Blood, Wine and Chocolate

by Julie Thomas

  Anna gave him the other half, and he lay down on his back and wiggled his toes.

  She laughed.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ he asked without opening his eyes.

  ‘You.’

  She lay down beside him and put a sticky finger to his lips.

  He licked it.

  ‘You’re funny and cute and very rich, and if I was Elizabeth Bennet I think I’d marry you,’ she added.

  He smiled. ‘Is this happiness I hear, Mrs Darcy?’

  ‘Yes, I do believe it is. I’m happy here, I love it here, and I want to live here. We made a damn good choice.’

  They kissed.

  ‘Rocky Bay, here we come,’ he said softly.

  Not quite two weeks later a large truck pulled up in the turning bay outside the house on Rocky Bay Winery. The front door was open, and Anna stood on the steps that led up from the drive. Two men got out of the truck and started to open the rear doors.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ she said as she walked down to the truck. It was packed to the doorway with furniture wrapped in plastic. The first piece was a large leather sofa.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Darcy. Where would you like us to start?’

  She pointed at the sofa as they lifted it down. ‘This goes in the door and up the four steps to the lounge, middle of the room, facing the window, thank you.’

  One of the men grinned at her as he passed. ‘Not often we unload a whole house of brand-new stuff. You guys bring nothing with you?’

  She smiled to herself as she followed them. ‘Not a single thing. Fresh start.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  DS DONNA CRAWFORD

  Detective Sergeant Donna Crawford was born addicted to heroin and was orphaned young. Her unmarried parents both died of accidental overdoses. Her mother was an upper-middle class, high-achieving teenager who chose drugs over university and got herself pregnant to a dealer who lived on a council estate. Donna was found in a squat, cold and hungry, lying on a soiled mattress beside her mother’s corpse. The body of the man assumed to be her father was in the same room.

  Her maternal aunt and uncle had little choice but to take her in and add her to the three children and two dogs in their nice Cheshire home. When she was twelve, they sat her down and told her the truth: her three older siblings were, in fact, her cousins, and the people she thought of as her parents were her aunt and uncle.

  She looked like her mother – dark hair, fair skin, blue eyes – and had never stood out as an obvious addition to the family. The news came as a complete shock. Each one of her siblings told her that they had always thought of her as a sister, and she knew she was loved.

  What she didn’t know was anything about her biological father – what he looked like, where he came from, what his name was, whether she had any other siblings. The official line was that he was dead, but how did they know that? Was it just wishful thinking? These thoughts plagued her, but she kept them to herself; instinct told her that her parents didn’t want to be questioned any further. They had done their duty and there was an end to it.

  After an uneventful upbringing, she left school and got a job in the local Sainsbury supermarket. Not what her parents had in mind for her, but she was happy enough. She was a pretty girl, and male staff and customers paid her flattering attention. One day she would get married, have children and probably still be a happy checkout operator when she was fifty.

  One night, however, just before New Year’s Eve 1999, she was having a drink in her local pub when a skinhead came in. Donna didn’t notice him at first, then the fact that he was looking for someone registered with her. She watched as he walked up to a young woman who was standing not far away. The girl wasn’t pleased to see him and turned away angrily. The skinhead pulled out a knife.

  For a second everyone froze. Donna could see his arm going back and the weapon being driven into the young girl’s belly as if it were happening in slow motion. The blood on the blade flashed in the harsh light as he withdrew it. The girl screamed and fell to the floor. The man turned on his heel and ran. Donna reached her before anyone else and gathered the girl into her arms.

  ‘Someone call an ambulance!’ she yelled up at the stunned onlookers. If Donna looked down, she could see stomach exposed and blood pouring out of the jagged wound. She grabbed a nearby bar towel and stuffed it over the hole, holding it there with as much pressure as she could muster.

  ‘Hang on, honey, the ambulance is coming,’ she said. Two terrified eyes looked up into hers, and she held the gaze until there was a final blink of resignation, the life seeped out of them, and the girl died. A dribble of blood ran out of the corner of the girl’s mouth, and her head flopped against Donna’s arm.

  ‘Shit!’

  It was a traumatic encounter with a lifestyle she had never known, and it galvanised her into action. The next working day she went to her local police station and told them she wanted to apply for a job. For the first time she had a purpose and a motivation to succeed. She was physically strong, articulate and intelligent, and she excelled from her first day of training.

  By 2012 she had done her time, gained the rank of detective sergeant in CID and shifted down to London. The force was her life – all her friends were fellow officers and she adored the job. Somewhere in the back of her brain, though, was the idea that her work would bring her into contact with her biological father, and when that happened she would know him, she just would. However, the attack in the pub and the memory of the dying girl haunted her more than she cared to admit. When she was stressed she would wake at night, sweating and her heart racing, with those lifeless eyes staring out of the darkness at her.

  Everyone in the force followed the Lane trial and the story of Witness A. DS Harper and DCI Matthews were heroes, and the story was the source of endless pub gossip.

  Donna was listening to just such a conversation in her local when her mobile phone rang. ‘Donna?’ It was her adopted dad.

  ‘Dad! I meant to come and visit last weekend.’

  ‘Donna, I need you – it’s your mum. Can you come?’ He sounded upset.

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Can you?’ It was a tone she wasn’t used to hearing. He was usually such a calm man.

  ‘Of course. I’ll be about twenty minutes.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The relief in his voice was obvious, and she drove quickly, avoiding the built-up areas and peak evening congestion.

  When her parents had retired, they shifted down to London from Cheshire, to a quiet outer suburb, and downsized to a nice semi-detached cottage. She parked on the road and strode up the path to the door. It was opened by her father before she got to it.

  ‘Donna – thank God.’ As he embraced her, she could feel his heart pounding.

  ‘Dad, what on earth is wrong?’

  Her father stood aside to let her in.

  ‘She’s in the kitchen.’

  Her mother was seated at the table, her hair dirty and in disarray, and her clothes smelling strongly of alcohol. A bottle and a glass both lay shattered on the floor, in the middle of a puddle of brown liquid.

  ‘Donna! Darling! Have a drink with me. Get a glass and find another bottle.’

  Donna went to her and gave her a hug.

  ‘You’re a good girl. We can celebrate you coming to see us,’ her mother said as she patted Donna’s back.

  It was obvious that her mother hadn’t showered or changed her clothes for some days.

  ‘You’ve had enough, Mummy. Why don’t you let me take you upstairs and you can have –’

  Her mother pushed her away with surprising strength. ‘Get off me! I don’t want to go anywhere. I want another bloody drink. Your bloody father has hidden all the bloody bottles. Go down to the off-licence and buy me some scotch, there’s a good girl.’

  There was a pleading, whining sound to her voice, and it made Donna flinch. She hadn’t seen her parents for about a month, and things had obviously changed, and rapidly.
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  Suddenly her mother rose shakily to her feet, leaning against the table. ‘I know what we should do! Donna, get your purse. We’ll go to the casino! I want to play the tables and the pokies and have some decent quality scotch –’ She lurched over sideways and steadied herself.

  Donna felt her father pass as he approached his wife in a rush of energy.

  ‘Now, now, come on, dear. Bed for you –’

  With one enormous effort, her mother punched her fist as hard as she could into her father’s groin. He cried out in pain and fell to his knees.

  ‘Don’t you come near me, you bastard! I told you I want a bloody drink.’

  ‘Mum! Stop!’

  The cry was full of shock and horror and genuine disgust. It pulled the older woman up, and she sat down at the table and glowered at Donna.

  Her father crawled over to the bench and hauled himself up. He turned to his daughter, his distress plain to see. ‘It’s like this every day, sometimes before lunchtime. She’s either drinking or she’s gambling somewhere. She has debts, to loan sharks. I can’t pay them, and any money she gets goes on drink.’

  Donna shook her head in disbelief. ‘You should have told me earlier. She needs rehab –’

  ‘We can’t afford anything like that, and she refuses to even talk about AA.’

  She went to him and hugged him. He was trembling.

  ‘Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll fix it.’

  Donna rang her colleagues.

  There was a great deal of shouting, cursing and fighting, but eventually her mother was sedated and admitted to a drug and alcohol ward at the local hospital. Donna stayed awake all night talking to her father about her mother’s addictions. She couldn’t help but remember the scathing way her mother had spoken about the sister who had given birth in a drug-induced haze and then died. If it hadn’t been for her aunt and uncle … And now here was the judgemental sister, at the mercy of her own demons.

  As she walked into the office in the morning, she was still weighing up her options – who else could she tell, who could she ask for help.

  After a strong cup of coffee, she sat at her desk and opened up her emails. A subject line in the middle of the page leapt out at her. It said: Your mother. The cursor paused over the email for a second, and then she double-clicked on it.

  I know about your mother and I can help. I also know who your biological father is. He is alive. Meet me at the Diana Memorial at midday. Come alone, Hyde Park, midday.

  Donna glanced around the office but no one was looking at her. She clicked the email closed, moved it to the deleted folder, grabbed her coffee and got to her feet.

  It was a damp autumn day, cloudy and bracing. The trees were losing their leaves, and dogs chased them as they drifted to the manicured grass beneath. Donna sat on the concrete side of the Diana Memorial and watched people strolling through the park. The water gushed behind her, and the noise made her feel strangely peaceful. Maybe he, or she, wouldn’t even turn up –

  ‘Detective Crawford?’

  She could see a long coat and a Fedora in her peripheral vision. He sat down, but facing away from her.

  ‘Yes.’ She started to turn towards him.

  ‘Stay facing the other way. I’ll say what I’ve come to say and then I’ll leave. It’s better if we don’t have a good look at each other.’

  She nodded and turned away, her gaze roaming over the crowds going about their business. It felt as though she was meeting a snout in a dark alley. But this one was articulate.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked, allowing the suspicion to be clear in her tone.

  He hesitated for a moment. ‘I have a proposition for you. I’ll solve all the problems in your life. I’ll pay off your mother’s gambling debts.’

  ‘How do you know about Mum’s debts?’

  ‘Don’t interrupt, Detective, just listen. I’ll organise for her to go into rehab, a place that will give her every opportunity to get clean and sober. And I’ll give you the name and address of the man who fathered you.’

  ‘How –’

  ‘I said no questions!’

  His voice was sharp and angry. She was dying to turn around and confront him, but her instinct told her that if she did so he would get up and walk away.

  ‘Okay, sorry. What do you require from me?’

  Again he hesitated. ‘That’s better. Just a favour.’

  Marcus had remained impervious to all the taunts and stares during his first day. Only when he was alone in his cell did he allow the emotion to surface. He knew he had to have an outlet for it or the stress would kill him. Inside, he felt like a scared six-year-old locked in a cupboard full of monsters, but on the outside he had to maintain the tough-guy façade. If any of the inmates saw a glimpse of tenderness or vulnerability, his life would turn to hell faster than he could make it back to his cell. He had a choice: be broken or stay strong. To stay strong he needed protection, and that cost money. His father would arrange for the most powerful inmate to receive protection money, and that would keep him safe from the knives and fists, but what else would he have to endure at the hands of the ‘prison boss’? The possibilities made him shudder.

  He sat at a small table and kept his head bent low. Occasionally his eyes flicked towards the prison guards who stood around the walls of the room. His mother was watching him from across the table, and he knew her face was full of concern. The same scenario was being played out at most of the other tables.

  ‘How’s Dad?’ he asked quietly.

  She shifted. ‘Busy. He sends his best.’

  ‘And Tom?’

  She hesitated. ‘Doing well.’

  He grimaced. ‘Doing my job. Has he made it plain? What we expect?’

  His voice had a touch of urgency, and he hated that.

  ‘Tom’s made it crystal clear. Debts have been paid, and now there is a very clear obligation to us.’

  Marcus glanced at the nearest guard who scowled back. ‘Well get them to tell the cop not to waste time. They’ll expect curiosity.’

  His mother shook her head. ‘Nothing too fast, nothing to raise suspicion. Just be patient – your father will solve it.’

  Marcus felt something surge inside, and he wanted to slam his fist down on the table, but he clenched it instead.

  He looked Melissa in the eyes. ‘There are worse things than dying. Imagine your worst nightmare: that’s this place, with real monsters. They’re all the same – filth. Give Harper a chance and he’ll boast.’

  It was a busy time of year for DI Peter Harper. Successfully convicting Marcus Lane had topped off a very good twelve months and seen him promoted from Detective Sergeant to Detective Inspector. Now he had to interview his replacement and incorporate her into a tightly knit team. There were a couple of high-profile burglary charges and a vicious sexual assault to deal with, but first he had to travel to Wales to pick up a dog and take it to a transportation company.

  He hadn’t met Mary Whitney-Ross, although he had spoken to her on the phone. He understood why she was noticeably reserved towards him, but now he could tell her that everyone who lived where Merlot was going was well and happy.

  ‘I’m very glad to hear that,’ she said stiffly, as she handed over the collar, lead and well-chewed slipper. As he closed the car door on the confused and energetic young dog, Harper turned back towards Mary. She was watching him with very sad eyes. He was reminded of his own mother, widowed young and remarried to a frontline policeman, a woman who knew what it was to live with grief and stress.

  ‘It won’t be long now, Mrs Whitney-Ross – the waiting is nearly over.’

  She smiled and gave him a slight nod of acknowledgement.

  Later that day, DI Harper sat behind his desk, fiddling with a ballpoint pen and scrutinising the newest member of his team, Detective Sergeant Donna Crawford. The young woman was reading the documents before her with a fierce frown of concentration. Harper remembered his first day, determined to make a good impression and not quite
sure how to do that. Crawford was good-looking in that innocent sort of way – late twenties, slender and fresh-faced. She looked, as he was sure she was, like a woman who still felt uncomfortable in a suit and high heels. His boss had informed Harper that his CID greenhorn came with a warm recommendation from ‘on high’. Crawford was tagged for a fast track, but Harper was determined to make sure she worked for her promotion and learned the reality of CID.

  He glanced at his watch and dropped the pen onto the desk. ‘That’s quite enough for a first day. There’s an excellent pub around the corner. Fancy a bite and a glass of wine?’

  Crawford looked up. ‘Oh, I don’t drink, sir. But I wouldn’t say no to a sandwich.’

  Harper’s eyebrow shot up in surprise. ‘A teetotal detective? Not often we come across one of those.’

  Crawford gave a sheepish smile and put the documents onto the desk. ‘Bad example at home, sir.’

  Harper nodded and got to his feet. ‘Fair enough. At least I won’t need to worry about you having a hangover. Me, I’d miss my red wine too much.’

  The Half Crown was a typical London pub, with a mix of business people, tourists and locals. In one corner Crawford and Harper shared a plate of sandwiches. Harper drank a half pint of lager, and Crawford lemonade.

  Harper pointed to the glass in the woman’s hand. ‘So, is your old man still around?’

  Crawford paused and took a sip before answering. ‘How do you know it’s my dad, sir?’

  ‘Sorry, just assumed.’

  ‘Actually, my mum’s in a rehab clinic. Best place for her. Can’t run up any more gambling debts while she’s under the influence.’

  Harper nodded his understanding. ‘Was a time when a family history like that would have made you too much of a risk.’

  As he drank his beer he thought he saw a momentary expression of disgust cross the young woman’s face, but as quickly as he registered it, the look was gone.

  ‘Congratulations on the promotion, sir. Was it tied to a result?’ she asked.

  ‘Thanks. Not really, just too much hard graft. Lesson number one: if you’re not careful, this job becomes your life.’