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.’