Page 47 of A Perfect Devon Pub
She glanced up. There was the tiniest blob of hollandaise sauce at the corner of his mouth. Her fingers itched to brush it away, but she dropped her eyes to the agenda instead. ‘I’ve been thinking about how the thief is getting rid of the wine. I don’t think they’re using an auction house – it’s not whole cases missing, and ad hoc bottles rarely make decent prices at auction. They could just be selling it through upmarket London wine merchants.’
‘But wouldn’t a good merchant ask questions? Check it wasn’t knock-off stuff or stolen? That it had been properly cellared?’
‘That’s what I concluded too. They might be okay with a bottle or two, but with this volume I think they would be more wary about provenance.’
‘If it was you . . .’
Fiona gasped.
‘I mean hypothetically – of course it’s not you! But ifyouhad to sell it, how would you do it?’
She didn’t hesitate. ‘Oh, I know exactly what I would do.’
‘What?’
Fiona explained that, spotting a gap in the market, some entrepreneurs had recently stepped in to solve a growing probate problem: people were inheriting boxes or bottles of wine, suspected they might be valuable, but had no idea how to value them or sell them on.Companies had sprung up which would buy the wine – despite not knowing how it had been cellared – using a special light filter to check forchangesin a wine’s chemical makeup, suggestive of spoilage. They then sold it on to private buyers, or restaurants.
‘I’ve used them myself to source rare vintages. If the thief was aware of these companies, they could have sold the wine that way.’ She paused, shaking her head slowly, a faint smile flickering and fading just as quickly. It was unsettling, sitting across from him like this, tossing ideas back and forth with the same easy rhythm they always had. The spark was still there, in the way their thoughts overlapped, in how quickly he picked up where she left off. They made a good team. They always had.
But the weight of what was missing pressed in around the edges. They weren’t a couple anymore. No more shared mornings, no more inside jokes whispered in the dark. Just two people with a shared history and lingering warmth, trying to pretend it was simple.
She still loved him. And sitting here, watching him light up with an idea, admiring the way his mind worked, hurt in a way she hadn’t prepared herself for.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
She shook her head dismissively, not wanting to explain her thoughts, then rustled her agenda for comfort, focusing her thoughts on her wine disposal theory. ‘If they had sold the wine that way, the thief would have to contact the buying company, negotiate a price ... probably leaving an email trail, andhopefully even their bank account details.’
‘If you know these outfits, could you try and investigate?’
‘How? Call each of them and ask them to breach client confidentiality by disclosing every person in Devon who’s sold them wine in the last six months?’
‘Hmmm. Good point.’ He changed the subject. ‘How are your eggs?’
‘Perfect,’ she said, cutting off a slice of cinnamon toast to dip into the golden yolk. Not wanting to think about Ru’s gorgeous food, she flicked her eyes downwards to check what else she wanted to talk about.
‘Next item, the Vin de Constance. Why would someone choose that? Rose had no idea of the value. Was it done to implicate you?’
‘Could it just have been a lucky pick? Was it near the door, so an easy thing to grab and run?’
She shook her head. ‘No. If they were after a quick getaway the obvious choice would be Champagne – that’s closest to the door. The thief either knows their wine or is stealing to order from someone who does.’
‘And then of course there’s the South African element.’
‘Yes. I suppose it could be coincidence, but assuming it was stolen after you joined, the thief would know that suspicion would fall on you. Have you upset anyone since you’ve been in Devon?’
He gave a wry laugh. ‘Only you.’
Twenty-one
On Thursday evening Fiona arrived on the dot of 6.30 p.m. to discover a locksmith crouched by the cellar door, installing a new lock. Was every wine order to be passed up the chain to Rose? Given her boss’s lack of familiarity with the cellar layout, that would slow service. Fiona walked into the staffroom where Kim was sitting at the table filing her nails. ‘What’s going on out there?’ she asked Fiona.
Fiona was silent.
‘What’s going on? Tell me,’ hissed Kim.
‘I can’t,’ said Fiona. ‘You’ll have to ask Rose.’
Kim stood, walked to the coat rack and slipped her nail file into her handbag. Fiona eyed Kim’s winter coat enviously. With winter just around the corner, Fiona had started jogging back up the hill after work in her raincoat to stay warm.
