Blood, Wine and Chocolate

by Julie Thomas

  ‘You killed him.’

  It wasn’t a question.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Dead. With a bottle of wine?’

  ‘Very. With a bottle of Pétrus.’

  ‘Oh my God! Well, at least I understand why you didn’t make it to the pub quiz.’ She turned to him and rubbed his hand gently. ‘I’m so sorry I was angry.’

  He smiled at her. ‘Don’t be a goose, you didn’t know.’

  She nodded slowly. ‘And you didn’t know David had anything to do with these people?’

  ‘Not a clue.’

  ‘What was he hiding, do you think?’

  ‘Not a clue.’

  ‘You didn’t recognise them … from the club?’

  He frowned. ‘Nope, I’ve never seen them in the club.’

  Another long moment of silence.

  ‘Have you told me everything?’ she asked suddenly.

  He nodded. ‘Everything.’

  ‘Promise?’

  He could see her anxiety.

  ‘For God’s sake, yes! I promise.’

  ‘You’re going to call the police.’

  Again, it wasn’t a question.

  He shrugged, but he was watching her closely. ‘Do I have a choice?’

  She grasped his other hand, and held them both tightly in hers. ‘Yes, of course you do, darling. You brought the bottle home, there’s nothing to link you, and, anyway, you deliver wine all the damn time.’

  He shook his head emphatically and pulled his hands away.

  ‘My DNA is all over that bloody cellar. As soon as someone checks they’ll –’

  ‘Of course it is. Maybe David surprised someone in the cellar and then killed him.’

  ‘I vomited. If they don’t believe my version I’m really in trouble.’

  ‘It was self-defence! You don’t work with murdering thugs! You don’t hide illegal things from some crim–’

  She was becoming agitated, and he wrapped his arms around her, stroking her hair rhythmically.

  ‘And they’ll accept that. But only if I talk to them before Eliza discovers that they’re down one bottle of remarkable wine … not to mention the body that’s lying in a pool of what’s left of it.’

  She pulled back. The protection of shock was receding, and her expression was finally one of panic and terror. ‘Stop it! Don’t make a joke! It’s not a laughing matter, Vinnie. David is dead and you’re a witness to murder. You’ll be in terrible danger. What have you done?’

  It took a great deal to make her cry, but she was on the verge of tears now.

  He took her face in his hands and kissed her gently. ‘No one can make me do anything I don’t want to do. I’ll go to the police station. Everything will be fine, I promise.’

  Vinnie’s Mercedes sat at one end of a narrow alleyway that ran between two abandoned warehouses in East London. He stood beside the open boot of the car and watched as a short, bald man bent over the three boxes.

  Brian Davis was what Vinnie would have become but for Anna. He moved across the line of the law as if it didn’t exist. If it didn’t make a quid, it had no meaning; everyone had a price. He was strong and wiry, with quick, aggressive movements.

  He lifted wine bottles out of the boxes, examined them, and then returned them. When he stood up he exhaled in a low whistle and gave Vinnie a very hard stare. ‘A ’94 Pétrus, ’78 Romanée-Conti, ’48 Mouton-Rothschild, ’96 Lafite-Rothschild, ’88 Latour, ’56 Margaux. You sure you’re not having a laugh?’

  His voice was high-pitched for a man and at odds with his appearance. It sounded as though someone had his balls in a vice. Vinnie smiled slowly at him.

  ‘Told you it was worth getting up early for.’

  ‘Where’d you get a collection like this, Vin?’

  Vinnie shrugged and ran a hand through his curls. ‘Times are tough. This isn’t the whole collection. If a client needs to liquidate some assets fast, he’s going to call me.’

  ‘But they’d make a bloody fortune at auction.’

  ‘No time. He needs cash. No questions.’

  Davis nodded and touched the nearest box. ‘Understood. Hell, I’ll take ’em all. Name your price.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  DCI RON MATTHEWS

  Detective Sergeant Peter Harper was an ambitious man. He had known that he wanted to be a policeman at an early age, not only because his stepdad was one or because he wanted to rid the world of bad guys, but because he liked firing guns, solving mysteries and telling other people what to do.

  Life as a beat copper was not for him, though. He wanted to be a detective. So he got a university degree in social sciences and joined the police force. His rise was rapid: commended as a young constable, CID after three years, and now he was a DS for one of the best detective chief inspectors on the force, Ron Matthews. Next step was a DI, and he had a plan.

  Harper was in his early thirties, single, with short back and sides, clean-shaven. His easy-going manner made him popular with his colleagues and disguised his dedication to his job. He had disposable income and wore a Rolex, very good suits and handmade shoes. On this particular day he was the duty DS, and he sat at his desk and surfed the internet. The weather was still crap and he was heartily sick of winter. Why couldn’t he get a decent case, somewhere warm and exotic, with great wine, sandy beaches and women who smiled invitingly? His desktop was stacked with folders: minor fraud, armed robbery, rape … Serious enough, but not as challenging as a murder. DS Scott had a murder, a pub brawl that had escalated, and Harper kept his jealousy to himself. The case was nothing to get really excited about. He wanted a murder with a twist, like the ones in the books he read, or the cases he had solved in his imagination when he was a kid – missing dead bodies, multiple suspects, gangsters, red herrings, foreign diplomats …

  The police station reception was busy. Three uniformed officers manned the long counter, and people milled around, both civilians and officers. Vinnie imagined that this was the norm. He hadn’t been inside a police station for a very long time, and he didn’t feel comfortable about returning.

  A policewoman looked up and smiled at him. ‘Morning, sir. How can I help?’

  ‘I’m Vinnie Whitney-Ross. Who’s the DS on duty?’

  She hesitated. ‘DS Harper, sir.’

  Vinnie handed her a sealed envelope.

  ‘Can you give him this, please? It’s a signed statement. I’ll take a seat and wait.’

  ‘Can I let him know what it’s about, sir?’

  ‘I killed someone.’

  Her expression didn’t alter. She gestured towards a cluster of chairs, some occupied, some empty. ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll let him know you’re here.’

  He nodded his thanks and took a seat.

  Two hours later a car drew up outside David Kelt’s house. DS Harper got out and bounded up the steps to the door.

  The bell sounded somewhere deep inside. A petite, elegant woman in her late fifties opened the door and looked him up and down. ‘Yes?’ she asked.

  ‘Mrs Kelt?’

  She frowned. ‘Yes, can I help you?’

  He took his badge from his pocket, opened it and held it up for her to see.

  ‘DS Harper, the Met. May I come in?’

  She took a step back in surprise, and then opened the door and stood aside for him.

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He followed her into a sitting room off to the right of the tiled entrance hall. The room was exquisitely furnished and spotlessly clean.

  ‘What’s this about, detective?’

  ‘Is your husband home, Mrs Kelt?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. But that’s not unusual. I’ve been away and I’ve only just got home myself. Do you want to speak to him? I can give you his mobile number.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ve tried it. It goes to voicemail. Would you mind very much if I had a quick look around? Nothing formal. Have you noticed anything out of place?’

  She gla
nced around the room, baffled and concerned. ‘No, nothing. What on earth are you looking for?’

  He followed her gaze. ‘There could have been a disturbance last night. May not be your house, but I’d like to check.’

  She shrugged. ‘Be my guest.’

  He walked into the dining room, stopped, sniffed and bent down to touch the wooden floor. He looked at all the chairs in turn and ran his hands over the sideboard. Then he went to the service hatch and looked through it into the kitchen, finally examining the bench and the knife block. When he turned around she was standing in the doorway watching him.

  ‘I’ll just have a look at the cellar. Would you wait up here, please?’

  Detective Chief Inspector Ron Matthews sat behind a tidy desk; he liked order. He was bearded and overweight, in a rumpled suit and no tie.

  The knock on the door made his fingers hesitate over the computer keyboard. ‘Come.’

  Harper put his head around the door.

  Matthews looked up sharply. ‘How is he?’ he asked.

  Harper shrugged. ‘Remarkably calm.’

  Matthews reached for his phone and nodded at his DS. ‘Good. Give him a coffee and put him in Room Two. I’ll be five minutes.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And remember, kid gloves, Peter. He’s about to have his world turned upside down and I don’t want him spooked. I’ve waited a hell of a long time for this. We need him.’

  Vinnie’s foot tapped nervously on the floor, his tongue flicked over his dry lips and he ran his hand through his hair. The police officer was watching him from the other side of the table. Two disposable coffee cups sat between them.

  He had been told nothing. The DS had ushered him into a room and asked him to go over the events of the night before in his own words and in his own time. He hadn’t been asked any questions, so he had just relayed what had happened as he had written it down.

  There were one or two omissions, of course – nothing about the notebook – so he had indicated he had no idea what they were looking for, and he hadn’t told them about his own raid on the dead man’s cellar. Harper had brought him a stack of magazines and excused himself. After a couple of hours Vinnie was getting impatient, but, just as he had set off to complain, the detective had returned and escorted him to this room. Then, again, they waited.

  The door opened and Matthews came in, a folder in his hand.

  Harper got to his feet. ‘Vinnie, this is DCI Ron Matthews.’

  Matthews extended his hand, and Vinnie half-rose to shake it. It felt firm and dry.

  ‘Sir, this is Vincent Whitney-Ross,’ Harper continued.

  ‘Mr Whitney-Ross. Wrong time, wrong place, eh?’

  They all sat down, and Matthews put his folder on the table.

  ‘Call me Vinnie. I don’t use my surname much.’

  ‘So, Vinnie, you say you killed a man last night, with a bottle of wine?’

  Vinnie could hear the suspicion in his tone. ‘There’s a body, I told you. In David Kelt’s cellar.’

  Matthews shook his head. ‘No, there isn’t. Without your statement we wouldn’t know a crime had been committed. So, why have you come to us?’

  Vinnie sipped his coffee and eyed the two men up before he answered. This was insane!

  ‘Eliza deserves to know. And David deserves justice … And to be honest, I thought you’d find my DNA all over the cellar: I vomited, and I have two halves of a rather blood-soaked bottle of ’03 Pétrus.’

  Matthews lifted an eyebrow and smiled. ‘What a waste!’

  ‘Tell me about it. It was dark – I grabbed the first bottle I could find.’

  ‘Your wife knows you’re here, presumably.’ It wasn’t phrased as a question.

  Vinnie hesitated, and then nodded. Instinct told him to tell the truth.

  ‘Good,’ Matthews continued ‘You work for Kelt?’

  ‘Worked. The man in question is dead. I supply wine for the Golden Circle, one of his supper clubs. I work the crowd, encourage people to drink –’

  ‘What’s the clientele like?’

  Where was this going? The older man was absolutely impossible to read, while the younger one was trying not to show how excited he was.

  Vinnie shrugged. ‘Ordinary people after a good time, drinking, dancing. Lots of stag and hen nights.’

  Matthews watched him for a moment, and then gave a brief nod, apparently satisfied.

  Vinnie rubbed his face with both hands. He suddenly felt very tired.

  ‘And how long have you been on Covent Garden Market?’ the DCI asked.

  ‘Three years, part-time. My wife, Anna, has a chocolate stall, but it’s a hobby for me. Mainly, I run a subscription fine-wine club. I plan wine lists for events, buy wholesale and sell on.’

  ‘And that’s what you were doing at Kelt’s home. Delivering wine?’

  Vinnie nodded again, with growing confidence. ‘A mixed case – Flam brothers, Israeli reds. A chance to broaden his collection, he’s a major client – was a major client.’

  Harper shifted in his seat, and Matthews threw him a sharp glance. The younger man wasn’t happy about the obscure questions, and the older one wanted him to shut the fuck up.

  Vinnie sipped his coffee, more for something to do than because it quenched his thirst. And they don’t even know that I know who –

  ‘And you don’t take drugs, smoke dope?’ Matthews asked suddenly.

  Vinnie stopped mid-sip and put the cup on the table, harder than he meant to, slurping some of the liquid. ‘No, I don’t! Look, if you don’t believe me, I’m very happy to call it quits.’

  ‘Except they came back and cleaned up the body, didn’t they? So they know someone else was there. But you took the bottle, so they can’t track you down. That was very clever.’ Matthew’s tone was noticeably sharper.

  ‘So you do believe me?’ Vinnie asked. He leaned in towards the table.

  The two men exchanged looks, and the senior officer gave a slight nod. ‘I tested both the cellar and the dining room for a chemiluminescence reaction with luminol,’ Harper said.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Huge areas glowed bright blue. That means there’s been significant blood splatter.’

  His statement hung in the air for a moment. A peculiar sense of dread started to trickle like iced water down Vinnie’s spine, and his stomach felt as though he was free-falling in a lift.

  Matthews opened the folder, took out a black-and-white photograph and slid it across the table. It was a candid shot of Marcus, walking down a crowded pavement towards the camera. Vinnie couldn’t hide his reaction, his eyes widened and he started back slightly. Just the sight of the angular figure made him feel sick.

  ‘Do you recognise that man?’ Matthews asked quietly.

  Vinnie regarded the photo as his brain decided what to say. Instinct told him that the next few minutes would determine how the police viewed him and treated him.

  Finally, he sighed and looked up at the two men across the table. ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Is this the man you saw kill David Kelt?’ Harper asked.

  ‘Yes, it’s Marcus. Marcus Lane.’

  The DCI looked angrily at his junior officer. ‘Who told you his name, Vinnie?’

  ‘No one. I recognised him as soon as he spoke. My dad worked for his granddad.’

  ‘As what?’ Matthew’s tone was suddenly heavy with suspicion.

  ‘An accountant. I was a kid. Marcus and I played together for around four years. The house was owned by Tobias Lane then. My dad shot himself when I was ten.’

  The subject his mother never talked about, the betrayal he’d never understood. Their expressions had changed, hardened. For some reason Matthews was annoyed.

  ‘You realise the significance of this, don’t you? This could be our chance to at last put the Lanes away.’

  ‘I remember Marcus’s dad – he was a cruel bastard. And you want me to testify against his son?’

  Matthews leaned forward and prodded at
the photo with his finger. ‘Not want, need. We need you to look at some mug shots and then pick him out in a line-up to make doubly sure, and then we need you to testify at his trial. Without you, we can’t place him there. Without you, David Kelt is simply a missing person. With you, Marcus Lane is guilty of double murder. He’ll get mandatory life. Throw away the key, as they say.’

  Vinnie looked away. ‘And Norman will hunt me down and have me killed,’ he said softly, almost under his breath.

  Harper shifted uncomfortably again and opened his mouth.

  Matthews raised a hand to silence him and then spoke urgently, aggressively. ‘I’m not going to insult your intelligence. You’re obviously a bright man and you know these people. You’re a witness. If we can find your DNA, so can they. Lane will have you killed anyway.’

  Vinnie threw up his hands. Did they have to be quite that honest? ‘Oh, so I have bugger-all choice!’

  Matthews acknowledged the point with a small nod. ‘Admittedly. But listen to the proposition first. If you testify, we give you immunity over the murder you say you committed – and we believe you did. You live in a safe house and we rush the case to trial. Afterwards, we put you and Anna into witness protection, which means you get new identities, new passports, a lump sum and we relocate you. A new life, somewhere safe.’

  Vinnie hauled himself to his feet and walked to the window that looked out over the street. He stared down at the pedestrians and the cars. People were coming and going from the front of the station, getting on with their lives, being normal. Suddenly he ached for Anna, to talk to her, hug her, see her reaction, get her opinion. All those years he had longed to start again, clean the slate.

  He turned back. ‘I don’t suppose these windows open. That seems like a better choice.’

  Harper looked alarmed, but Matthews smiled slightly.

  ‘We both know you don’t mean that, but just in case: no, they don’t.’

  An expression of silent understanding passed between the two men, respect and resignation.

  ‘You wear a balaclava and a boiler suit and testify from behind a screen. You are referred to by an initial. No one sees you, only Harper.’

  ‘What if Marcus recognises my voice? I knew his.’