Red Red Wine (DI Angus Henderson Book 5)

by Iain Cameron

  They parted company at the car park with a firm handshake and the satisfied smile of a job well done. Miller was pleased that his beating in France had not been in vain and he was now on the trail of wine fraudsters who, based on the detail he saw in one of the books in the filing cabinet, were making millions. In all likelihood, the fear of Chris Fletcher blowing their lucrative secret was what got the poor fellow killed.

  Billy Rush returned to his car, a nondescript Ford Focus that didn’t attract attention, unlike his weekend transport, a yellow Yamaha trail bike. It had been a good night’s work for him too. Not only had he pocketed three hundred notes from the American, he had also trousered another five hundred, found in a drawer in the office of a Mr Jim Bennett.

  FOURTEEN

  ‘Ah, this takes me back,’ DS Carol Walters said from the passenger seat.

  ‘What?’ Henderson asked, ‘me driving and you taking charge of the radio, or the sight of grimy ships and docks?’

  ‘Grimy? How can you call Portsmouth grimy? Millions have been spent on redevelopment and regeneration. It’s a tourist haven for all who come to see the Mary Rose, have a tour of the harbour and see what naval ships are in dock.’

  ‘I did that harbour trip myself a few years back, but it was a blustery day and I was glad to get back indoors I can tell you.’

  ‘What, and you a seasoned mariner?’

  ‘It was my own fault, it was summer and I was just dressed in t-shirt and shorts. I didn’t expect it to be so cold, nor for the weather to change so quickly. How come you’re being so supportive of the place, I thought Portsmouth held bad memories for you?’

  ‘It does. I mean, I loved the place when me and him first moved here, first house together and all that jazz, but you’re right, it all went downhill for me soon after. You come off here at the junction for the A27.’

  Henderson did as he was told, Walters refusing to program the sat-nav, trusting her local knowledge of the place she once called home.

  ‘The roundabout after this, take a left and then you’re on the Gosport Road. Even you should be able to find Gosport now.’

  ‘I’ll have you know I’m good at this, finding places on a boat is ten times harder. On a road you’ve got all the signs and landmarks you need, but out there on the open sea you’ve got nothing, and often you can’t see the land for fog or because you’re out too far.’

  ‘Just because we’re going to see a boat builder doesn’t mean you can sneak in another seafaring story.’

  Daniel Perry’s yacht customisation business, Ocean Cruising, was on Harbour Road, a better address for a company of this nature he couldn’t think of. According to their website, all a customer needed to do was give them the yacht of their choice, be it a Sunseeker, Princess or Moody, and they would customise the vessel to exacting specifications. This could include luxuries such as gold taps, flat screen televisions and luxurious beds, or technical advances like a more powerful engine or larger sails.

  While waiting in reception, Walters flicked through a magazine lying on the table, while he examined the photographs on the wall. They were pictures of yacht owners, many instantly recognisable as stars of television, film and the music business, picking up their modified plaything. Standing beside them, smiling or shaking their hand, was a representative from Ocean Cruising, invariably Daniel Perry. Snappy dresser that he was renowned to be, he didn’t resort to the traditional uniform worn by yacht club dignitaries: a dark-blue blazer, open-neck shirt and fawn coloured slacks. He wore a sharp suit, hair styled and skin tanned, with an expensive gold watch and diamond ring; but no amount of dressing up could hide the darkness behind his eyes and the malice etched on his face.

  The receptionist was on a call, clearly with a new lover as she giggled and whimpered like a schoolgirl. She glanced at them and whispered to the caller, ‘can’t talk now, I’ll talk to you later,’ and put the phone down, blushing. It rang seconds later and this time she said to them, ‘Mr Frankland will see you now.’

  They followed her directions out into a vast hall where three large yachts were suspended under an elaborate cradling system. On each, a number of blue-coated technicians were busily working. Even though the business focussed on customising, it emitted the traditional smells of a boat builder, with that unique aroma of sawn wood, varnish and glue.

  They walked into a small cluttered office. The desk faced the glass panelling behind them, looking out to the workers on the yachts, while the two visitors’ chairs were directed at a wall, blank, with the exception of the obligatory yacht calendar given to them by a grateful supplier. Just as well for Henderson, as the sight of all those boats would surely distract him.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Frankland. I’m Detective Inspector Henderson, Surrey and Sussex Police, and this is Sergeant Walters.’

  Frankland rose and, it seemed with some reluctance, shook their hands.

  ‘Excuse the bloody mess in here,’ Frankland said as he sat down, ‘this isn’t my office.’

  ‘Do you have an office you can call your own?’ Henderson asked ‘Or do you hot-desk it around the various businesses?’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose I don’t have a place I can call mine, but hell, I don’t mind. When home’s 10,000 miles away you learn to manage with whatever the hell you’ve given.’

  He was similar in age to Henderson, with fair hair and chiselled, hard features. He looked strong and muscular, as if he did a physically demanding job. He was Australian, but not with a rough, country accent, something more refined, perhaps toned down for the English ear.

  ‘So what goes on here, Mr Frankland?’

  Henderson knew enough about their business not to listen too attentively, but he wanted to hear him speak. He detected a hard edge to his voice, as if maybe he had mighty problems to deal with here or didn’t like talking to the police.

  ‘What’s your role?’ Henderson asked when he’d finished.

  ‘They call me Operations Director but I’m really a trouble-shooter. In this place, some of our customers are big knobs on TV or in the pop business and they want everything yesterday. Daniel’s job is to schmooze the customer and keep them sweet, and mine is to make sure the buggers out there are working flat-out to meet their order.’

  ‘Do you have the authority to change things?’

  ‘I can sack the whole damn lot of them if I want to, but it doesn’t work like that. If the guy who runs this place or any other business in the group is a good bloke, I’ll find out what he needs and get it for him. If he’s a bit of a slacker, I’ll give him a boot up the arse first and then ask him what he needs.’

  ‘Maybe a softer seat,’ Walters said.

  Frankland smiled but not warmly.

  ‘Do you visit Château Osanne, Mr Perry’s vineyard in France?’

  ‘If it’s one of Daniel’s companies, I’ve been there.’

  ‘How often do you go?’

  ‘Without consulting my diary? About five or six times a year.’

  ‘Were you there on Friday 6th May this year, the day Chris Fletcher was sacked?’

  He picked up the desk diary and flicked through it. ‘Yep, I was in France 4th, 5th and 6th May.’

  ‘Why were you there? Did they have a problem?’

  ‘The château has a big contract with the Café de Paris. I went there to make sure the next delivery was coming out soon, as Daniel was starting to feel nervous. When Daniel feels nervous, we all have to do something, let me tell you.’

  ‘Were you involved in the sacking of Chris Fletcher?’

  ‘Nope. I leave all that to the vineyard manager, Rene Fournier. He’s got to work with the people when I go home.’

  ‘How do you travel to and from France?’

  ‘I usually drive as I’m always carrying loads of things back and forwards.’

  ‘Where do you drive to; Dieppe or Calais.’

  ‘Dieppe, as it’s closer to my house in Sussex. Plus it’s a longer sea trip than Dover and I use the time to grab a meal and relax, aw
ay from bloody phones and emails.’

  ‘Did you return to the UK on Friday 6th or the day after?’

  He could lie about this if he wanted, Henderson knew, but now that he’d admitted he was in France around the same time as Chris was leaving the vineyard, they could probably pick up his name from ferry passenger records, providing he’d used his real name when booking the ticket.

  ‘Why are you asking me this? Is there any point to it?’

  ‘Chris Fletcher, one of Château Osanne’s ex-employees, disappeared from the 6 pm Dieppe to Newhaven ferry on Friday 6th May. I’m trying to establish if you were on that ferry.’

  ‘If I was, it would be me and about four hundred other bloody passengers,’ he said.

  ‘There is no need to raise your voice, Mr Frankland.’

  ‘I’m not fucking thrilled to be doing this.’

  ‘It’s either we talk here or over at the police station in Lewes, your choice.’

  ‘I hear you, mate.’

  ‘Were you on that ferry?’

  ‘Maybe I was, maybe I wasn’t. I can’t remember.’

  ‘Did you see Chris?’

  ‘Wouldn’t know him if I did. I don’t think I’ve ever met him before.’

  ‘Why don’t I believe you? Number one, it’s your job to know the people in this organisation based on what you’ve told me about what you do. And two, I don’t imagine a small vineyard employs more than thirty people. How come you don’t know him?’

  ‘I don’t like your tone, mister.’

  ‘I’m merely trying to establish if you were on the ferry at the same time as Chris Fletcher. How difficult is that?’

  ‘What then? You’ll accuse me of chucking him overboard or something? Because if you are, copper or no copper, I might just lose my temper and land you one.’

  ‘This is the UK, Mr Frankland. I don’t know if it’s the same where you come from, but over here even threatening a policeman is an offence.’

  ‘Well fucking arrest me if it offends you so much, mate. As far as I’m concerned this interview’s over. Now get the fuck out.’

  Henderson realised they would get no more out of him today, there was little point in arguing.

  ‘I may have to speak to you again, Mr Frankland.’

  ‘If this is your way of saying stay in one place and don’t leave the country without telling you lot first, you’ve no bloody chance.’

  They walked out, back into the large and airy work area, the workers still beavering away, seemingly oblivious to all the raised voices of the last few minutes.

  ‘You head out to the car, Carol, I want to take a moment and look at some of the yachts.’

  ‘Don’t be all day, sir.’

  Henderson walked between two yachts and began talking to one of the technicians. He told the DI the yacht was for a Saudi prince, and the gold taps and a huge gold mirror in the stateroom were only a couple of a thousand luxury items they were adding. He also said they were now in discussions with the prince’s representatives and the boat builder, as they believed the engine originally installed wasn’t man-enough to handle the extra weight.

  Henderson thanked him and ducked under the bow and headed towards the entrance. Framed in the entrance, a man came striding towards him carrying a long pole which looked like a boat hook. He was a big guy, easily six foot six and built like a heavyweight boxer.

  Henderson wouldn’t put it past David Frankland to have put a call through to his pet Rottweiler and ask him to beat up the nosey copper for asking too many awkward questions. When the man got closer, Henderson tensed and bunched his fists.

  The man stopped and roughly shoved Henderson against a wall.

  ‘You the cop?’ he said in a thick Russian accent.

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  He lifted the boat hook and pushed it close to Henderson’s face. His hair was short, his face chiselled and he had one ear in the shape of a cauliflower; but there was no mistaking his expression.

  ‘If you come back ’ere, you get this.’ He pressed the cold metal against his cheek. ‘Now get ze hell out.’

  ‘What was all that about?’ Walters asked when he climbed into the car.

  ‘I don’t know. Just David Frankland’s way of saying goodbye.’

  FIFTEEN

  Henderson made a cup of coffee and carried it out to the table in the back garden, spreading the previous day’s Argus out before him. If he was hungry for information about the Albion, he would turn immediately to the back pages, but instead, because he hadn’t read any local news for a while, he started at the front.

  It was late May and the sun shone in an azure blue sky. He was determined to make the most it as June, in his experience, could be a changeable month with squally showers and cold snaps. He’d done some digging around the borders last week and while he hadn’t planted anything yet, he was annoyed to see some weeds were starting to appear.

  He only made it as far as page four in the newspaper before Rachel came out to join him, coffee cup in hand and looking a lot worse than he felt. When he returned home after his trip to Portsmouth, he wanted nothing more than a quiet night in, a chance to put his feet up. Their neighbours had other plans.

  ‘Why didn’t you stop me drinking last night?’ she said as she slumped into a seat opposite him.

  ‘This is often a dangerous thing to do, and in any case, why do women always try to blame their failings on their partners?’

  ‘Conditioning; copying their mothers, I guess.’

  ‘It was a good night, though. I didn’t realise school teachers could be so much fun. They weren’t like that in my day.’

  ‘Me neither. I think the world’s gone casual, away from the strictures set down in the fifties and sixties. It’s like business. Ten years ago, when you interviewed a businessman they would be dressed in a nice suit, shirt and tie. Now, you’re lucky if they wear a suit and you rarely see a tie.’

  ‘Does it improve school standards, though? Is it better to have a strict teacher who makes you learn your times-tables and your French vocab, or one who treats you like a friend and never gets annoyed?’

  She got up from her seat, draped her arms around his neck and flopped rather than sat on his knee. ‘You’re interested in schools now, Mr H? Is there something you should be telling me?’

  ‘Not guilty m’lud. I spent the evening at a neighbour’s house where my girlfriend got rat-arsed while I was being button-holed by two teachers who talked non-stop about all that was wrong with British education today.’

  ‘Slick extraction, Henderson.’

  She gave him a kiss and got up and returned to her seat. ‘So, what have you got on today?’

  **

  Henderson walked through the reception area at Malling House in Lewes, and after calling a hearty ‘Good Morning,’ to Sergeant Steve Travis on the desk, stopped in his tracks when he spotted Harvey Miller sitting there.

  ‘Hello, Harvey. How are you? Have the bruises healed?’

  ‘Hi, Detective Henderson,’ he said rising. ‘It’s good to see you. I’m feeling a lot better, thanks for asking. I can move much easier now.’

  ‘That’s good to hear. Is it me you’ve come to see or someone else?’

  ‘You. I’ve got something to show you; something I guarantee you’ll find very interesting.’

  Henderson turned to the sergeant on the desk. ‘Steve, are any of the interview rooms free?’

  He looked down at his list. ‘You can use Number One.’

  A few minutes later, Henderson was seated opposite Harvey Miller, a grey, institutional desk and three coffee cups between them, DC Deepak Sunderam at the DI’s side. He wanted Deepak there to increase the lad’s experience and also to corroborate whatever Miller wanted to tell him.

  ‘If you remember, detective,’ Miller said, ‘when we met at the Queens Hotel, I said I had a fix on where the vans from Château Osanne were heading.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘I went over to Uckfield and
sat watching a warehouse on a big industrial estate for a couple of days. It wasn’t the most riveting way to spend time I can tell you, with an endless line of big trucks coming in and out all day. I was on the point of giving up when a small van drew up at the far side of the warehouse and the driver went into the secret part.’

  ‘What secret part?’

  ‘Let me spin back a little. I was sitting outside a company called PFB Parcels. This is where the trucks I saw at Château Osanne bring boxes of wine destined for the Café de Paris. For the first day at least, I assumed the parcel company used the whole building. When I got out the car and walked around I realised they only use three-quarters of the building; the rest of it is sectioned off, with its own entrance, but no logo and the windows all blacked out.’

  ‘Maybe the warehouse is too big for the parcel company,’ Sunderam said, ‘and they sub-let it.’

  ‘That’s what I thought until I saw a van pull up and the driver go inside. The van belongs to Fraser Brook’s Fine Wines and to cut a long story short, they are a wine retailer heavily involved in selling expensive wines through auction.’

  ‘Are they indeed?’ Henderson said, his interest heightened.

  ‘Now, as you can appreciate, I had to get in there–’

  ‘The section with the blacked out windows?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘I assume they didn’t send you an invite.’

  Miller nodded. ‘No they did not.’

  ‘Harvey,’ Henderson said, ‘I don’t need to remind you, American citizen or not, that what you have done is illegal, and in any case, evidence gained by criminal means is not admissible in court.’

  ‘It wasn’t me, it was a friend; isn’t that what the cons say? C’mon, I know the stuff I’ve got was obtained illegally but it’s not as if my burglar buddy broke into a convent and stole the Mother Superior’s savings. These people are nasty criminals, not just pouring crap into wine bottles and selling it for thousands, but killing anyone who tries to blow the whistle.’