Blood, Wine and Chocolate

by Julie Thomas

  ‘Would you like me to drive?’ she asked suddenly.

  He glanced at her. She was looking at him, and he could see the exhaustion in her face.

  He smiled gently. ‘I’m okay. How about you?’

  She returned the smile. ‘Hardest part over with. Do you really think she’s going to agree to it?’

  He shrugged. ‘Don’t know. It’s a big risk for an elderly lady.’

  ‘Not as big as losing her only child.’

  He didn’t answer. There was nothing to say.

  Anna reached across and touched his leg. ‘She’ll be okay, whatever she decides to do. She’s a strong woman.’

  Mary’s lounge was cluttered with ornaments and knick-knacks. She liked it that way; it made her feel as though her life was here in the room with her. On this rainy evening she sat in an armchair with a glass of red wine on the table beside her. Merlot lay in front of the roaring fire, happily chewing on his slipper toy.

  The television was on, but she wasn’t watching. Instead, she was looking at a group of four wedding photos on the wall, Vinnie and Anna on their special day. Tears rolled, unheeded, down her cheeks.

  Anna was packing. She pulled clothes out of the wardrobe and threw them onto the bed, where two empty suitcases lay open.

  Vinnie came as far as the door, leaned against the jamb and watched her. She didn’t look at him.

  ‘You’re better at packing than me. Do you want to help?’ she asked.

  ‘Leave it – come and have a drink.’

  She turned around, and her face was tear-stained. ‘And how will that help? Will a drink make it any easier to fit our lives into two suitcases?’

  He could hear the pain in her voice, and it tore at him and made it hard to breathe.

  ‘We’ll start new lives, buy new things –’

  ‘I don’t want new things! I want what I bought with my dad’s money, things my mum gave me, our wedding presents.’

  He went to her, took the clothes hanger from her hand and tried to put his arms around her. She burst into tears and beat against his chest with her fists in a vague attempt to push him away. He enveloped her and soothed her until she stopped fighting.

  ‘I love you,’ he said softly.

  She hugged him back, and he buried his face in her hair.

  ‘I am so, so sorry, Anna. This is my fault. It’s impossibly hard and you shouldn’t have to –’

  She pulled back and put her finger on his lips. There were tears on her cheeks, and he brushed them away.

  ‘I remember that when we met, in Italy, you were the first person I had ever wanted to belong to. When I got home I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t eat I was so excited. Then you found me again and I was so in love with you that it scared me.’

  She was trembling. He wanted to hug her and never let go.

  ‘And now?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing’s changed. I feel the same. You’re doing the right thing and I love you for that. I’m proud of you. I’m okay, you’re okay. We have each other and that’s all we need. It’s a great big adventure.’

  He kissed her.

  ‘I don’t deserve you,’ he said.

  She kissed him back.

  ‘No, you don’t, but you’re stuck with me.’

  Once again the Lanes were forcing her to move. Mary’s anger burned like a hot coal, and she couldn’t wait to see Norman Lane suffer the loss of his only son to a jail cell. She took days to pack her two suitcases, changing her mind several times and swapping clothes for figurines, photos, mementoes and jewellery. Then she locked the door behind her, took Merlot and boarded a train for Cardiff. A young female constable picked her up at the station and drove her to a farmhouse in the Welsh countryside.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  TRIAL BY JURY

  Vinnie and DS Harper stood in front of a one-way window, looking through to another room. On the other side, six men, all dressed in coats, gloves and shoes, formed a line. All were tall, thin, dark-haired and looked reasonably alike. Number three was Marcus Lane. He looked fatigued and angry, and the sight of him made Vinnie step back slightly. Harper smiled reassuringly.

  The young detective had an easy manner, especially when his boss wasn’t around, and Vinnie had decided he liked the man.

  ‘Take your time, Vinnie. Be sure.’

  Vinnie studied them one at a time. When he got to number three, he looked Marcus up and down and moved on. Not a flicker crossed his face. What would Marcus say if he knew who it was on the other side of the window? Would he feel betrayed? Vinnie was struck by a sudden memory of two little boys racing ducklings off a bridge, but put it firmly to one side. This was the moment; after this, there was no turning back. How long should he take? Is it better to be emphatic and quick, or measured and thorough?

  Then he turned to Harper. ‘He’s number three.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Absolutely. I’ll never forget his face.’

  Harper went to the intercom, and instructed the guard that the line-up was over. As the men in the line-up started to leave the room, Marcus raised his arm slowly and pointed his forefinger at the glass, his thumb in the air and the rest of the fingers curled back, to imitate a gun. He pointed it directly at Vinnie and jerked his arm up as if he was firing repeatedly. His eyes were cold and full of hatred.

  Vinnie gave an involuntary shudder.

  Harper put a hand on his shoulder and indicated the door. ‘He can’t see anything, and he’s no idea it’s you. He’s just being a manipulative sodding bastard. That’s his Achilles heel, his need to boast and be the big man, in charge. And that’s why he’s here.’

  The throng of media milling around the wide concrete steps were there to see one man. Journalists, TV reporters, cameramen and photographers pushed and shoved for the best vantage points. Excited and eager chatter drifted on the chill spring air. Today was day one of the trial of Marcus Lane for double murder, and his conviction rested on the testimony of secret Witness A. Norman Lane was a powerful man on both sides of the law, and was known personally to many in the media. After all the legal manoeuvring, no one had expected the case to actually come to court. Now that it had, Lane would be apoplectic with rage.

  Norman Lane strode down the steps, Tom beside him and flanked by four men wearing suits and carrying briefcases. His grey hair was slicked back, and his very tall, muscular frame made him look remarkably like his late father, Tobias. As always, he was dressed in a designer suit with expensive accessories. His movements were deliberate but not small; he liked to be expansive and charismatic.

  The party stopped halfway down the steps, and the media rushed up to gather around him. He smiled grimly at a couple of them, then held his hand up to silence the babble. His voice sounded like the rumble of a truck over gravel.

  ‘On the morning of my son’s trial I have just one thing to say: Marcus was not in that house and I did not know David Kelt. This is not simply a case of mistaken identity; it’s a serious miscarriage of justice. Whoever the star witness is, he’s either blind or he’s a liar in the pay of the police. My son is innocent and we will prove it. I believe in the British justice system.’

  Lane turned away from the mass of thrashing arms and the buzz of questions.

  One journalist on the edge of the group thrust her microphone into his face. ‘Do you have a message for Witness A, Mr Lane?’

  He paused, then turned towards the microphone. His eyes bored into her and she shrank back.

  ‘Whoever you are, you are a liar and I hope you have made peace with your god.’

  Lane took the rest of the stairs two at a time, and the other men held back the media pack trying to follow him.

  Several men sat watching the Lane interview on a widescreen TV at one end of the open-plan CID office. A couple of them swore gently. Peter Harper sipped his coffee and shook his head. It was all bluff, intimidation, like a bull elephant stamping its foot and bellowing at a poacher’s rifle. If Lane wasn’t worried sic
k, he wouldn’t have fronted the media. He had to do everything he could to discredit the concept of Witness A, because he didn’t know the man’s identity.

  DCI Matthews burst through the double doors and pointed his finger at Harper, who almost overturned his coffee in his hurry to get to his feet.

  ‘Make sure Anna hasn’t seen that bastard! Tell the PC to keep the fucking radio and TV turned off!’

  He stormed out and Harper grabbed the mobile lying on his desk.

  Miles across the city, in a nondescript room in a nondescript apartment block down by the docks, Anna sat slumped in an armchair. She had lost weight, and her clothes swamped her. The curtains were drawn to the outside world and the room was chilly and damp. A print of a bullfight hung crookedly on a wall, but there were no personal possessions or photographs in the room. Anna was picking at the frayed corner of a cushion as she watched the TV screen in the corner of the room.

  The woman who had asked Lane the question was speaking to camera. ‘So, as you heard, Norman Lane has made it perfectly clear: he labelled Witness A a liar and called the trial a serious miscarriage of justice.’

  A young uniformed policewoman, cell phone to her ear, walked rapidly through the doorway from the kitchen and stopped short when she saw the horrified expression on Anna’s face.

  ‘Too late, boss.’

  Anna looked up at her, making no attempt to hide her distress. ‘Did you see that man?’

  The policewoman lowered the cell phone and smiled. ‘Don’t you worry about a thing, Mrs Whitney-Ross. Norman Lane is all bluster. DS Harper will keep your husband safe.’

  In the lounge of her Welsh safe house, Mary also watched a widescreen TV, the cup of tea beside her forgotten. Merlot lay at her feet. Her tears spent, her expression had hardened into fury and hatred. At the sight of Norman Lane a hundred memories of his father flooded her consciousness.

  ‘You murderous bastard! See how you like losing someone you love,’ she muttered.

  The courtroom at the Old Bailey was in session. The judge sat on the bench, the jury to one side of him, Marcus in the dock, the Queen’s Counsel at his lectern and the defence team in their seats, and the police, the media, the public, Tom and Norman in the gallery. The room reeked of tradition and centuries of justice. The QC gestured towards the jury, his black silk gown swirling around him.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, do we have two bodies? No. Do we have the murder weapon? No. So how do we know the murders occurred? Because someone saw them. We have an eyewitness who will testify that he saw Marcus Lane, the accused, murder two men in cold blood. First, well-respected businessman, David Kelt, and then fellow gangster, Lenny Kendell. We know why he shot Kelt – he believed the man had hidden something from him. But why Kendell? Because when Kendell attempted to shoot Kelt, under direct instruction from Lane, the gun jammed. That still makes no sense. Why murder his best enforcer? Marcus Lane killed Lenny Kendell because Marcus Lane is a psychopath. Murder is his answer to weakness.’

  In the bowels of the building Vinnie sat on a bench. He wore a boiler suit and held a balaclava in his hand. The minutes ticked by excruciatingly slowly. He felt as though everything was happening in slow motion and he was wading through a puddle of waist-deep treacle. He had rehearsed the testimony with Harper, and now he repeated it over and over in his frazzled brain. All he had to do was explain that he was there, what he heard, what he saw, what he did, where he went. No embroidering the truth, just relate the events of the evening chronologically. He wouldn’t mention the murder in the cellar, and the defence couldn’t raise it without admitting that they knew more about the evening than they had indicated. He could hear Harper telling him: If they accuse you of murder, they have to admit who the victim was – one of theirs. You’re perfectly safe on that score. With sightless eyes, Vinnie stared at the bare concrete wall and wished himself anywhere else in the world.

  Upstairs, the QC was in full flight and the jury sat transfixed.

  ‘Our witness is a respectable member of the general public who was in that house under a lawful pretext. To protect his safety he’ll testify in closed court, from behind a screen and be referred to only as Witness A.’

  The QC swung around slowly and pointed to Marcus, who sneered back at him from the dock. The jury followed the finger in unison and stared at the defendant.

  ‘We take these precautions, ladies and gentlemen, because this man, Marcus Lane, is such a dangerous psychopath. But I assure you all, Witness A is no criminal. He’s an honest man, doing the right thing, at huge personal cost.’

  Back in the basement, the heavy door swung open and Vinnie turned to face DS Harper, who grinned happily as he held the door.

  ‘They’ve cleared the court. Ready to rock’n’roll?’

  Vinnie pulled the black balaclava over his face.

  ‘No, not really. Actually I’ve booked a colonic irrigation, followed by a root canal …’

  His voice trailed off as Harper chuckled, checked his watch and waved him through the door.

  ‘Maybe later. Just remember, only the judge, the jury and the lawyers are there – neither Marcus nor Norman Lane will hear you. His lawyers can’t ask you what you do, why you were there or how you knew Kelt – anything that could identify you. If anything makes you feel uncomfortable, stay silent and the QC will object.’

  Vinnie stood up straight and squared his shoulders.

  ‘Take some deep breaths,’ Harper suggested.

  Vinnie shot him an exasperated glance. ‘If I had a bucket list to complete before I died, this would not be on it.’

  The QC waited at his podium. To the judge’s left stood a tall, plain-coloured, multi-panelled screen, which was folded completely around the witness box. Every pair of eyes in the room was watching that screen. On the other side, Vinnie took his place. His foot tapped the floor in a nervous rhythm, and he licked his dry lips. Just the truth, just what you saw and heard, nothing more. It was a mantra that whirled inside his mind.

  ‘Are you ready, sir?’ asked the QC, his tone noticeably gentler.

  ‘Yes.’

  It was more of a dry croak than a word. Vinnie picked up the glass of water in front of him and took a gulp. It was cold and soothing.

  ‘Then, in your own time, and without divulging any details that could lead to your identification, I would ask you to describe the events you witnessed in the house of David Kelt on the night in question.’

  For a long moment, Vinnie sat in silence, his eyes closed.

  ‘I’d gone down to the cellar, when I heard a noise from upstairs …’

  The defence tried to rebut the testimony, called him a liar and accused him of being a police plant. He was expecting all of that and just stuck to his story, kept telling them that he was there and that was what he saw. The one question it never occurred to them to ask was whether he had ever seen the accused before. The defence called a psychiatrist who testified about why people sometimes come forward and claim knowledge of a crime when they were nowhere near the scene.

  Suddenly and dramatically they provided a witness, a woman who testified that Marcus was with her on the night of the murders. But she was increasingly nervous under cross-examination, and the Crown’s accusation of perjury obviously terrified her. They were grasping at straws and everyone knew it. The summing up came down to who the jury was prepared to believe.

  The decision was quick, and the seven men and five women looked resolute when they filed back in. Marcus Lane stood in the dock, his head bowed and his anger well hidden.

  ‘Have you come to a decision upon which you are all agreed?’

  The foreman looked at the judge and then back at the clerk of the court. ‘We have.’

  ‘On the charge of first-degree murder number one, how do you find the defendant? Guilty or not guilty?’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Guilty.’

  An audible murmur from the gallery was hushed by a scowl from the judge.

  �
��And on the charge of first-degree murder number two, how do you find the defendant? Guilty or not guilty?’

  No pause this time.

  ‘Guilty.’

  Vinnie and Anna sat on the sofa, resting against each other. They both felt as exhausted and overwhelmed as they looked. Anna’s hand rubbed Vinnie’s arm rhythmically. Two suitcases waited by the open door to the bedroom.

  Vinnie watched Harper. He stood at the lounge window, looking down on the people crossing the square to the doorway of the apartment building. He reminded Vinnie of some sort of zookeeper, waiting to send his charges off on an adventure. The conviction was a real feather in his cap, might even mean a promotion, and he couldn’t hide his happiness.

  Harper glanced at his watch, turned back to the room and smiled warmly at them. ‘Right, let’s get on with it.’

  He opened the leather folder in his hand and took out a long brown envelope, which he handed to Vinnie. ‘Itinerary, tickets, passports, birth certificates, UK driver’s licences, EFTPOS and credit cards. All in your new names –’

  Anna pulled a face. ‘The new us.’

  It wasn’t phrased as a question. Harper seemed a bit thrown and then he smiled at her. ‘Indeed. You’re flying Emirates and you’ll transit through Dubai. In Auckland we have organised a car to take you to a motel, discreet and anonymous, prepaid for a fortnight. There’ll be a man to meet you at the airport, holding a sign. Just don’t look for Whitney-Ross or you’ll never find him. He’ll only know you as … Dominic and Ava Darcy.’

  Vinnie and Anna exchanged glances, and he dug her in the ribs.

  ‘You’re married to Mr Darcy. You got lucky.’

  ‘Really?’ She stared pointedly at Vinnie. ‘How exactly?’

  Okay, that wasn’t what he expected. He turned back to the detective. ‘What about the bank account?’ he asked.

  Harper nodded. ‘Everything’s been deposited. Your resettlement, compensation for the house, the cottage and businesses, the money you gave me. It’s a tidy sum, especially in New Zealand dollars. Twice as much –’