by Iain Cameron
Henderson thought for a moment. Information was the one component that this case badly lacked. They had plenty of theories but no evidence to make one of them stick, and in any case, what was the difference between listening to Harvey and one of Henderson’s own narks?
‘Ok, let’s hear it.’
‘Great, thank you. As I was saying, when I get into this building I find it’s a fully functioning wine-faking laboratory.’
‘How could you tell?’ asked Sunderam. ‘What does one look like?’
‘Take a look at these.’
Miller placed a series of photographs in front of Henderson and the young DC. They weren’t bad quality, as he could make out workbenches, bottles of chemicals, racks of labels and barrels of wine.
Deepak was holding the last photograph and when he looked closer, he said, ‘Bloody hell sir, these barrels come from Château Osanne.’
‘Yep,’ Harvey said, ‘they’re filling old bottles with wine produced at Château Osanne. Can I tell you how I think this thing works?’
Henderson was intrigued. He had no concept in his mind about how a wine-faking laboratory would operate, but if forced, he imagined a cold cellar full of vats, bottles and pipes. This, on the other hand, looked clean and clinical and seemed capable of undertaking optical or dental work. ‘Carry on,’ he said. ‘I’d be interested to hear.’
Miller’s enthusiasm was infectious, but seeing the name of the château on the wine barrel brought the story all the way back to Chris Fletcher. Was this the connection he was looking for between Château Osanne and Chris’s death?
‘Before you do Harvey, have you considered anything else? Could there be a legitimate use for any of this equipment?’
‘I’m no wine expert but I’ve researched the web and talked to a few wine merchants in town. Now and again they’re involved in rebottling an old bottle of wine for an owner because the cap’s cracked or the cork leaks, but this is once in a blue moon stuff, small scale. Not a warehouse stuffed full of this sort of gear.’
‘What if,’ Sunderam said, ‘Château Osanne is only the supplier of wine, unwittingly selling it to a gang of criminals?’
‘I’d thought of that one too, but the guy who beat me up in France came from the vineyard, and I saw him come out of the warehouse and talk to Fraser Brook, the owner of Fraser Brook’s Fine wines.’
‘How can you be sure; how close did you get?’
‘I was maybe a hundred yards away but using binoculars. Plus, when I saw the van, I looked up Brook’s website and I had a picture of Brook in front of me as I was watching him.’
‘Fair enough but what about the guy who beat you up in France? You said when we met, you didn’t get a good look at him.’
‘You’re right, I didn’t, but the build, size, and the close cropped grey hair of this guy were so reminiscent of the guy from Bordeaux.’
‘Deepak could still be right,’ Henderson said. ‘The guy you saw, and let’s assume you did recognise him, may well be one of the criminals but what if he was only at Château Osanne to check on a delivery?’
‘I suppose he could have been.’
‘It’s a good point. We’ll leave it open for the moment. Carry on.’
‘I must admit,’ Miller said, ‘the pictures tell us a lot but there are still some gaps. I’ll tell you what I do know. The first stage for the fakers is to obtain old bottles, as many of them are unique. I assume they must know people working in smart restaurants and clubs who save the bottles after up-market parties and meals, and they have people who do the same in other places where fine wines are bought, the likes of Tokyo, Paris and so on.’
‘They don’t try and replicate the bottles?’ Sunderam asked.
‘I don’t think so, as that would take them into manufacturing. Assuming they don’t, once they’ve got the bottle it may or may not have a label. If not, they make a label like this,’ he said pointing at a photograph. ‘They then fill the bottle with either claret or burgundy from the barrels, which you can see in this picture.’
‘Makes sense so far,’ Henderson said.
‘They cork and seal the bottle using methods appropriate for the time the original wine was made, which you can see here.’
‘How do they make them look old?’ Sunderam asked.
‘I think the technicians at the big desk you can see here, do this. It’s not easy to see in the photographs but they’ve got boxes of labels with various degrees of staining and marking. You can make paper look old by soaking it in tea or chocolate powder or sticking it under a strong light source for a while; numerous things.’
‘Right, we’ve got ourselves an old bottle of wine.’
‘We’ve got ourselves an old, authentic bottle of wine.’
‘How do they sell it?’
‘I’ve checked out Fraser Brook’s Fine Wines and they’re involved in selling the wine collections of the rich and famous at wine auctions all around the world. We’re talking about the likes of Sir John Crowley, the former First Sea Lord, and Alan James, the Shakespearean actor. I wouldn’t know these folks from Abe Lincoln’s grandmother but that’s what’s on their website.’
‘I get it,’ Henderson said. ‘When Brook is instructed to sell a collection on behalf of say, a famous politician, he slips in a few fake bottles and everyone thinks they all came from the same collection?’
‘Got it in one. Y’see, this immediately gives the fake wine provenance.’
‘Which is what?’ Sunderam asked.
‘In the auction business the one guarantee you have that a painting, sculpture or wine bottle is not fake, is if you can verify the place where it came from. If Brook is selling fakes as part of a bigger wine collection, it automatically gives the fakes provenance.’
‘Ingenious,’ Henderson said.
‘How does Brook ensure,’ Sunderam asked, ‘his company gets a big slice of the collections market? I assume to make this scam work he would have to be involved in a number of sales each year, but there must be other wine merchants trying to buy these collections too.’
‘It’s a good question, and one I can’t answer. Maybe he has spotters all over the country working for him.’
‘Or maybe,’ Henderson said, ‘he knows someone who has connections with the owners of big houses, like a writer at an up-market society magazine or an estate agent. The agents would know if a property has a large wine collection, and if they do, they could recommend Brook’s firm.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that, but now I’ve got the faking process more or less clear in my mind, I need to take a closer look at Brook.’
‘Go ahead, I can’t stop you but I’ll be putting Brook on my radar too, although at this stage, only as a person of interest.’
‘Don’t you think there’s enough here to put him out of business? If you close him down, it will be like cutting off the head of a snake; they’ll never be able to replicate Brook’s operation in a hurry.’
Henderson shook his head. ‘No, we don’t have enough. We don’t have any evidence that Brook is involved in the selling side. All you’ve seen is his van outside the warehouse. You don’t know, maybe he was there about something else but I do recognise it’s a heck of a coincidence.’
‘Mind you, after I saw Brook and the other guy loading boxes into his van, I saw a little transaction take place that to me, could only be drugs.’
‘Brook was buying or selling?’
‘Buying.’
‘Interesting.’
‘What about this laboratory, then,’ Miller said tapping the photographs. ‘There’s enough here to mount a raid on the warehouse, surely?’
‘What’s your take, Detective Sunderam?’
‘I can’t think of any legitimate reason for operating a place like this. We could get a warrant under suspicion of criminal activity.’
‘We could, but we’ll leave the connection with Brook and the auctions to one side for the moment. We’ll take a decision on him after we’ve raided the warehouse and
questioned the occupants. You never know, we might find something to implicate him as well.’
‘This is great news, Inspector. Progress at long last.’
‘I agree and it’s thanks to some excellent work you’ve done here,’ Henderson said, ‘even if I can’t condone your methods.’ He pointed at the photographs. ‘Can I keep these?’
SIXTEEN
On Monday morning at six-thirty, a small raiding party assembled at a car park, close to the warehouse belonging to PFB Parcels. It didn’t feel a particularly cold morning but DI Henderson heard plenty of foot stamping to get the circulation flowing, and several officers had cups of tea and coffee clasped in both hands.
The fields all around looked like photographs from Easter cards, with a light mist hugging the ground and trees glistening with morning dew. The industrial estates in this part of south-east England were located within easy driving distance of the Channel Tunnel, and if not for Council Noise Abatement Orders and vehicle movement restrictions, they would operate 24/7. Even at this hour of the morning, large articulated lorries from the Czech Republic, Poland and Germany were rumbling past, forcing those unfortunates who lived nearby to wake up early.
‘Everybody listen up,’ Henderson said, standing beside a throng of heavily clad officers and numerous police vehicles. ‘The target is the building over there,’ he said pointing to a long warehouse across the road. ‘Not the first part which belongs to PFB Parcels, but the back section where there is a separate entrance. As I said at the briefing, I expect to find a wine-faking laboratory inside full of bottles, chemicals, and barrels, so be careful how you go. These wine barrels are heavy and I wouldn’t want one to fall on any of you, but hell, it wouldn’t half make the eulogy at your funeral a whole lot more interesting.’
They laughed. The mood of the group sounded apprehensive, not nervous or anxious, as no one had mentioned knives, guns or large dogs. They expected to enter a clean, open room lined with equipment used by technicians and calligraphers, not boxes of drugs, guarded by gun-toting hard-cases.
‘Are there any questions?’ Henderson asked, looking around at the helmet-clad faces. ‘No? Let’s go and close this place down.’
He jogged over the road behind the running black figures of his raiding team, Harvey Miller and DS Walters beside him.
‘We’ll let these guys move inside first and neutralise any resistance before we go in. It wouldn’t do for you, Harvey, to get injured by a punch or hit over the head with a bottle, otherwise it might cause an international incident.’
‘There are plenty of folks in the States who couldn’t find the UK on a map, never mind concerning themselves about a wounded American citizen; I think you’re quite safe.’
They arrived at the door.
‘I didn’t see anyone go in or out of the building, did you, DS Walters?’
‘No sir, and there are no cars outside or signs of activity inside.’
‘Good, there’s no need to knock.’
The officer with the scratched door banger moved into position, and four whacks later, when most doors would open with two, it swung ajar.
They all piled into the warehouse. ‘I’m surprised the alarm didn’t go off,’ Henderson said as they walked into a dim corridor.
‘I think there’s been a problem with the alarm,’ Miller said.
Henderson turned to look at Miller’s face but it was impassive. Despite his height, the DI couldn’t see inside the main part of the building for all the bodies in front of him, but when he did, his mouth opened in surprise.
‘Goddamn, the place is empty!’ Miller said, echoing Henderson’s thoughts. ‘It was here a few days back, I swear to God, all the kit was here!’
Henderson walked into the bare room in a daze. ‘Where is it? Where the hell is it?’ he shouted to the naked walls.
The place was devoid of everything; no wine barrels, no clinical work bench and no rack full of wine labels. He’d been sold a pup by the Yank and would never be able to hold his head up in the staff restaurant without some wag calling out ‘glass of wine, sir?’
Miller came rushing towards him, trying to extract something from the folder he held in his arms. ‘Look here, Inspector, this is where the barrels stood, and here, this is where…’
Henderson heard but he wasn’t listening. He walked away before he said something the private investigator didn’t want to hear, but Miller followed him, still searching through the folder for something.
‘It’s here somewhere… ah here it is.’
As he pulled the picture out, the folder slipped from his hand and all the pictures fluttered to the ground in an untidy spread.
‘Goddarnit!’ Miller said. He dropped to his knees and started to pick them up one by one.
Henderson hardly noticed as he was too busy pondering how he was going to break this to Chief Inspector Edwards, after assuring her that the raid was a sure thing which would put the investigation into Chris Fletcher’s murder on the front foot.
He walked towards a window where he could see out into the parking area. Officers were gathered in a group and enjoying a fag and a laugh; all dressed up with nowhere to go. A photograph was trapped under his shoe and he bent down to pick it up. It was of the four barrels of Château Osanne wine. The setting looked to be in the same corner as he was standing, the window to his left. He suddenly had a thought. Four barrels of wine were heavy and would drip.
Using the photograph as a guide, he kneeled down and searched the floor for marks, the places where the barrels would have stood. Clear as day, he found eight parallel lines and little splashes of dark red stains that might have been blood, but he was certain they were wine. The position of the parallel lines corresponded exactly to where the legs of the trestles had been.
Henderson strode over to Miller. ‘Let me have the photograph of the work bench.’
Miller pulled it out of his folder, now being held in a tight grip, and handed it to him.
Henderson turned to face the wall, the one where the work bench had once stood, now bereft of anything but odd marks on the wall, and numerous drill and screw holes, reminding him of a woodworm infection. Holding the picture up, he examined the wall.
‘What are you doing, sir?’ Walters said, moving beside him. ‘All I see is a big empty space. I’m beginning to wonder if this is even the right industrial estate.’
‘We’re in the right place all right, don’t you worry. Look here,’ he said pointing at the wall and holding up the photograph. ‘This is where the bench in this picture used to be. These holes are where the bench was attached to the wall, and if so,’ he said moving to the left, ‘we should find a few more about here…’
‘Yep, I see them,’ Walters said.
He moved further to the left, ‘and here.’
‘It only proves there was once a bench here, a common enough feature in any warehouse, I should imagine.’
‘Yes, but not this bench. Look at the picture, the bench has legs, so about here we should see marks in the floor.’ They bent down and there he found a small circle with three screw holes.
She grabbed the picture and located where the next leg would have been and seconds later, the third. ‘Yep, they’re all there. I’m convinced.’
‘I think we–’
‘Sir!’ a voice at the door shouted.
Henderson looked over to where PC Phillips stood, helmet off and shirt partly unbuttoned. ‘The workers from the warehouse next door have just turned up.’
He nodded his thanks and turned back to face Walters and called over Miller. ‘I’ve seen enough here to convince me all this equipment was here when you saw it, Harvey. Sometime over the weekend, they must have discovered evidence of your intrusion and moved out.’
‘Praise the Lord,’ Miller said. ‘I didn’t dream it.’
**
Henderson and Walters introduced themselves to the warehouse manager, Jim Bennett, and were led into a office at the front of the building. With glass on three sid
es, it gave the boss a good view of trucks moving in and out of the building, and any slackers taking too long over a fag break.
‘Thank you for meeting with us, Mr Bennett.’
‘No problem, but it’s a good job you caught me early, as this place can be like an asylum later on.’
Bennett spoke with a strong London accent, somewhere out east, and had the look of an ex-squaddie or trader on a market stall. He was of average height, thick set, with a weather-beaten, scarred face and beady eyes. His hair was grey and close cropped, a crew-cut in old parlance, and Henderson wouldn’t be surprised to find out he owned a couple of leather jackets and rode a motorbike.
It took him seconds to realise this man fitted the description Harvey Miller gave him of the guy he saw a few days ago, talking to Fraser Brook. Miller was also convinced it was the guy who beat him up at Château Osanne. This could prove an intriguing discussion.
‘I’d like to know more about the place next door,’ Henderson said. ‘Does PFB Parcels own it?’
‘We lease the whole building if that’s what you mean. We use this part for the parcel business, as you can see out there, and sub-contract the space next door.’
Henderson was glad he’d come clean in admitting the entire building was leased by them, as he could have stonewalled and told them he knew nothing about it. A call to the landlord would soon have exposed his bluff, forcing them to bring him in for another bout of more awkward questioning.
‘How long have you been here?’
‘About five years.’
‘Did you sub-divide the unit, or was it like this when you moved in?’
‘We did it. The warehouse was too big for what we needed at the time, so we sub-divided it and let it out to other tenants. We could do with the space now as it’s bloody chockers in there most of the time, especially when we get a big delivery.’
‘What sort of businesses lease it? Do you have a preference for who you want beside you?’
‘Nah, as long as they pay the rent on time and they’re not noisy or smelly. Short-term lets mainly. I never wanted to sign it away on a long-term deal in case I need the space for us, like now. So I won’t re-let it now that lot in there have gone.’