Red Red Wine (DI Angus Henderson Book 5)

by Iain Cameron

  Free at last, he sat in the darkness rubbing his bleeding wrists, thinking how to get out of the barn. A few minutes later, a strange new aroma assailed his nostrils, different from the wet grass smells of the country or the dull woody notes of a barn made entirely of oak. This smell was acrid and bitter; like the smoke his neighbour used to send over his garden whenever he decided to burn leaves instead of composting them.

  It started like the smoke from a far-off chimney, but grew stronger in tandem with his rising anxiety. He tried to open the door between the office and the laboratory but found it locked. He moved to a window overlooking the laboratory and parted the vertical blind. He could now see the source of the smoke. In the corner of the laboratory, beside some bottles of chemicals, orange flames were licking upwards. He watched, frozen to the spot, fascinated as they grew larger, feeding on the bottles like a hungry alien. When the bottles burst in the heat, the flames moved upward, tearing ravenously at the wooden frame of the barn.

  He snapped out of the spell and searched for a way out. The door between the office and the laboratory was locked, maybe not a bad thing because if he opened it, the draught would create an upsurge of oxygen and invite the fire towards him. He ran to the office window facing the front of the barn, but to his utter dismay it was double-glazed and locked; no key.

  There was nothing lying around with which to break it, save for some pieces of broken chair. He tried, but they simply bounced off the toughened glass. The flames were now licking at the office door, the noise and smell of burning wood almost overpowering. The window between the office and the laboratory suddenly shattered with a deafening crash. Flames licked inside the office, the vertical blind turning to dust in seconds and smoke and flames billowing under the door before changing it into a ball of flame seconds later. The heat was intense and Miller was sure his clothes were about to melt around his body.

  The only other heavy object in the place was the main office chair, an expensive and thickly padded monster which would not look out of place in the offices of an investment bank. Summoning up his last reserves of energy, he picked the chair up and launched it at the window. The glass cracked but didn’t shatter. He lifted the chair again, with difficulty this time as it felt heavier than before, and swung it towards the window. This time both panes of glass shattered. Using the wooden leg from the broken chair, he poked at the jagged peaks of glass, trying to clear a path, hard to see as smoke and sweat were clouding his vision.

  The sudden intake of fresh air from the broken window gave him an instant burst of energy but increased the intensity of the fire, now roaring behind him with the aggression of an angry lion. He could smell his hair sizzling and his flesh burning as he climbed into the ragged opening. He was nearly there, the cold fragrances of the night leading him on, but when he tried to move, he couldn’t. He tried and tried but couldn’t progress any further. Part of his clothing was caught on a shard of glass.

  **

  DI Henderson and DS Walters watched as a Range Rover bounced down the drive, and on reaching the tarmac, shot off down the road, heading north.

  ‘They seem to be in a bit of a hurry,’ he said.

  ‘They do, but there’s still a few hours until closing time,’ Walters said. ‘What’s the rush?’

  ‘Not everyone thinks about life in terms of drinking time, Sergeant Walters. There may be something interesting on the box, or maybe the driver’s been told to get home now as his dinner’s getting cold.’

  ‘I take it the nosey copper in you now wants to wander up to the house for a look?’

  ‘You know me too well, Sergeant Walters. Let’s go.’

  They got out the car and walked along the road to the entrance of Forest Farm. They turned into the drive when Henderson stopped. ‘There are still lights on in the house.’

  ‘So I see. Which means what? Someone could still be there?’

  ‘Could be,’ he said, ‘or the householder is a bit cavalier about wasting electricity.’

  ‘Or maybe there’s been a spate of burglaries in the area and the householder leaves a light on for added security, as our colleagues in uniform advise. What do you think we should do?’

  Henderson’s phone vibrated.

  ‘Hang on. Hello, Rachel.’

  ‘Angus, where are you? You said you were coming home early tonight. I’m cooking you something special.’

  Henderson racked his brains. It wasn’t his birthday, her birthday, Easter, Valentine’s Day. Nope, he would have to come clean.

  ‘What are we celebrating?’

  ‘We’ve been living together for two weeks.’

  He was tempted to say, ‘I thought it was something important’, but resisted.

  He went on to explain what they were doing in Loxwood, how long he thought it might take and when he expected to be home. With a warning not to be late as her ‘special’ lasagne would spoil if cooked too long ringing in his ears, he ended the call.

  ‘Are you in some sort of trouble? I told you this would happen once you two moved in together.’

  ‘I could be if we don’t get a move on. How long was I talking on the phone?’

  ‘Five, six minutes, I don’t know. Why?’

  ‘In this time, did the lights of the house change or did you spot any movement?’

  ‘Nope, nothing’s changed, nothing at all.’

  ‘Let’s go, but at the first signs of life or a dog, we back away and return tomorrow, hopefully with a warrant.’

  ‘Only to find that Brook was here delivering the owner’s legitimate wine order.’

  ‘No chance. Phil said wine deliveries are done in big vans from the warehouse in Hammersmith. Brook is the boss, he doesn’t do deliveries. He was here about something else.’

  ‘I was joking. I hope they don’t have a dog. I hate dogs.’

  ‘I’m not too fond of big Dobermans or Alsatians myself, but as they don’t have a front gate I suspect they don’t have one, or if they do, the brute is safely locked up inside.’

  ‘This driveway’s a mess, don’t you think? It’s full of potholes. It’s a good job there hasn’t been much rain lately or we’d find ourselves stepping into some deep puddles. ’

  ‘If they’ve been making shedloads of money by wine faking, they sure don’t spend it on tarmac.’

  They walked in silence for a few minutes, their progress slow as they tried to sidestep the worst pot-holes, Henderson using his trusty Maglite to provide some guidance.

  ‘I’ve been looking in the windows all the time we’ve been walking,’ Henderson said, ‘but there hasn’t been any movement inside and I can’t see any flicker from a television.’

  ‘Me neither. Hang on, what’s that at the side of the house?’

  Henderson moved to the other side of the drive to see what Walters was referring to. There was an orange radiance, unsteady at first but solid now and getting stronger.

  ‘I thought maybe it was the light of a torch or the glow of one of those sunlamp things,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t think so, it seems to be getting bigger. I think it’s a fire.’ A sudden glow improved visibility. ‘It’s a fire, the building’s on fire! C’mon!’

  They started running towards it and in a practiced movement, Henderson pulled out his phone and called the emergency services. The ground levelled as they came closer to the house and he realised, for the Fire Service at least, they would be too late to save the wooden barn at the side of the house as it was engulfed in flame.

  They would still be required though as the fire was singeing the branches of trees nearby, the barn was only five metres from the house and he had no idea if close neighbours were on the other side of a line of conifers behind the barn now glowing an eerie shade of orange.

  They were close to the fire now, the searing heat in marked contrast to the coolness of the evening, but still no one came out of the house to investigate.

  ‘Carol,’ Henderson shouted above the roar of cracking glass and timber and the occas
ional small explosion, ‘bang on the door and see if anyone’s at home. Get them out of there, fast!’

  She ran towards the back door as Henderson gave the barn a wide berth and tried to see what had been going on there. He hoped no one had been trapped inside, as in the short time since they had spotted the flames it had gone from a small fire to a major blaze, flames shooting ten or fifteen metres into the air.

  He then noticed the body hanging out of a window. That end of the barn hadn’t become totally engulfed yet, but soon it would be. He ran towards the motionless figure. He seemed to be unconscious. It looked as though he had tried to escape through the broken window but his clothes had got caught on the frame or a piece of glass. He hauled at his shoulders and as he did so, he could now see what was impeding his escape.

  Walters came running towards him. ‘There’s no one in the house.’

  ‘The guy’s got stuck trying to get out. Untangle his trousers and lift his leg over the glass while I pull.’

  The heat was like nothing he had ever experienced before. Sweat was pouring down his face and any moment now he was sure his clothes would spontaneously combust. Everything he touched was hot enough to cook a roast: the window frame, this man’s body, Henderson’s head.

  He was a big guy but Henderson found the strength from somewhere to pull, and with Walters lifting his leg over a shard of glass, they gradually eased him out of the window. The fire had engulfed the whole barn now, and the area from which the man had been pulled was now filled with orange, angry flames, consuming everything in their path.

  Henderson took a firmer grip of the injured man’s shoulders and hauled him across the grass close to a line of trees where it felt cooler. Only then did he let him go and flop down exhausted.

  Walters rushed over and attended to the victim. She drew out her torch and shone it into his eyes to check for life. ‘Bloody hell, sir. It was hard to tell at first with his face all smoke and dirt, but it’s Harvey Miller!’

  Henderson got up and staggered towards her. He looked down, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. Even this far from the fire, the smell of smoke and the heat made his eyes water. ‘You’re right, so it is! What the hell is he doing here? How is he? Is he alive?’

  ‘I’m getting no pulse.’

  Henderson lifted his arm but he couldn’t find a pulse either. He placed one palm over the back of his other hand, interlocked his fingers and put them on Harvey’s chest. He began to pump in a series of short, fast, downward compressions.

  After about thirty pushes, he stopped and bent down to give him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Harvey’s face was black and his lips were raw and cracked. Henderson pinched the victim’s nose and blew air into his lungs and watched as his chest inflated twice, before returning to administer another series of chest compressions. He repeated this routine three or four times, before he felt a hand on his arm.

  ‘You can stop now, sir. I think we’ve lost him.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  A few minutes after eight forty-five in the morning, Fraser Brook set off for work. It was Friday and he felt happy. Even though he owned a business that was open seven days a week, for the last six months he only worked a five-day week. This was partly because he was making so much money now selling wine collections, but also he wanted to see more of his friends. The new hours suited him to a tee as the jaded feeling he used to get on a Monday morning, and once again on Saturday, were long gone. Every day when he went into work, except after a heavy night, he headed there in a cheerful state of mind, prepared to attack anything his business could throw at him.

  Aside from dealing with the usual list of issues plaguing his daily routine, Friday in the office also meant he would help the boys set the shop up for what was often the busiest day of the week. Rather than do paperwork in his office, he worked with Sam on the shop floor trying to decide which wines to put on display and how to market special promotions.

  Only last week he received a call from a négociant friend in Bordeaux who had ten cases of a cabernet-based wine from a small château in the Cotes de Castillon, an area near Bordeaux that Sam and Brook believed offered excellent value for money. They had sold the wine before and were pleased with the feedback received from customers, so he said yes, especially when he knocked two Euros off the price of a bottle. This weekend, it would be the lead promotion, allowing customers to pick up an excellent seventeen-pound bottle of wine for only nine pounds ninety-nine. Sam liked a wager and they shook hands on a twenty-pound bet. Sam was confident he could sell all the wine by five o’clock on Saturday afternoon; Brook was sure there wouldn’t be a trace of it left by one.

  The sky was overcast and drizzly as he emerged from Sloane Square tube station. King’s Road was full of annoying umbrellas trying to gouge a piece out of his skull, and tourists wearing hideously coloured plastic macs and anoraks bought from the Disney store and Legoland. He intended to work over lunchtime, so he walked into a small supermarket to buy a newspaper and some sandwiches. He resumed his journey, taking extra care to dodge puddles and the splashes from passing taxis and buses, when his phone rang.

  ‘Hello Sam, how are you this not so fine morning?’ he said.

  ‘Fraser,’ a voice hissed, ‘I’m in the loo.’

  ‘Sam,’ he said, smiling, ‘if every staff member called me up every time they went to the toilet I would never get any work done.’

  ‘No, no Fraser, listen. I’m in the loo to get away from them.’

  ‘Who’s ‘them’? The rent’s up to date and I don’t owe anyone money that I know of. Stop being so Dick Tracy.’

  ‘Jim Bennett and his loopy son. They’re waiting for you downstairs.’

  ‘Jim and Kenny have been to the shop before, Sam. What’s the difference this time?’

  ‘You should see the look on Jim Bennett’s face, it’s like thunder! He’s pacing up and down like a bull and muttering to himself. He’s very angry and I think it’s directed at you. If I didn’t know any better, I would suspect you’ve done something horrible to him and he’s here to pay you back.’

  He was a sensitive lad, Sam, and alarm bells started ringing in Brook’s head before he finished the sentence. What he wanted more than anything was some coke to calm his nerves, as the needle of his personal ‘stressometer’ was hitting the red area at the far end of the dial. His last hit was over an hour ago, but he forced himself to ignore it. He needed to focus.

  He stopped walking and stood in the shelter of a shop doorway, ‘Sheik Gowns at Smart Prices’ the large poster declared.

  ‘Right Sam,’ he said as calmly as he could. ‘Let’s go back a bit. You say Jim Bennett and his son came into the shop. Are you sure it’s them?’

  ‘Yes! I’m positive. I’ve seen them both before. Remember the time they came into the shop with boxes of wine, and another couple of times Jim Bennett came in for a business meeting with you. A short guy with an ugly craggy face, and his son is tall with slouching shoulders and terrible taste in clothes. I know it’s them.’

  ‘You’re right Sam, I’m sorry to doubt you. Right, so they are downstairs in the shop and Jim Bennett looks angry.’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘What did he say to you?’

  ‘Well, the two of them sort of burst in not long after we opened and demanded to know where you were. When I told them you hadn’t arrived for work yet, the older Bennett said they would wait. When I offered to call and jog you along, he near wet his pants: no calls, he didn’t want you to know they were there, it was a surprise. I’ve been to surprise parties before but not when the host looks like he wants to cut your throat.’

  ‘Tell me exactly what Bennett said to you.’

  ‘Excuse the profanities Fraser but he said something like ‘where the fuck is Brook?’ When I said you weren’t in, he said, ‘I need to speak to him urgently. We’ll wait here for the slimy bastard.’ It doesn’t sound much like a social call, does it?’

  Brook slumped against the shop window. Bennett n
ever called him ‘Brook’ or swore at him, and rarely used bad language with other people in his presence. It was always ‘Fraser’ or ‘Mr Brook’. These people respected him. He was their wine expert, the man who brought in all the lovely money. Something clearly had gone wrong.

  ‘Well done Sam, thank you for telling me.’ He was about to add, ‘you saved my life,’ but decided against it as he wasn’t out of the woods yet. ‘I’m in the dark as much as you are, as I’ve no idea what this is about, but you’ll understand if I don’t come into the shop for the next few days. It will give them time to calm down, but don’t say anything to them. If we let them stew for a while, they’ll soon get fed up and get out of your hair. Does this sound like a plan?’

  ‘Yes it does.’

  ‘Good. If they start throwing their weight around or get aggressive with you guys or any of our customers, you go ahead and call the police or hit the panic button. Their gripe is with me, not with you or the shop. Is this clear?’

  ‘Right, Fraser, thanks. I feel better now I’ve talked to you. I must get back to the shop now as I’m not sure Anders can cope for long on his own. You know how intolerant he can be. Good luck.’

  Keep calm, Brook said to himself as he stared at a shop window filled with ladies dresses and shoes. He was not in panic mode yet as he still entertained the possibility of a misunderstanding. It had to be something to do with the wine-faking business. The other dealings they had together, such as the dope Bennett supplied, or the wine barrels and bottles his parcel business brought into the UK were areas that could never generate animosity between them. He needed to speak to Landseer.

  Landseer’s mobile rang and rang but eventually diverted to voicemail; Brook didn’t leave a message. He called Landseer’s home, and again there was no reply. He called his office at Landseer Properties in Mayfair.