by Iain Cameron
‘This is to remember us by,’ he said. Expecting a knee in the balls, he tensed up, but instead a head-butt crashed across the bridge of his nose. A knee in the balls rapidly followed. ‘You’re a fucking nosey bastard, Miller,’ he heard him say despite the ding-dong bells going off in his head. ‘I never want to see your fucking face around here ever again. Got it, pig shit?’
SEVEN
It was Saturday morning and even though Henderson had been living with Rachel for a few weeks, they hadn’t yet established a weekend routine. Last week, after a decent lie-in, he’d nipped out to the newsagents on St George’s Road for the morning papers, which they’d read for an hour or so over breakfast and several cups of coffee. After lunch, they went into town and bought something for the house, although it seemed no matter how much they spent, there was always something else to buy.
It would be different today as he was driving to Camberley to see Dennis Fletcher. Dennis lived in a large detached house in Springfield Road with a double garage to one side. He knew Henderson was coming as The DI had called in advance, and must have heard his tyres crunching over the gravel drive because when he got out of the car and approached the front door, it opened.
‘Morning Dennis,’ Henderson said. ‘How are you keeping?’
‘Good morning Inspector, good to see you. I’m fine. Come on inside.’
They went into the living room, bright and airy, lit by two big windows at either end with light-coloured wood flooring and pale coloured seating.
‘Sit yourself down. Coffee?’
‘Coffee would great. White no sugar, please.’
He took a seat on the settee as his host disappeared into the kitchen.
‘How long have you lived here?’ Henderson said, when Dennis appeared a few minutes later with a tray of cups and a coffee pot.
‘About seven years. We used to move house every five or six years, all in the Camberley area mind, so it didn’t interfere with Chris’s schooling. As soon as I get a house just the way I like it, I get restless, you know?’
‘Yeah.’
‘After my wife died from cancer, I kind of lost enthusiasm for the whole thing. It’s close to the M3 and the golf course and it’s got everything I need but with Chris…’ he paused for a moment, ‘with Chris moving away and now not coming back, it’s too big. When I can summon the energy, I’ll sell up. Fancy a five bedroom, well-maintained property, convenient for all amenities?’
‘This house would be too big for me.’
‘I don’t know why I even said it. I know you’re based in Lewes.’
‘It’s not as fanciful as you might think. The Home Secretary is keen for smaller forces like Surrey and Sussex to link up, and while only CID have done it so far, I would expect other functions to move the same way in the near future.’
Dennis poured the coffee and Henderson reached over to pick the cup up.
‘I hope it’s not too strong.’
‘It looks fine. Thanks.’
Dennis sat back in the chair opposite. ‘Is there any news?’
‘As I told you on the phone, we’ve started an investigation but it’s still early days, so don’t become too despondent.’
‘I suppose Chris being in the water doesn’t give you many clues to start with.’
‘It doesn’t help, and with the incident occurring several weeks back, we’re still playing catch-up. Don’t worry though, if there are any developments, I’ll call you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Do your shops not open on Saturday?’
‘Oh, they’re open all right. Saturday is often our busiest day.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes, but can you believe the time we usually do our biggest sales is between five o’clock and when we close at seven.’
‘How come?’
‘It’s amazing how many people head out to a party or a dinner party without a bottle of wine or spirits to bring with them. They roll up at one of our shops and after a two-minute browse, buy anything or take whatever is recommended by one of our staff. If it’s an evening with the boss or an important client, they think nothing of grabbing a couple of fifty-pound bottles.’
Henderson laughed, but he’d been there himself in what felt like a previous life. ‘Aren’t you needed with all the experience you must have?’
‘I’ve trained managers to run the shops themselves. I occasionally do a stint in the local one if they’re short-handed, but nowadays I spend most of my time in the garden, or, during the winter, reading.’
‘The reason I’m here, Dennis, is to find out a bit more about Chris: what kind of person he was, who he hung around with, what sort of things he got up to; that sort of thing.’
He nodded. ‘I understand.’ He lifted his coffee cup without drinking. ‘Chris was a good boy up until the time his mother died. He did well at school, played lots of sports and helped me in the shop with deliveries and at weekends. He was a popular boy and had plenty of friends, often went around to their houses for sleepovers. Then his mother died, unexpectedly and suddenly, something you don’t usually associate with cancer, but she ignored the signs and when it was diagnosed it had spread throughout her body. Before we knew it, she weighed less than six stone and had been moved to a hospice to await death.’
Dennis sipped from the coffee cup, his eyes a million miles away, deep in the dark liquid. ‘When she died, Chris went to bits; we both did. I went from being an ok parent to a rubbish one who ignored his son and spent his time wallowing in his own misery. Chris went from being a kind and considerate teenager, to one who drank, took drugs and came home at all hours, often in the company of one of your colleagues from Surrey Police.’
At the start of any major investigation, Henderson always ran the name of family members, initial suspects, eye-witnesses, and even the victim through the PNC, the Police National Computer. If not, something might be missed which could cause the case to unravel. When this happened, it was often in the public eye, at press conferences or in the pages of newspapers, when a grieving family member was revealed to be an ex-con recently released from a ten-year stretch for attempted murder, or a pervert whose name appeared on the Sex Offenders Register. No flags had been raised about Chris or Dennis, suggesting the offences Dennis mentioned were minor and probably earned his son no more than a caution.
‘It never did get completely out of hand, but he became a local nuisance. His grades at school suffered and even his long term ambition to be a journalist got chucked by the wayside. I could always have given him a job in one of the shops, of course. I would have liked him to take over the business eventually, but he didn’t want to.’
‘He didn’t show any real interest in pursuing a career in the wine business at this stage?’
‘No. “Why would I want to become a fucking shopkeeper,” was one of his less colourful comments.’
‘What changed?’
‘I don’t know. A girl came on the scene around his eighteenth birthday and she helped, but I think by then he’d got most of the anger out of his system and was ready to move on. He enrolled at a college and took his GCSE’s, and after them, took a course in viniculture at Plumpton College in Sussex.’
‘I know it.’
‘He stuck the course out, and I don’t know if the college encouraged it or if he just wanted to know more, but it was then he decided to go to France.’
‘Up to the point he seemed to have turned his life around and went to college,’ Henderson said, ‘did Chris have any enemies? Was there someone he annoyed or fought with during his angry phase?’
Dennis thought for a moment. ‘No, I don’t think so. I can’t think of any time he might have come home scared or told me he felt threatened. I think whatever happened to him, was brought on by someone or something in France.’
Henderson felt the same, but he had to explore the pre-France days in case something else was lurking there.
‘What about his friends and the people he associated with?’
‘His friends from school and even the neighbours’ kids all disappeared during his angry phase. I think he cheesed them off once too often.’
‘If he was buying alcohol while under-age and using drugs, he might have come into contact with some unsavoury characters.’
‘Now you mention it, I once caught him carrying a knife. I asked him what he wanted it for, fully expecting him to say it was for something innocent, like opening beer bottles or picking dirt from his fingernails. I was gobsmacked when he said it was for personal protection.’
‘Protection from whom?’
‘I assume from some of the people he came into contact with when he bought drugs.’
This was another line of enquiry. He would task someone with talking to the Drugs Squad at Surrey Police and get the low-down on dealers and users in the Camberley area. Was there a violent drugs gang or individual operating locally? Were many people killed or assaulted around the time Chris was buying drugs?
‘When was this?’
‘Let me think. When Chris was about sixteen or seventeen. So about ten years ago.’
‘I’ll look into it. Is there anything else you can tell me that you think might be useful?’
‘No, I don’t think so. One thing you need to remember, Inspector, Chris was a good boy. He went off the rails for a few years for sure, but underneath that angry exterior he still had a sound moral compass. He didn’t steal, he didn’t rob pensioners or break into houses to buy alcohol or dugs. What he did, he did to himself. If he wasn’t so afraid of blood, he would have self-harmed, I’m sure.’
‘I understand. Can I take a look in his room?’
Dennis rose from the chair more sprightly than when he sat down, no doubt buoyed by a feeling he was helping the investigation.
If he didn’t know which one was Chris’s room, he could easily tell from the football and heavy metal posters, but not from how tidy it looked. However, Chris had been away from home for several months, and whoever did the cleaning had obviously been in there a number of times. The room could now be included unaltered in an estate agent’s selling particulars.
He donned plastic gloves and rummaged through drawers and sifted through clothes and boxes in the wardrobe. It was a cursory search, but if he discovered something suggesting the roots of Chris’s death lay here in Camberley, he wouldn’t hesitate to use a forensic team for a more detailed examination.
‘Did Chris have a laptop?’
‘Yes, he took it with him when he went to France.’
‘Would he bring it back with him whenever he returned home for a break?’
‘He used to bring back everything of value. If he didn’t, he said it was sure to go missing.’
Henderson had a thought. Chris was returning to the UK because he had been sacked from his job, and therefore he would have been carrying everything he owned. This would include not only his laptop and a few personal effects, but all his clothes, books and toiletries. Now, what had happened to them?
EIGHT
‘What a difference it makes, me not having to wait for you to show up. The amount of time I used to waste, going back and forward to the window to see if your car was there.’
‘Did you wear a line in the carpet?’ Henderson said.
Rachel nudged him on the shoulder. ‘You wish, but we should have done this sooner, plus the place we’re in now makes it so much easier to get into town.’
‘I can’t argue with you there.’
This was their first night out since moving house, a concert at the Brighton Dome. They were walking down St James’s Street towards Brighton town centre, past closed shops and bustling bars. It was a busy area day or night, with groups of lads hanging around the Co-op and passing around large bottles of cider, people heading into many of the pubs and wine bars, and later on, drunks trying to make their way up the steep hill.
‘It’s not so nice around here,’ Rachel said as they waited at the pedestrian lights to cross the Steine.
‘What, the guys hanging around outside the amusement arcade, or the three lanes of slow-moving traffic in front of us?’
‘The boys back there. I hate to think what they’ll be like after they finish all their booze.’
‘I suppose with you living in a posh place like Hove, you’ve missed out on all of this, but I would see it around my flat in Seven Dials. They might be noisy and a bit unruly, but if trouble starts, the John Street nick is just around the corner.’
‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’
They crossed the road and walked up North Street before turning into Pavilion Buildings. It wasn’t the quickest way to where they were going, but Brighton was one of those places where busier streets tended to be the most interesting, with a variety of people, talented buskers and exotic smells escaping from restaurant doors and windows.
The Dome didn’t have the huge capacity of the Brighton Centre, and on getting closer, there were none of the large crowds that could be seen on the promenade when a popular entertainer came to town. In any case, the band that Rachel wanted to see, The Maccabees, were more indie than mainstream with a modest but dedicated following.
They were stopped at the door by security and Rachel’s bag was searched, an inconvenience Henderson didn’t mind after the attack at a concert venue in Paris the previous year. He thought, but didn’t say, the pleasant but unarmed security team wouldn’t stand much of a chance against AK47 wielding terrorists.
The previous week he’d been present at a conference about this very subject, a top level powwow attended by the police, government officials, independent security advisors and academics. The security advisors were gung-ho about video surveillance and arming security personnel at football grounds, town centres and venues like this one, but they were put in their place by government officials, alarmed at what they saw as the ruination of the ‘British Way of Life.’
They headed to the bar. It was long, with plenty of standing space, but the overhead fluorescent lights cast a cold, white glow, making it look more like the inside of a students’ union than a theatre. It didn’t bother his fellow drinkers, as judging by their youthful looks and scruffy taste in clothes, most of them were students anyway.
He carried a pint of ale and a glass of white wine back to the berth beside a pillar where Rachel was standing, but by the expression on her face when she took a sip, he’d got the better deal as the Harvey’s Best tasted fine.
‘Looking around,’ she said, ‘I don’t think we’re the oldest here. Your fears were unfounded.’
Henderson was forty-three and Rachel had recently turned thirty-eight, and while he didn’t expect to be the most senior citizen in the room, this was the first concert he’d been to for ages and he wasn’t sure what he’d find. A quick glance to his right revealed a smattering of people in their fifties, probably getting the chance to attend concerts and other events now the kids were off their hands.
‘Did you have a good day?’ Rachel asked.
‘Not bad. I told you about the father whose son fell from the Newhaven-Dieppe ferry?’
‘Yes, we did a short piece about him in the paper.’
‘I’ve now seen evidence to suggest that he was murdered. Before you reach for your notebook or phone to tell your fellow journalists on the crime beat, this information is not for public consumption as yet.’
‘Understood, but what a horrible way to die if he was, all cold and dark.’
‘It’s one of the most painless ways to go, according to some experts, although I don’t know how they know.’
‘Even so, I wouldn’t fancy it. It wouldn’t be so bad on your boat as it isn’t so far to fall, but on some of those cross-Channel ferries, they’re so high.’
‘There’s something I need to tell you.’
‘What, is it connected to this?’
‘Yeah.’
Henderson’s phone rang.
‘Henderson.’
‘Good evening, sir, Lewes Control here. Sorry to
disturb you.’
Oh hell, Henderson thought, the first concert in years and he was about to be called out to God knows what.
‘What is it?’
‘I’ve got a caller on the line who says he needs to speak to you. Says it’s in connection with the Chris Fletcher drowning.’
‘Put them through.’
‘Just a moment.’
‘Hello, hello?’
‘Hello there. This is Detective Inspector Angus Henderson, Surrey and Sussex Police.’
‘Good evening, detective, at least I assume it’s evening over there in the UK.’
‘Don’t worry, it is.’
‘Thank you. My name is Harvey Miller.’
The voice sounded strained and tired but undoubtedly American.
‘Where are you calling from?’
‘A hospital in Bordeaux, France. Maybe if I explain why I’m calling it might become a bit clearer. I was lying here in the hospital doing nothing and I pick up this Brit paper. In there, I find an article which says a body washed up near Newhaven a few days back has now been identified as Chris Fletcher.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘I’m a private investigator working for a rich individual in Philly, I mean Philadelphia in the States, and he’s asked me to investigate what he believes is a major wine fraud.’
‘What sort of wine fraud?’
‘Passing off cheap wine as rare vintage.’
‘How does the fraud work?’
‘I don’t know the mechanics, that’s what I’m trying to find out, but I know the end result. It’s a bottle of wine costing two thousand of your pounds, or maybe more, but inside there’s nothing but common old Vin de Pays, as they say over here.’
‘The bottles are genuine but the wine isn’t?’
‘Yep, you got it. How they do it, how they persuade a shrewd investor like my client to buy, I don’t know; but I’m working on it.’
‘What has this got to do with Chris?’