26
Cannes was having one of its hottest days of the summer. In the harbour, the gleaming white yachts gently bumped together while the Mediterranean twinkled in approval, as if a thousand diamonds from one of the smarter jewellers on the quayside had been sprinkled over the tide. Sophie wound down the window of their taxi and closed her eyes, feeling the breeze in her hair, the taste of the sea on her tongue – she felt as if she was coming awake after a very long sleep. It was a day that made you feel glad to be alive, but for Sophie that feeling took on a quite literal meaning. She was still shell-shocked from their brush with the Russians and absolutely furious with herself for putting them both in danger.
Josh was obviously unhappy too. He had been silent for most of the forty-minute journey from the outskirts of Nice – still fuming from her revelation in the back of the van – and not even the sight of the bright Riviera streets, hemmed in by happy holidaymakers and chic residents on both sides, was enough to make him smile.
The taxi stopped at a crossing to allow a tall, beautiful woman in a leopard-print bikini to pass. She was wearing five-inch heels and was carrying a tiny dog in a Louis Vuitton holdall.
‘I’m not sure Cannes has heard about the global recession,’ said Sophie, trying to lighten the mood.
‘Russians,’ said Josh flatly as an image of the stony-faced hit men jumped into her mind. ‘The West might be in a recession, but for lots of countries these are boom times. Ten years ago this place was full of the wealthy French and a sprinkling of the Euro elite; now they call the Riviera “Moscow on Sea”.’
His expression softened as he pointed to the swish shops and hotels all along the Croisette. ‘I bet you every one of those places has someone who speaks Russian these days. They can’t afford not to.’
At the harbour, the taxi turned away from the sea and into the old town, stopping on a narrow lane faced on both sides by little boutiques and cafés, a high-rent area for wealthy patrons with sports cars and Range Rovers parked at the meters.
‘Are you sure this is the place?’ Sophie asked Josh as they paused across the road from a wine shop with an arty display of fine champagne in the window. It had an ornate wooden frontage with carved stone pillars either side of the door; there was even scrolled gold lettering on the glass: M. Durand, Wine Merchant. It looked formal, establishment – the last place, in fact, you would expect to be a front for criminal activity.
‘A lot of things are not all they appear on the surface,’ said Josh, ‘I thought you would have worked that out by now.’
Sophie began to object, but then bit her lip. She really had no wish to provoke an argument, especially as she was still feeling so guilty about what had happened in Nice. But still, she felt nervous – intimidated, even – about going inside such a grand-looking shop.
‘What are we going to say in there?’ she asked.
‘You aren’t going to say anything,’ said Josh.
‘Of course, I’m not allowed to do anything,’ she said tartly. ‘But what are you going to say to him?’
‘Give me your purse.’
Sophie frowned. ‘Josh, I asked you a question.’
‘Give me your purse,’ he repeated. Reluctantly she handed it over and watched as he took something out and put it in his pocket.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked, but he was already crossing the road and Sophie could only follow.
If the exterior of M. Durand’s establishment had looked exclusive, the inside was forbidding. There was a pyramid of Cristal champagne at one end of the shop, signs – as Josh had predicted – written in Russian, and a whole wall devoted to the finest red wines, their labels proudly pointing outwards for inspection. Not that you were actually supposed to touch anything, that much was clear. These wines were presented as if they were artworks, their green bottles sculptures in a museum.
‘May I help you?’ said a pinched forty-something man in heavily accented English. His black eyebrows rose as if to signify that he found the idea extremely unlikely.
Josh took the business card that had been in Sophie’s purse moments earlier and deliberately put it on the counter, facing the man.
‘Detective Inspector Ian Fox,’ he said. ‘From Scotland Yard in London. I imagine you’ve heard of it?’
Sophie saw the man’s manner immediately change. His initial self-possession melted away and he became instantly more compliant and eager to please. She imagined that a Russian wielding a chequebook would have had a similar effect.
‘Please, give me one moment,’ he said, walking behind them to lock the door and turn the ‘Ouvert’ sign to ‘Fermé’ before pulling down the blinds.
‘We can talk more privately now,’ he said slowly. ‘I am Monsieur Durand, the proprietor of this establishment. How can I help you?’
Josh cut straight to the chase.
‘I’m investigating the death of Nick Beddingfield,’ he said. ‘You do know Mr Beddingfield?’
There was a brief, telling pause as if Monsieur Durand did not know which way to jump.
‘Yes, I know him. Not well, but our paths have crossed through my business.’
‘Well not any more,’ said Josh. ‘He was murdered in London on Monday.’
Monsieur Durand made a tutting sound.
‘Terrible,’ he said. ‘Do you know who killed him?’
‘Someone violent, ruthless.’
Josh let the words hang in the air. Sophie couldn’t help but admire his performance. Forget the knock-off perfume and the vintage watches; Josh McCormack could easily have had a successful career as an actor – he had that chameleon-like ability to inhabit a part, so you completely believed what he was saying.
‘That is a shame,’ said Monsieur Durand, regaining his composure. ‘But I don’t understand why you are telling me this.’
‘We are looking into every aspect of Mr Beddingfield’s life, monsieur. His personal life, his business affairs, everything. You dealt with him as a supplier of fine wines, I assume?’
Monsieur Durand shrugged.
‘I get my stock from multiple sources. Auction houses, private cellars, other retailers, but yes, I occasionally dealt with Monsieur Beddingfield.’
Josh leant forward on the counter, meeting Monsieur Durand’s eye.
‘I’ll come straight to the point, monsieur. We have evidence that Mr Beddingfield was supplying you with counterfeit wine.’
‘Counterfeit wine?’ The Frenchman’s eyes opened as wide as an owl’s. ‘That’s impossible!’
‘Impossible?’ repeated Josh, casually turning his gaze towards the wall of lovingly displayed wine. ‘Really? So I take it you can personally vouch for every single bottle on these shelves?’
‘I run a respectable business . . .’ spluttered the proprietor. ‘And I resent the implication.’
Sophie was no expert in non-verbal communication or the ‘tells’ that signified lying, but she was fascinated to see two small triangles of colour appear on Monsieur Durand’s cheeks even as he protested his innocence.
‘Let me tell you what I know about the counterfeit wine business,’ said Josh, slowly. ‘I know it’s booming. I know that some collectors who suspect bottles in their cellar to be fake would rather quietly offload the wine to unscrupulous dealers than make a song and dance about it and frighten the market. I think you are such a dealer, Monsieur Durand, and that you also accepted supplies from Mr Beddingfield without asking too much about their provenance.’
Durand’s face was now bright red with anger.
‘What do you want, Inspector?’ he snapped. ‘Are you suggesting that I am in some way involved in his death?’
Josh smiled and shook his head.
‘Here’s the good news, Monsieur Durand. I’m not investigating wine fraud. I’m part of Scotland Yard’s murder squad and all I care about is finding who killed Mr Beddingfield.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘However, I do have a friend at Interpol who might be very interested in examining your stock. I understand they can get a court order allowing them to open every bottle in your warehouse, should the mood take them.’
Sophie knew that Josh was bluffing, but Durand looked stricken, his face pale.
‘We know Nick Beddingfield had a business partner,’ said Josh. ‘Now all I need from you is a name.’
‘I really don’t know—’
Josh slammed his hand down on the counter, causing Durand to jerk backwards as if he had been slapped.
‘A name,’ he repeated.
Durand hesitated for a moment, then his shoulders sagged.
‘Sandrine Bouvier.’
From the way the little man said the name, it was obvious they were supposed to recognise it. He looked from Josh to Sophie and back again.
‘She is one of the greatest living winemakers,’ he frowned. ‘Do you not know this?’
‘I’m more of a beer man myself,’ said Josh. ‘Although Officer Ellis here enjoys a tipple, don’t you?’
‘Have you ever sampled a glass of Pétrus or a Romanée-Conti?’ asked Durand.
‘A bit out of my price range,’ said Sophie, imagining herself as a police constable who’d buy her Chardonnay in Sainsbury’s rather than dabble in a ￡1,500 bottle of Burgundy.
Durand walked over to a case and picked up a bottle, cradling it like a precious jewel.
‘Wines like this are so expensive because they are so difficult to produce. The soil, the weather, the winemaker’s technique, that’s what separates the premier grand cru from an ordinary village wine. Which is why I was not sure that Monsieur Nick’s wines were counterfeit.’
Josh frowned.
‘They were real?’
Durand carefully placed the bottle on the counter.
‘One day Nick brought me the most exquisite Cheval Blanc. If he had brought me only one bottle, I would have been convinced. But he had a dozen bottles of a very rare vintage, Inspector – so I asked him where he got them.’
‘And?’
‘He refused to tell me,’ said Durand bitterly, as if reliving the moment. ‘But I could not rest. I needed to know where they had come from; it became an obsession. Oui, bien s?r, this winemaker was a criminal, but they were also a genius. So I started to follow him.’
He looked up, his eyes glistening. ‘And I found my answer: Sandrine Bouvier was his lover.’
Sophie struggled to keep her face expressionless. She was beyond feeling betrayed, but even so, no woman wanted to hear that she was just another conquest, just one of an endless procession of lovers dotted around Europe like pins in a map.
‘And Sandrine Bouvier is a renowned winemaker?’
A look of dismay and contempt passed across Durand’s face.
‘The best. She and her husband own a respected vineyard in the Chateauneuf-du-Pape area.’
‘Okay, so this Sandrine was having an affair with Nick Beddingfield,’ said Josh, ‘but that doesn’t mean she was involved in the counterfeit business.’
Durand wagged his finger impatiently.
‘No, no, Inspector,’ he said. ‘It is the only explanation. Nick’s wine could only have been made by someone great, an expert blender. Sandrine is such a person, trained in Saint-émilion, in one of the great estates. She is a wonderful winemaker, a genius, one of the few who could blend such a delicious nectar.’
He took a business card from a holder on the counter and wrote an address on the back with a flourish. ‘That is the name of her estate. It’s in Provence, perhaps an hour’s drive.’
He paused as he handed over the card.
‘Please do not mention my name, Inspector. The estate is a good client of mine. A legitimate client.’
Josh grunted non-committally, as if he was thinking of something else.
‘So tell me, if these wines are so convincing, how can you tell the difference?’
Durand smiled smugly.
‘Only a man with a sophisticated palate like mine, with years of experience in the trade, would know.’
He touched the bottle on the counter.
‘Believe me, Inspector, this is an exquisite wine, counterfeit or not.’
‘This one?’ said Josh, picking it up and examining the label. ‘How much?’
‘Five thousand euros,’ smiled Durand. ‘That is beyond the salary of a policeman, no?’
‘Perhaps, Monsieur Durand,’ said Josh flatly. ‘But it is also illegal.’
Nodding to Sophie, he turned towards the door, still carrying the bottle.
‘But . . . you can’t take that, monsieur!’ protested Durand. ‘It is my livelihood.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ said Josh, flipping the sign back to ‘Ouvert’. ‘Evidence. You have a nice day.’
And they walked out into the sunshine.