Page 127 of Perfect Strangers

The Victorian conversion was on the very fringes of gentrified Islington, where the pretty Georgian squares were just beginning to melt into council estates and all-night minimarts. Still, it had that desirable N1 postcode and Ruth rarely felt intimidated walking home from the tube at night. Or maybe that was something to do with having spent time in Sarajevo and Belfast.

‘So this is the famous flow chart?’ said Fox, walking up to the whiteboard.

She stuffed some nachos into her mouth.

‘It came with the flat,’ she said. ‘It’s owned by an investigative journalist friend at the Observer. He went to live in New York and when I became his tenant I got custody of the whiteboard. It’s fabulous for games of dinner-party Pictionary. You should come to the next one.’

Fox was only half listening, being absorbed in the hasty notes that Ruth had scribbled on the board that morning.

‘I was a bit hung-over, so I didn’t get very far. My problem is too little real information about any of the players.’

Fox pointed to the word ‘Nick’.

‘You didn’t know there was a wine fraud, did you?’

Ruth pulled a face.

‘Not a wine fraud as such,’ she said, ‘but I knew he’d been charged with fraud. It was reasonable to assume that was how he made a living; he certainly wasn’t the wealthy businessman he’d pretended he was with Sophie.’

She sat down in an armchair, tucking her feet under her. ‘That’s the thing with all of them – I’m not sure anyone on that chart is exactly what they seem on the surface.’

Fox pushed his hand through his short brown hair.

‘That’s the way I’ve been thinking too. Everyone’s got something to hide.’

He turned and smiled. Ruth looked at him. He really was quite good-looking, she thought. Shame he spent most of his life scowling. Not that she was one to criticise; she’d been pretty gloomy these past few days, but then who could blame her? She glanced around the half-empty apartment and made a vague note to contact David that weekend. She had no desire to speak to him, but every intention of getting her belongings back as quickly as possible; if he thought he could use her good linens, her nice candles to feather his pleasure den for PR Susie, then he was very much mistaken.

‘So let’s fill in the blanks,’ said Fox. He picked up the marker and scrawled the words ‘wine fraud’ next to Nick’s name. He looked at Ruth. ‘To answer your question, it was certainly motive enough for murder,’ he said. ‘A single bottle of vintage wine can go for twenty grand.’

Ruth looked down at her glass. ‘Really? I’d better start paying more attention when I’m in Waitrose.’

Fox shook his head.

‘It’s not always the wine itself – at least that’s what the fraud squad guys were telling me. Wine fraud can have links to wider organised crime. It’s as if these bottles are made of solid gold, like little recession-proof trading units. And obviously that makes them very attractive for people who might want to hide where their money’s come from.’

‘Money laundering?’

‘Yes, drugs, prostitution, anything really. And a bottle of fake wine’s much easier to get through customs than a suitcase of money or a few kilos of heroin. The crooks sell it on legitimately and turn that cash back into smack, whores or whatever on the other side of the border.’

Fox drew a line from ‘wine scam’ to the word ‘money’, then back to Nick.

‘So if Nick had been pushing his phoney claret on the Russian Mafia or the Triads or whoever, and they discovered it wasn’t the real deal, they could well have got pretty upset.’

Fox pulled a face. ‘It’s a nice theory, of course,’ he said, putting the lid back on the pen. ‘But we have zero evidence to prove that’s what’s going on.’

‘What about those guys shooting at Sophie down by the river?’

‘One, we don’t know they were gangsters,’ he said, ticking the points off on his fingers. ‘Two, we don’t know for sure who the other guy was – yes, we checked the owner of the boat, Joshua McCormack. But that’s not necessarily the man that Sophie ran off into the night with.’

‘I checked out McCormack. Does he have a criminal record?’

Fox shook his head. ‘No. Apparently he’s a watch salesman. He’s no relation to Sophie. Her friends have never heard of him.’

‘Maybe he’s part of the wine fraud.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Fox. ‘Although there’s no hard evidence that Nick was involved in a wine fraud.’

He held up the almost empty bowl of nachos.