IN VINO VERITAS
By
Julie Thomas
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY
Julie Thomas on Smashwords
In Vino Veritas
Copyright 2012 by Julie Thomas
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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To Mike, Ann and the team at Destiny Bay on Waiheke Island for their help and guidance; to Michael for being passionate about New Zealand wine and inspiring the story; to Lucas for his wonderful ideas about dragons and for making me laugh; to Reuben for being my sounding board; to Ruth for nearly forty years of friendship and encouragement and being a wonderful editor; and to Nana T, my Mum, for being the best in the world.
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real locales are fictitious. Other names, characters, places and incidents are all products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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PROLOGUE
"Look at all my trials and tribulations, sinking in a gentle pool of wine..." The last thing he'd expected to hear as he died was a line from Jesus Christ Superstar. Shouldn't his life flash before his eyes? But it made sense for he was, indeed, sinking in a gentle pool of wine. Except it wasn't gentle and it wasn't wine, it was must, the grape skins and juice that were left to ferment in shiny steel vats.
It was the consistency of porridge and it whirled around and sucked him under like quicksand. He thrashed from side to side and pushed the skins away, his legs kicking desperately, but he knew it was far too deep. Bitter juice splashed into his mouth and stung his eyes. The layer of air above the cap of skins was CO2, thick and deadly. His lungs screamed for oxygen and the pain was intense, a burn deep inside.
He hit the side of the tank and clawed at the slippery rim. If he could just raise himself up, above the CO2, into the air, into the fresh oxygen. In the distance something silver shimmered and moved through the ruby red liquid towards him, there and then gone, there and then gone. He could just see past it to a vision, a face, two blue eyes, brown hair, swimming in and out of his rapidly fading consciousness. Was it the Angel of Death or were they coming to rescue him? A wave of warm, black, comforting nothingness rose up from the depths of the tank and engulfed him as his hands slid from the rim.
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CHAPTER ONE
Late 1976
Vinnie's first real lie was about the death of his father. His mother had moved them to Hendon and he'd transferred to a posh public school. On his first day a spotty kid, with braces on his teeth and knuckles grazed from fighting, pushed him against a brick wall and demanded to know how his father had died. Vinnie thought for a moment and the options swirled through his ten year old brain. A group of five boys, all around the same age, were watching him closely.
"Don’t you even know?" one of them asked.
"Bet he never had a bloody dad," another said, looking him up and down with contempt.
"Are you a bast-"
"In a car," said Vinnie. "He died in a car crash. Some drunk hit him head-on, it wasn't his fault."
Well that was easy. Nothing fell from the sky and hit him.
"We were awarded compensation and the man went to jail. It was in the paper and everything."
The boy stared into his face. Vinnie didn't flicker, he gazed back defiantly. The arm went slack against his throat and his feet took his weight.
"In the paper? Wanna join our gang?"
So it became his stock answer. As long as his mother wasn't around he told people his father died tragically in a car crash. The truth was somewhat more lurid.
Albert Whitney-Ross, a clever middle-class accountant, married Mary Crosby, his childhood sweetheart, in a registry office in 1958. They lived in a two bedroom terrace in East London and Bert worked for Lawrence & Tizdall, a City accounting firm. Their only child, Vincent, was born in 1966. In later years Vinnie liked to say he was named after a Don McLean song, but the "American Pie" album wasn't released until 1971. He was, in fact, named after the Dutch painter who was the subject of the song. His mother was a brilliant seamstress and made all his clothes. She taught Vinnie to read early so he could read to her while she sewed and she took him to museums and art galleries. They discussed life on an adult level and he learned that adults were amused when you said clever and funny things. If you pleased them they gave you a treat.
Mary lost a daughter late in the pregnancy and had to have a hysterectomy in 1971. When she was diagnosed with depression Vinnie began a determined campaign to cheer her up. He adored dinosaurs and used to create stories for her around his favourite plastic models, long tales of herds of Diplodocus, Triceratops and Stegosaurus who were grazing on trees when they were set upon by gangs of Velociraptors, Allosaurus or his very favourite, Tyrannosaurus Rex. He added palaeontologist to his list of potential careers, along with pilot, astronaut, rock star and restaurant owner.
In 1972 Lawrence & Tizdall fell on hard times and Mr Lawrence had to let Bert go. While he was looking for another job he did the books for Monty Joe, his darts partner at the local. Monty was a small time fence with a pawn shop around the corner. He had two sets of accounts and he paid Bert well to keep one set hidden and to keep his tax payments low. Eventually he was so impressed he told Tobias Lane, who needed a discreet, but creative, accountant more than most.
Vinnie's first memory of visiting the Lane home in Richmond was a vivid one. They drove around the corner and there it was, a three storied, red-brick building, covered in ivy, surrounded by what seemed like a private park.
"Wow! Look at that, Dad."
His father smiled at him and seemed very pleased with himself.
"If we lived in a house like that your Mum would spend all day cleaning."
Vinnie laughed.
"I'd get lost. If we lived in a house that big I'd get very lost."
They were met at the front door by a butler who saw them into the drawing room. Tobias Lane joined them, accompanied by his young grandson, Marcus, who was the same age as Vinnie, six and a half. Marcus was tall for his age and very skinny. His elongated, slender limbs contrasted with Vinnie's which were strong and chunky. Tobias suggested that Marcus take Vinnie to see Nanny and then outside to play. Vinnie looked at his father who nodded his agreement with this plan.
The stern Nanny dressed Marcus in a coat, scarf and gloves as she lectured him about the nippy autumn cold and how he wasn't to take these warm things off. Vinnie was watchful and quiet, fascinated by the other boy's confidence and authority. Marcus didn't object, but as soon as they were outside he ripped off the gloves and scarf and stuffed them in his pocket. They wandered down the lawn towards a wooden bridge that spanned the stream flowing into the lake.
"Have you ever played pooh sticks?" Marcus asked.
"No! But I've read the book. You know, The House at Pooh Corner."
Marcus looked at him suspiciously.
"You read it?"
Vinnie hesitated.
"Yeah."
"You mean your mum read it, or Nanny."
Vinnie was puzzled by this, why would an adult read it to you?
"I read it, to mum, we like Milne."
Marcus stopped still.
"You can read? Books like that?"
Could it be that this boy didn't believe him or maybe didn’t read too? Vinnie felt a touch anxious.
"Course. I love reading. Mondays we read Paddington Bear-"
They'd reached the bridge. Marcus swept up a fat twig at his feet.
"Take that one," he commanded, using his twig to point towards a bare stick lying on the river bank. Vinnie picked it up and ran after him onto the bridge where Marcus was already leaning out, stick in hand.
"We throw our sticks into the water. We run to the other side and see whose stick comes out first. Right?"
Vinnie nodded vigorously.
"O.K."
"One…two…THREE!"
As he yelled Marcus threw his stick. Vinnie was a fraction later. They both sprinted to the other side of the bridge. The fat twig was marginally ahead. Marcus punched the air with a clenched fist.
"Yes! I win. Let's do it again."
He ran towards the shrub garden on the far side of the stream. Vinnie hesitated and then followed him. When twilight came and it was too hard to see the twigs floating in the dark water, they chased each other up to the big kitchen and Marcus persuaded the devoted cook to give them coca-cola and lovely warm scones with jam and whipped cream.
Unbeknownst to Vinnie, Tobias Lane had made his father an offer he couldn’t refuse - five times his former salary. Lane had worked with the Kray twins in the 1950s but when their rivalry with the Richardson gang escalated into murder he struck out on his own. The Krays' imprisonment in 1969 left a hole to fill and, as well as all the usual roll call of activities, armed robbery, bookmaking, loan sharking, extortion and protection rackets, drugs, arson, prostitution and fencing stolen goods, he'd begun to branch out into people smuggling, bringing illegal workers into the country and creating an underground workforce. His last accountant had suddenly disappeared and he needed a new one to keep his two sets of books, launder his money offshore and make sure the authorities only got to see the sanitised set.
His only child, Norman, Marcus's father, was a hugely ambitious young man. He seemed anxious to take over the reins of the organisation and make changes, especially to the collection of monies owed. He was not a man to be crossed and he made sure Bert understood the consequences of failure. For the next three and half years Vinnie accompanied his father to the Lane house on a regular basis and played with Marcus. He knew his mother wasn't particularly happy about this client and she never came with them, but, with the innocence of youth, he just accepted it as one of those strange things adults thought sometimes.
"Do you still want to be a pilot?" Marcus asked. They were lying on their backs on the freshly mown lawn, staring up at the clouds. It was a lovely summer day in 1976 and the massive garden around them was in full bloom. Vinnie could hear bees and insects nearby. His tummy was full of fruit pie and cola and he felt content.
"I think so," he said as he traced a pattern in the air with his finger. "You get to see lots of exciting places. I want to travel."
He rolled over and glanced at Marcus. The boy's eyes were closed. That meant he was thinking.
"Do you still want to go into the family business?" Vinnie asked.
Marcus shrugged.
"I guess so. Dad says one day it'll all be mine."
"All what?"
The boy waved his arm in the direction of the house.
"All this. And whatever it is they do. Granddad says they're businessmen… maybe you should become an accountant and you could work for me."
Vinnie pulled a face. Sometimes Marcus assumed too much.
"Why would I want to work for you? Unless you set up an airline."
Marcus opened his eyes, turned and grinned at him.
"Maybe I will and you could fly us all over the world."
Vinnie made swooping motions like a plane with his hand.
"Lane airways...or you could put a P in front of it and make it Plane Airways."
Both boys laughed and the sharp, happy sound echoed around the empty garden.
"If you become a pilot then I promise I'll set up Plane Airways and you can be the chief head pilot."
Vinnie was delighted. Marcus always made such sense and his confident way of treating people, other children, staff, and shop assistants, thrilled Vinnie. No-one ever bullied Marcus and he'd have thumped anyone who tried. What Vinnie saw as bravery were the seeds of cruelty and brutality.
"Vin?"
It was a familiar voice and it made him sit up and then get to his feet. His father was standing on the drive, his briefcase in his hand.
"Time to go, come on." His father sounded impatient in his good natured way.
Vinnie looked down at Marcus who hadn't moved.
"See ya next time," he said.
Marcus nodded.
"Remember what they say, don't take no shit from nobody."
Vinnie laughed happily.
"No shit."
He turned and ran across the lawn towards his father. Marcus pulled himself up on his elbows and watched as Bert put his arm around Vinnie and they walked off together.
A week later Vinnie had been out shopping for new plimsolls and some records with his mother. They'd stopped for ice-cream, walked beside the Serpentine in Hyde Park and come home on the tube. He loved these outings, his mother was a fun person to be with and he hadn’t reached the age where it was considered naff to want to hang out with your mum. They'd sung a favourite song as they'd walked down the street from the tube station to the house. She went in first and he was just inside the front door when he heard her scream. A loud, shrill, scary noise of true terror, despair and anger all mixed together. A noise he'd never heard before. He met her at the door to the room, behind her he could see his father's legs lying at a funny angle on a plastic sheet.
"What-"
"No, Vinnie! No! Come with me."
She was very white and shaking violently but she pushed him backwards. He was too confused to mount any resistance and she slammed the door, grasped his arm and hauled him outside and down the steps.
"What's wrong? Mum? What's happened?" he asked, panic gripping him harder than her hand.
"Just come with me."
She half dragged him down the path and round to the next-door neighbour's house.
"I want you to stay here."
She banged on the door with her fist.
"Why? What's happen-"
The door was opened by Mr Weatherly, the pensioner who lived next door with his wife. He was already in his pyjamas and dressing gown.
"Mrs Ross-"
His mother shoved him at the old man.
"Please take care of him, Jim. Whatever happens, don't let him come back to the house."
Vinnie spun round.
"Please Mum! Just tell me-"
"I have to go."
She was ignoring him and speaking to the surprised neighbour who'd been joined by his wife. The woman reached across him, took Vinnie's arm and drew him inside the doorway.
"Of course we will, Mary, don't you worry about him…come on dear, come and have some lemonade."
The door shut behind him and Vinnie followed her reluctantly. His heart was pounding and his throat felt tight.
The ambulance arrived, followed by the police and, finally, an undertaker. He heard the sirens and the flurry of activity but his guardians wouldn’t even let him go to the window. When his mother finally came back her eyes were red and her ashen face was tear-stained. She hugged him fiercely and her body trembled against his.
"We've always been honest with each other and I'm not going to lie to you now. Your father is dead."
The words hit him like a strong kick in the stomach and it was hard to breath. He'd known something was wrong but he'd accepted what the old couple had said, his father had probably fallen and broken something. She waited for it to sink in. His eyes filled with tears and she took his hands in hers. His voice was small and words were hard to force out.
"How…how did he…die?"
"He shot himself…I know it's hard to understand now, but you will. And we will be O.K. We'll cope together."
Vinnie could feel something he didn’t understand. It seemed to be spreading from his heart and it made his limbs feel numb. Her voice sounded unfamiliar and seemed to be coming from a very long way away. For one thing, he couldn't see how she knew that they'd be O.K. How could anything be O.K. ever again?
Over the next few weeks it became apparent that Bert had been tipped off about a possible surprise audit. His calculations were excellent; his attention to detail meticulous, he'd hidden money very cleverly, but not necessarily cleverly enough to fool the forensic accountants of Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs. So he'd carefully burned all his ledgers and papers in the fireplace of the front room, spread a sheet on the floor to make cleaning up easier and put a bullet through his brain. His note explained that he knew he'd never stand up to intensive questioning and that he'd acted alone, created a double set of accounts, but gambled the extra money away. The essential evidence had been destroyed and Tobias Lane insisted he knew nothing of what his accountant had done.
Mary was completely mortified, she'd suspected Lane was a crooked businessman but she had no idea he'd corrupted her Bert to that extent. Her reaction was to move away and start again. She sold the house and most of their possessions and bought a flat over a shop in Hendon, far away from the scene of her husband's betrayal. Vinnie missed his Dad and Marcus very much, but being close to the RAF museum was a bonus and the irony was not lost on Mary when she discovered they were also very close to the Police College. She used the money Lane had insisted she take to send Vinnie to a public school. He had no way of knowing that if he'd told her about his lie she'd have been immensely relieved.
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CHAPTER TWO
Summer 1982
School and Vinnie went together like oil and water. He'd grown into far too much of a show-off to fit into the rigid public school system. He had no interest in sport and he was too lazy to be overly academic. It was clear that he was quick witted and clever and his teachers were frustrated by their inability to capture his interest. He could play the class clown to perfection, make the other boys laugh with him and that talent saved him from being bullied.
All those years around Marcus had rubbed off and he knew how to lie, cheat and shoplift, but he also knew that the danger lay in getting caught, so he took on the role of Fagin rather than that of The Artful Dodger. His charm and wit enabled him to explain the techniques required for successful thievery in humorous detail and to persuade younger boys to carry out the crimes. He had them completely under his spell. When they brought him their ill gotten gains he smuggled the loot out and took it across the city to Monty Joe, who could sell it in his chain of shops, on the market or down the pub. Vinnie gave the thieves 35% of the proceeds and it proved to be a good little earner. He had over £2000 in a well hidden shoebox by 1982 when the Headmaster laid a trap.
Vinnie was just sixteen but he looked much older, muscular and strong, with thick curly hair, pale blue eyes and a strong face. His father had told him once that he too had a 'Roman nose' and he'd pored over books about famous Romans to find his nose and finally decided it was a good thing. He was growing more like his father as his body matured; sometimes it made his mother draw a sharp breath when he walked into the room.
His own preferred hunting ground was a friend's book stall at the Portobello Road Market and all the punters thought he was a rookie trader. He had a very good line in patter and some cracking first editions, nicked for him from book shops, parental bookcases and the lockers of his rich fellow pupils. One cold Saturday morning he was visited by a middle-aged man wearing a Burberry raincoat.
"Morning, sir. Looking for some classics?"
The man was perusing the books on the table and didn't look up.
"Poetry. I like poetry," he said quietly.
"A very noble gift, being able to write poetry. Anyone in particular? We have some T.S. Elliot, a nice volume of John Donne, Robert Graves if you prefer something mod-"
"Robert Frost. Got any Robert Frost?"
The man looked up and Vinnie could see he was nervous, almost as if he wished he wasn't there. Something deep in Vinnie's brain warned him this was not right.
"Actually I do."
He turned and dug into a box of books on the chair behind him.
"This came in only last week. In the Clearing, published in 62."
He handed the book over and the man's face lit up.
"Excellent! How much do you want for it?"
"It…belongs to my friend. This is his stall. He said not to accept less than fifteen quid."
"Done."
Two days later Vinnie arrived at school and was sent straight to the Headmaster's office. It was a room he was familiar with and he stood silently in front of the huge desk and waited for the elderly man to finish writing. Without looking at him the Headmaster opened a drawer, took out the book of Frost poetry and tossed it onto the desk in front of Vinnie.
"Where did you get this?" he barked.
Vinnie felt a net starting to close around him.
"I'm not sure I know what you mean, sir."
The old man raised his head and fixed his watery brown eyes on Vinnie.
"Then let me explain, young man. I gave this book to my godson, Bartholomew, and told him to brag about it and then leave it in his locker. Sure enough, it was stolen. Last Saturday I sent my neighbour to your stall at the Portobello market and he purchased it for fifteen pounds. How do you explain that?"
Vinnie's expression was one of complete surprise.
"I can't, sir, it's not my stall. I simply look after it sometimes for a friend. And I believe he gets his stock from a pawnbroker."
The Headmaster stared at him for a long moment and Vinnie's expression remained serene. He was less stupid than he appeared, this old man.
"I've called the police; they'll want to take you down to the station for a chat. Consider yourself expelled."
Once again, Mary was mortified; it appeared the acorn had not fallen far from the tree. Vinnie persuaded her that this was just the turn of events he needed and school was cramping his entrepreneurial style. He wanted to be out on his own, living his life and making a crust, so he took a tiny room, with a shared bathroom and communal lounge, in a boarding house in Islington. He remained completely unaware that his gruff old landlady phoned Mary every week to reassure her that he was fine. She still worried that he'd inherited traits that would lead to his downfall but knew it was time to stand aside and let him fly.
He got his own stall at a weekend market and a local lock-up for storage. He drove a delivery van at night for a friend who asked no questions when the odd box went missing, bought pallets of fashion and accessory knock-offs and sold them on through his contacts without ever touching the goods but always taking his cut as he ducked and dived his way through life.
Mary sold up and moved to a small cottage set in a flower garden, down a village lane in Sussex. It was a complete change and she sometimes felt she should ride a bicycle with a wicker basket on the front and wear a straw hat. Her eccentric neighbours all reminded her of characters in Agatha Christie or Caroline Graham novels, but to the best of her knowledge none of them were murderers. She drank at a local pub, The Maypole Inn, and worshiped in a stone church with a Saxon font. It was a peaceful, quintessentially English village life and the only thing she missed about London was Vinnie.
Marcus Lane was also growing up in London and going to school at Mill Hill. He was very tall and thin, but fit and deceptively strong. His natural leadership skills made him popular but his thinly veiled temper got him into trouble. As he matured he learned the lesson of actions and consequences and found boys who were easily led and who would take care of the physical side of discipline and punishment for him. He knew he was feared and respected and he took great satisfaction in living up to his brutal reputation.
When he was sixteen, his life changed in a few moments; his grandfather had a fatal heart attack. He knew his father was with Tobias. What he didn’t know was that Norman sat in a leather chair, smoked a Cuban cigar and drank a fine Port, as the older man lay gasping for breath on the carpet. When he was quite sure Tobias was dead, Norman rang for an ambulance.
After the funeral, Norman, his wife Melissa and Marcus, moved into the grand Richmond home. Melissa fired most of the servants and hired new ones. Norman gave her an open chequebook to redecorate whilst he set about modernising the family business. He also decided it was time Marcus left that 'damn expensive school' and learned his trade.
"But I like school!"
His father glared at him. Norman Lane was a huge man, over six foot six, lean and gaunt, with hands that balled easily into fists. Marcus knew how they felt only too well.
"Bullshit! What use is it going to be to you? Damn history and Latin and geometry crap. You need to learn to shoot well, not for game, at people, with a damn pistol. Learn not to be a hothead. I'm going to put you with Dan and you can start shadowing his clients."
"But-"
"Don't you dare contradict me!," his father roared. Marcus saw the fist clench, bit his lip and said nothing more. Dan McGregor had been his grandfather's second in command and he knew the criminal underworld like the back of his hand. He'd be a hard taskmaster but if you planned a life of crime, there could be no better teacher. Accept the inevitable, that had been his mother's advice, and he had to admit the idea of firing a pistol at real people was just a little bit more exciting than watching thugs kick the crap out of younger boys.
Summer 1992
Two days before Vinnie's twenty-sixth birthday he decided to take a holiday. It was time to get away, far, far away, and cool his heels somewhere exotic. He'd almost been caught with a load of fake Prada, Gucci and Chanel handbags in the lock-up. They were incredibly good fakes and had proved exceptionally popular at £90 each. Then some greedy prick had sold on a few as the real thing, for ten times the price and when the scam was busted, the police got involved. The grapevine had worked just in time and he'd dumped what he had left. There was nothing but hearsay to tie him to the original sales but the DI had made it abundantly clear that he had his eye on the clever, agile young entrepreneur.
At the same time he was offered a dozen bottles of fine wine, in exchange for a bathroom lot of Italian marble tiles off the back of a truck, and they proved to be a superb drinking experience. On the spur of the moment, with a full glass in hand, he decided on a crash course in wine appreciation. He flew to Paris, hired a car and drove slowly through France to Italy, stopping at vineyards and chateaux, sampling at wine shops and questioning anyone who spoke enough English to explain what he was drinking. When he posed as a rep for an importing business, he found the owners were more than happy to talk and ply him with samples.
After six weeks on the road he pulled into an isolated family restaurant in the Tuscan hills and ordered a meal. The view over vineyards and olive groves was spectacular and rustic, a long way from the sterile concrete of the city. He settled back and surveyed the scene as he sipped his Prosecco and nibbled on a plate of antipasto.
"Swap you half this tart for what's left of your pasta."
The voice was American. He turned to his left to observe them, two women in their mid twenties. One was blonde, petite, skinny and deeply tanned. The other was taller, more voluptuous, a brunette with fair skin and green eyes. She had an infectious laugh and although she'd ordered in Italian, it was obvious she was English. Her companion was the Yank. After he finished his antipasto he got up and walked over to them.
"Excuse me for interrupting, but I thought, as the only other English-speaking person here, I would introduce myself. I'm Vinnie Whitney-Ross."
The brunette looked up and smiled.
"You're excused. I'm Anna, Anna Adams, and this is Belinda Miles."
The blonde gave him a small smile and a nod.
"Are you here on holiday?" he asked.
Anna nodded.
"Yep. We've rented a villa down the road, for 10 days. We've just finished a cookery course in Rome. Would you like to join us?"
He saw the slight irritation on Belinda's face but his interest was elsewhere so he chose to ignore it.
"I'd love to. Will you criticise the food I've chosen?"
She laughed.
"Only the dessert, we're both pastry and chocolate chefs."
He waved to the waiter to show him what was happening and fetched his chair. The man brought him new cutlery and his half bottle of Prosecco.
"Dessert is probably the hardest course to match. I'm on a wine trip and food matching has been a fascinating part of the journey."
Belinda waved a forkful of pasta in his direction.
"Depends on the dessert," she said.
"White chocolate crème brûlèe with raspberries - love brûlèe, chocoholic. You do know that chocolate absorbs alcohol in the bloodstream."
Belinda looked at him as if he were an idiot.
"Who told you that?"
"Every chocoholic in the world knows it for a fact. Two of the world's most necessary food groups, wine and alcohol."
Anna shot him a stunning smile and he felt his stomach give a slight heave, like a trough full of butterflies had suddenly been released.
"I was very tempted by that dessert myself," she said, "but I settled on the mousse-"
"An aged Tokaji or a Muscat," Belinda said, "with white chocolate."
There was a slight pause.
"So what prompted a wine trip?" Anna asked.
He settled back in his chair and sipped the wine.
"As W.C. Fields said: 'What contemptible scoundrel stole the cork from my lunch?"
Anna gave a bark of laughter and Belinda looked as if she'd heard the quotation a hundred times before.
"So you're a wine buff?" There was an edge of sarcasm in her question.
"No, I think I'd have to say I'm a wine bluff. But I intend to learn as much as I can, as quickly as I can."
Suddenly Anna looked up and pointed at him.
"Actually, we're going to Castello Banfi tomorrow. There's a museum in the castle and a taverna for lunch and some truly exceptional wines…why don’t you come with us?"
Belinda was about to open her mouth. Vinnie leaned across the table and shook the hand that was still pointing in his direction. He smiled into her eyes. Result.
"Miss Adams I'd be delighted to accept your invitation. You are too, too, kind."
* * * * *
CHAPTER THREE
Summer 1992
It all happened in what seemed like the blink of an eye. They exchanged phone numbers after a day of tasting wine at Castello Banfi and promised to contact each other in England. He didn’t wait, he started calling when she was home and he was still in Europe. He told her what he'd ordered for dessert and asked her what wine he should choose but didn't tell her that dessert was often all he ordered. The conversations got longer and longer and he described what he saw, in Rome, in Naples, at Pompeii and on the island of Sicily. When he couldn't reach her for a whole day, he drove to the nearest airport, handed in the car and flew home to London. Their first night together was his first night back and he didn't leave her house for a week.
Anna Adams was a self-taught chocolatier. She lived in Chelsea in a house left to her by her parents and she made unusual chocolate creations for some of London's top caterers. It was an ideal solution for her, she didn't need her own commercial kitchen, her on-the-job equipment could fit in her car, her clients paid for the ingredients and passed on the costs to the person who'd hired them. She had a chocolate tempering machine at home and a cupboard full of many well tried recipes. The key to her success was her ability to deliver delicate and delicious creations that had people raving about the dessert and the petit fours to the caterer.
She was a little younger than Vinnie, attractive and elegant in an artistic way, voluptuous and sexy, confident enough to wear boldly patterned clothing and lots of chunky jewellery. It was this bohemian chic that first attracted him; she seemed comfortable in her own skin and loved to indulge her passions - chocolate, colour, art, music and, very quickly, her passion for him. She had a rich, deep laugh that reminded him of a chocolate waterfall and they laughed at the same things. They were intellectual equals and the verbal sparring was confirmation for them both that the relationship was strong and stimulating.
When he was, finally, on his own he took a long hard look in the mirror. For the first time in his life he wanted something more than he wanted financial security. He'd had relationships before but as soon as she got serious, he found a reason to run for the door and it'd happened so many times he'd begun to believe that that was his destiny. But this time he was willing to accept, even after one week, that she wouldn't leave him if he could be worthy of her. What would that take? An honest pay packet for an honest job and to keep out of trouble. It was clear she had her own standards of behaviour and she wasn't going to be there to post bail if he got nicked. She'd had a long-term relationship with an alcoholic and had given up hope of him staying sober; she knew what she didn't want.
He spent a whole night wandering aimlessly around his city, through the parks to the theatre district, down to the river and across a bridge, thinking and working out what he'd have to give up and where he'd turn to get a job. It wasn't an easy decision; the life he led was the only life he'd known. So what was he good at? Selling stuff to people, convincing them that they needed what he could provide. What did he enjoy talking about most? Wine. Where did people like him go for wine? The Wine Warehouse! He had the passion, he'd tasted some spectacular wines and he had the kind of brain that retained facts and dates. All he had to do was bluff until his knowledge caught up with his bravado and persuade the manager of his local branch of The Wine Warehouse to give him a job. Simple!
The next day he paid his neighbour to be a customer and take notes on all the bottles prominently displayed and then he hurried to the library and researched that wine in books. When he was ready he marched into the shop and dazzled the manager with his knowledge about all the best wines and how he'd sell them. He was hired on the spot. An hour into his first day he was arranging bottles of Chianti when he felt a light tap on his shoulder. He spun round to find Anna standing in front of him, a list in her hand.
"I was wondering if you could help me. I need some wine to go with a chocolate dessert. For a very exclusive dinner party."
Her green eyes danced mischievously at him. He glanced over to where his new boss flicked through a magazine and watched him furtively.
"Certainly madam, what kind of chocolate?" he asked.
"Valrhona. I'm a chocolatier."
He paused for a moment and looked at the shelves.
"Which Valrhona are you using?"
She raised her eyebrows in genuine surprise.
"The recipe has three different components, all Grands Cru. The truffle is Le Noir, slightly acidic and intensely chocolate, lovely soft, spicy notes, but a definite aftertaste, some would call it bitterness."
Vinnie nodded thoughtfully.
"And the other two?"
"Err, Jivara, very creamy, tastes of vanilla with a malt finish. And Araguani, raisins, chestnuts and liquorice, intense, long palate."
"Which is the dominant flavour? Which one do you want to match?"
She shook her head slightly in amazement and smiled at him.
"The log is the centre piece and that's the Araguani."
He studied the shelves.
"I was going to suggest a Californian Zinfandel, relatively new here and quite scarce, but very drinkable…but there'd be too much competition between the chocolate and the wine."
As he spoke he gestured for her to follow him across the shop.
"So instead, I'd go for a Cabernet Sauvignon or a Pinot Noir or perhaps even a vintage Port….a Cab Sav should have some Syrah in it, which will give you raisin, cinnamon, liquorice notes."
They stopped beside the French red wine section. He pulled a bottle out and handed it to her. His expression was very serious.
"Chateau Saint Esteve d'Uchaux, Vieille Vignes. All you need to know is that it's sixty per cent Syrah and forty percent Grenache and comes from vines that are forty-five years old."
She turned the bottle over in her hand.
"How much, per bottle?"
He smiled at her.
"How many do you need? Five glasses per bottle."
"Ah…three. No, better make it four."
"Can be up to 800 quid a bottle in some places, we'll sell you four bottles for £2000."
"And it's worth that?"
"It's worth double that, it'll make your dessert sing like Callas."
She nodded and gave him back the bottle.
"Done. Can I pay by credit card? Callenders, they're one of London's best known catering companies."
He took another three from the rack and gestured towards the counter.
"Certainly madam, right this way. Let me give you one of our special customer cards. Then we'll know you have a discerning palate. "
As they returned to the counter the boss beamed at him and walked away.
When he was almost certain it would make no difference, Vinnie told her the truth about his father, his schooling, his life before Europe and his ever so close brushes with the law. She sat and watched him and said nothing until he was finished. Then she took his hand in hers.
"Wow, that's not what I expected at all...and you gave up all that because you met me?"
He nodded. He knew his eyes betrayed his anxiety.
"And I got a job."
"I know! But you do enjoy it, don’t you?" she asked.
"Absolutely! So far it's been great."
She had to smile at that, he was like a puppy sometimes.
"But what if you get bored? It's the same thing, day in and day out and that's not what you're used to-"
"It's a stepping stone. I already have plans for my own business, but I need to do my basic training. I need to learn what customers want."
She put a hand up and stroked his face.
"I'm amazed that you've changed all that for me. I don't know what to say… except thank you for being honest about the past. I think we're off to a great start."
The next weekend he took Anna to Sussex to meet Mary. They got on very well from the first moment. Mary saw the change in her son that she'd been waiting years to see. He couldn't take his eyes off this tall, statuesque woman who laughed at his jokes and could meet his verbal wit head on.
Six months later they were married in the little stone church with the Saxon font. He was twenty-six and she was twenty-four. It was 1993 and the world was in a hedonistic whirl. Anna had no parents and didn’t want a fancy wedding, she invited her brothers and sisters and some of them came. The wine was a major part of the celebration and the cause of much hilarity between bride and groom. Vinnie explained each new vintage as it was opened and proclaimed it more wonderful than the last. Anna created a chocolate wedding cake that drew a round of applause when it was unveiled. Eventually the day was over and Vinnie and Anna left for a few days honeymoon in Paris. Mary sat in her lounge and cried with happiness. At last the spell of the past, the curse of the Lanes, the devastation wrought by her husband's stupidity, had been broken. For twenty years she was right.
* * * * *
CHAPTER FOUR
Winter 2012
Vinnie looked up from his graphic novel and smiled as he questioned his wife.
"And what is it today, dear? Bovril and tomato? Soy and mascarpone? Really, I should get danger money."
He sat in a deck chair beside his stall in the Covent Garden market. She stood over him and frowned back in mock disapproval, a plastic tray of round chocolate balls in her hand. Her green eyes glittered at him.
"Oh, very funny. My concoctions go down a treat with discerning punters."
He dropped the graphic novel into his lap and investigated the balls by poking at them and making them roll around on the tray. He did this because he knew it annoyed her.
"Maybe they should get danger money" he said as he closed his eyes and she slipped a ball into his open mouth. The first hit was intense chocolate and the next made his eyes open in surprise.
"Ah let me see, tonight Matthew, I can taste…basil?"
She punched the air with her free hand.
"Yes! Sweet basil. Try another one."
He shook his head vigorously.
"Not until you tell me what they are. I need my taste buds-"
She pointed to each ball as she identified them.
"Ginger and wasabi for the Japanese, pink peppercorn, lime and chilli, smoked Earl Grey tea, salted caramel and Pinot Noir."
He took the last one she pointed to and held it up.
"You could've started with the best one first, silly woman."
"It's got some of that New Zealand wine-"
He pretended to choke.
"You put Crystal Creek Pinot into a chocolate? You philistine!"
She gave a gasp of mock astonishment and put the tray in his hand.
"All this time I thought you were just a wine snob, but you’re actually a full blown wine nerd."
He looked up at her out of the corner of his eye and grinned. It was definitely a game day.
"I keep a pipette in my pocket."
She emitted a short bark of laughter and covered her mouth with her hand to smother it.
"I'm not sure that's the most flattering term for it, my darling."
He popped another ball into his mouth. Round one to him.
"And here's me about to compliment your salted caramel…I'd pay real money for this one."
Vinnie's cart was built like a miniature gypsy caravan, with a side that opened up, shelves that folded out and big hooks on the poles that supported the roof. A sign read "Vin Extraordinaire" in a flowing script and the contents on display included decorated wine glasses, books, wine stoppers, corkscrews, wine racks etc. It was an extension of his real job, sourcing and supplying fine wine to wealthy clients, but he enjoyed it and he made contacts. Anna's cart stood next door, it was identical in structure, her sign read "Anna's Chocolate Pot" in the same script and her wares were edible and delicious, handmade truffles and chocolates, racks of chocolate bars, moulded shapes in chocolate, dipped fruit etc.
A couple strolled slowly across the empty Piazza towards the two stalls. The man was older and the woman was a trophy. Vinnie stood up and smiled broadly at them. Time to perform.
"Morning, my lovelies. Would you like to try a really unusual chocolate?"
They gave him a confused shake of the head. He put down the tray and picked up a pack of china cocktail mats, painted with wine bottles and grapes.
"Genuine china, Italian made. Very classy, good value too. Only a tenner."
The busty blonde took them from him.
"Gosh, feel 'em, Ronnie! 'eavier than they look!"
"Aren’t we all, my lovely? Special treat, for today only, they come with a song. Where else would you get service like that?"
The long painted fingernails clinked against the china as she turned them over. Her companion picked up a book on French wine and looked at Vinnie.
"Does this come with a song?" he asked.
New money, desperate to impress, reads wine magazines, wants a top class cellar and doesn't know a cork from a screwcap, Vinnie's bread and butter. He shrugged dramatically.
"Go on, you've twisted my arm."
The blonde held out the mats towards her husband.
"I really like 'em, Ronnie. They'd go beautiful on that new coffee table it's Italian too."
She turned to Vinnie and smiled sheepishly.
"Cost a lot more than a tenner."
Vinnie winked at her.
"Worth it though. Is it marble?"
"Yeah, it is! How'd you know that?"
He shrugged. Hooked.
"You look like someone who knows the best when she sees it. Italian marble, it's the best."
Her husband hesitated and then nodded.
"Go on then, the book and whatever it is Barbara wants for her damn table. But I want that song!"
Vinnie beamed, took a card from his top pocket and handed it over.
"If you ever want any help sourcing fine wine, sir, I'm your man. Vinnie Whitney-Ross, best labels, best prices."
The man took the card gratefully and read it. Landed.
"Thanks very much, Vinnie. I'll be in touch."
Vinnie spread his arms wide and sang the first verse of "Little Ole Wine Drinker Me" a capella in a rich baritone voice. At the conclusion he took the blonde's manicured hand and raised it to his lips. She gave an excited giggle and all the people in the vicinity applauded.
"Gosh, you should be inside, busking with one of 'em CD players!"
Anna wagged her finger at the woman.
"Oh, stop encouraging him!"
The blonde turned and glared at her.
"Don't be mean, he deserves encouragement! Thank you, Vinnie, for being so lovely singing to me."
On a late winter evening Vinnie and Anna strolled hand in hand through Richmond Park. Gently rolling green hills flowed in every direction as they walked along a dirt track towards a stand of bare trees, the branches stark against a leaden sky. Anna carried a dog lead in her free hand and Vinnie, a plastic bag in his.
He was now forty-six, just under six foot, still a muscular, heavy-set build. He smiled and laughed a lot, people warmed to him quickly and he liked to be the centre of attention. Part of it was a defence mechanism, if they laugh with you, they won’t laugh at you. He had a soul that loved music, art and wine, with a creative flair that Anna had brought to life.
The fact that she didn’t have a maternal bone in her body had surprised him, she was empathetic with most people and kids were naturally drawn to a chocolatier. She'd remained firm on the issue, she didn't mind his past, she was available, but kids were not. He found it amazingly easy to agree and they came to a compromise that suited them both. The newest compromise bounded up to them, its tail wagging furiously, a chocolate lab puppy called Merlot. It was the one name he'd suggested that didn't immediately sound like a wine label. They stopped and both patted the dog with obvious affection then watched as it raced off. Deer were grazing in an open field and their heads shot up in alarm as Merlot ran between a stand of trees.
* * * * *
CHAPTER FIVE
The Golden Circle was an underground supper club and cocktail lounge with a hazy, loud atmosphere, lots of coloured lighting and, occasionally, clouds of dry ice. At one end of the elongated space tables and chairs were scattered around the periphery of a packed, under-lit dance floor. A huge mock-candle crystal chandelier swung above the dancers. The five-piece band played on the slightly raised stage and rock music boomed from the speakers which were partially hidden by heavy velvet drapery. At the other end of the room people were drinking and flirting, clustered around a circular gold-coloured Perspex bar. One long wall was lined with deep booths filled with men in ill-fitting suits conducting business hidden from view.
Vinnie sat at a table and sipped a glass of water as his gaze swept from the dance floor to the bar and back again. He supplied the wine for the club and had an informal arrangement with the owner, David Kelt, which meant he spent three nights a week chatting about wine and encouraging people to try the more expensive bottles. He found new clients amongst the patrons on a regular basis and it allowed Kelt to advertise a discerning wine list. He could also spot trouble before it erupted and give a wink to the bouncers who sorted it out. Kelt knew he was an observer, a wise and experienced head who'd made it to the peaceful harbour of an honest living.
Anna was squeezing her way through the crowd of people. As she reached the table he stood and kissed her.
"So sorry, my love," she said, "the traffic was crazy."
She sounded stressed and tired. He rubbed her arm, pulled out a chair and she slumped gratefully into it.
"You're in perfect time, she's the real star."
He indicated towards a red-headed woman, dressed in Western gear, on stage, busy lowering the microphone and preparing to sing.
"Oh please! How many dying dogs and abandoned lovers can she fit into a three- song set?"
Vinnie laughed.
"You'd be surprised. Do you want a drink?'
"Is it one of yours?"
An affectionate gesture of understanding passed between them.
"Absolutely, only the best for our VIPs. With an obscene mark up-"
A tall, rake-thin man put his bony hand on Vinnie's shoulder and leaned down to whisper in his ear.
"Mr Kelt wants to see you in his office, as soon as you're free, sir."
Vinnie nodded and stood up.
"I'll just get Anna a drink-"
"I'm quite capable of looking after myself!" she said indignantly.
Vinnie winked at her.
"It won't hurt him to wait and I'm supposed to be encouraging the clients to drink."
"But they're supposed to pay for it!"
David Kelt sat behind a huge polished desk and wrote figures into a black leather notebook with a fountain pen. He took care to write slowly and create perfectly rounded numbers. He was in his late sixties, rotund, with a thick head of grey hair, an impressive moustache and a face flushed by the regular intake of fine wine. The thin man stacked several bundles of bank notes into a very full wall safe. As Vinnie appeared the man rapidly closed it up, punched numbers into an electronic keypad and swung an oil painting back against the wall, covering the safe. Vinnie coughed.
"You wanted to see me, David?" he asked.
Kelt closed the notebook, looked up and smiled broadly.
"Got time for a drop of the good stuff?"
"Always!"
David motioned for the other man to leave as he went to the sideboard and poured two glasses of red from a delicate crystal decanter.
"It's that '85 Grand Vin de Chateau Latour, from the auction…a great year."
Vinnie sat down and accepted the wine. His eyes glistened as he held the glass up to the light. God, I love my job, he thought to himself.
"Thank you…Indeed it was! A very hot, dry summer. Harvest was between September 30th and October 11th, with light rain between October 4th and 9th.."
His voice trailed off and David smiled and cocked his head to one side. Vinnie shrugged with embarrassment.
"I have that kind of brain, when I read about harvests, tasting notes, reviews, it just sticks there."
"Don't apologise, it must be something of an advantage. I've been meaning to ask you. Israeli reds, any you'd recommend?"
Vinnie raised an eyebrow.
"One or two, why?"
"I tried a Syrah at a dinner party. Seahorse, or something like that. Rich, intense, peppery, a real surprise."
Vinnie nodded and sipped the wine. He let it roll around in his mouth and then swallowed slowly.
"Dear Lord, that's good! One you should definitely try…Flam brothers, from the Judean Hills of Upper Galilee. Golan is a Master of Wine and Gilad is the businessman. Their father, Israel Flam, was the chief winemaker for Carmel, Israel's largest winery. He was a pioneer in Israeli winemaking and the boys are a credit to him. Superb reds. Merlot reserve, Cab Sav reserve, but the star is the Syrah, just exquisite."
David took a long sip of the wine and also savoured it.
"Maybe a mixed case? To start."
Vinnie nodded. This departure from a lifetime devotion to French reds was something he'd been trying to foster. There was so much more to sample if he could just get his clients to take a chance.
"Excellent! I'll drop it round tomorrow night. Nice to see you experimenting."
David beamed at him and raised his glass.
"Live dangerously, Vinnie. Your palate will thank you."
* * * * *
CHAPTER SIX
It took Ronnie and Barbara two days to get back in touch after their purchases at the market. Vinnie's website, also called "Vin Extraordinaire", listed his services and amongst them was a page called 'Wine Match.' What he offered was a consultation. If you were having an important party, anniversary, birthday, wedding, product launch, anywhere where quality and flair were important, you told him your menu and he suggested exciting and impressive wines matched to the ingredients in each course and, naturally, supplied everything he recommended. He offered bubbles, red and white wine, boutique beer and non-alcoholic choices, and could match any cuisine. Ronnie and Barbara were having an anniversary party for clients and friends and they wanted wine that would surprise.
Vinnie sat on an over-stuffed sofa and scrutinised the menu Barbara had just handed him. She was wearing a one-piece lounge suit in a very loud bird print, a vivid green turban, a stack of thin gold bracelets on each arm and two rings on each of her eight fingers and two thumbs. Vinnie couldn't help but wonder what knock-offs he'd have been able to sell her in his former life.
"So, Vinnie, what you think of the food?" she asked anxiously.
He looked up at her and shook his head with genuine surprise.
"Beautiful, my lovely."
She smiled, the relief rippling across the part of her face that wasn't botoxed.
"I chose it from all the lists 'em caterers sent round. But their wines were all French. Ronnie wants some of that new stuff everybody's talkin' about."
Vinnie nodded.
"New World. Australia, New Zealand, Chile, Argentina, South Africa, America."
"Really? All 'em countries make wine? Well I never."
"I think you should go with some of my favourites, from New Zealand. That trio of salmon to start? The roulade and the vodka-cured salmon in particular, need a crisp, strong, gutsy wine....a lovely Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc."
She watched him with a mixture of fascination and thinly veiled desire.
"Got any samples?"
He winked at her.
"Of course, in the car. Got any smoked salmon?"
She smiled and touched his knee with her long green talons.
"Of course, in the fridge."
Mayfair at twilight was a beautiful sight, Vinnie thought as he sat in his car and watched people walking down the wide pavements. Some were exercising dogs and others were hurrying home, laden with carrier bags or briefcases. He could see yellow beams of light from cracks between curtains in several of the bay windows. The cars were expensive, shiny, almost daring someone to try and break into them. This was the London he loved, peopled by those who knew how to enjoy the finer things in life. He sighed deeply and turned to Merlot who sat on the passenger seat beside him.
"How many wine cellars do you think there are in this street alone, boy? How many bottles of Petrus just waiting for a corkscrew?"