Montague Cruickshank, known to his friends as Monty, was managing director of the most prestigious wine merchants in Mayfair. His family had owned the company since 1765, and his forefathers had advised and supplied every wine lover from Churchill to Mountbatten on the very best wines to buy both as investments and for sheer sybaritic pleasure. Chris had given Erin a crash course on the world of wine on the way over to Cruickshank’s shop just south of Piccadilly. It was a world that was notoriously stuffy and exclusive, but Monty was one of the most exuberant and good-natured characters on its scene. He was also privy to more gossip than most newspaper editors, having access to the cellars of some of the most exclusive and expensive homes in the world. Heads of state, kings and billionaires sought his advice on their private wine cellars, serious collectors asked him about the very best wine investments; Hollywood stars bought from him to impress their friends.
Cruickshank and Sons was located in a quiet mews in St James’s. With its elegant maroon frontage, blacked-out windows and lanterns outside the front door, it felt quite Dickensian. The shop door opened with a tinkle.
‘How do you know about this place?’ said Erin, feeling compelled to whisper.
He laughed. ‘That’s like asking an art lover how they know about the Louvre. It’s world famous. I come in at least once a month to pick Monty’s brains for a feature I’m writing. There are literally millions of pounds’ worth of wine on the premises, and Monty brokers hundred-thousand pound sales between private clients every week.’
The shop was lined from floor to ceiling with shelves stacked with bottles of wine and an old-fashioned polished wood counter. Behind it stood a middle-aged gentleman in a red waistcoat.
‘Is Monty around?’ asked Chris.
No sooner had Chris opened his mouth than a booming voice could be heard from a back room. ‘Christopher, is that you?’
A giant of a man in a navy three-piece suit loomed in the doorway. At six feet four and seventeen stone, Monty Cruickshank had a round, florid face, intelligent green eyes and a sweep of grey hair over a high forehead.
‘I thought it was about time I paid you a visit,’ smiled Chris, shaking his huge hand.
‘He obviously wants something,’ smiled Monty to Erin in a theatrical stage whisper. ‘But before we settle down to good conversation, I have to ask you, young lady, do you enjoy wine?’
‘I’m no expert, but I’m an enthusiastic drinker,’ grinned Erin, instantly warming to the man.
‘The best kind, dear lady, the best kind,’ said Monty, clapping her on the arm. ‘Well, shall we go directly to the cellars, my dears?’ he boomed, leading them through the shop. ‘We had a wine tasting a couple of hours ago for some hacks. You probably know them, Christopher. Frightful bores, but I have half a bottle of an excellent Latour ’eighty-two left over. You simply must try it’ – he kissed his fingers – ‘just heavenly.’
Erin felt like Alice in Wonderland as she stepped through a heavy wooden door and descended into Cruickshank’s cellars. The stone stairwell was cramped but, once they were in it, wasn’t as cold or dirty as she’d imagined. The brick walls had been pointed, the high arched roof, supported by wooden mahogany beams, looked like a beautiful church. At intervals, between the dark racks containing thousands of bottles of wine, were gold-framed paintings of old distinguished vintners. To their left was a door with a glass porthole, and from inside came the sound of laughing and the tinkling of glasses. Erin peeped inside. It was as if she was looking back in time. A twenty-foot-long table was piled high with food and wine, like a banquet worthy of Henry VIII. She was even more surprised to see the glamorous famous faces sitting around the table. Two supermodels, a pop star, a handful of big society names.
‘Serena Balcon, the movie star, is having her birthday meal here,’ explained Monty. ‘We do get a lot of high-profile names to the private cellar.’ He smiled, looking at Erin’s bewildered face. ‘There’s no better place to eat, drink and be very, very merry. And, of course, none of those dreadful paparazzi.’
Monty handed Erin a glass, poured a ruby-coloured liquid into it and motioned to her to drink it. It felt warm and fragrant, like a ribbon of ripe summer fruit, as it slipped down her throat.
‘What can you taste?’ asked Monty, pouring himself a measure and tipping his head back to drink it.
‘It’s kind of fruity and floral.’
Monty had his eyes closed, his nostrils flaring slightly. ‘Let yourself go, my dear. Concentrate on each sensation, every flavour on your tongue.’
Erin shut her own eyes and let the flavours swill around her mouth. ‘It’s very full and fruity. Maybe blackcurrants and cherry. And it has a woody, leathery taste afterwards. It kind of tastes like autumn. I like it!’
‘Ah, within the bottle’s depths, the wine’s soul sang, as our friend Baudelaire would have it. Very well done, my dear,’ said Monty warmly, ‘I’m glad you appreciated such a good wine.’
Erin beamed across at Chris and he smiled back. ‘Actually, that’s what we wanted to talk to you about, Monty,’ said Chris. ‘A very good wine.’
‘Oh, do tell,’ smiled Monty, leading them back up the stone stairwell. ‘Let’s adjourn to the office, shall we?’
They made their way back upstairs and then up to a spacious wood-panelled office above the shop. It was a like a gentleman’s study, full of leather-jacketed books and pictures of men drinking wine. Monty took his seat behind a bottle-green leather-topped desk and Erin and Chris sat in front of him.
‘I wanted to pick your brains on the Château Henri Jacques forty-seven,’ said Chris, leaning forward.
Monty’s eyebrows rose almost comically. ‘My word, now there’s a beauty. Is it for a feature you’re writing?’
Erin noticed that his eyes were shining with passion and interest.
‘Sort of an investigative piece,’ Chris said in a low voice. ‘Tell me what you know.’
Monty took a cigar from out of his top drawer and clipped its end.
‘One of the rarest wines in the world,’ said Monty, raising the cigar to Erin as if asking her permission to smoke it. ‘Hardly ever seen commercially. There were very few bottles of it in the first place, in fact. The vineyard was exceptional but very small, and the owners liked to keep most of it for their own consumption, which I can fully understand. I’ve never tried it,’ he continued, looking almost apologetic. ‘But my father had. Apparently it was quite the most perfectly balanced wine he had ever tasted.’
‘How many bottles are in existence? Do you know?’ asked Chris, feeling a surge of professional interest.
Monty shrugged. ‘Impossible to quantify. There will be several in private cellars. However, a bottle of it did surface almost a year ago at a Christie’s auction in New York. It was part of a collection belonging to a recently deceased Swiss count that had apparently been in his cellars for thirty years. The family wanted to get rid of the whole collection,’ he sighed. ‘It nearly made me weep.’
Chris sensed that Monty knew something vital. ‘Was the collection broken down into individual lots at auction?’
The older man nodded. ‘The entire cellar was worth millions, but it would still have found a buyer. However, yes, it was broken down. I probably still have the catalogue somewhere, as I attended the auction myself.’
‘And did you bid for the Henri Jacques, by any chance?’
‘Of course,’ laughed Monty. ‘However, bidding went through the roof. There was serious money in the room that day. As you know, my friend, wine is the new art.’
‘So who bought the Henri Jacques, can you remember?’ asked Erin. She could almost hear her heart hammering out of her chest.
‘It was done on the phone,’ said Monty, finally lighting the cigar and letting the nutty smell spiral around the room. ‘But I always like to find out, keep a note of major or interesting acquisitions, as I often broker sales between private clients. Anyway, an American wine merchant friend of mine identified the buyer – a New York prope
rty tycoon called Adam Gold. You’ll probably know the name, he’s been all over the news the last few days. His fiancée has been murdered.’
All night, Erin tossed and turned under her duvet. She was exhausted, but her mind was far too active for sleep, plagued with doubt and anxiety. She knew she should have phoned Inspector Wright with the information they had learnt at Cruickshanks, and Chris was threatening to do it for her, but something was holding her back. Was it fear? She felt a creeping uneasiness and wished that Chris was with her. Armed with information that incriminated a rich and powerful man made her feel inexplicably vulnerable. She looked at her clock. One a.m. Too late to phone him?
She reached for her mobile, which was glowing a dull green in the darkness, and dialled Chris’s number.
‘I don’t know why, but I’m scared,’ she whispered.
‘I’ll be right there.’
Chris stayed with her till morning, sleeping on the sofa under a duvet he had transported across the hallway. When her alarm trilled at 6.30 and she staggered into the lounge, she saw Chris was already awake and frying bacon. He moved a pile of papers and magazines from the kitchen table to make a space for her, spilling a few onto the floor. Picking them up, he found a large sheet of waxy paper.
‘What’s this?’ he asked, unfolding it to see a large architect’s drawing.
Erin snatched it back from him and folded it up, hiding it away under the coffee table. ‘It’s nothing, just something from work,’ she said briskly.
Chris looked at her curiously, but let it drop and turned back to the stove. ‘Listen, I don’t want to sound like a broken record,’ he said, putting a bacon sandwich on the table in front of her. ‘But I really think you should call that detective. And I’m not sure you should be going in to work today, given what we know about your boss.’
‘I am going to work, Chris,’ she said defiantly. ‘I’ll call Michael on my lunchbreak, I promise.’
Her voice sounded confident but she didn’t feel it. She was apprehensive about seeing Adam, but she felt drawn to the office. Besides, Michael Wright was possibly not going to take her seriously with a far-fetched notion about rare bottles of wine stashed on Karin’s kitchen counter. She needed more evidence, and she knew that the office was the only place she had any chance of finding it.
‘Erin. I’m serious,’ said Chris, touching her arm and seeking to meet her gaze with his. ‘This is getting dangerous. We shouldn’t be meddling. I don’t want anything to happen to you,’ he added softly.
‘It won’t,’ whispered Erin. ‘I’m just going to do my job.’
‘Well, if you haven’t called Wright by this evening, I’m going to call him myself.’
‘But what if Adam’s innocent?’ said Erin. ‘What if the wine theory is just bogus? We’re playing with people’s lives here. If he’s suddenly a suspect, that will get out in the media; his reputation won’t ever really recover from something like that.’
‘And what if he’s guilty, Erin? What then?’
68
The Midas Corporation offices had been understandably sombre and quiet following Karin’s death. Adam seemed to have retreated into himself and spent the whole time in his office with his door closed.
Colleagues scurried around, but there was no chitchat in the kitchen or hallways; everyone just put their heads down and worked.
Erin had barely sat down at her desk when her phone rang.
‘Can you step inside a moment, please?’ said Adam, his voice low and flat. She’d had little interaction with him over the past few days and a flutter of nervousness appeared in her stomach. But why? Did she really think Adam was a murderer? As she walked to his office, she began to wonder. The police said that Adam had been with Marcus on the night of the murder, but where? And for how long? But surely Adam’s alibi must have been convincing, or wouldn’t DCI Wright have arrested him by now? The questions tumbled around her head as she sat down in front of Adam.
‘Are you okay?’ asked Adam, registering Erin’s mood.
She nodded.
‘Well, I appreciate you being here,’ said Adam. Erin looked away. His once-sexy chocolate eyes suddenly felt penetrating, cold and unnerving.
‘I’m sorry you had to find Karin,’ he continued. ‘I feel terrible about sending you around.’
‘You weren’t to know,’ she said, feeling herself flush. It was the first time they had talked about what had happened. Adam pushed his lips together in a tight line.
‘Well, the police tell me that the body may be released in the next few days,’ he said sombrely. ‘And I know Karin would have wanted an appropriate send-off. Could you find a hotel room for a reception after the burial? Something chic. She loved flowers. Let’s have lots of flowers.’
‘Lilies? Roses? She liked Verbena roses. Or did you have anything in mind?’
‘My ex-assistant Eleanor used a fantastic florist for an event at the beginning of the year. Phone them up, tell them what we want. I want it to look beautiful.’
Their eyes locked and Erin felt a wash of fear up her spine. She blinked hard to stop her eyes betraying her.
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ asked Adam. ‘I can cancel my lunch and we can go to talk if you like.’
Erin shook her head a little too vigorously. ‘I have plans. I’m sorry.’
‘Well, how about later tonight? I’m on a site visit this afternoon and then going to Mikhail’s party tonight, but I don’t have to stay long. People won’t expect me to, anyway.’
She felt her heart beginning to beat faster and the adrenaline pump around her veins. He had never showed this much concern for her feelings or emotions before. She was only there to serve and make his life easier. Now he wanted to get her alone.
She stood up quickly and smoothed her skirt down nervously. ‘It’s fine, Adam. It really is,’ she stuttered. ‘Now I had better go and find the number of the florist. As soon as you know a date for the funeral, can you let me have it? Thanks.’
She returned to her desk in silence and sat motionless in her chair, her head bowed, her fingers locked together on her lap, willing her heart to slow down. She had to stay normal, she didn’t want him to suspect anything. Keep working, don’t show him you’re flustered, she told herself. Taking a deep breath, she clicked on her computer to look for Eleanor’s wonder-florist. Luckily, Eleanor had been a very organized woman and had left a folder on Erin’s desktop of her contacts, diary entries, addresses and notes. It was the inside track into Adam’s life: where he went, what he did, his likes and dislikes.
Erin clicked on a folder labelled ‘entertaining’ and found the details of several florists. One name, however, was highlighted in bold, and Erin scribbled down the name and number. She was just about to close the folder when her eye was drawn to a file called ‘Christmas Gifts’. Intrigued, she clicked it opened and started reading a long list of presents that Adam had given to his family and friends the previous Christmas, all carefully documented by his former PA. Well, it wouldn’t do to send Mummy a Hockney two years on the run, would it? she thought. But it was an impressive lineup. Art, designer clothes, handbags, spa weekends; they had all gone to his family, assistants, godchildren and friends. Not to mention the cigars, wine and hampers that had gone to clients and contacts. It was only halfway down the page that she saw something that made her heart leap into her mouth. She looked around her anxiously and quickly closed the file.
Last Christmas, Marcus Blackwell had received a bottle of 1947 Château Henri Jacques.
Chris was having a very late lunch at his desk, a quiet booth located behind the newsroom. His cubicle was an untidy space, spilling over with papers, magazines, press releases and a mountain of chocolates, sauces, exotic spirits and brand-new soft drinks, all received from manufacturers and vintners vying for Chris’s attention and column inches. He had finished his stories for the week and was using the free time at his disposal to catch up on the last few days’ press, his mind wandering between the world’s event
s and thoughts of his own involvement in one particular news story. The Karin Cavendish story had cooled in the press at least, he noted, flicking through all the tabloids and broadsheets. Just a small piece in the Mail, nothing new. He was just scanning the Financial Times when a headline on page nine caught his attention: Computer Giant Ginsui In Takeover Bid.
His eyes widened as he tried to remember his conversation with Erin days earlier. When Michael Wright had interviewed Erin on the day she had found Karin’s body, he’d asked her if she knew who Ginsui was. Apparently Karin had written the name as a diary entry for the day she died. Wright had clearly assumed Ginsui was the name of a person, thought Chris, chewing the tip of his biro. But it was the name of a company, a large Japanese computer manufacturer. His mind began to ponder its significance but his thought process felt blocked.
Ginsui, Ginsui. Ginsui. Why would Karin have an appointment at Ginsui?
Over the top of his booth he could see some of his colleagues walking around the newsroom, fetching coffee, walking between departments; the usual semi-frenetic activity as deadlines loomed for the first editions of tomorrow’s paper. Out of the corner of his eye he could see City Editor Alistair Crompton heading to his office in the corner of the room.
‘Are you busy?’ asked Chris, popping his head round the door.
Alistair smiled up at him. ‘I’ve got a phone interview in about five minutes, but grab a chair.’
Chris grabbed a plastic cup and filled it with water from the cooler before sitting opposite Alistair, a balding man in his fifties with red cheeks and a jovial manner.
Chris paused a moment before he spoke. He knew he had to tell Alistair the facts as he knew them. ‘What would you say about a friend of mine who had the word Ginsui written in her diary four days before the takeover was announced?
‘Does this friend invest in stocks and shares?’
‘Let’s say they do,’ said Chris, taking a sip of water.
‘And is this friend connected? Do they have friends, contacts, advisers in the City?’ continued Alistair, pouring himself a cup of tea from a pot in front of him.
Gold Diggers Page 48