Perfect Strangers (23 page)

‘Wow, what a place.’

At once elegant and relaxed, it was tastefully and expensively furnished with antiques – matched Chinese vases sat on a walnut bombe chest painted with gold roses, and a white marble fireplace dominated the room. There were intricate parquet floors and gilt-framed carved mirrors on the white walls, making it seem even bigger than it was. Sophie walked over to a pair of double doors that opened on to a balcony overlooking Paris.

‘Oh my goodness, look at the view!’ she gasped. She could see the Quai d’Orléans and the two towers of Notre Dame stretching into the powder-blue sky and a Bateau Mouche chugging along the moss-green waters of the Seine. She could picture Nick having his morning coffee on the terrace, watching the world go by, smiling at his luck. It suited Nick, this place, she thought sadly, it really did.

‘This isn’t an open-house viewing, princess,’ said Josh. ‘And there’s a decent chance someone heard the racket of us breaking in, so I think we’d better do what we came to do, don’t you?’

She knew he was right. ‘So what are we supposed to be looking for, exactly?’

‘Anything that might tell us what Nick was up to, why someone might be after him and what they think you know.’

‘Not much, then,’ said Sophie, pulling a face.

‘Do your best.’

She moved over to a writing desk covered with an old-fashioned blotter and opened a drawer. It was filled with papers: bills, letters, a bank statement. Sophie’s eyes widened.

‘Look at this,’ she said. ‘
La comtesse
’s bank account.’ She had never seen so many figures on a statement.

‘Come on, Sophie, focus,’ said Josh impatiently, putting the sheet back in the drawer. ‘We’re not here to snoop, we’re here to find out about Nick.’

‘Well there’s nothing about him in this desk,’ said Sophie defiantly. She looked down at the empty space where a laptop might have sat. ‘Wouldn’t he have had a computer?’

Josh shook his head. ‘Yes, but most likely he took it to London.’

‘So why are we here, then?’

‘Because we’re not trying to find evidence, we’re trying to find traces of his life. The places he went, the people he spoke to.’

He looked around the apartment thoughtfully.

‘Just look around,’ he said. ‘There’s wine on the side in the kitchen, there are clothes hanging in the wardrobe; Nick didn’t leave in a hurry and he was clearly planning on coming back. So he’ll have left something – somewhere – which can point us in the right direction.’

Sophie walked over to the mantelpiece and picked up a lacquered photo frame.

‘Is this her?’ she said.

It was an old picture, in colour, but that oversaturated and slightly faded colour you saw in photographs from the sixties and seventies. The woman in the picture was undeniably beautiful. But more than that, proud and upright, somehow. Sophie didn’t need Josh to tell her this was the countess.

‘Hey,’ said Josh softly, taking the picture from her. ‘Make it easy on yourself, okay? It was just a transaction for him, believe me.’

‘Not exactly reassuring,’ she said sadly. ‘I’m sure he’d have said the same about me if you’d asked.’

They went back to work, Josh taking the bedroom, Sophie going through the bookshelves in the living room and the bathroom cabinets. She found nothing; in fact, beyond a razor sitting by the sink, there was little to show that Nick had ever been here.

‘Come through to the bedroom,’ called Josh. ‘I’ve got a job for you.’

He was standing at the open wardrobe going through Nick’s suits.

‘Can you sort through those?’ he said, nodding towards the bed. It was covered with receipts, business cards, random bits of paper Josh had found in the pockets of Nick’s clothes.

Sophie sat cross-legged on the bed and went through them. There were ticket stubs, restaurant bills, scribbled notes; she read each one out loud.

‘One from Monte Carlo, Avignon, Beaulieu-sur-Mer, Cannes . . .’ she read. ‘A load from Paris. Look, there’s even an invoice for a “diamond necklace, 2,400 euros”.’

‘Obviously trying to keep the countess sweet,’ said Josh, looking up.

‘Or someone else,’ said Sophie.

There was nothing specific, but Josh was right, it did begin to paint a picture of where Nick had been over the past few months, the sort of places he had been visiting.

‘So we know he’s been to the South of France a lot, and not just to visit the countess in Monaco,’ said Josh. ‘And we can tell he’s had money. A lot of Michelin stars in those restaurants, no McDonald’s Happy Meals for Nick.’

‘But isn’t that the way he always operated? I mean, he had the nicest clothes, the suite at the Riverton, he didn’t live in a tent.’

Josh shook his head.

‘It’s boom or bust in the con game. Sometimes you’re up, sometimes you’re down. Yes, he had to maintain the appearance of being a wealthy oil trader, that’s true. But according to these receipts, it looks like he actually was flush.’

‘So?’

‘So whatever he was doing was working. Maybe he didn’t need your money after all . . . Or I could be completely wrong, I really don’t know.’

He rubbed his eyes.

‘Well, I don’t know about you, but I could do with a drink.’

‘I saw some wine in the wardrobe.’ She smiled.

‘In the wardrobe?’ queried Josh.

He went to take a look. Sure enough, there were two bottles on the shelf and a further box of the stuff by Nick’s shoes.

‘I know next to nothing about wine, but as our friend Nick was not a man to scrimp on the luxuries, I’m guessing this will be half-decent.’

‘It is,’ confirmed Sophie, taking the bottle off him. ‘This is a Romanée-Conti, one of the best red wines money can buy.’

Josh looked up in surprise. ‘You know about that stuff?’

‘Chelsea girls can’t afford to look stupid at dinner parties,’ she said tartly.

She bent down and opened the brown box on the floor. It was full of bottles with the same mottled label.

‘That’s strange,’ she said, picking up another bottle. ‘More Romanée-Conti. Loads of it.’

Josh shrugged.

‘As you say, he always liked the finer things in life.’

‘But this wine is vintage and very rare. You’d be lucky to find one bottle, let alone twelve.’

She twisted the bottle round to show him the label.

‘Look what it says here.’

‘Appellation Romanée-Conti Contrôlée?’ read Josh, a confused look on his face. ‘It’s all Greek to me.’

‘The AOC is just a standard phrase to show where the bottle originated. In this case, it’s Romanée-Conti in Burgundy.’

‘You do know your stuff,’ said Josh, but Sophie shook her head.

‘Actually it doesn’t really matter what it means; what’s funny is the word “contrôlée” – look. It’s missing the accent on the first “e”.’

‘So?’

‘Well, it’s wrong. A top vineyard like this wouldn’t get something like that wrong.’ She picked up the first bottle Josh had found in the wardrobe. ‘Look, this one’s right. It’s got the accent in the right place.’

‘The ones in the box are fake,’ said Josh slowly.

‘Fake?’ She’d heard mention of counterfeit wine on her wine-tasting course but wasn’t sure it actually existed.

Josh nodded. ‘It’s big business. Extremely profitable and relatively low-risk if you sell to the right people. There’s a lot of rich, gullible folk out there who have heard of the big, impressive vineyards but know nothing about their taste.’

‘So how does it work?’

Josh puffed out his cheeks.

‘I don’t know a great deal about it. One way is to find empty bottles that once held expensive vintage wine. There’s a brisk black market in empty Château Margaux and Château Pétrus bottles. You could find a corrupt sommelier in a restaurant to sell you their empties. Or buy or steal from private individuals. You pour any old crap inside them. Cork them up. Sell them on as
an investment
and hope they don’t open one for a few years, by which point you’ve scarpered.’

He examined Nick’s bottles more closely.

‘Or you do a wholesale fake. The bottle, the label, cork, the wine inside. I think that is what has happened here. Nick said he had a big job in France. Plus it explains why he was in London at some flashy party.’

‘He was drumming up business?’

Josh nodded.

‘He wanted to offload his wine on the nouveau riche who wouldn’t know a Romanée-Conti from Ribena.’

Sophie looked at him.

‘And presumably that’s why you bought a ticket too. Drumming up business.’

‘Well . . . I didn’t exactly
have
a ticket,’ said Josh.

‘You gatecrashed?’

‘Gatecrashing sounds so vulgar. I like to think I was just missed off the guest list – at least that’s what I told the girls on the door.’

Sophie recalled how nervous she had felt walking up to those clipboard Nazis at Waterloo with their icy stares. But that hadn’t stopped Josh; nothing seemed to stop Josh, did it? She had to remind herself that she hadn’t exactly had an invitation either – not one with her real name on it, anyway.

‘Nick had bought his ticket, though,’ said Josh, pushing a corkscrew into one of the fake bottles. ‘I checked on the seating plan; he was on one of the best tables. Someone could have bought it for him, of course, but it’s still ten thousand quid a ticket. He obviously thought it was a good investment.’

He took a glug of the wine, straight out of the bottle.

‘Well, one thing’s for sure. He can’t have done this alone. You’d need someone to source the bottles, someone to print up the labels and put them on the bottles; it’d be a logistical nightmare, especially when you’re trying to do it all under the radar.’

‘But how do we find these people?’ said Sophie. ‘Look them up in the Yellow Pages under C for Criminals?’

Josh raised an eyebrow.

‘Maybe that’s not such a bad idea,’ he said, walking through to the living room. ‘Look for a diary, an address book, a business card, anything.’

‘I’ve checked,’ replied Sophie. ‘There’s nothing in those drawers or on the bookcase. I didn’t even see a telephone directory, come to think of it.’

She followed him through to the study.

‘Did you go through this?’ Josh picked up a writing pad from the desk. It had obviously been left there for jotting down telephone messages.

‘There’s nothing in it,’ said Sophie. ‘Well, nothing we can use. Just numbers, no names or addresses or anything.’

Josh picked up the telephone.

‘Well, let’s see where it leads us.’

He dialled the first number and waited. ‘
Bonjour. Est-ce qu’il serait possible de parler avec Nick, s’il vous plaît
?’ he said. A pause. ‘
Oh, d’accord. Je m’excuse
.’

He looked over at Sophie. ‘Dry-cleaners.’

The next one was a reservation line for Air France, the next a taxi service. There were at least a dozen numbers scribbled down on various pages, and Josh dialled them all. His expression changed as he was connected to one on the back page of the pad. He immediately put the phone down without speaking.

‘Who was it?’

He looked down at the telephone, not speaking.

‘Josh! Tell me!’

‘Maurice,’ he said quietly. ‘Or at least, that’s who he was calling. The number was for Le Cellar, a nightclub in Montmartre. That’s where Maurice hangs out.’

‘Who on earth is Maurice?’

‘Maurice Balbi,’ said Josh with a look of distaste. ‘He’s a fence, a fixer. A middleman with ideas above his station.’

‘You know him?’

‘Barely. I’ve only met him a couple of times, but he’s the go-to man in Paris for that sideline I was telling you about.’

‘The fake stuff?’ said Sophie, looking down at her shirt. ‘I thought you said it wasn’t your business.’

‘It
was
my business. I’m into watches now.’

‘So Maurice makes counterfeit goods?’

‘Never did anything like that himself, but he always knew a man who could.’

‘So let’s go see him,’ said Sophie, hoping to sound more enthusiastic than she felt.

‘No,’ said Josh, shaking his head. ‘I don’t want you going there and meeting these people. They’re dangerous.’

‘I’m not fifteen, Josh,’ she smiled. ‘And in case you hadn’t noticed, we’re already involved with dangerous people whether I like it or not.’

‘Sophie, you don’t understand . . .’

‘I
do
, Josh. Believe me, I do. People want to kill me, or get information from me or whatever the hell is going on. But sitting around waiting for them to sneak up behind me doesn’t seem like much of an option. So thanks for the warning, but I’d rather face this head on.’

He looked at her for a long moment.

‘I was wrong about you.’

‘Wrong?’

‘You can be a feisty little something.’

‘You’re a bad influence,’ she said, putting the Cellar number in her pocket.

‘But you like it.’ He grinned.

She felt her cheeks begin to prickle. ‘Let’s go,’ she said, turning away and not looking back at him until they were on the street.

22

Ruth didn’t think she would ever sleep again. Her eyes were wide open and her foot was constantly jiggling.
That’s what happens when you drink five cups of coffee in quick succession
, she thought. But she’d had to do something, she’d needed an alibi. She’d been sitting in the same scratchy armchair in the nondescript lobby – dusty potted palms, broken vending machine – of the Horizon Hotel in Paddington for two hours, trying to look inconspicuous, which wasn’t easy. It wasn’t the sort of hotel where you’d linger in the foyer admiring the architecture.

Still, despite a few odd looks from the duty manager, no one had asked her why she was sitting there in the one chair that put her in eavesdropping distance of both the front desk and the concierge. And Ruth had finally been rewarded for her patience. A little after three o’clock, an attractive woman carrying a small suitcase announced herself as Barbara Beddingfield, superior room for one.

Ruth had swivelled slightly to take a good look at Nick’s mother. Although she was at least sixty, she looked good. The ash-blond hair piled up on top of her head, with the stray wisps falling carelessly over her face, gave her a sexy, bohemian air. Her jeans were fitted and her dark blue peasant blouse was something that Ruth would quite happily have had in her own wardrobe. It was the off-duty look of someone two decades younger, but she had that quiet confidence of an attractive woman who had once been truly beautiful.