by Julie Thomas
‘Don’t follow her,’ Vinnie said quietly. ‘Stay. Watch me die.’
Marcus smiled. ‘Oh, I intend to.’
‘How long did you say it takes?’ Vinnie asked.
Marcus looked at his watch. ‘It’s been ten minutes. You should be in real pain by now,’ he said.
Vinnie smiled. ‘I hate to be a party-pooper but I feel fine, and Anna’s gone to the neighbours. The police have to come some distance. They’ll be a good half-hour, but the neighbours won’t let you escape.’
Marcus shrugged. ‘Where would I go?’
‘Exactly. Only one road in and you’ll meet the police coming.’
Marcus was sitting on the floor beside him. The adrenaline had subsided in both of them and, with it, the hatred and the fury of the confrontation. Vinnie wondered if Marcus felt as exhausted as he did.
‘How’s your hand?’ Vinnie asked.
Marcus looked at it. The joints were swelling and red, and had to be hurting. ‘I’ll live. I had worse in prison.’
‘Shame we can’t have a chocolate,’ Vinnie cracked.
‘Do you remember Cookie’s scones and jam?’
‘Oh God, yes! And her lemon curd. And those sodas she made with coke and ice cream.’
‘Do you remember duck racing?’ Marcus asked.
Vinnie chuckled. ‘You wanted them to drown, and they just sailed out the other side of the bridge. We couldn’t tell them apart, and yet your duck always won. You were a competitive little shit.’
Marcus laughed. ‘You wanted to be a pilot. What happened?’
‘Life. Wine. Marriage. What did you want to be?’
There was a pause. ‘I … I wanted to stay at school. I’m sorry my dad shot your dad – I’m sure he didn’t deserve it.’
Vinnie looked at him. It was hard to see Marcus – he looked completely different, but he was still under there. ‘Nor did David Kelt.’
Marcus shrugged. ‘Fair cop … Feeling any pain yet?’
Vinnie shook his head and then ran his free hand through his curls. They were damp with sweat. ‘I have a fucking great syringe in my shoulder, but apart from that I feel fine. Why didn’t you just grab your second chance and go off and have a life somewhere? Mitchell Dawson could have gone anywhere – no one is looking for you.’
Marcus poked him. ‘You’ve nearly destroyed me, Vinnie. You killed my dad.’
‘Well, your dad killed my dad.’
‘My grandfather worked for years to build his empire, and when you gave the police Kelt’s notebook, it gutted our money-laundering business, the heart of everything.’
‘Good! It was illegal.’
‘You betrayed me and put me in fucking prison. For life.’
‘You killed my employer! You nearly had me crippled once.’
‘But I didn’t, I saved you.’
‘Let’s be honest here: when you found out that it was me in Kelt’s cellar, you would have had me killed, and Anna and –’
Marcus shook his head emphatically. ‘No. If you’d come to me with what you had seen at Kelt’s, I’d have given you the bloody money to start your vineyard, and none of this would have had to happen.’
‘But your father –’
‘Need never have known it was you. I’d have found some lowlife to take the rap. You’ve forced me to hurt you; I would never have chosen to.’
Vinnie winced. His shoulder was starting to hurt.
Suddenly Marcus glanced at his watch, and then slammed his fist onto the floor. ‘Fuck! That conniving scumbag – you know what he’s done?’
This is straight out of a French farce, Vinnie thought as he watched Marcus pull himself to his feet.
‘No. Who? What? Has someone done the dirty on you? Heaven forbid.’
‘Tom fucking McGregor. And he’s taken most of the family money to do this.’ Marcus started to pace the room. ‘He came to me in that fucking Swiss clinic and gave me two vials of what he said was fucking pure capsaicin! Guaranteed to kill.’
His distress was driving him to walk faster. He lunged out and overturned a small coffee table as he passed it then picked up another and threw it at the wall. Wood flew in all directions.
While Marcus was venting his fury, Vinnie scanned the scene. His eyes came to rest on the wine bottle that had crashed to the floor and rolled across the room.
Marcus was being consumed by his frustration and rage. ‘It was the perfect fucking plan: set you up as a murderer and then disappear before the crime is discovered. Enjoy myself as the new American boss of the Lane gang while you rot in jail. But now I’m going to have to slit that motherfucker McGregor’s throat!’
Using his good arm, Vinnie grabbed the bottle and hurled himself back against the wall.
‘Those chocolates should be lethal and you should be fucking dead!’ As Marcus spat out the last words, he turned towards Vinnie, who shrank back in apparent fear.
‘First, I’m going to have to kill you, Vinnie, and make my escape. No one else knows who I am, and no country pigs will catch me. New hair colour, glasses, beard, new passport and I’ll be home before you know it.’
There was that heel again, Vinnie thought, the need to boast. He could use that.
Marcus picked up Vinnie’s discarded knife and looked at it. ‘Gutted by your own knife. How appropriate.’
Vinnie didn’t answer. His good hand was behind him and he gripped the bottle by the neck.
‘Aren’t you going to tell me I’ll never get away with it?’ Marcus said in a mock whine.
Vinnie shook his head. ‘You’ll get away with it – you always do, you jammy bastard.’
Marcus beamed. ‘True. You should have stuck with me, kid. I’d have made you a master criminal.’
He advanced swiftly, the knife raised to head height and pointing down. Vinnie waited for the perfect moment, then hit the bottle hard on the bronze statue beside him and felt it break. He rolled sideways and avoided the plunging knife, hitting Marcus on the shoulder with the bottle and then driving it into his lower stomach.
The knife fell away, and Marcus let out a loud roar. ‘Fuck!’ He flailed at the bottle neck with his right hand, but it was stuck fast.
Vinnie grabbed the knife and gestured towards the floor. ‘Lie down. Stop thrashing about. You’ll lose less blood that way,’ he ordered.
‘Get it out!’ Marcus screamed. He clawed at the bottle and blood spurted through the neck.
Vinnie shook his head firmly. ‘If I pull it out, you’ll die from blood loss very quickly. It’s in your stomach, not your heart. If you stay still, you might live.’
At least two high-pitched sirens broke the tension, still a little way off but getting closer every second. Marcus groaned in pain, but Vinnie kept the knife pointed at him.
Marcus stretched out an arm. ‘Help me, Vinnie!’
‘I am. I’m keeping you still. They’re almost here.’
As the police burst through the door, both Marcus and Vinnie began to laugh, one in sheer relief and the other with bitterness.
Vinnie joined Anna talking to a detective on the veranda. The sun was coming up behind the house, and the dawn mist was lifting.
‘I need to call Detective Inspector Peter Harper of the Met in London,’ Vinnie said as he sat down. The detective looked up and nodded at him.
‘I’ve already called him, sir. Do you think this Mitchell Dawson has anything to do with the Lanes?’
Anna sprang to her feet, panic on her face. ‘What?’
‘He has more to do with the Lanes than you can ever imagine, Detective. Peter will want a DNA sample from him to compare with Norman’s widow.’
Anna sat down. ‘Why?’ She sounded confused and shocked.
Vinnie reached out, took her hand and squeezed it. Here we go. ‘Mitchell Dawson is Marcus.’
‘No!’ Once again the force of her emotion thrust her to her feet. ‘You’re lying! It’s not true. It’s not possible.’
‘Anything’s possible in this day and age,�
�� Vinnie said gently.
Anna sank back into her chair and covered her face with her hands. ‘I just couldn’t have been that stupid,’ she murmured, and then began to sob.
Vinnie picked her up and held her in his arms, stroking her hair and soothing her. ‘No one could know. No one. He’s got brains, determination and no conscience. You never met him. He was my boyhood friend and even I didn’t suspect anything.’
The detective coughed.
‘It was a brilliant plan, you’ve got to give him that. His revenge was to ruin my life. I’d be charged with murder on a mass scale and he’d be long gone.’
Anna pulled back and looked up at him. ‘Oh, my God. I fell for his lies. I showed him around the shed, into the storage room. I’m so, so sorry. Can you ever forgive me?’
He smiled at her, brushed the tears off her face and kissed her. ‘There’s nothing to forgive: you called the police – you saved me.’
She shivered. ‘I need a drink. Is it too early for a glass of wine, Vinnie?’
He kissed her again. ‘It’s never too early for wine, my darling.’
EPILOGUE
The young banker looked across the desk at the man in front of him, middle-aged but in good condition, stocky and fit. He handed over a piece of paper. ‘The balance is correct, sir. Where would you like me to send the money?’ His accent was Swiss.
He had dealt with enough clients to know that this man had undoubtedly been skimming his employer for years, regular amounts, too small to be detected, deposited into a Swiss account. Now it was time to disappear and live off the millions.
The man reached into his pocket, took out a card and gave it to him. ‘This account, in Rabat, Morocco.’
English, London, East End, tough life. Unaccustomed to his very expensive suit, and using too much designer cologne.
‘Certainly, sir. Account in the name of Tom Carter.’
‘No doubt about it: Mitchell Dawson and Marcus Lane are one and the same person. When he’s healed, he’s heading back to jail for another very long stretch.’
Peter Harper looked across the room at Vinnie, Anna and Mary. They still appeared stunned by the news.
‘How on earth did he do it?’ Anna asked.
‘There is brilliance to it all. Tom McGregor busted him out of the van, put in a body, blew up the van and flew him on a private jet to a clinic in Switzerland. The cover story was he was a billionaire who’d had an accident and been badly burned. The rest was medical magic: facial surgery, extreme body-building, contact lenses and a new identity, accent, back story.’
Anna shook her head in amazement. ‘If Tom hadn’t double-crossed him, he might have succeeded.’
Peter shrugged. ‘I’m pretty certain Tom would have turned him into the law for attempting to murder Vinnie’s clients. Tom wanted total control of the gang and all the power. He never had any intention of letting Marcus come back.’
‘Will you talk to Melissa?’ Vinnie asked.
‘Got her. They arrested her yesterday. She’s adamant she had no idea that Marcus was still alive. But she knew he was planning to escape. She spoke to him and he sang like a canary in a coalmine and stitched Tom up. We haven’t found McGregor yet – he’s disappeared. But we will.’
‘So it really is over?’ Anna asked.
Peter nodded. ‘It is. What do you want to do? Come home?’
Vinnie and Anna looked at each other.
‘We are home, Peter. We need to get back to work and replace all that stock.’
He grinned. ‘Sounds good to me. What about you, Mary?’
Mary looked surprised. ‘What do you mean: what about me? How can Aunt Muriel’s keep going without a real Aunt Muriel?’
Vinnie reached out and squeezed her hand. ‘It absolutely can’t, and neither can we.’
Peter sighed and gave a small chuckle. ‘You know, Vinnie, if you wrote this story down people would never believe what you’ve been through. But it is a really good yarn, you should try.’
Vinnie raised his eyebrows. ‘I’ve always fancied writing a novel, and Michael Wilson is as good a pseudonym as any.’
‘What would you call it?’
‘My Excursions Up a Lane?’ Anna suggested.
They all laughed, and Vinnie shook his head.
‘There’s certainly been enough blood, so I guess that should be in there.’
‘And excellent wine – don’t forget the wine,’ Anna added.
‘I never forget wine.’
‘Can I add a vote for chocolate?’ Mary asked. ‘The happy-ever-after has to be the chocolate.’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The idea for this novel was born in London while drinking a bottle of very good New Zealand wine. The question posed was: ‘What would you do if you went into witness protection, but the wine you made was so good that the world came knocking at your cellar door?’ My answer was Blood, Wine and Chocolate. To me Marcus is Blood, Vinnie is Wine and Anna is Chocolate.
First, I would like to acknowledge Creative New Zealand and the financial assistance they gave me at the beginning of this project. It is, as always, most appreciated.
When I needed a vineyard, I emailed the Waiheke Island Winemakers and I met Mike Spratt. He invited me over to Destiny Bay and showed me around his incredible vineyard. The setting was perfect, and his wine is simply world class. Thank you for your patience and knowledge, Mike.
When I needed a chocolatier, I visited Bliss in Rotorua, and Mary Salter filled in the holes in my knowledge and gave me a bag of the most divine chocolates. I hasten to add that research gave me Marcus’s story; I didn’t make the acquaintance of any mob bosses.
During the writing of this book, my beloved mum, Thelma Thomas, was in a rest home down the road, and my day was split between writing and twice daily visits to her. She died peacefully on Christmas Day 2013. Her humour always lifted my spirits and she remains my inspiration.
I have to add a shout-out to the British musical theatre star Michael Ball. Not only did he provide the inspiration for the character of Vinnie Whitney-Ross, but his humour and his music bring sunshine into my life. God bless, my lovely.
I owe a great debt to my ‘writing buddy’, Reuben Aitchison, the best beta-reader ever and a constant source of crazy ideas and black humour, and to Lynne Johnston for encouraging and believing in me – you’re a vital part of ‘Team Thomas’ and I love you both.
Once again, to my wonderful publisher, Finlay Macdonald at HarperCollins, who has supported me every step along the way, I so appreciate your commitment to my efforts. Cheers, let’s raise a glass!
About the Author
Julie Thomas’s debut novel, The Keeper of Secrets, was published in 2013, having previously sold in excess of 40,000 copies as a self-published ebook. She is also the author of two other self-published ebooks: Our Father’s War, her late father’s letters home from World War II; and Stirred Not Shaken, a collection of short stories.
For over twenty-five years Julie worked in radio, television and film, before turning to full-time writing in 2011. She lives in Cambridge, New Zealand.
Other Books by Julie Thomas
The Keeper of Secrets
Stirred Not Shaken
Our Father’s War
Copyright
This story is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, business establishments or localities is entirely coincidental.
HarperCollinsPublishers
First published in 2015
by HarperCollinsPublishers (New Zealand) Limited
This edition published in 2015
Unit D1, 63 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand
harpercollins.co.nz
Copyright © Julie Thomas 2015
Julie Thomas asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
This work is copyright. All rights reserved. No part of
this publication may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
HarperCollinsPublishers
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National Library of New Zealand Cataloguing-in-Publication Data:
Thomas, Julie, 1959–
Blood, wine and chocolate: a novel / Julie Thomas.
ISBN 978 1 7755 4053 3 (pbk.)
ISBN 978 1 7754 9090 6 (epub)
I. Title.
NZ823.3 – dc 23
Cover design by Keely O’Shannessy
Cover images by bigstockphoto.com