‘There was no point making more modern vintages. Many of them are still in the cellars of the wine producers, and nowadays the estates use sophisticated anti-fraud devices: proof-tagging, microchipping. But old wines are different. Before 1960, many of the top producers sold barrels to private clients or dealers, who bottled the wine themselves.’
She turned to look at them.
‘How many people have tasted a 1947 Cheval Blanc or even know what one looks like? These people who buy wines, they have no knowledge of wine,’ she said with distaste. ‘They only care that it is rare and valuable.’
She stretched up to pull a handful of grapes from a vine and passed them to Sophie to try. They were sweet and juicy.
‘I made the wine here on the estate from these grapes, plus other varieties of grape I buy wholesale,’ she explained. ‘Nick took the bottles from the chateau to a cellar near Avignon. We have about ten thousand bottles of blended wine we pass off as three-hundred-euro burgundy. Then a few hundred bottles of really good grand cru that he sells for fifteen hundred euros or more. Nick handled the entire sales operation.’
Sophie did a quick mental calculation. This was millions of euros’ worth of counterfeit wine. She looked at Josh and saw that he had reached a similar conclusion. Two million euros was certainly enough of a motive for someone to kill Nick.
They turned back towards the chateau, the sun slanting through the vines, striping the red earth.
‘Do you think Nick could have fallen out with a customer?’ asked Josh. ‘May
be annoyed someone?’
‘It’s possible, but Nick was careful. We mainly sold to wealthy professionals, lawyers, bankers who wanted to impress clients at dinner parties, or small boutique wine merchants like Monsieur Durand who don’t ask too many questions about provenance. There were also a few sales directly to rich Russian and Chinese clients he met on the Euro party circuit. That was why he had gone to London, to collect more business. That is what he told me,’ she said, her voice falling more quiet. ‘The truth is that he was getting ready to leave me.’
‘How do you know?’
‘There was another lover.’
‘The countess?’ said Josh.
‘The old woman with the Paris apartment?’ Sandrine snorted. ‘I know all about her. She was rich and lonely. They weren’t lovers. They were friends. Nick saw her occasionally; he made her life feel exciting. In return she let him use the apartment.’
‘So who are you talking about?’
‘I thought it might be you,’ she said quietly. ‘In the last weeks, before he left for London, he was distant. I kept catching him on the phone to someone, talking in a low voice. And when he called me, I had the sense that someone else was in the room.’
‘It can’t be me,’ said Sophie fiercely. ‘I only met Nick just over a week ago. We bumped into each other at a party. I had never seen or spoken to him before that.’
‘So you are not “A”?’
‘“A”?’ replied Sophie.
‘I am a woman.’ Sandrine smiled. ‘I know how love works. So of course I went through his phone. There were dozens of texts from someone called “A”. The last text I saw said “Meet at Jean’s party on 10th”, which I took to be Jean Polieux’s annual party.’
‘So you have no idea who A is?’
Sandrine shrugged. ‘As much idea as you do, ma chérie.’
‘Did you take down the number?’ asked Josh.
The Frenchwoman nodded.
‘Did you call it?’ asked Sophie.
Sandrine smiled.
‘This is a woman’s instinct, is it not? You want to know who your rival is, so you know how to fight them.’
Her face turned sad.
‘No, in the end, I could not. I suppose I didn’t think I would like what I was going to hear.’
They had reached the front entrance of the chateau now.