by Julie Thomas
Using a wine thief, she drew some liquid from the preselected barrel and let it drain into the glass. ‘This was blended last year. It’ll become Gravitas.’
A young photographer took photographs of Granger as he swirled the contents of the glass, breathed in the aroma and then tasted the wine.
Gabby tried to hide her anxiety as she fiddled with the wine-thief.
‘Oh, m’dear! It’s remarkably complex already! It’ll age magnificently,’ he pronounced.
She grinned with relief. ‘I think so, too. Dom’s not kidding when he says our wine in barrel is going to be even better.’
The photographer turned away and started snapping the hall, close-ups of the glasses on top of the barrel and the stacks of barrels down the wall.
Granger pulled a dictaphone from his pocket and read aloud from the card attached to the barrel. ‘I need to get my thoughts down at the moment of taste, while it’s still fresh in my mouth,’ he explained, and Gabby nodded her understanding.
An hour later they stood on the edge of the turning circle outside the house, the vineyard spread out below them. The photographer roamed the area, using a long lens to take shots of the vines, the buildings in the bowl of the natural amphitheatre and the view out to sea on the other side of the house. Granger pointed into the middle distance. Halfway down a row of vines Vinnie and Merlot were together.
‘You’re on the brink of harvest,’ he said.
‘Yes. It’s a tense time for the vineyard, waiting for the levels to be right, hoping the weather holds.’
He nodded thoughtfully. ‘Tell me, m’dear, Dominic Darcy doesn’t strike me as a shy man.’
‘He’s not, he’s an extrovert. Knowledgeable and witty and totally devoted to the vineyard.’
‘And yet he leaves the publicity to you. With all due respect, he’s not on your website or your Facebook page. He doesn’t tweet. Why not?’
Gabby scuffed her shoe against the crushed shell and looked out towards the vines. She had wondered how she was going to answer this question and how to make sure it didn’t become the focus of the article. While she suspected she should resent Dom for putting her in this position, she was far too fond of him to harbour any grudge.
‘I’m not sure. He’s a passionate winemaker and he’s made so many wonderful improvements. But that’s the way he wants it to be, and he’s the boss. I tell him he’s hiding his light under a vine leaf.’
Granger tapped her foot with his cane. ‘Well, you’re the expert and very talented, if I may say so.’
She smiled shyly, and was about to respond when her cell phone rang. ‘Excuse me a moment,’ she apologised as she turned away. ‘I have to take this.’
‘Not at all, take your time.’
As Gabby turned and walked away, Granger beckoned to the photographer and pointed towards Vinnie. ‘There’s a story here. Something smells to me like rat stew. Get some shots of him – zoom in – and the dog,’ he muttered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
NORMAN LANE
Norman Lane still lived in the big brick house in Richmond. He took great pride in his perfectly groomed gardens and his huge vegetable patch, and he kept a close eye on whatever the gardeners did. The house was just as immaculately presented and, as it had been for his father before him, was his showcase for exquisite antiques and original art. He liked to demonstrate the proceeds of his career, almost daring anyone to question the source of his considerable wealth.
His study was a masculine room, with a black Chesterfield sofa and chairs, antique fishing rods and guns mounted on the walls, Persian rugs on the polished wooden floor and a vast mahogany desk. In one corner stood an oversized card table covered in a half-finished jigsaw puzzle.
He sat in an armchair, smoked a cigar and watched Crawford squirm uncomfortably on the edge of the sofa. He disliked coppers. He disliked bent ones even more.
‘I’ve checked it out, twice.’ Crawford’s tone was apologetic. ‘The records are there. The car crash, coroner’s report, death certificates, obituaries. Car burnt out. They were all identified by dental records.’
Lane didn’t answer, and then he sighed. ‘So there’s absolutely nothing to link the death of Vincent Whitney-Ross to my son’s case?’
Crawford shook her head decisively. ‘Absolutely nothing, sir.’
‘Not even the fact that he worked for Kelt and could have been in the cellar?’
‘Coincidence.’
‘Nor the fact that his father worked for us, and he knew Marcus as a youngster?’
‘Another coincidence.’
‘And Harper gave the dog away? A chocolate Lab?’
‘Apparently. It was called Merlot.’
Lane got to his feet and walked stiffly across the rug. His gut told him that something wasn’t right. He took his cigar from his mouth and pointed it at Crawford. ‘I don’t believe in coincidences, young lady.’
Crawford shrugged. Lane knew she was going to stop trying and he silently cursed the young woman’s inexperience. She might be bright, but she sure as hell didn’t have a copper’s nose. Why couldn’t Tom have found him someone a bit older?
‘What more do you want me to do, sir?’ she asked.
Lane paused by the card table and with one hand swept all the jigsaw pieces onto the floor.
‘Find me fucking Witness A!’
The outburst hung in the air, and Crawford didn’t react. Lane swung around and faced her, his fury now clear in his contorted face. ‘I want my son out of that damn prison.’
‘I understand that, but it’s not as easy as you appear to think. The file is sealed, and the only person with that information in writing is DCI Matth–’
‘You’re the detective, do some detecting. Find me Witness A. Or I’d venture to say your career is over, your mother will be required to pay back her debts and that piece of information you want so badly will die with me.’
Crawford jerked as if the words hit her like a fist. ‘Are you … are you threatening a policewoman, sir?’
Lane sneered at her. Stupid bloody greenhorn. ‘I don’t waste time with threats. I just act.’
Later that night Norman and Melissa hosted a dinner party in the dining room. Eight people were seated around a three-pedestal Queen Anne table and the air was filled with conversation, laughter and the clink of silver cutlery on fine china. Lane’s booming voice cut across the others and held everyone’s attention. When he thumped the table to emphasise a point, everyone and everything jumped.
They were halfway through a main course of roast beef when a uniformed butler leaned over his shoulder with a bottle of 1978 Romanée-Conti in his hand. ‘The next bottle on the table, sir,’ he murmured quietly. ‘I thought I should check with you first.’
Lane nodded, took it from him, gave the label a cursory glance and turned the bottle over as he handed it back.
‘Wait a moment,’ he ordered briskly. Doing a double-take, he pulled the bottle to him and peered at the back more closely. Finally, he looked up at his silent guests. They were watching him with obvious interest. Melissa looked menacing, but this had to be dealt with now.
‘If you’ll just excuse me, only for a moment.’
He got to his feet and strode out, bottle in hand.
The study was on the other side of the hall, and he went straight to the desk, took out a magnifying glass and studied the reverse side of the bottle closely. Then he put it down on the desk and took his cell phone from his jacket pocket.
The number was on speed dial, and he scowled at the bottle as he waited for the other phone to be picked up. The high-pitched voice on the other end was stressed, and there was traffic noise in the background. Brian Davis was a wine dealer who could get anything, for a price.
‘Mr Lane, what can I do for you?’
‘I’ve got a bottle of ’78 Romanée-Conti here and it came from you.’
‘Only the best for my regul–’
He could hear both pride and anxiety in the voice.<
br />
‘Where did you get it?’
‘You know the deal, Mr Lane: sometimes the source wants to remain anonymous.’
Lane’s expression darkened. Not this time, you little weasel. ‘Bullshit, Davis. Did you get it from David Kelt?’
‘What? No way! What makes you ask that?’
Davis sounded genuinely surprised, so it must have come through a middle man. A flash of frustration crossed Lane’s face.
‘Because he marked his very best wine with a tiny K in a circle and the date he bought it. This one was purchased in 1991. And he never, ever sold that wine. So if he didn’t sell it to you, who did?’
A loud crackling surged through the phone.
‘I gotta go, Mr Lane. Sorry, the line’s breaking –’
Lane thumped the desk so hard that the bottle jumped in the air. ‘Shall I send someone around to ask you in person? If I do, he’ll bring a fucking knife. Do I make myself clear?’
There was a pause and the crackle ceased.
‘Perfectly. He’s no use to you, though: he’s dead. Died in a car crash a few months ago. He was a small-time wine merchant, used to deliver wine to Kelt. Guy called Vinnie, Vinnie Whitney-Ross.’
Lane smiled slowly. A connection. At last. Another piece of the puzzle fell into place.
‘He may still be of a great deal of use. Thank you, Davis.’
Lane snapped the cell phone shut and picked up the bottle, much more gently this time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
HARVEST
Vinnie was doing what he called a ‘hands-on’ job: he and Gabby were capping the fermenting grape juice. He rested against the vat and breathed deeply. He was proud of the fermentation room at Rocky Bay. It was a rectangle with roller doors at either end, which were raised to allow ventilation when the room was in use. Five shiny stainless-steel vats stood close to one long wall, with metal stepladders attached to each vat and metal gantries running above them. The wall was punctured by a line of five square holes, closed by a sheet of wood, and each vat was lined up beneath a hole. The purpose of the gantries was to allow a winemaker to stand there and plunge the grape skins back into the fermenting juice. This was called capping. It was a job with some considerable risk: the air above the skins was almost pure CO2 and that made breathing impossible.
Once more Vinnie grabbed the metal plunger in his hands and pushed the skins deep into the juice with strong, rhythmical strokes. There was a fair amount of resistance, and he could feel the dull ache in his arms and the sweat running down his back. It was a nice feeling, though, a satisfying feeling, a connection to the physical process of winemaking that he doubted anyone other than Gabby would fully understand. She stood above the next tank, doing the same thing, and her timing matched his.
All of a sudden he reached out a fraction too far and his rubber boots slipped sideways on the mess of skins and water. He felt himself starting to topple towards the sea of red. He let go of the plunger and grabbed the side of the tank.
‘Shit! I have to stop doing that.’
Gabby stopped and moved carefully to the end of her gantry, as close to him as she could get. ‘Careful, boss. You okay?’ she asked.
He grinned sheepishly at her. ‘By vintage number ten I’ll have the hang of this. Be like a mountain goat.’
He reached out for the plunger. ‘Or maybe not.’
It bobbed away from his fingers. He missed it and his momentum carried him forward. This time his other hand hit the rim of the gantry so hard he couldn’t get a grip and he fell in, shoulder-first. His body made a loud splash.
‘Dominic!’ Gabby threw her plunger away and ran along the gantry to the steps.
In the tank Vinnie raised his arms above his head and twisted his body sideways. The sheer viscosity of the grapes kept him from sinking, but it also made moving very difficult. The aroma of grape juice was almost overpowering.
‘Hold your breath,’ Gabby called out from the floor of the room. ‘Don’t breathe in the CO2.’
She grabbed a ladder from the wall and dragged it to his tank.
‘The side. Try and get to the side, Dom. Hold onto the side!’
Vinnie pulled himself through the thick custard-like red must. It had started to act like quicksand and suck him down. He could feel a searing pain as his lungs screamed for oxygen in the dense cloud of CO2 gas, and his head began to spin.
Gabby climbed the metal steps, dragging the ladder behind her. It banged against the side of the vat. She moved gingerly along the gantry, lowered the ladder into the tank and hooked the top over the rim.
Vinnie was trying to hold on, but the must was dragging him down, and he kept letting go and then reaching up again. As he started to sink below the level of the caps, she thrust his plunger out towards him.
‘Take it! Grab hold and I’ll pull you to the ladder.’
The plunger hit his shoulder and he wrapped one arm around it. His body moved slowly through the swirling must towards the ladder. He was close to losing consciousness, and the scene above the tank was a blur of light. The plunger reached the ladder and his fingers grabbed the metal rails.
‘Pull yourself up. Come on … that’s right … just a bit more.’
Vinnie raised his hands up, and his scrambling feet found the bottom rung of the ladder. He used his strength to push himself into a standing position, above the CO2 and into fresh air. Gabby latched onto his shirt and hauled him upwards with both hands. He gulped in mouthfuls of air, filling his lungs. Slowly he climbed over the rim of the tank and sank to his knees on the gantry. Red juice ran off him in streams and pooled around his body. He was stained red from head to toe.
‘Damn CO2,’ he gasped.
She bent down beside him. ‘Just breathe.’
He gave her a weak smile. ‘Thank you. Quick thinking.’
She drew her finger along his cheek, then licked the fingertip. ‘Impressive amount of effort to check the sugar level. Next time, use the saccharometer.’
He laughed. ‘Ha! At least I know the cooling rings are working.’
She helped him to his feet. ‘It’s a sort of initiation. Now you’re a winemaker. Joking aside, please don’t do it again.’
‘Believe me, Gabby, I now know how dangerous wine can be to your health.’
Anna was dipping fruit in her kitchen. A chocolate tempering machine stood in one corner, and the bench was covered in stacks of moulds. She carefully lifted apricots from a bowl of dark liquid, drained them on paper towels and dipped them into a pot of melted chocolate, before lowering them onto a tray lined with baking paper. At the sound of footsteps she looked up to see Vinnie coming through the exterior door. He was soaked through and stained red. The excess juice had been hosed off, but it was obvious what had happened.
She burst out laughing.
‘Oh, thank you. No sympathy here, then?’ He tried unsuccessfully to hide his smile.
‘I could ask what in God’s name happened to you, but I think I can see.’
‘We were capping. I slipped and went for a swim.’
‘Good Lord! How did it feel?’
‘Most unpleasant. Lots of CO2, not much oxygen, and the consistency of porridge. Gabby hauled me out. I think I was drowning.’
She bit her lip. ‘My poor darling. Sorry I laughed.’
He went to her and took her in his arms. She pulled back.
‘Not that sorry! You’re all wet and sticky.’
He dipped his finger into the pot of melted chocolate and licked it.
‘Yummy chocolate. You really should do a line of alcoholic body paint. We could do test runs. Call it Paint and Lick.’
She picked up an apricot and popped it in his mouth. They exchanged a fond glance of remembrance.
‘Wish we could pay the pickers in extremely good chocolate,’ he said as he reached for another.
‘Stop eating all the profits and go and have a shower. I’m popping to the shops. Do you want anything?’
He shook his head as he w
andered towards the hall. ‘Nope. Herman sent me a text. His blog goes live in an hour. You can have a read when you get home.’
Two hours later Anna’s car pulled into the turning circle behind the house and screeched to a halt. She leapt out and ran across the crushed shell, up the steps and into the house. Vinnie was standing at the window in his study, his cell phone at his ear, staring at the picture-postcard view out to sea. His laptop was open on his desk, beside a stack of magazines, some unlabelled bottles and some tasting glasses.
‘I’m under no obligation to give you a reason, Herman. I want that picture replaced with a shot of the vineyard, and I want it to happen now – immediately.’
Vinnie turned and extended his free arm towards Anna. She went to him. She knew her rising panic was clearly evident on her face.
He hugged her close and kissed the top of her head.
‘Surely you had to ask my permission to use a photographic representation of me? That’s just responsible journalism.’
Anna could hear the American’s honeyed voice, slightly raised, from the cell phone.
Vinnie frowned. ‘Not at all, I would’ve decline–’
Anna moved away, leaned against the windowsill and watched. ‘If I have to threaten legal action, I will, and believe me, it won’t be an empty threat. If you really want to go to all that trouble … Thank you. I’ll check again in five minutes. Thank you.’
Vinnie clicked the phone shut. He looked angry and afraid. ‘That fucking arsehole! Excuse my language. He said the photo adds to the mystique of the story, so changing it will diminish the piece. He never gives away editorial control … all bullshit.’
‘What I want to know is how Gabby could let the photographer take the photo in the first place?’ she asked.
Vinnie shrugged and then let out a deep sigh. ‘She says she didn’t know. She doesn’t understand why it upsets me. Sorry I called you. I just suddenly felt alone.’