Page 98 of Perfect Strangers

Josh glanced at Sophie again.

‘But that’s not all. Nick was murdered. We need your help to find out who killed him. What you were doing here, well, it could be important.’

Sandrine gazed at Josh for a moment, then nodded.

‘Come,’ she said, standing and leading them down from the terrace, along a gravel path and through a green wooden door. Sophie immediately felt goose bumps rise on her bare arms as the temperature dropped. They were inside a large stone warehouse with concrete floors and a grey steel gantry running down one side. The rest of the space was taken up by hundreds of wooden barrels, all stacked on top of each other. Sandrine unlocked a door and they stepped into a large room dominated by a long table cluttered with dozens of bottles, flasks, even a small stove. It was like a cross between a chemistry lab and a farmhouse kitchen.

‘My sanctuary,’ she said with a smile. ‘This is where I come to create my wines, such as the one you tasted at the house and . . . the others.’

She chose two bottles from a shelf and gave one to Sophie to examine.

‘Pétrus 2003,’ Sophie said, reading the label. ‘This is a two-thousand-euro bottle of wine.’

Sandrine put the bottle into a machine and pulled a lever to remove the cork, then poured the dark liquid into a wine balloon and handed it to a wide-eyed Sophie.

‘Try it, I think you’ll enjoy it.’

Sophie swirled it around for a minute or so to oxidise the liquid, mesmerised for a moment by the deep purple colour. Then she raised it to her nose to take in the aroma and quickly sucked in a mouthful, letting it wash over her tongue to absorb the flavours.

‘What can you taste?’ asked Sandrine.

‘Blackberry, roasted coffee, maybe even vanilla?’

‘Exceptional, isn’t it?’ she smiled. ‘Now try this.’

She opened a second bottle, this time without a label, and poured the plum-coloured wine into another glass. With a glance at Josh, Sophie repeated the process.

‘It’s Pétrus,’ she said. ‘It’s the same wine. Isn’t it?’

‘No, it is something I created.’ Sandrine shrugged. ‘I made twenty bottles of it. I will give you one to take back to London.’

‘But this is amazing,’ said Sophie. ‘You’re so talented, why isn’t your chateau more famous?’

‘Because I am not the winemaker. Sure, I help out with blending, tasting, finalising the wines, but not officially. Even if I was appointed to head winemaker tomorrow, it takes years, even decades for a winery to establish itself to the point where it can charge more than a hundred euros a bottle. Even then, you need the nod from influential critics like Robert Parker.’

She opened her hands to indicate her blending lab.

‘So this remains my hobby: to create the best wine I can, perhaps to match the masters.’

‘Does your husband know?’

She laughed mirthlessly.

‘Of course not. He is never here. On business, in bed with his mistresses. And none of the staff dares ask questions about the wife’s little hobby.’

‘And it was your hobby which Nick suggested as a way out for you?’ asked Josh.

Sandrine nodded.

‘Come, let’s walk back to the house,’ she said. She locked the warehouse and led them along another path which wound through the vineyards.

‘I knew about counterfeit wines, of course, they have always been part of the industry,’ said Sandrine as they walked. ‘But the way Nick talked about it, he didn’t make it sound like it would be something illegal. He said it was a way to use my talents – and if the wine we put in our bottles was as good as the real thing, who would ever know? He made it sound like my escape.’

‘What wines did you make for sale?’

‘Older ones generally.’

‘Why?’ asked Josh, clearly interested.