by Iain Cameron
‘Tsk, tsk, tetchy ain’t he? Now listen up both of you. I’m here because you, Mr Police Inspector, put a stop on my money. To be more precise, the money the late Fraser Brook stole and squirrelled away in a Swiss bank account.’
‘You seem very well informed. Did Brook tell you this? Did you force it out of him before you killed him?’
Perry got up, turned a simple wooden chair around to face them and sat down, leaning on the back. ‘I didn’t need to torture him. He told me all I needed to know.’
Perry was no longer wearing the snappy suit and shiny shoes, although the bouffant of thick, grey hair was much in evidence. For his foray into the Highlands, Perry wore jeans, walking boots and a North Face sweatshirt and looked like any other tourist here to walk the glens and see the sights. His beard hid part of his face but not the cold stare of his eyes.
‘What do you want the money for, you must be rolling in the stuff? The wine-faking operation went on for years and must have made you millions.’
‘You’re missing the point. Those bastards stole from me and I want it back. If someone steals from me, I make sure they pay me back, in spades.’
‘Is this why Landseer and Brook were both murdered?’
‘What do you think?’
Henderson knew the story well enough, but he wanted to hear it direct from Perry’s lips to confirm that he was as deeply involved in all the murky business dealings as Frankland and Bennett.
‘I understand you’ve got David Frankland,’ Perry said. ‘How is he?’
‘He’s fine after his car crash, but he’ll be with us for some time to come with all the charges we’ve got against him.’
Perry shook his head. ‘No way. That lawyer of mine is good. He’ll do his homework and get him out.’
It was Henderson’s turn to shake his head. ‘Not with a charge of murdering Charles Landseer and Chris Fletcher against him he won’t.’
Frankland hadn’t been charged with Chris’s murder, only Charles Landseer’s, but they’d got enough evidence to hang a conspiracy charge around his neck. If Frankland didn’t kill Chris with Jim Bennett standing beside him, he knew all about it.
‘Don’t be fucking dense,’ Perry shouted. ‘It was nothing to do with him. It was that prick Bennett and his stupid son. It was Bennett’s idea and he cocked it up. He said he made it look like suicide, but he should have picked him up in France like I told him to. David didn’t do a bloody thing.’
‘Where is he now, Jim Bennett? He wasn’t back at the parcel business the last time we checked. Is he one of yours as well as Fraser Brook?’
‘With David inside, someone has to tidy up the loose ends.’
‘What did you do–’
‘I could chat to you about this all day, but enough of your questions, Henderson, I’m here for my money not a bloody confessional. What I want you to do, is make a call and undo whatever court order or what the hell you set up to hold on to my money. Then, with this,’ he said pointing at the laptop beside him, ‘I’ll get back what’s rightfully mine and then I’ll leave you two lovers in peace.’
‘I can’t do it, I don’t have the authority.’
‘You put it on, you can take it off.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Don’t lie to me Henderson, Detective Sergeant Carol Walters told me all about it.’
‘What…Walters? How?’
Perry fished out his phone. He looked through it for something and when he found it, held it out for him to see. The bloody and battered face of Carol Walters looked back at him.
‘What the hell, Perry? What have you done with her?’
‘She’s in a safe place where your pals won’t find her, but she won’t be safe much longer if you don’t do what I ask. One phone call from me and she’s toast.’
Safe place, what rubbish. The picture was of Walters’s flat in Queen’s Park, he recognised the black and white settee. He’d sat on it enough times waiting for her to get ready. She looked battered but alive, although he had no way of knowing how old the image was. She could be dead now.
Perry took the phone back and, as he put it back into his pocket, the gun wavered and for a moment, it pointed at the wall. Henderson, his anger stoked at seeing the photograph, leapt at him. Perry reacted quicker than expected and smacked him in the face with his fist before whacking him in the side of his head with the gun.
Rachel screamed.
‘Shut the fuck up, woman, he’ll live. Henderson get up on your feet and pull out your phone.’
Using the chair for leverage, Henderson stood and reached for his phone. His head hurt like hell and the room looked hazy.
‘Call your office. Feel free to tell them you’ve got a gun pointing at your head as the nearest cops are at least an hour away; I checked. When I pass your colleague’s little panda car on the road on my way back to civilisation, I’ll give him a friendly wave.’
Perry was right. The nearest cop was based in Strontian police station, only thirty miles away but over an hour on slow, single track roads. While many of the residents of Kilchoan owned a shotgun, and perhaps a rifle for shooting deer, the local bobby would be unarmed.
Henderson nursed his injured jaw; it didn’t feel broken. Such irony if Perry had broken his jaw and he couldn’t speak. His first instinct was to tell Perry to go to hell, but at the end of the day, it was only money, a replaceable commodity against the lives of Rachel and himself, and now added to that list, Carol.
‘I’ll do it.’
‘Good, I knew you would see sense.’
Henderson looked at his phone. ‘There’s no signal in here due to the thick stone walls, I’ll need to move outside.’
‘Fine. You first, Henderson. Me and your missus will follow behind. No fancy tricks, or I’ll shoot her. You know I will. If that doesn’t convince you, if you do something stupid and anything happens to me, Walters will get it.’
‘You’ve thought of everything, Perry.’
‘I try to.’
Henderson reached for the handle of the front door.
‘No way I’m falling for that one, Henderson. We’ll go out the back door. I’ve taken a good look around this place and no one will see us out back.’
Henderson walked into the kitchen, Rachel then Perry walking closely behind.
‘Put down the gun!’ shouted an unfamiliar voice.
Henderson turned. Christ! Donnie McLean was standing at the end of the kitchen table, a single barrelled shotgun in his hand. The barrel was held in a steady grip with no sign of waver.
Henderson turned to look at Perry. He spotted a twitch in his gun hand and could see a steely, cold look in his eye.
‘Shoot him, Donnie, shoot him!’ Henderson shouted as he pulled Rachel towards him.
The deafening boom of the shotgun and the sharp crack of Perry’s handgun filled the air. Almost simultaneously, Rachel collapsed limply into his arms.
FORTY-ONE
The King Air 200c helicopter rose with a thunderous roar that shook the windows of Bay Cottage and set Jet the collie off into a barking frenzy. Inside the fast moving machine, medics were frantically trying to keep Daniel Perry alive on the thirty-plus minute journey to Glasgow, where he was due to be treated by a Trauma Team at The Queen Elizabeth University Hospital. The prognosis wasn’t good as he’d lost too much blood while waiting for the arrival of help, much of it on the kitchen floor of Bay Cottage and left in situ for crime scene detectives to mull over.
‘Coffee, Angus.’
It wasn’t a question, as when he opened his eyes, Rachel was handing a steaming mug to him. Her hand shook with the vigour of a Parkinson’s sufferer but no bloody wonder. She placed it on the small table beside him and as she bent down, he leaned over and kissed her.
‘Donnie’s got the water back on, has he?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Ach, how can you joke at a time like this? I made these in their house, well Ellen did. You told Donnie that no one was to go into our kitchen until we got the
all-clear from the police.’
‘That’s right, so I did.’
‘Before anyone goes back in there, someone will need to mop and disinfect the floor and the cupboards first. There’s so much blood, it’s like the set for the Texas Chain Saw Massacre.’
‘Don’t worry, it won’t be you. When we get the all-clear, we’re moving to the Kilchoan Hotel for the night and then we’ll drive back to Fort William in the morning. Donnie’s sorted everything out.’
‘That’s a relief. I don’t think I can go back into the cottage again.’
She sat down on the seat beside him. He put his arm around her shoulders and she leaned back and closed her eyes, allowing the warm afternoon sun to play on her face. They were sitting on a bench outside the kitchen window of Bay Cottage. It was beautiful view from a vantage point at the top of the steep driveway, where at the moment, a ferry was slowly making its way up Loch Sunart on a journey back to Oban from the Outer Hebrides.
‘Donnie’s patched up the bullet hole for now to stop the place flooding,’ she said. ‘He’ll fit a replacement pipe when he can pick one up from some guy in the village.’
‘We were lucky Perry’s bullet went into a water pipe and not into you or me, but it was close.’
‘I don’t know how I could cope with being in a wheelchair.’
He squeezed her tighter. ‘Let’s not go there. Look forward not back. It’s the best way to handle situations like this.’
‘Will anything happen to Donnie? Will he face trial or go to prison?’
‘Unfortunately, it’s not up to me, but the Procurator Fiscal in Fort William who will decide if he has a case to answer. In my opinion, it will almost certainly be ‘no’ as Donnie acted in self defence against a dangerous man, armed with a gun. With you and I as witnesses, I think there’s no way he’ll be prosecuted.’
‘When will we find out for sure?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Detectives are on their way from Inverness, but who knows when they’ll get here.’ He slumped down in the seat and pulled his hat lower over his eyes. ‘Everything moves at a slower pace around here, Rachel. You should know that by now.’
About the Author
Iain Cameron was born in Glasgow and moved to Brighton in the early eighties. He has worked as a management accountant, business consultant and a nursery goods retailer. He is now a full-time writer and lives in a village outside Horsham in West Sussex with his wife, two daughters and a lively Collie dog.
Red, Red Wine is the fifth book to feature DI Angus Henderson, the Scottish cop at Sussex Police.
For more information about books and the author:
Visit the website at: www.iain-cameron.com
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By Iain Cameron
One Last Lesson
Driving into Darkness
Fear the Silence
Hunting for Crows
Red Red Wine
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