To Make a Killing (11 page)

He made a bee-line for Randolph’s office and started looking through every folder, and every bit of paper he could find. Yes, there was a pc that perhaps could tell him something, and yes there were some photo albums he’d spotted in the living room, but he was looking for something else. He wanted to find some written proof that Randolph had sent some of that experimental wine to London.

He looked and looked. He fossicked through everything, and finally after two hours he found it: two copies of two separate non-negotiable bills of lading. They were minor shipments appended to a major delivery of Penrith’s wines sent to the dock at Tilbury, with Brent Russell the assigned receiver. First delivery made at Tilbury on August 31st, second delivery on September 18th. Just 3 days ago! It would still be there! Hayes was jumping for joy. Mission accomplished! He had the wine, he had the documents that proved Russell and Randolph were involved in some illegal activity. He called the station immediately to report to Keane, but Keane could not be reached . . . he was in hospital!

Chapter 13

Monday, 21st September, mid-morning BST

Two hours before Hayes’ call, Keane had been on his way to work. He had got about 6 hours’ sleep and was definitely feeling the worse for wear.

The grinding traffic did not improve his mood. Eventually it came to a complete standstill. He looked at the 45 mph speed limit and snickered. After a few minutes he heard the inevitable sirens and saw the flashing lights in his rear view mirror. Vehicles that had stopped bumper to bumper now struggled to move over to make room.

Over his police radio he received the call for assistance from cars in his vicinity, and he had naturally responded affirmatively. There had been a serious car accident and possibly a shooting. He thought it best not to pull out in front of the ambulance as he had no siren, and his Roadster hardly looked the part of a police car.

The ambulance’s progress was painfully slow. As it passed, he saw there were two police cars in attendance. It did look serious. He slipped in behind the second police car. Ten minutes later they arrived at the scene of the accident.

It was quite a mess: a car in his lane had veered over to the other side of the road and hit an approaching van full on. Fortunately there was already another ambulance on the scene; the passengers in the car had been cut free and were being carried over to the first ambulance. The second ambulance was no doubt meant for the driver of the van. Two other police cars were already there when they arrived. One policeman was looking over the wreckage, whilst three others were trying to hold back the crowd.

As soon as Keane had pulled up, he sprang out, ran over to one of the policemen who had arrived just ahead of him and flashed his identification, asking, “Why have we got four patrol cars here, Constable?”

“There’s been a shooting, sir. A colleague’s been hit. I’m sorry, I have to see if I can round up any witnesses before they disappear”

“Yes, carry on, Constable.” Keane was shocked. For anyone to be shot was always a terrible thing. On the few occasions that it had happened to a fellow policeman, he could never escape the thought that it could just as well have been him.

He went over to the policeman who was searching the crashed car for evidence and identified himself. “What’s happened here, Sergeant?”

“There’s been a shooting, sir. I’ve found two bullet-holes so far: one in the window of the driver’s door” he said pointing to the ground where the cut out door lay, “. . . and one in the rear door on the driver’s side, here” he pointed again. Keane peered into the car and could see that the second (and lower) of the two bullets had entered through the back of the driver’s seat, and had probably hit the driver around the pelvis region.

“So the driver was shot twice.” stated Keane.

“I think so, but there were probably more shots. There’s blood everywhere. The policeman was bleeding from the shoulder. It could have been caused by the crash, but I think it was a bullet wound.”

“So the policeman was the passenger, then. I take it he was in uniform?”

“Yes, sir. Wait a minute. Did you say your name is Keane?”

“Yes.”

“You’re leading the Kensington murder case, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I’m pretty sure the driver was that fella Symonds who is under police protection; the passenger was definitely an armed officer.”

Keane was stunned. This didn’t make any sense at all. Symonds was not the intended victim of Russell’s murder; he was convinced of that. Why should anyone try to kill him now, and especially when he had a police escort?

“Thank you, Sergeant” was all he could say. He stepped away from the wreckage and tried to imagine what had happened.

From all appearances, Symonds had lost control of his car after he had been shot. The angle of the bullets was almost horizontal, so the shots could not have been fired from a building above ground level. The constant flow of oncoming traffic between Symonds’ car and the opposite pavement would have prevented a clear shot by a pedestrian on that pavement. So in all likelihood the shots must have come from a passing car. But how could the assassin achieve such perfect timing? How did he know that Symonds would be exactly there at that time? And again, why shoot Symonds? Was there something Symonds had been withholding? Was he involved? Was he Russell’s partner? Probably not, because if he were, then he would hardly have accepted a 24-hour police escort!

Keane could tell he would not be able to make any sense of it, while he was standing in the middle of the carnage. He saw the second ambulance was about to leave, so he jumped back into his car and decided to follow it to the hospital. He had no idea whether Symonds and the officer would survive, let alone be able to give him a statement. Regardless of that, he felt, above all, an obligation to be with them at the hospital and find out what their condition was.

The ambulance slotted into the traffic that was slowly passing the crash. It turned on the siren again and reached the hospital ten minutes later. On the way over to the hospital, Keane had called Jenkins and asked her to meet him there. On arrival, Keane parked his car and made his way up to the floor where Symonds and his guard were being treated. The doctors could confirm that both men would survive. The armed officer’s injuries were the least serious. He was in shock and had been sedated, but he would probably be able to leave the hospital after one night’s observation. Symonds was in a worse state and his operation would take most of the day. Keane was told he could not expect to speak to him for several days.

Jenkins arrived shortly after. Keane explained the situation and also gave her a short briefing of his trip to France. He concluded, “I want you to arrange for two armed guards to protect Symonds while he’s here. Let me know as soon as you have got a statement from Symonds’ guard. I’ll send Parker over to relieve you later this afternoon.”

With that Keane set off for the office. It was 11:30 by the time he got there. He went straight in to Angus’ office to break the news.

Angus listened intently without saying a word, then stared down at his desk with his the tip of his thumb and forefinger held up to his lips. Keane stared at Angus, who remained deep in thought for what seemed like minutes. Finally Angus looked up and broke the silence, “Can we be sure that this murder attempt is solely related to the Russell case?”

“We have no reason whatsoever to believe Symonds is involved in any illegal activity, or that anyone has a motive to kill him – apart from the theoretical possibility that he was in fact the intended victim, when Russell was murdered.”

“And you don’t believe that”

“No sir. I’m now convinced that Russell was involved in some kind of crime, and it’s highly likely that his death was related to that.”

“Alright, let’s assume for a moment that it was Russell’s murderer who also attempted to murder Symonds.” Angus paused. “Now, that doesn’t make sense to either of us right now, because we are looking at it from the point of view of solving the mystery. Let’s look at it from the murderer’s point of view.” Another pause. “Apart from the murderer and our mademoiselle, Morgan, you must be the one person who knows and understands most about this case. I know this goes against the grain, laddie, but you are going to have to put yourself in the murderer’s shoes.”

“Very well.”

Angus had done this kind of thing with him before, with mixed results. “Answer me these questions: Who are you?”

“A South American”

“Why did you kill Russell?

“To get him out of the way.”

“Who is a threat to you?”

“Marie Passant, Morgan Keane.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“I will kill Passant. I won’t kill Keane because he’ll just be replaced. I have to delay him until I’ve finished what I’m doing. I have to put him off the scent” concluded Keane as he raised his eyes to meet Angus’ gaze.

“How will you do that?”

They both knew the answer: “Create a diversion, confuse him.” Keane and Angus paused, before Angus eventually continued.

“So that would explain the attempted murder on Symonds, wouldn’t it? You’re you now, by the way.”

“Yes, I suppose it would. At least, I can’t think of any other explanation right now.”

“In that case, our next steps are clear. First of all, I’m going to assign this shooting case to Fairburn. Secondly, I want you to focus 100% on the Russell murder. I want you to identify a suspect and a motive within 24 hours, and I want him arrested within 48 hours, and certainly before he hurts anyone else. I’ll give you any resources you need, and I’ll keep the press off your back – they’ll have the track dogs out right now as we speak. But YOU have to deliver our man, Morgan. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Right, get on with it.” concluded Angus and he picked up the phone to call Fairburn.

Keane got back to his office feeling highly ‘motivated’, as the Human Resources people liked to call it these days.

On entering his office, the first thing that met his eyes, was the fax copies sent from Hayes that lay on his desk. He read the short note confirming that the capsule stemmed from a special wine that Randolph had developed and shipped over to England to be collected by Russell.

Keane was over the moon. He called Hayes to get the full story, then he brought him up to speed on the morning’s events, the news from Bordeaux and the ultimatums he had just been given.

Keane concluded, “Ian, you can’t possibly get back here in time to help us, so I want you to try and find out more about Randolph. Try and find him, and at the least, try to find out what he and Russell were up to. Alright?”

“Too right, sir! I mean: Yes, sir” Hayes was only too pleased to prolong his stay, and he was sure there was more to dig up on Randolph.

Keane called in Parker, Connolly and Hassan. “Who knows how to get to Tilbury Freeport?”

“I do” replied Hassan.

“Good, you’re the driver. We’ll be using the siren.”

Chapter 14

Monday, 21st September, early afternoon

Keane explained everything to them on the way, though Hassan did have his mind mainly on the road.

When they got there, the Freeport turned out to be a vast, anonymous area. No doubt it was easy for lorry drivers and regular visitors to find their way around, but it took them an extra frustrating ten minutes to find the office where the port authorities were located.

Once inside the building, they were soon directed to the relevant clerk, a Mr. Turnbull, who was standing behind the counter, all ready to receive his next customer. He was about 33 years old, and of average height and build. He had a bloated, round face with blue-grey eyes ensconced behind small, rectangular metal-rimmed glasses. He had tight, small lips, and his ears had disproportionately large lobes. He was wearing a tawdry brown suit that was one size too small for him, and his thick neck was straining on the buttoned collar and tightly knotted tie. To Keane he looked for all the world, like a boxer on a leash.

Turnbull listened to Keane’s explanation of his business, and after a couple of minutes he stated: “Yes, we have received the two shipments referred to in this copy of the bill of lading. I can also confirm that both shipments have been collected.”

“What!?” exclaimed Keane.

“The first shipment was picked up on the 31st of August and the second on the 18th of September.”

“By this man?” Keane showed him Russell’s picture.

“Yes” he answered definitely, and then added, “That is to say, that’s the man who collected the first shipment.” Turnbull was beginning to realize someone was in trouble, and it was almost definitely him.

Keane glowered at Turnbull. “This man died on the 15th of September. I seriously doubt that he came back three days later to settle unfinished business.”

“Oh no, this is awful. I, er, . . .” he looked at his papers again, and there was no denying the fact: it was his signature on the release form. “But his papers were in order!”

Keane wanted very much to let the man know, how his incompetence had directly hindered the clearing up of a murder, and how this killer, who was now at large, had almost killed again this very morning. But he knew it would not bring him any closer to catching his man. Keane began clutching at straws in a desperate attempt to leave with something positive: “Look, is there any chance that some of the shipment is still here?”

“That would be most irregular. I can direct you to where we kept the shipment” offered the meek clerk.

“Yes, why not.” sighed Keane.

Turnbull made a phone call, and a few minutes later a forklift-truck operator came into the office. He was a lanky lad, no more than 22 years old, who went by the name of “Phil”. His red tee-shirt and slack, blue jeans hung limply on his narrow shoulders and hips, respectively. The scrawny beard, pasty complexion, long, brown, unkempt hair and Adidas trainers did nothing to convince the onlooker that this was an exemplary athlete. He said nothing at first, but simply led the way over to the warehouse in question.

Once inside, he finally spoke, struggling to make his sentences coherent. “They were all stacked up ‘ere. Fact, we’ve still got some a main shipment over there”. He pointed to a very large system of shelves that were full of boxes. “Them other boxes that bloke picked up, wuz ‘ey important, like?”

It annoyed Keane that whenever this young man spoke, his gaze was either focussed 2 feet below Keane’s chin, or swung a foot to the left or right of his head for half a second, before returning to its “navel base”.

Keane’s deep and general frustration got the better of him, and he let it slip out in a broadside at the hapless young man, “Look, sonny, those wine bottles could have solved a murder! In fact, you delivered them to the murderer!”

Connolly, Parker and Hassan looked at each other. “Sir!” said Parker “I think we ought to . . .”

“Murderer!!” squealed the operator. “Jesus Christ! Jesus H. Christ! You stupid, bloody idiot!”, Phil was rambling to himself.

Connolly tried to calm him down, “It’s ok, he won’t be coming . . .” Keane stepped between Connolly and the young man, and signalled for Connolly to be quiet.

“What’s up?” asked Keane, his eyes fixed like a laser beam on to the man’s every gesture.

“Jesus Christ” whimpered the man again. “I went and knicked a bottle, didn’t I! From a bleedin’ murderer! ‘Ow wuz I to know? I didn’t think he’d miss it. Jesus!” The young man was falling apart before them.

“Take a grip, man! Where is that bottle?” Suddenly Phil went quiet.

“Look, “Phil”. You’ve already lost this job and you’re looking at worse, if you don’t tell me right now!” Keane was not in a mood to be messed with. Phil led them off to his locker. It was completely stuffed with trophies from all kinds of goods that had been received at the warehouse. He pointed to the bottle which Keane had been so desperate to find.

Keane took a handkerchief and lifted the bottle out carefully. He immersed himself in an instant analysis, while the others stood idly by. Connolly and Hassan were looking at each other, and keeping an eye on the operator; Parker was trying to catch a glimpse of the treasure over Keane’s shoulder.

“Er . . . Connolly. Read this gentleman his rights will you, and get him out of here.” Keane took the bottle over to a window to get some more light. He held it as if it were a new-born baby. Now Parker and Hassan were both looking over Keane’s shoulders, wondering what to make of the find. It looked like a common or garden wine bottle, dark green glass, a capsule on top, but no label.

Keane felt underneath the bottle and turned the bottom to the light. The centre of the base rose steeply inside, and he could make out the following symbols fashioned into the glass, radiating around the circumference of the base:

mm X 07 SG 8 75 & 3 55

He looked at it knowing that something was not right. And then it came to him: that shade of green glass, the gently rounded shoulder of the bottle - this was a French wine bottle! Not an Australian!

“Parker, Hassan, give me a pen knife.” Parker obliged. “Hold the bottle firmly” Keane instructed Parker.

Keane very carefully cut away the black, plastic capsule, and there below it was another capsule! Even before he had completely removed the fake capsule, a familiar black symbol caught his eye on the side of the maroon metal capsule: a lion atop a castle, the symbol of Chateau Latour! On removing it completely, his assumption was confirmed by the top of the now bare maroon capsule. “Chateau Latour!” he breathed out loud, triumphantly. And again he set to work with the knife, this time on the metal capsule, slitting it along the side. Peeling it away he found just what he was hoping to find. Holding the bottle up to the light, he could see through the glass neck a four-digit number imprinted on the side of the cork: 1961!

Keane put the bottle down on the nearest table and, smiling broadly, pronounced simply and quietly, “We’ve cracked it.”

Parker and Hassan needed a little more convincing and began to ask questions. Hassan was the first to venture:

“Is it a smuggling job, then?”

“Yes, that’s right.” said Keane. “Russell and Randolph have been smuggling a rare, very expensive French Bordeaux wine into the country.”

The apparent self-contradiction of this theory struck Keane, at the same moment he uttered the words. Parker then asked the obvious question, “How did they get hold of so much rare wine?”

A grimace of self-disgust and frustration crossed Keane’s face. “Because it’s not genuine, Parker.” answered Keane. He paused. “I think there’s more than one ‘bloody idiot’ around here.” He looked up at his two anxious colleagues, “I mean me”.

Keane explained: “Randolph has been producing a wine that could pass for an old classic. Russell has been selling them on the QT to restaurants, who always charge a fortune for such rare wines. That, by the way, explains why Russell had to wear a mask. It’s a brilliant scam, really. Even if the restaurants did discover the wine was a fake, they wouldn’t tell us because it would get out and that would ruin their reputation. This is basically a case of pure and simple fraud.”

“Now look at this bottle”, continued Keane. “The label is missing. The dust and cobwebs are missing. The original packaging is missing. That is where Marie Passant comes in. If we want to find her, we have to start looking for an excellent forger. And where is she now? Has she left the country? Has she gone back to France or Canada? Or is she still assisting Russell’s nemesis?

Well, now we also have a credible motive for Russell’s murder: greed. Russell and Randolph were on to a good thing, and the killer wanted it all to himself. But who is he? Parker, make sure we get good descriptions of our killer from Turnbull and ‘Phil’”

“Superintendent, how do we catch him, now he’s got what he came for?” asked Hassan

“That’s it!” shouted Keane. “That’s it! That’s exactly how we catch him! Brilliant!”

Parker and Connolly were again one or two steps behind Keane, so he explained, “He’s got the second shipment of wine. He probably still has some of Russell’s stock. What’s he going to do with it?”

“Sell it like Russell did . . .” answered Hassan, and Parker finished the equation, “. . . so we set a trap to catch him the next place he tries to palm off some of his stuff!”