by Julie Thomas
Melissa hesitated again. This was not a conversation she had expected to have so soon, if at all. She hadn’t worked out what to do next, and now this lawyer was forcing her into a corner.
‘I don’t know who or what killed Norman. Witness A was Vinnie Whitney-Ross, a wine merchant. He delivered wine to Kelt, which was why he was in the cellar.’
‘And they put him in witness protection. In New Zealand. That’s very unusual.’
‘Yes. The odd thing is that we knew his father. Bert Whitney-Ross was Tobias’s accountant, and Vinnie and Marcus used to play together as children.’
Scott sat up very straight, and then leaned forward towards her. Something had caught his interest. ‘They knew each other?’
‘Yes, that’s why the defence were so sure of their witness.’
Scott opened his briefcase and took out a legal pad. He began writing notes.
‘How did it end? His father’s relationship with Tobias?’ he asked.
‘That’s another reason: Bert shot himself. It was almost forty years ago, but I remember his wife, Vinnie’s mother, was very angry with us.’
‘That’s it! That’s what we need.’
His sudden outburst startled her and she pulled back.
‘What do you mean, Stephen?’
He was scribbling on his pad. ‘It was an unsound conviction. Based on the evidence of a witness with reason to be biased, a reason to lie. They would have told him that they were keeping his identity secret to keep him safe – really it was because no jury would convict on the word of a man with that much bias against your family.’
‘So what do we do now?’
There was hint of rising hope in her voice, and she fought against the emotion.
‘I apply for the Royal prerogative of mercy and challenge the verdict, because we know that Witness A was known to the family and was biased against them, due to his father’s suicide.’
She was staring at him. ‘Really?’
He nodded empathically. ‘Yes. There is precedent. I want you to go and see Marcus and talk to him about this Vinnie. Find out anything that we can use to show bias. I’ll try and talk to Don to find out what happened, why Bert shot himself. His memory is intermittent, but when he’s lucid he has a font of knowledge. And you talk to Tom about anything Marcus can give up as information – a gun cache or drugs, something belonging to another gang, a gem we can use as leverage.’
‘I’ll see him as soon as I can organise it.’
He stopped writing and looked up at her. She could see her excitement mirrored in his eyes. There was no denying it, for the first time in many months she felt a sense of hope.
He gave her a smug smile. ‘If Norman had come to me with this information I might have been able to stop him rushing off to New Zealand and getting himself killed.’
She smiled back ruefully.
‘I married into a family of hotheads.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
NEW BEGINNINGS, AGAIN
May 2013
The clouds were touched with pink and gold. The winter predawn darkness receded quickly, and the scene from the veranda sparkled with the promise of a new day. In the paddock to the left, two horses grazed on grass that was stiff with frost, and chickens scratched in the cold earth over by the barn. Tall trees swayed, and the wind in their leaves sounded like the sea. Vinnie missed the way the ocean broke on the rocks at the bottom of the cliffs in Rocky Bay.
He sat in a wicker chair and watched the rural world around him coming to life. Merlot was off exploring somewhere, following a thousand new scents. Anna was sound asleep in their warm bed. He could feel her tossing and turning at night, and it was good when she slept on in the mornings. Vinnie liked this time of day because his mind was clear and the stress was stilled by the quiet. Piece by piece he went over the past few months, the good, the bad, the stupid, the careless, the things he couldn’t change. When he had talked to the police psychiatrist, she had told him to accept what had happened, the mistakes he had made and what it had nearly cost him, and let it go. He was to tell himself that Anna had forgiven him, his mother had forgiven him, and so he needed to forgive himself.
Still, he sometimes woke in the middle of the night and, in those seconds between dreaming and understanding, he saw the faces of the men he’d killed. In each situation it’d been a ‘kill or be killed’ scenario and he could honestly say he didn’t regret his actions, but never in his wildest imaginings had he seen himself taking another human life. It was one thing to forgive himself and another to live with the consequences.
They had been truly happy at Rocky Bay, and he missed the routine and the people deeply. Once again everything had been sold up by the police and the money banked. The three of them were hiding in an isolated safe house deep in the farming province of the Waikato, about two hours south of Auckland. They were in limbo. They didn’t shop or socialise, and the house felt like a gilded prison.
But today Peter Harper was coming to see them to discuss the future. They had to tell him what they wanted. Vinnie grimaced. What did they want? It was all too raw and too important to resolve in one day. Every time they started to discuss it, someone got upset and everyone went quiet and the whole conversation died. All he wanted was to go back to the beginning – whether that was working for David in London, or making wine with Gabby on Waiheke Island, was something he couldn’t decipher right now – both were equally impractical.
Vinnie leaned back and closed his eyes. Let it go … Start again … Forgive yourself … Take your time … All the clichés swirled through his tired brain, and not for the first time he raised his forefinger to his temple and pretended to shoot himself in the head.
‘So, how are we all?’ Peter asked. He smiled at the three people sitting and looking expectantly at him. He could see the exhaustion in their faces. There was tension in the air.
‘Fine and dandy,’ said Vinnie. His voice was deadpan and his expression didn’t change.
‘Good. I’ve been thinking about what to say, and I’ve decided that you don’t want me to sugar-coat anything.’
‘Good grief, no. Tell it like it is,’ said Anna.
Peter felt a trickle of concern; they had become impossible to read.
‘Okay, I’m going to be blunt. You have some decisions to make. If you want to stay in wine, you’ll need to relocate to another country. You will also need to accept that there will always be a significant element of danger. Herman Granger knows what you look like – if you make great wine using another alias his wine blog will track you down. And he won’t let the story rest.’
He paused, but no one said anything.
‘If you stay in New Zealand, but not in wine, we can find you somewhere to live and something to do, but you need to lead … smaller lives.’
‘What does that mean?’ asked Vinnie.
‘Lives that don’t attract attention, lives that don’t show the talents that you have.’
Vinnie shrugged. Peter could see his frustration.
‘What do you want me to be? A labourer? An accountant?’ Vinnie asked.
‘Not necessarily –’
‘Who are we?’ Mary asked suddenly.
The other two turned and looked at her.
‘We are who we have always been,’ Vinnie said firmly. ‘No one can take your identity away from you.’
‘But new names will help us to feel as though we belong somewhere. You have both done this before, but I haven’t. I still feel as though I am on holiday, and any moment it’s going to be time to go home and weed my garden.’
Anna took her hand and squeezed it. ‘That feeling gets better, I promise.’
Peter opened his briefcase. It was time to move them along. ‘Actually, I have your new identities here. They were created in England because you’re obviously migrants.’ He lifted out a large brown envelope.
‘Aha, another one of those,’ Vinnie said, his face betraying nothing.
Peter smiled at him. ‘Yes. Hopefully the last on
e. In here I have passports, birth certificates, driver’s licences, credit cards and bank cards for your new accounts.’
‘Let me guess: Heathcliff,’ Vinnie said.
‘Or Copperfield? Shakespeare, perhaps?’ Anna added.
Peter laughed, but it sounded strangely hollow. ‘No, no more literary allusions. You are Michael and Charlotte Wilson, and this is your Aunt Muriel – Muriel Wilson.’
There was silence.
‘I’m not going to leave you in the wind this time, Vinnie. We should have helped you to settle more last time. You tell me the kind of life you want and we will find it, and you will have a New Zealand handler who will look after you.’
Vinnie ran his hand through his curls. Peter knew that tic; there was an internal battle going on.
‘To be honest, Peter, I have no idea. Last time I knew as soon as your boss asked me to testify.’
Peter nodded. ‘You’ve had a deeply traumatic time.’
‘I know what I want.’
Everyone turned to look at Anna. She was very composed, and she had spoken quietly and firmly.
‘What?’
Vinnie sounded genuinely surprised. They haven’t talked about this, Peter thought, as he looked from one to the other.
‘I want to live in a warm place, where it doesn’t ever snow, close to the sea, in a small community. I want to start a company that we can all work in, a company that makes very exclusive chocolates.’
‘Do you want a shop?’ Peter asked.
She shook her head. ‘No. Mail order only, supplying speciality shops. We infuse the chocolate with flavours – sea salt, lemon oil, black pepper and cardamom – and then we fill them with alcohol – wine, lemoncello, Baileys, port, brandy, gin, vodka, rum. Pure ingredients and the best-quality handmade chocolates and truffles.’
Peter nodded slowly and looked at Vinnie.
‘Vinnie?’
Vinnie smiled at Anna. ‘Brilliant idea. Can I come?’
She smiled back. ‘If you work hard and you taste everything for me.’
‘Deal.’
Vinnie looked at Mary.
‘Mum?’
She put her hand to her mouth and shook her head in amazement. ‘It sounds wonderful. Can I come, too?’
Anna smiled at her. ‘You most certainly can. You’re our cover. As far as the world knows you make the chocolates and Aunt Muriel’s Masterpieces has to have a real-life Aunt Muriel behind it.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
MERCY AND CRACKPOTS
March 2014
The Right Honourable David McNaughton had had only one other appeal for the Royal prerogative of mercy in his three-year term as Lord High Chancellor. By the time the Lane appeal file got to him, it had been the source of considerable comment and he had much to read. He did this very carefully, his lawyer’s brain assessing each opinion and weighing up the likely public response.
Marcus Lane sounded like a particularly nasty individual, but had he had a fair trial, and was it possible that Witness A had had a vendetta against him? Was the conviction unsound? The prerogative was that of the monarch, but the Queen would be guided by his decision. As an added sweetener, Lane had offered to turn ‘grass’ on some of the other London gangs and give up information on guns, drugs and extortion. This was very tempting, and the police comments made it clear that the information would be extremely useful.
Still, the man was undoubtedly a hardened criminal and probably guilty of the crime. His father was not long dead, and he obviously wanted to reclaim his position as head of the Lane gang. Would the streets be safer if he was granted a retrial? McNaughton doubted it.
As the evening drew in, he packed his work away and asked his PA to order his car and driver. His constituency was in Wiltshire and he kept a London flat. The nights were still cold and he shivered, despite the heavy coat, as he walked down the steps towards the car.
His driver stood by the open rear door, an A4 white envelope in his hand.
‘Evening, John.’
‘Evening, sir. This was under the wipers of the car. It’s addressed to you and marked private and confidential.’
McNaughton hesitated and then took the envelope. ‘Thank you.’
He knew the rules – it could contain white powder, and he should leave it for his PA to open. But curiosity got the better of him. As the car lumbered through the crowded streets, he pulled the top tab off and reached inside. Three photos and a piece of paper slid into his hand. The photos were black-and-white candid shots of four children playing in the snow. His grandchildren. They were completely unaware that they were being photographed, and the laughing faces made his heart leap. Then he read the note: You know what to decide. Their safety is in your hands.
It was typewritten in Times Roman on a rectangular slip of paper from a notepad.
A strong visceral reflex hit him mid-chest, and his mouth seemed to fill with something sour. He swallowed the nausea down and thrust everything back into the envelope.
‘John?’
The driver turned his head and looked over his shoulder. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘Change of direction: take me to the Met.’
Stephen Scott was incandescent with rage. He stood in his office and faced Melissa Lane. She sat very still and read the report in her hands. Finally, she looked up at him.
‘This is a lie. This has nothing to do with Marcus.’
Stephen struggled to contain his emotion. ‘I don’t think you quite understand. I’ve seen the evidence, Melissa. Someone sent pictures of the Lord High Chancellor’s grandchildren to him with a threatening note.’
‘And I’m telling you that that someone had nothing to do with Marcus!’
‘Maybe not, but it has almost certainly ruined any possibility we had of convincing the Lord High Chancellor that Marcus was unjustly convicted.’
She stood up. ‘Which is why Marcus would never condone such a thing. Someone has sabotaged us. I suggest you find another legal avenue to get my son released.’
She turned on her heel and walked to the door. With her hand on the knob, she looked back at him. ‘And don’t ever address me in that tone again. Save your anger for the justice system.’
Melissa Lane called Tom McGregor and demanded that he find out who sent the photographs. The lawyer said they’d had a good case, a realistic chance of a retrial, and now that had gone. Someone had sabotaged the plan, and she wanted to know who. Someone was going to pay.
Tom reassured her that he was as devastated as she was and would put his best men onto it. Then he hung up and gave a small smile of satisfaction as he went back to his work.
Marcus had considered setting fire to his mattress or using the toothbrush he had been secretly sharpening to stab a guard. Eventually he had decided on a much bigger plan. The first step was a telephone call.
‘Marcus, good to hear from you. How are you?’
It was Tom McGregor. The sound of his voice brought a hundred memories flooding back into Marcus’s brain, and the inevitable questions: Why hadn’t he sent Tom to deal to Kelt? Why had he been so stupid?
‘Haven’t got a lot of time, Tom. Just thought I’d let you know it’s time to let my crackpot uncle loose. Soon as you can. Can you manage that?’ Marcus asked.
There was a pause on the line.
It occurred to Marcus that this was a call Tom had never expected to get. He wondered how comfortable his childhood friend had become.
‘Of course, give me a few days and I’ll let you know when we’re ready for him.’
‘Mum’s due here tomorrow week. She can confirm.’
‘Done.’
The line went dead. Marcus stood holding the receiver in his hand. It was audacious and complicated and exquisitely dangerous. He needed very good men, and he needed them to have nerves of steel. It would take a great deal of the family money –
‘Come on, motherfucker. Hang up if you’re done.’
The gruff voice cut across his thoughts, and he hung up
the phone and swung around to face the inmate. No brains but lots of brawn. He nodded briefly and walked away.
Melissa Lane was on her way to visit her son. She sat in the back of the car and silently rehearsed what she had to say. What would Norman have thought of this? It was going to take a frightening amount of money, almost all of the fortune Norman had amassed, and it depended on precise timing and detailed organisation. Even then, there was a very good chance it might not work. But Marcus had to try, that she understood. He trusted Tom McGregor completely, so she had to, too.
An hour later she was sitting opposite her son. He was watching her, and his dark eyes were glowing with hope and anxiety. His hair was quite grey at the temples now, and he had distinctive lines on his face. Prison was ageing him.
‘Your crackpot uncle is on the loose again,’ she said.
He smiled. ‘Needs to be somewhere more secure.’
‘We think so. Apparently the doctor said they’ll move him Friday.’
He nodded at her. ‘Friday sounds like a good day.’
Friday started like any other day in Belmarsh Prison. Inmates were unlocked at 8.15 and made their way to the dining area for breakfast. Except for cell 2034. Marcus had a wash, got changed, and then started a slow and methodical process of banging his forehead against the cell wall and yelling. Only the first few hurt; once the blood started to flow, it went numb.
After twenty minutes of continuous noise, two inmates came to see what was happening. As soon as one was near enough, Marcus grabbed him and put him in a choke-hold.
The man was small and light, and his feet dangled off the ground. He gave a squeal of rage before the arm around his throat severely restricted his oxygen supply. As his companion fled to raise the alarm, Marcus whipped out the toothbrush he’d sharpened to a blade and cut the flailing arm to the bone. Blood spurted out.
When the guards arrived two minutes later, Marcus opened his eyes wide at them. ‘Don’t come in! You come in and I’ll cut his fucking throat!’
The guards retreated and a siren blasted out.
‘What is it you want, Marcus?’