To Make a Killing (8 page)

“Yeah, but he’s out at a concert right now.” Cheryl handed Keane his glass of water – poured from a freshly opened and chilled bottle, which impressed him – and continued to make her tea and sandwiches with her back to him. As there was no chair to sit down on, Keane wandered around and mused over the contents of the shelves.

“Did you ever see her?”

“No”

“Did you see anyone visit her or leave her flat?”

“No”

“Were there ever any noises or . . .”

Keane stopped abruptly. He knew what he was looking at on the shelf, but he didn’t dare believe it. Among a myriad of jams, honeys, spice jars and Bovril jars, all from Tesco, he saw a jar of Nescafé. Or – more to the point - a jar of Nescafé with a label in French, sold at Carrefour. “Tell me, Cheryl, if, er . . . if Frank was out of coffee, do you think he would ever have popped downstairs and asked for some?”

“Frank would ask the Pope for a fag and can of beer if he was short of them, so I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“Do you have a plastic bag I could borrow?”

“Yeah, sure.” The girl turned round and gave him a see-through plastic bag intended for a sandwich.

Keane carefully placed the bag over the jar, took it from the shelf and tied a knot in the bag.

“So you got your coffee after all!”

“I’ll be taking this with me. Tell Frank thanks for the coffee. The good news is, here’s £5 for a couple more jars. The bad news is we’ll need a full statement from him at the station, 8:30 tomorrow morning. Here’s the address”, said Keane handing Cheryl a visiting card. “Do you have another plastic bag and something of Frank’s I can borrow, like a CD?”

Keane left the flat with his two plastic bags, in joyous mood. Forensics had left and sealed up the door on the second floor, so he would have to wait to show Jones his catch.

He left the building moments later. As he made his way towards the end of the quiet street, a man moved silently towards him avoiding the direct lamplight. He was approaching the unaware Keane rapidly when another man stepped out of a car about ten yards in front of Keane.

“Can I offer you a lift, Superintendent?” asked Jones, who did not see the figure behind Keane slip back into the shadows.

“Jones! Just the man I was hoping to see!” Keane stepped gleefully into Jones’ car and explained triumphantly about his coffee jar most of the way back to the station.

Chapter 7

Saturday, 19th September, morning

Hayes stepped into the crowded incident room. “Sorry, it was that student Frank. It was like getting blood out of a stone.”

“ . . . And now that we are all here” continued Keane, “Let’s hear the nine o’clock news with your host, Ian Hayes”

“Well, it was as you might have guessed: he could barely remember borrowing the coffee, though he could not explain how else it could have ended up there; probably stoned at the time if you ask me. Neither he nor any of his flatmates have been shopping in France. He gave me a vague description of Marie Passant that fit, but otherwise couldn’t give me anything new to go on.”

“Well, I can give you all an update on the print situation.” added Keane. “Forensics has been working throughout the night. They matched the prints from the jar that were not Frank’s with prints from the flat. So we have isolated Marie Passant’s fingerprint. Unfortunately the print is not to be found on any database we or Interpol have. So it appears she has no record.

Now, having anticipated the result of your interview, Hayes, I’ve sent Marie Passant’s photo fit to the Gendarmerie National . . . the French police” added Keane in response to Connolly’s glazed look, “. . . and to the Canadian Mounted Police. I’ve let them know that we do, however, expect the name to be an alias. Airport and port authorities have also been alerted, though their general response seemed to be, that we are closing the barn door after the mare has been set out to pasture.

The stain on the carpet was red wine and not blood, and the broken dark green glass is consistent with that of a wine bottle, for example from Bordeaux. The really exciting find from our Mademoiselle’s flat was this” said Keane, holding up a plastic see-through bag with what appeared to be a small piece of black plastic inside; it was no larger than half his fingertip. “This was found underneath one of the dinner table chairs. I realize you can’t see anything from where you are sitting, so I’ll pass it round now. I am very confident it is a piece of a capsule from a wine bottle – the plastic wrapping around the top of the bottle that protects the cork” he added to make sure he didn’t lose anyone. “As you can see, the plastic has about two thirds of some kind of symbol in gold print. On its own, this piece of evidence tells us nothing, but if we can identify the bottle which it came from, it might well crack this case wide open.

Forensics also found a strand of hair. Likewise, if we can find the original from which this stemmed . . . “ Keane let his sentence peter out to underline how unlikely this seemed.

“As for Russell’s hotel room: Forensics has confirmed his prints in the room, on his belt, shoes, etc. They also found his prints in Miss Passant’s flat”.

“How do we know it’s not a Mrs.?” questioned Hassan

“You’re quite right, Hassan. As any married man will tell you, some of the most heinous crimes in history have been committed by married women.” replied a very buoyant Keane. His chirpy disposition stood in direct contradiction with his bloodshot eyes and wan complexion. He did not appear to have slept much, and his clothes looked more than a day old.

“But I think the point we should focus on, is the fact that we can now take it for granted, that Passant and Russell were in cahoots, and their activity was illegal; and I would appreciate it if no-one utters an American “Daaah” at this point. The only other items of interest from Devon Park Hotel were the books.” Keane paused. This was turning into a lecture and a one-man show, and he could tell it would be best if someone else took the floor. “But first I think we ought to find out if Jenkins did in fact get Carter!”

Jenkins blushed slightly, but moved straight into her news, “I reached Mr. Khater” - impeccably pronounced – she must have been practising, thought Keane, “at around one o’clock in the morning. He wasn’t too happy about having to come to the station, so I waited until the end of the interview, to tell him what had happened to his door. He told me that he had rented out the flat to Marie Passant for three months from the 30th August. She paid in cash in advance including a deposit for any damage to the flat.”

It was such an obvious cue, that everyone turned to Hayes, who duly obliged, “So we know who’s paying for a new door!”

“Khater confirmed her identity from the photo fit. We took his prints (so we can exclude them), and then I told him about the door. . . ” Jenkins looked up at Hayes, “. . . and he said “Well, I know who’s paying for a new door.” Hayes writhed uneasily.

“Don’t worry, he meant her deposit. So we’re off the hook there. Apart from that he had no idea what she was doing there, and he really didn’t seem to care about the murder, or that his tenant and flat were directly involved.”

“You don’t think he’s involved then?” asked Parker.

“No his complete lack of interest and sense of responsibility seemed genuine to me.”

“Right then.” Keane took over the reins again. “Hayes, I believe you also had a late-night rendezvous?”

“Yes, I called Penrith. I spoke to their General Manager, a Mr. Trevor Williams. He said that he knew of no business affairs that Russell might have had in London. He had heard that Russell was going to Europe on holiday, but where to and for what purpose, he had no idea.

I asked if he knew of anyone named Mike that they had on their payroll, or if there could have been a supplier or even a competitor with that name. I didn’t ask him about ‘Marie Passant’, in case Williams was involved somehow. He said he’d look into it and call me back.” Keane looked down involuntarily and noticed he was twiddling his thumbs. He stopped and looked up with a renewed, strained interest.

“He called back an hour later and told me they knew of four Mikes. That is to say, A ‘Michael Grey’ who works for them as an accountant. A ‘Mick Turner’, who works in their transport section. A ‘Mickey Randolph’ who is a . . . nerdologist or something – he told me it means ‘wine-maker’, who does research for them. And a ‘Michael Mackenzie’ who manages one of the vineyards that supplies them with grapes.”

Keane had barely slept a wink and he had to bite his lip to keep his eyes open. He needed to talk in order to come round a bit, “I think that’s an oenologist.”

“Well, I think we can call him an escapologist” responded Hayes, “because he’s been missing for 4 weeks!”

That was what Keane needed to sober up. “Which Mike’s gone missing?”

“Mickey Randolph.”

“Did Russell know this Randolph?”

“Apparently they were good ‘mites’” replied Hayes.

“Alright. We can’t do this from London. Hayes, I want you to arrange a meeting with Mr. Williams. You’re leaving for . . . what, Brisbane?”

“Adelaide” corrected Hayes, who couldn’t believe his luck.

“ . . . Adelaide, with the first available flight. I want you to take this evidence with you.” Keane handed Hayes the bag with the scrap of plastic. “Find out if Penrith make a wine that has this capsule. Find out what has happened to Mike or Mickey Randolph. Find out exactly what his job was at Penrith, and what projects he was involved in. And find out everything there is to know about his relationship with Russell. Let me know when you’ve arranged your flight. I want a full schedule with the BST times of your departure, arrival and meeting.”

“Sir!” interrupted Parker. “There is more news, but I’ve been waiting for my turn. I don’t know if it will affect Hayes’ trip.”

“What is it?”

“Well, we gave Interpol a nudge this morning about early similar MOs, and they said they had sent us a report two days ago. I said we’d got nothing from them, and they said . . .”

“Get on with it man!” Keane was steaming.

“Well, anyway they sent it again, and it turns out that a Madame Chaboulet, proprietor of a Château Plencque in Bordeaux, was found dead almost a year ago, clearly murdered, and in exactly the same way that Russell copped it. No arrests. No suspects. Case inactive if not unofficially closed.”

Keane’s immediate impulse was to find someone’s head he could bite off for this administrative debacle, but he was simply too exhausted to satisfy the urge. And what was more, this new information had thrown his mind into an endless, dizzying somersault. It cast a completely new slant on the case. Keane stared at the floor and grabbed tightly on to the edge of the table top he had been sitting on.

Everyone waited for him to say something, but facts, thoughts and ideas just churned around in his head. “Let’s take . . . a . . . a ten-minute break” he finally stammered in a toneless voice. “Someone get me some strong coffee.” he added, as the others filed out of the room.

Chapter 8

Saturday, 19th September, late morning

Twenty minutes later, Keane gestured for everyone to come back in the room.

It had taken 10 minutes for everything in his head to stop swimming, and then another 5 minutes for the caffeine to kick in. He had had to remind himself that this new insight in no way changed or negated what they had already found out. Furious though he was that this invaluable information had lain dormant for possibly 48 hours, he forced himself to see the positive aspects: a follow-up investigation in Bordeaux could shed new light on his case; the killer’s identity may rise to the surface; a pattern or a link (apart from wine and the MO) may fall into focus.

It had also thrown up new questions whose answers could perhaps help crack the case. Was there a link between Marie Passant and Madame Chaboulet? Why did a year pass between the two murders? And above all, what did this mean in terms of what he had learnt, while he was burning the midnight oil?

He was obliged to round off Parker’s contribution by getting the formalities out of the way:

“Parker I want a full report on why we did not receive the information from Interpol; I want it on my desk by Monday morning. I don’t want any justifications from anyone. I just want the facts, ok?”

“Yes sir.”

“Alright we are moments away from our individual and group brainstorms, but before we begin, I have to tell you that the reason I may be a bit short with you this morning, is that I did not get much sleep last night. I’ve been swotting up on clarets, as they seem to be crucial to this case. I have studied both of Russell’s books, and I have two details to add to what we have heard this morning:

First of all – on close inspection of Russell’s copies of ‘Pauillac for Kings’ and ‘Bordeaux’ finest Vintages’ I found the sections of the books where the spine had most often been broken. I discovered that in these sections, more words and sentences were underlined than in any other part of the book. The sections in question provided historical accounts of the four leading chateaux in the district of Bordeaux known as Pauillac. These four chateaux provide some of the very finest (and therefore most expensive) French red wines. They are: Chateau Lafite . . . not spelt as you would imagine Hassan” responded Keane to Hassan’s snicker, as he wrote the names of the chateaux on the whiteboard, “Chateau Latour, Chateau Mouton-Rothschild and Chateau . . .”

“Plencque!” said Jenkins, Parker and Hayes in chorus.

“Full marks to you three” praised Keane. “The characteristics of the various vintages of these chateaux were also highlighted.

Secondly: Bearing all this in mind, some of you may now be giving a second thought to Russell’s choice of alias: ‘Paul Tower’”. Keane paused.

“Well it’s brainstorming time. Hayes, I want you to note everything down on the board. When everyone has finished we’ll look at it all critically, but while we’re ‘storming’ I don’t want to hear any sarcastic comment or to see a single raised eyebrow. Alright? So. Which possible explanation could account for all the facts as we know them?”

Connolly, Parker and Hassan had done their homework conscientiously, and proceeded to present their ideas from the plausible to the ridiculous. It was clear to see that many of the ideas were more than 3 hours old, and they fell through simply because they failed to encompass the most recent events. Hayes and Jenkins chipped in with their thoughts, too.

It didn’t take long for the group to suggest that ‘Paul’ was inspired by ‘Pauillac’. And ‘Tower’? “That must be a reference to Chateau Latour” reasoned Hayes, who was almost too embarrassed to admit that he had studied French at school. But that still left them with a forest of disassociated theories on the board that now required grouping with the help of a system. They decide to group by motive. They came up with nine motive categories. Three of these:

1. act of passion / spur of moment

2. the killer wants attention

3. the killer hates foreigners or a particular minority

were eventually dismissed in spite of protests from Connolly and Hassan.

Of the six remaining motive categories, Keane said that he considered one of them to be more likely than the other five, (even though he felt that some of the scenarios they encompassed could still possibly apply. The five least likely categories were:

4. Love/ jealousy

* Russell killed by Passant: jealousy

* Russell was flirting with Passant, and was killed by:

- Russell’s ex-lover (Mickey Randolph?)

- Passant’s ex-lover (the second man?)

- jealous student Frank

5. Russell was blackmailing the killer

* Russell knew of some illegal activity in the wine / cricket world and was blackmailing someone

6. Russell was an enemy to vested interests / knew too much / politically motivated killing

* Russell was an Australian freedom fighter, working undercover for a ground roots movement such as Greenpeace/Amnesty

* Russell was an undercover Australian agent, knocked off by an agent from another country – the location of London was irrelevant

* Russell threatened to squeal on a secret league of corrupt cricketers

7. no motive/accident/random

* Russell was the wrong victim

* Russell was the random victim of a test of a new method of killing,

* Russell was not in fact Russell, but someone else who had undergone plastic surgery

8. Revenge

* the killer was a bitter cricket player, whose career had failed after being falsely run out by Russell

* the killer was a punter who had been ruined after losing on a huge bet, and he accredited the loss to Russell

That left one motive category which Keane considered to be the most likely:

9. Greed/money

* Drug-dealing – Russell was killed by a major crime syndicate (Russian mafia?) – wine is just a cover

* smuggling of wine / customs evasion – Russell was killed by Passant or another gang member after a disagreement

* Russell and the killer were partners in crime and his partner (Passant/second man/Randolph/unknown person?) wanted it all

* Russell had been knocked off by a Chilean secret agent, as Penrith’s success was a threat to Chilean wine exports

He did, however, not receive unanimous (or even much) support. There was in fact hardly any consensus in the group at all. He found the drawback with this particular new-fangled, American approach of “empowerment”, was that people were loathe to see beyond the ideas and theories that they themselves had spent ages concocting.

The exercise did not bring the clarity or brilliant insights he had hoped for. Perhaps he himself was just too deflated to energize the group?

He tried to summarize the results of the brainstorming, and then decided to wrap up the meeting by putting one final question to the group: “Were Russell, Marie Passant and the second man working together?”

Again the group were divided; there was a lot of speculation and very little of it based on the facts they had at hand. He felt it was time to let them go. Hayes in particular was under time pressure, and he himself wanted to get off to
France as soon as possible. He thanked them for their efforts, informed them that Angus would be in charge until he got back from France, and arranged to meet them all again on Monday morning, where they once again could take stock of the situation.

*********

Once he got back to his office, he looked over the report from Interpol and contacted the local French Police station that had dealt with the case. With great difficulty and no doubt numerous faux pas, he staggered along with his schoolboy French and managed to convince the officer on duty of the veracity of his call. He then explained that he would be arriving there the following morning to discuss the case with the officer who had been in charge of the investigation, a Monsieur Lavalle. He was pleased by how many “Wey-wey”, “Se-bo’” and “Pas de problème, Monsieur” he got. He even managed to squeeze out the phone number of Chateau Plencque.

Minutes later, and to his great relief, he was speaking English to the relatively ‘new’ owner of the Chateau, Madame Fourcard. He presented himself and the reason for his call.

“But, Monsieur, it happened a long time ago. There cannot be any connection to your murder. You would be wasting your time and mine.”

“I can assure you, Madame Fourcard, the murders of Madame Chaboulet and Mr. Russell are so unique, that they must have been committed by the same person. I understand that it must be difficult for you to be asked to look once more at a shocking episode which everyone is trying to move on from.”

“But I cannot tell you anything that has not already been told to the French Police.”

“It is my hope that the details of this latest murder will help you to look upon the tragic death of Madame Chaboulet in a new light, and perhaps even help to clear up the mystery of her death.”

“I really am afraid your visit will be in vain, Inspector Keane.”

Keane paid no attention to his momentary degradation, but tried another tack, “I can only imagine the Chateau’s business and the whole atmosphere at the chateau must have been badly affected by her death. I am convinced, Madame Fourcard, that if we can shed any new light on the circumstances surrounding her death, it can only be of benefit to everyone involved.” Keane knew it would have been catastrophic to add “assuming she was innocent”, so he let it remain as conjecture.

“Very well, Inspector Keane. I will help you in whatever way I can. You will be very welcome as our guest. Until tomorrow. Bon voyage!”

Keane let out a long, slow sigh. In spite of their hard and sometimes inspired work, he felt they were still a long way from making an arrest. At that moment, an out of breath Hayes knocked on the door as he entered the office.

“I’ve got it all arranged” Gasp, gasp. “All packed. Flight leaves in two hours.” Gasp, gasp. “Here’s the itinerary.”

“Good. Have you got the evidence with you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Alright, Ian. You take care of yourself down under, and let’s get the blighter who’s done this.” A cordial pat on the back would have been appropriate, but Keane remained seated in his chair; he was just too old-school. Instead he smiled his sincerity, Hayes smiled back and left the office with the words, “I’ll be in touch, sir.”