rank to ensure discretion.
Three hours later, around 8pm, having contacted 28 restaurants, the mood had become pessimistic and tense. At least a dozen, by Keane and Angus’ estimation, had been tricked but refused to admit it. Nine restaurants had conceded that they had purchased the fake Château Latour. The reactions from these restaurant owners had ranged from fury to disbelief to fear of conviction. Seven of them had given a description of the seller that fit Russell in his mask. Two described another man who fit the description of their murderer.
The result of 29th call was the one they had been hoping for from the start. The owner of “Maison Rive Gauche”, a Dane named Niels Frederiksen, informed them that he had been contacted regarding the possible purchase of an exceptional lot of wine, which the seller had recovered. Frederiksen had an appointment with the man, the following morning at half past ten.
It was all systems go. First of all, Mr. Frederiksen had to be informed about what they suspected the man of, and that they wanted to use his restaurant to trap him. Mr Frederiksen was far from overjoyed about the idea.
“Please calm down, Mr. Frederiksen. I assure you, the men who will be doing this job are highly-trained professionals. Neither you nor your staff will be in any danger. We simply need access to your restaurant from tonight after you have closed until the scheduled meeting tomorrow.”
“OK. What do I have to do?”
“Well, first of all you must say nothing about this to anybody. You must behave exactly as you normally would. Follow all your normal routines. What time do you usually leave on Mondays?”
“It’s different. Any time between midnight and 2 in the morning.”
“Are you normally the last to leave?”
“Yes.”
“Leave 5 minutes after your last employee has left. Take your usual route and means of transport and go straight home. I will be waiting to meet you outside your home in a parked, dark green Morgan. Once again: I’m Detective Superintendent Keane, and I’ll
show you my identification as soon as you approach my car. I will give you full details of what is going to happen. I will need a key from you that let’s us into the back entrance, and all details about any security codes.
Once we have finished this call, I would like you to call me back immediately, by ringing to Scotland Yard and asking for me personally, so that you can be quite sure this is no hoax.”
“OK. I’ll do that.”
Frederiksen did call 2 minutes later. He got through to Keane and – much to his disappointment - his last doubt was removed.
Keane and Angus then immediately began making arrangements with the Police Firearms Unit. They in turn began to work immediately on the logistics of their plan on the basis of the address they had been given.
To Make a Killing Page 12