A Measure of Trouble (Alex Warren Murder Mysteries Book 2)

by Zach Abrams

  “What's the problem?”

  “You really don't want to know, other than Craig has worked out that we're an item. He could have a future in the force.”

  “Are we an item?”

  “Well that depends on your definition, what would you call it?”

  “How about coming over and we can see if we can work it out? My parents are away, visiting my aunt in Aberdeen, and they won't be back until tomorrow.”

  “I'd really love to, but I'm totally knackered. I need to get some sleep because tomorrow's likely to be a heavy day as well.”

  “That's a pity. But if I'm not seeing you, I'd better let you know what's been happening.” Sandra proceeded to pass to Alex all the information which had so far been gleaned.

  “I'm going to the agent to sign up the flat first thing tomorrow and then I'll be moving some of my stuff in. All being well, I should be back on the job before midday. We've arranged an appointment to see Chuck Holbein at the Pollockshields house. We've made it for ten-thirty. Sanjay could lead it if you're unavailable or if you'd rather be at the distillery. But you know what it's like with American business people and status and she is a big time player, so you may want to do that one yourself, maybe with Phil. You could meet in the office first. That way Sanjay could go straight out to Benlochy and keep an eye on things and I could join him as soon as I'm free.”

  “Yes, that would be best. I've still to drive home and it's getting late to call. Could you send them a text to set it up? And tell Phil to dress appropriately.”

  “No probs. I took a drive past my new flat about half an hour ago. I could see all the lights were on in the flat above and I could hear the thud, thud of dance music from out in the street. Maybe I've been a bit ambitious in what I've taken on. What if I can't sort out the troublemakers?”

  “I don't think you've anything to worry about. You'll have it sorted in no time whatsoever and, let's face it, on a worst case scenario, you can just give back the keys. You wouldn't even lose the deposit.”

  “You're right, it's just nerves. I'm getting jittery. It will all go fine.”

  “Right, I'll need to love you and leave you; I need to get home now. Good luck tomorrow”

  “Did I just hear a four letter word?” Sandra enquired, teasing.

  “Take it any way you like,” Alex replied and clicked off.

  * * *

  Alex had a restless night, waking frequently from troubled dreams. In between, and no doubt affecting his slumbers, he kept thinking about the various relationships currently affecting him. On a work basis, he considered the dysfunctional Burns family, with all the interweaving of hatreds and dislikes and criminal activity and what it all might mean. He thought about Andrew's poor teacher whose life might be in ruins because of the manufactured accusations by the Connellys. He thought about Craig and his girlfriend on the threshold of adulthood, but most of all he considered his own personal situation, his failed marriage and his current relationship with Sandra. Where was it going and how involved might it become? They'd been having fun and they enjoyed each others' company, but it was becoming time to carefully consider the implications. If Craig could work out their relationship, then it could hardly be a secret and people at work must suspect too. He'd need to have a serious talk with Sandra.

  He was normally an early riser, but on this occasion Alex had to scramble back to consciousness as he reached out to mute his radio alarm. Nirvana's “Smells Like Teen Spirit” was playing and at seven in the morning, it just didn't feel right. His head was muggy and he felt even more tired than when he'd gone to bed. He now regretted not accepting Sandra's invitation. He wouldn't have been any less tired but he'd have been a lot happier.

  Alex plodded into the shower and set the jet to high and cold. After a couple of minutes, he felt awake and moderated the temperature to a more acceptable lukewarm.

  He allowed himself a leisurely shower and, after rinsing off the shampoo and shower gel, he shaved carefully and went to his wardrobe. Although he refused to spend a lot of money on his clothes, Alex took pride in his appearance and liked to always convey a professional image. He had a choice of suits which he'd purchased from Slaters Menswear. The family owned business had now developed into a sizable chain with internet retailing and branches throughout the country, but Alex still enjoyed the shopping experience of their original city centre Glasgow store, which claimed the distinction of being the world's largest menswear shop. Knowing he would be interviewing the CEO of a major international company, Alex was determined to look his best. He recognised this was still a murder enquiry and Holbein would get no better treatment than anyone else, but Alex considered his own position. He was also acting as an ambassador for the police force and the country when meeting high profile individuals.

  He selected a dark, pinstripe, Pierre Cardin suit which he'd only worn a couple of times since he'd purchased it off a clearance rack in the Slaters' sale. He chose a white, Peter England shirt, a self-coloured, blue, silk tie and Loake shoes to complete the correct image. He looked in his full-length wardrobe mirror and felt quite satisfied.

  The morning was dry, if somewhat overcast and grey, and the temperature was mild. After depositing his vehicle in the car-park, Alex walked at a sprightly pace towards his office building. On the way, he spotted the same traffic warden he'd seen the previous afternoon. Believing in cooperation amongst public servants, Alex gave a cheerful wave and called, “Hello.”

  The warden reflexively reciprocated. Being in a job where his presence is seldom, if ever, welcomed, however, it slowly dawned on him where he'd seen Alex before and his smile changed to a grimace as he walked by.

  Although still tired, Alex had a spring in his step and he bounded up the stairs to his office. Phil was already at his desk and Alex was pleased to note that he looked clean and tidy. This was not unusual for Phil, but there had been the odd occasion when his dress sense, if not his detective skills, had approximated to Colombo's. Gladly, today was not one of those days. He came through to discuss developments in the case and the strategy going forward. Once this was done, Alex tasked Phil to contact Stanley Burns to arrange for them to interview him later in the day. He then told Phil about the problem with Andrew's teacher and asked him to make some background enquiries about Carpenter and also about the Connellys.

  Alex had a few minutes to spare so he consulted his phone book then called Andrew's school and asked to speak to Brian Phelps.

  “Hello, Brian, Alex Warren here. How are you?”

  “I'm doing really well, Alex. It's good to hear from you, but I'm afraid I only have a moment because I'm due in class and it wouldn't do to be late. You never know what the little buggers will get up to.”

  “That's okay but I was calling to ask a favour, I'm looking for some information and it's all off the record. Are you free this evening? Could I meet you for a pint?”

  “I'm afraid I've got something on this evening, but I could maybe meet up for half an hour. Say about six. I'm still in Muirend so could we maybe meet at the Bank? The pub just down the road from Sainsburys.”

  “That's a deal, I'll see you at six.”

  Alex returned his attention to the Hector Mathewson case. The provisional Medical Examiner' report was now in and it confirmed there was no doubt about it being murder. Alex pored over all the transcripts of yesterday's interviews and the notes taken. His head was starting to throb when Phil knocked on his door to alert him, advising it was time to go.

  The journey time was only a few minutes by taking the motorway then along Haggs Road and St Andrew's Drive.

  Alex parked on the roadside and they both alighted from the car. The building was large and detached, constructed of blonde sandstone with a slate roof and was built in the late nineteenth century. They walked along a broad, mono-block paved driveway to approach the front door, climbed the first two of the three large, semi-circular, polished marble steps and pressed the door bell.

  “I wouldn't want to be racing up
these on an icy day. Beautiful looking but a bit treacherous,” Phil remarked.

  Within seconds the door was answered by a tall, thin, young man dressed in a morning suit. “Can I help you gentlemen?” he enquired.

  Phil just stared at him but Alex showed his identification and replied, “I'm DCI Warren and this is DC Morrison. We've an appointment to see Ms Holbein.”

  “Yes, she's expecting you, please come in,” he said, depriving Phil the opportunity to repeat his joke from the previous day.

  As the man turned to lead the way, Phil looked at Alex and mouthed the words, “They've actually got a butler.”

  They were shown into a large lounge. The room was tall, almost ten feet in height, and had elaborate plaster moulding on the cornicing and the ceiling. Very large windows overlooked the garden and driveway and they were framed by rich velvet drapes held in tie-backs. The flooring was covered in a deep pile, Axminster, tartan carpet. The room was comfortable, lavishly furnished and decorated, but with a complete lack of style. For furniture, one of the long walls was covered in floor to ceiling high book shelves which were overflowing with a profusion of leather bound texts. There was a mis-matching of sizes, genres and colours. Volumes of classics were interspersed with modern fiction and antiquarian text books. The only common feature was that they were all books and they all had leather bindings. The shelves were lined with them, but in some cases stacks of books sat in front and on the floor. The overall effect was most disjointed and untidy.

  At the centre of the opposite wall was a large open fireplace. It was stacked high with burning logs and every few seconds they heard a crackle or spit from it. Despite its cavernous size, the room was hot and had a homely feel. Three large, deep-buttoned couches separated by matching style, but more upright, armchairs standing in the corners, completed a square shape around the fire, and this continued the leather theme set by the library. At its centre was a colourful Chinese carpet which clashed with the tartan beneath it. A heavy, wooden sideboard sat against the remaining full wall. On top were advertising leaflets stacked beside a display of bottles exhibiting some of the many brands distributed by the Hanser Group. The range was extensive and included several Bourbons, Scotch, Irish and Japanese whiskeys together with a range of rums and vodkas and a number of specialist liqueurs. Alex noticed that a bottle of twenty five year old Benlochy sat amongst them. A bit presumptuous, he thought.

  Being keenly interested in art, Alex recognised the works in the room and he considered they looked totally incongruous to everything else. On the wall above the drinks display were two, large, framed paintings. One was by Jack Vettriano and looked like an oversized picture postcard. Alongside it sat one of Peter Howson's industrial style portraits. Alex considered the juxtaposition almost painful to the eye. Not quite as bad, but nevertheless unpleasant, the wall with the fireplace had one picture on each side of the chimney breast. To the left was a Hornel landscape and to the right was a Holbein portrait which Alex was certain had to be a print. Originals of Hornel, Vettriano and Howson were not cheap but they could be afforded. A Holbein was something else. Alex found it difficult to imagine four artists whose styles would have clashed more. Phil did not have anything like the same interest but nevertheless looked around open-mouthed.

  Their musings were disturbed by the approaching sound of heavy and laboured footsteps.

  “Gentlemen, please take a seat.” They heard the voice before she entered. It was a strong and confident voice with only the slightest American intonations.

  Alex and Phil turned to see the source. The look matched the voice. The lady appeared to be in her early forties and was of medium height, but there was nothing else average about her. Her deeply tanned face accentuated her sparkling, deep blue eyes. She had a pretty face with a button nose and high cheek bones and not the slightest indication of cosmetic enhancement. Her hair was short and curly. Her slim physique was shapely and shown off to best effect by a perfectly tailored dark blue trouser suit. However, the overall impression was slightly spoiled by a plaster-cast which covered her ankle and halfway up the calf of her left leg. She limped into the room aided by an aluminium crutch which clipped around her arm with a support just under her armpit.

  “I'm Chuck Holbein,” she added extending her arm in greeting.

  “Pleased to meet you, we're very grateful you could make time to see us.” Alex returned her firm handshake and then passed across his business card.

  “Skating accident,” Chuck said, anticipating their curiosity. “My own stupid fault. I used to be quite competent in my younger days and hadn't recognised the years that have passed. I went over on my ankle, strained it and chipped a bone.”

  “Did it happen here?”

  “Yes, just a few days ago, last Sunday. I took my daughter to East Kilbride and thought I'd show her there's life in the old gal yet. Mistake.” She laughed aloud and it had an ironic tone. “There was I, wanting to impress her and look cool and what happens? She's mortified, embarrassed at being seen with me as I get dragged off in an ambulance while a group of her contemporaries looked on and applauded.”

  “What age is she?” Alex enquired

  “She turned fourteen last month, but as with all teenagers she thinks she knows it all and she's hypersensitive, particularly when she's in sight of other teenagers.”

  “Yes, they can be rather touchy, I know that only too well,” Alex replied, wondering if Craig may have been one of the onlookers as he and his chums often congregated at the ice rink on Sundays.

  “Now please sit down,” she invited.

  Alex and Phil sat on the couch to the side of the fire, hoping to avoid the fierceness of its heat. Chuck slipped into the upright chair facing them and dropped her crutch to the floor.

  Alex appreciated Chuck's skill in welcoming her guests and putting them at their ease. He was only marginally disturbed by their seating arrangements. He knew from training and experience the psychological advantage of having someone you are questioning having to physically look up to you. Chuck had achieved the reverse with the obvious excuse of her damaged leg.

  “You're no doubt a bit curious about the artwork?” Chuck asked, seeing Alex was unable to keep his eyes off the pictures.

  “Yes, I am, it's not the most likely combination.”

  “No, I'm afraid not. It was my father's choice. When he ran the business, he bought this house so it could be used for visits and for business meetings. He was always proud of his Scottish roots; his maternal grandparents came from Stirling. Because of his heritage he, wanted to buy Scottish art to decorate it. He knew nothing about art and asked a dealer to buy pieces that he thought would be a good investment. I'm not certain he got it right though.”

  “What about the Holbein?” Alex asked. “Not Scottish, is there a family connection?” he added smiling.

  “We wish. There's no connection that we're aware of. We're not even certain that there are German roots. But because we have the same surname, he thought it would be a good idea.”

  “Not an original though?”

  “Again, we wish. The original of this one's in the Louvre and it's worth millions, but it's not a bad copy, well print actually.”

  “Yes, I recognise it. The others are worth a few bob too. The Hornel's a good one; I've seen others similar in the City Chambers. The Vettriano has been used for posters and postcards, so I hope you're entitled to the copyright royalties, and the Howson's one of his early ones, before he was `discovered' and started churning them out.”

  “You know about them, I'm impressed. My father bought the Howson after he heard Madonna had one, and you're right, it's one of his earlier works. I didn't expect art appreciation to be part of police training.”

  “It's not. Much as I'd enjoy talking about that with you, we've come regarding a much more serious issue.”

  “Yes, how can I help you?”

  “We understand that you've been having discussions with Hector Mathewson about taking over the Benlochy Disti
llery.”

  “Any discussion about a takeover is commercially sensitive information.”

  “We understand that, but Hector was found dead yesterday morning and we believe he's been murdered. We have to investigate all information about his recent activities, business and recreational.”

  “Oh my God. I met him for dinner the previous evening.”

  “That confirms the information we were given.”

  “But what happened?” Chuck Holbein had a stunned expression.

  “We're still trying to piece together the whole picture.”

  “I saw on the Scottish news, yesterday, that there had been a death reported at Benlochy and that visits to the distillery were temporarily being curtailed. I would never have guessed it was Hector. I tried calling him when I heard the news but the receptionist said he wasn't available. Now that's a euphemism if I ever heard one. I tried his cell but it just went to voicemail. I never suspected it might have been him.”

  “You said you had dinner the night before he died. Can you please give us all the details and the background?”

  “Okay, I can understand your need to know. It's public knowledge that Hanser is on the acquisition trail. We raised cash on the money markets a few months ago and we're looking to grow. We're not far off making the Fortune 500 and we're planning to get there before the end of the year. So far that's all in the open.

  “I've known Hector for a number of years. We met at industry conferences and trade events, things like that. Hector called me about a month ago and asked if I'd be interested in buying Benlochy. I thought he was joking at first because it's one of the big names amongst the independents. It has worldwide recognition. Premier league, I think is how you express it in Britain. Our Scotch labels are also-rans. Don't get me wrong, we do very well with them, the blends in particular, but if we had Benlochy in our portfolio, then we'd be challenging for the top slot in the industry. Of course I was interested. I asked Hector to prepare the key facts for my board to look at and we signed a confidentiality agreement, so I'm a bit cagey on what I can say.”