Perfect Strangers

‘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 sûr, 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 Châteauneuf-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.

27

It wasn’t until Ruth was halfway to the tube that she realised she didn’t know where she was going. After the telephone call with Jeanne, she had packed up her stuff, waved to Chuck and told him she was heading home – but which home exactly? Her cosy one-bedroom flat in Islington with its uneven floors, messy bookcases and heating turned up full blast? Or David’s sterile, pin-neat bachelor pad? She

hadn’t spoken to David since she had stormed out the previous morning; she couldn’t even really remember what that argument had been about. Maybe they had moved in together too quickly, she thought. But then they had been dating for two years; wasn’t that long enough to know if you wanted to be with someone?

Oh, this is ridiculous, she scolded herself as she ran down the station steps and clunked through the barrier. You’re forty-one years old. Extend the olive branch, be the bigger person.