Red Red Wine

by Iain Cameron

‘It might give me some,’ Sunderam said.

  ‘I’m glad to see you’re both back at work. Commendable. Angus, can I have a word with you in private?’

  Henderson rose from the chair. ‘Dig out what we have on Frankland and Perry while I’m gone,’ Henderson said to the team, ‘I want to go over it when I come back.’

  They walked through double-doors into the corridor. ‘We can stop here, Angus.’ She turned to face him.

  ‘I’m surprised to see you in today. I read the report on the fire, I think you did a very brave thing at Forest Farm.’

  Henderson thought back to the fire as he had done many times since, and sighed. ‘It was something anyone in my place would do, but unfortunately, all in vain.’

  She touched his arm. ‘It must have been hard, especially as it was someone you knew and liked.’

  ‘Aye, he was one plucky investigator.’

  ‘Do we know if he died as a result of the fire, or was he suffering from some other injuries?’

  ‘He died from injuries sustained in the fire, but there’s no doubt in my mind he was being held prisoner there. He had bruises on his face and lacerations on his arms and legs from the bindings.’

  ‘So by climbing out of the window he was trying to break his way out?’

  ‘That’s what it looks like, although the rope they tied him up with and everything else was destroyed by the fire.’

  ‘What’s happening with his body?’

  ‘We’re in the process of tracking down a relative through the American Embassy and to inform Robert Wilson, the rich investor he worked for. They need to tell us if they want his body repatriated to the US or buried here. If it’s the latter, I’ll sort something out.’

  ‘Good. If he’s heading stateside, let me know and I’ll help you with any clearance as I’ve done it once before. Now, from the way this enquiry is moving, Daniel Perry is shifting inexorably into the frame.’

  He nodded. The mention of Perry’s name raised Henderson’s hackles. He knew without seeing firm evidence Perry was behind all of this, and his anger would not assuage until he took that man off the streets.

  ‘I’m putting out an arrest warrant for Fraser Brook and once I have him and David Frankland out of East Surrey Hospital and in an interview room, I’m hoping they’ll finger Perry.’

  ‘Which means you’ll be searching under every brick and stone to find his sticky fingers on anything incriminating?’

  ‘Aye, I know you said we have to have something solid before we can bring Perry in, but we’ve been working hard on it and I do feel the net is closing.’

  She thought for a moment. ‘I think you and I need to have a word with the press office. If he gets wind of us coming after him, his lawyers will attack us with everything they’ve got. We need the public to be on our side from the word go, and not to be seen as the big bad police force pursuing a legitimate businessman with no evidence, as they will try to portray it.’

  Henderson didn’t feel his usual self, but his senses weren’t so dulled he didn’t notice the clean and pressed dress uniform, the styled hair, the appliance of more make-up than usual. ‘Are you heading off somewhere nice?’

  ‘No. It’s a boring meeting with a minister from the Home Office, our lords and masters. He’s coming here to talk about the progress we’ve made towards achieving our fifty million in planned savings, and the Chief wanted a show of strength.’

  ‘Perhaps you should go the other way, ripped jeans and messy t-shirts. Make him think the cuts are starting to bite.’

  She clapped him on the shoulder and began to walk away. ‘You’re obviously feeling better, Angus, the cheeky humour has returned. See you later.’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The flight to Amsterdam left at the same time as the one carrying Fraser Brook, but twenty-four hours later. Jim Bennett could have busted a gut the night before and caught the late flight, but he suspected Brook was going nowhere for a couple of days at least. Once the coke-loving queer had copped some of Holland’s finest nose food and shagged a night club dancer or two, it would take a crowbar to dislodge him. He would be there for the picking.

  Brook thought he was being clever jetting off like he did, but Bennett could read him like a book. In his job as a wine dealer, Brook travelled a lot, always with British Airways and always from Terminal 5 at Heathrow. All Bennett had to do was pick the destination in Europe nearest to the time Brook answered his call. It wouldn’t be anywhere long-distance, Brook hated long-haul flights, and he couldn’t go to many places like the States at short notice without a visa. Bennett then had the choice of Paris, Rome or Amsterdam. It wasn’t really a choice, as Brook had visited Amsterdam many times and often called it his favourite city.

  Bennett and son, Kenny, were seated in Business Class, being served a complimentary light lunch and a glass of champagne, which he drank despite the acidic and metallic taste it left in his mouth. He couldn’t relax. He had fucked up not once, but twice. Once, for not re-setting the alarm at the Uckfield warehouse, and again for Frankland’s accusation of supplying drugs to Brook. In fact, he’d fucked up three times if not having Brook’s current address was included, as he could think of plenty of opportunities in the past when he might have asked him for it.

  He had demonstrated a complete lack of decision-making and initiative-taking, and yet in the Army he would have physically attacked any one of his men and knocked out some of their teeth if they had been guilty of such negligence. Was he losing his touch? Maybe he was just getting too old.

  He looked over at Kenny. No point in asking him. The daft bastard thought the sun shone out of his wonderful da’s arse. He stared out of the window glumly. Could it be time to get out? He was rich, after all, worth a couple of million, much more than he could have ever have made as a soldier, but it wasn’t only money he craved. He loved the buzz of working with people like Perry and Frankland, true professionals who didn’t give a stuff about rules, conventions and the law, and took whatever they wanted.

  Bennett shut his eyes and talked little to his son throughout the flight. When the plane landed and the ‘fasten seat belt’ signs were switched off, they collected their bags from the overhead lockers. It pained Bennett to do it, but he allowed Kenny to direct the taxi driver to one of the best hotels in town, Sofitel Amsterdam, a five-star hotel right in the centre.

  In his son’s simple logic, Brook would be there. They would corner him in his room and wouldn’t even need to go outside and get their feet wet to torture the little prick. They could simply pare the wires attached to the radio alarm and attach them to his balls. He would scream out the numbers of his secret Swiss bank account and then Bennett would have the pleasure of sticking a knife in the thieving rat’s chest.

  Bennett didn’t want to burst his son’s bubble by telling him that every big tourist city had twenty or thirty top hotels, and the chances of meeting Brook in the same one were pretty slim. He did agree that staying in the city centre made sense, as most of the main hotels were nearby and a man with Brook’s refined tastes was bound to be in one of them. In any case, it gave him a chance to splash the cash, as he was a tight bugger at the best of times and needed reminding now and again that he was a millionaire.

  They deposited their bags in the Junior Suite and headed downstairs to Bridges Cocktail Bar. Kenny drank Amstel beer while Bennett ordered a double whisky. ‘Right, I’m not trudging round every bloody hotel in the place asking to talk to Brook, as my bad knee is starting to play up. So what’s the plan you were blabbing about on the plane?’

  ‘We go and find ourselves a computer and print off the details of all the big hotels in Amsterdam. Then we sit in the corner over there and phone them up and ask to speak to Mr Brook. We ask the clerk what room he’s in and if he tells us, we go pay him a visit. If he puts us straight through without telling us the number, I say to Brook in a disguised voice that I’m looking for Mr Brown in room 210, ask him which room I’ve been put through to. Bingo – we’re on to him
.’

  ‘Good God! It actually sounds plausible. Even if Brook doesn’t cough up the room number, at least it’ll confirm the hotel he’s in. I’ve been giving this problem some thought myself. If we don’t find him your way because he’s staying in a cheap hotel or some other place out of town, we’ll pay a visit to some of the places he’s likely to frequent, like gay bars and nightclubs.’

  ‘You’ve got to be kiddin’ me, Da!’ Kenny blurted out. ‘I’m not goin’ into some fucking place full of queers in tight leather trousers and wi’ oily bodies. Not on your life!

  ‘Ha, ha. You should see your fizzer boy, it’s a picture. Don’t be so soft. It’s no problem around here, everybody’s either gay or on drugs. Why else do people come to Amsterdam?’

  ‘I don’t care, I think my way’s better.’

  ‘Right, smart Alec, let’s make a start and see how you get on. We can use one of the computers over there,’ he said, pointing to a corner of the foyer with the sign ‘Web Access Area.’ He slid off the bar stool and headed towards it. ‘And order me another whisky on your way over.’

  It didn’t take long to find a website listing the top twenty hotels in Amsterdam, and one by one, Kenny phoned them. By the time it was dark, he’d called eighteen without success. Next on the list was the Amstel.

  ‘Hello, can I speak to Mr Fraser Brook?’ Kenny asked, sounding a cross between Kevin Costner and Inspector Clouseau.

  Kenny picked up his beer and took a sip. He said it was better than the stuff he drank at home. The boy was beginning to like Amsterdam

  ‘No thank you, I will call again. Which room is he in? I need to send him some papers.’

  ‘Room 407? Many thanks.’

  Kenny thumped down the handset, triumphant. ‘Ya beauty. I did it Da!’

  ‘Well done Kenny,’ Bennett said beaming as he raised his whisky glass, ‘you’ve cracked it. We’ll finish these drinks and get right on it.’

  The taxi drove off, leaving Bennett and his son standing outside the entrance to the five-star Intercontinental Amstel Hotel on Professor Tulpplein 1, a tree-lined street on the banks of the Amstel River. They walked up the carpeted staircase towards the main door while Kenny read out its description from a web printout. ‘The central location extends to the heart of the financial, cultural and recreational centre of Amsterdam. Restaurant La Rive is renowned for its culinary delights and has a Michelin star.’

  He looked at his father. ‘Can we eat here Da, I’ve never eaten in a Michelin-starred restaurant before. Is it them that make the tyres?’

  ‘Don’t be soft. You wouldn’t know which bloody knife or fork to use. Nice gaff Brook’s picked though,’ he said, swaggering through its opulent entrance hall.

  ‘It is, and we’re bloody paying for it.’

  They stopped near reception and dialled Brook’s room on the internal phone. It rang and rang without reply. Bennett walked over to the desk and addressed the pretty, well-manicured receptionist.

  ‘We’re trying to contact Mr Brook in room 407 and getting no reply. Can you tell me if you’re expecting him back this evening?’

  She turned and examined a message in the post box, then keyed something into the computer before turning and speaking to one of her colleagues in Dutch.

  She turned to face Bennett. ‘I’m sorry sir, but we do not know where Mr Brook is. Maybe he is out shopping or has gone straight to dinner or a show. Would you like me to call you when he returns?’

  ‘No, we’ll wait. Thanks anyway.’

  He walked back to Kenny who was looking at a display of leaflets highlighting Amsterdam’s main attractions. ‘I didn’t know Anne Frank’s House was here, we learnt about her in school. She hid in an attic for years to keep away from the Germans.’

  ‘You learned something in school then,’ Bennett said. ‘I’m glad to see that all your time there wasn’t wasted. Let’s find a table and regroup.’

  Whisky in hand, Bennett and son sat at a table in the corner, their presence partly-obscured from the entrance to the hotel by a large pot plant. In front of them, a selection of sandwiches and bar snacks, something to absorb the booze and stop them getting pissed. Alcohol make torturing easier, but it left him dull and careless and no way could he afford to make another mistake.

  ‘So what do we do now Da’?’ Kenny said, sipping another Amstel, in his other hand, an Amsterdam information leaflet.

  ‘We wait here in this nice gaff until he shows up. He’s bound to, sometime tonight. I mean even if Brook is a party animal, he doesn’t know anybody in Amsterdam so he’ll be back here when the theatre or cinema or wherever the hell he is, finishes.’

  ‘Don’t gays stick together?’

  ‘You mean like some sort of fellowship; like the Scouts?’

  ‘Yeah, so if they come to places like this, they can chum up with the locals.’

  ‘Christ, you really have some daft ideas, son.’

  Kenny paused for a moment, thinking. ‘What will we do when he does show?’

  ‘When you see him come in, don’t shout or let him know we’re here, duck out of sight and let him go upstairs. I don’t want him to see us or he’ll skedaddle back where he came from. Then, after a few minutes we’ll go up and knock on his door and give him a new kind of room service.’

  ‘Ha, ha that’s good, that is; a new kind of room service.’

  ‘We’ll give him such a thumping he’ll be begging us to take back the money he stole.’

  ‘How do we get the money? It’s not as if he’ll be carrying it around in a suitcase, will he?’

  ‘It would be dead easy if he was. Nah, we do it electronically.’ Computers were a mystery to Bennett but Frankland had explained what he needed to do and he hoped he would remember it all. ‘In a place as swanky as this, Brook will have internet access in his room, so we’ll force him to transfer the money from his Swiss bank account to this.’ He removed a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and waved it in front of his son.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The bank account Perry wants us to use. It’s secret; offshore.’

  ‘So,’ Kenny said, his facial expressions suggesting the cogs in his simple brain were turning faster than a grandfather clock. ‘We’re gonna take the money from Brook and give it straight to Perry? Isn’t that what we said about Landseer being stupid, letting Brook look after his money? Aren’t we letting Perry look after our money?’

  ‘Nah, this is different. Perry’s using the offshore account to safeguard the money until he can pass some of it on to me and Frankland. You can’t just ship that amount of money back into your Post Office bank account without questions being asked. There’s ways the cops can spot large movements of cash.’

  They stayed in the Amstel until one thirty in the morning, by which time the lounge and bar area had become deserted, except for Bennett, Kenny and a bored-looking waiter. Every ten minutes or so, a small group of revellers would enter the hotel, on their way to bed or looking forward to some revelry in one of the rooms, and occasionally, a couple of strangely dressed night owls would head out in search of some late-night entertainment. But to the consternation of Jim Bennett and his son, Fraser Brook didn’t come into the hotel and he didn’t go out.

  Jim Bennett was in no fit state to hang around any longer, or for that matter, deal with Brook effectively; he decided to call it a night. The doorman called them a taxi and Kenny half-carried the drunk and part-comatose Bennett into the cab and they headed back to their hotel.

  TWENTY-NINE

  The driver of a non-descript and dirty Volvo estate scoured the lanes of Car Park B searching for a space. It was a big car, and even though the old dear up ahead thought she was doing him a good turn coming out of a tight space in her little Micra, the driver had to drive past with a sigh.

  Ten minutes later the car was parked, and after finishing their cigarettes, both men got out and walked towards the sprawl that was East Surrey Hospital.

  ‘Hate hospitals, me,’ Steve, the t
aller of the two men, said. ‘Full of sick people. You go in there with a broken ankle and a week after you pick up MRAS and snuff it.’

  ‘MRSA,’ Alex said.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Not where, you dope. The bug that kills people in hospitals is called MRSA.’

  ‘Same difference, and don’t call me a dope. I went to the same school you did.’

  ‘This is true, but I didn’t spend all my time looking out the window and nipping off for a fag, did I? I listened, and some of it,’ he said tapping the side of his head, ‘sunk in.’

  ‘Yeah, but look at ye now. Same bloody place as me.’

  ‘You’re right there, I can’t argue with that one.’

  ‘Christ, look at that pair there,’ Steve said, indicating an elderly lady helping her equally elderly partner to reach their car. ‘Shoot me before I get that old.’

  ‘I’m tempted to do it now.’

  ‘Ha, bloody ha. I’m only 36, I’ve got a bit of time to go, but I know I don’t wanna end up like that.’

  ‘In our profession, there’s a sixty-per cent chance we won’t reach 65.’

  ‘Get away, how do you know that?’

  ‘Read it in a magazine. Funnily enough, I read it when I was waiting at a doctor’s surgery.’

  ‘What were you in there for?’

  ‘You remember my uncle asked me to collect money from a dealer and then this druggie took a flaky and stabbed me?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘It was for that. Had to get bloody tetanus injections and all sorts, the bastard used his knife for everything; even cutting up his stash.’

  ‘He won’t do it again.’

  ‘No, he won’t.’

  They walked through the entrance to the hospital and after checking the board and making sure they knew where to go, they set off. Unlike many modern hospitals built on multiple floors with fast-moving lifts, East Surrey was low to the ground and to reach anywhere was a long walk.

  ‘There’s one good thing about hospitals,’ Alex said.