‘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.