‘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.’