Gold Diggers (51 page)

The interview room was cold and windowless and smelt of cigarette smoke. To Molly it felt like a trap. She shivered, wondering if it was some sort of sick retribution for not attending her father’s funeral. For having sex with Adam Gold. For exposing Donna Delemere as a call girl. She stopped herself. This was no time for superstition. She had her reasons for everything she did in life. She didn’t deserve punishing.

‘What am I supposed to think, Molly?’ said Michael Wright evenly. ‘You don’t have any alibi for that evening. Evan Harris was at Karin’s window and heard her on the phone to a Molly. He heard her say “See you later.” Given those facts, anyone would suppose that it was you arranging to pop over.’

‘I admit I called Karin that evening,’ said Molly defensively. ‘But if she said “see you later”, I can assure you it was just a figure of speech.’

‘What did you call Karin about?’ asked Michael, swirling some tepid tea around in the bottom of his paper cup.

‘Simply to thank her for a wonderful party,’ she replied inscrutably.

Wright blinked at her. ‘What about the grey car that matches the description of the one you drive? It was seen outside Karin’s house one hour after the phone conversation, at around eight thirty. I repeat, what am I supposed to think? You went round to see her that night, didn’t you?’

‘I did not!’ snapped Molly, feeling so flushed she had to undo another button on her shirt. She felt it was definitely time to instruct a solicitor.

‘Can I ask you who the father was of Summer’s child?’

Ever since he’d left the hospital he’d been curious. He’d asked around the girls in the station, who all seemed to be devoted to the gossip magazines, if they knew who Summer Sinclair was involved with. Michael was aware that Summer Sinclair was a celebrity, and if she had some glamorous boyfriend, he knew it would be common knowledge. However, when the general consensus was that Summer was single, Michael’s curiosity had turned into suspicion. Unless it was the immaculate conception, he reasoned,
somebody
had made her pregnant. Was it too much a stretch of the imagination to think it was Adam Gold? Summer was certainly beautiful enough to attract a lover like that. And if Adam was the father of Summer’s child, then Molly had the strongest motive in the world: motherly love. With Karin out of the way, Summer and Adam could live happily ever after.

Molly had folded her hands on top of the table and was now sitting tight-lipped. ‘To ask about the paternity of Summer’s child seems both irrelevant and, at this time, in very poor taste. If you’re going to continue with this line of questioning, I must demand to have my lawyer present.’

Michael switched off the tape recorder and drank the last of his tea. It was going to be another long day.

Erin had found her mission to get back into Karin’s house surprisingly easy. There were two constables on guard at
the top of the steps to keep the press and prying neighbours away, but she had spotted Chief Inspector Wright in his car outside. Erin had explained that she had left her keys to the office inside. She wasn’t sure whether Wright had believed her: he had seemed wary, but had still accompanied her inside to look. The keys were never found, of course, but there was enough time to quickly inspect the bottle of wine still sitting on Karin’s black granite worktop.

‘You’re kidding me,’ said Chris, reading the name Erin had copied down from the label. They had met for lunch in an American-themed diner off Kensington High Street.

‘Nineteen forty-seven Château Henri Jacques, are you sure?’

‘That’s what it said. What’s wrong?’ asked Erin, taking a sip of her Diet Coke.

‘It’s a red wine alright,’ said Chris with an incredulous expression. ‘It’s also one of the finest wines in the world. Extremely rare and will probably have been sold through an auction house like Christie’s or a very high-end wine merchant.’

‘If it’s so rare, do you think we’ll be able to find out who owned it?’

Chris smiled and shovelled a handful of French fries into his mouth. ‘I like your thinking and, actually, I think I know just the man who can help us. I warn you he’s very eccentric, but what he doesn’t know about wine you can write on a postage stamp.’

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 property 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.