Fourteen
Rose was on her way out, Timmy in one hand, Becky skipping down the steps after her brother, her shoes slapping on the stone, her pigtails dancing as she jumped.
‘Fiona, when are you coming to play with us again?’ squealed Becky, running over and throwing her arms round Fiona’s thighs.
‘Ooph, not now my love, you’ve got school.’
‘School is silly. I’d rather play.’
‘No,’ Fiona said gently, kneeling to look Becky in the eyes. ‘School is very important! It will teach you to work hard and pass your exams, and then you’ll be free to lead whatever life you want.’
‘Well, I want to lead a happy life, and I’m happy already,’ replied Becky, wrinkling her nose, ‘so I won’t bother with exams.’ She gave a triumphant smile.
‘Out of the mouth of babes,’ quipped Rose. ‘You’re in jolly early, Fiona.’
‘Something I need to check in the cellar.’
‘Problem?’ asked Rose in a wary voice.
‘Later.’
Rose gulped. ‘Seriously?’
‘It’ll keep. You concentrate on the kids.’
‘You’ve got me worried now,’ said Rose, her eyebrows knitting together in a line, ‘Damn! I’ve got to go straight into Barnstaple to see the accountant after the school run. Let’s talk tomorrow morning. Do you mind coming to the flat at eight?’
Fiona nodded and crossed her fingers, hoping there wasn’t a problem. At least if there was one, she had all day to size it.
‘Yo, Fiona!’ cried a loud male voice.
Unless Australia had invaded Brambleton, that voice must belong to Josh, but despite scanning the terrace, Fiona couldn’t pin him down.
‘Over here, on the beach.’ She spun round.
Clad in a wetsuit and looking every inch the professional surfer, Josh grinned across at her.
‘Come on, what about that surfing lesson? You must have time; you’re not on duty for hours. ’
Which was true. How to wriggle out of this? ‘I’m not exactly dressed for surfing.’
‘That’s easy to fix. Plenty of wetsuits in the surf school hut. Come on. I dare you. Take a gamble on life.’
Fiona hesitated. Spending time with Josh was easy and fun, and she had to admit the sea did look very inviting in the autumn sun.
But despite what she’d been telling herself about having an innocent fling to try and get over Ru, she wasn’t ready for anything that could be construed as a date. ‘I’ve got a lot to do in the cellar.’
‘Tomorrow morning then,’ he tossed back.
‘I’m busy. And before you suggest tomorrow afternoon, I’ll remind you that I’ve arranged to give someone a wine tutorial then.’
Josh grinned. ‘Looking forward to that, but you can’t be busy every day. Live a little.’
She smiled. Oh, why not? What was the harm? It wasn’t a date, it was just a harmless lesson, in exchange for teaching him about wine. And she couldn’t spend all her time moping around feeling sad about Ruben. ‘Let me think about it.’
‘Beauty!’
She was still smiling as she walked into the pub – Josh’s constant upbeat approach to life seemed to have that effect on her.
Inside, she grabbed a copy of the stock list and a felt-tip pen, then crept past the kitchen, where she could hear Ru and George discussing tonight’s specials.
Evidently there had been a fish delivery, and Ru was proposing roasting gurnard and matching the slightly sweet fish with caramelised fennel and a sea buckthorn butter sauce.
It sounded great, but the waiting staff would need to be told what buckthorn berries were and that they would add a tart citrusy flavour to the sauce.
Not wanting anyone to question what she was doing, she dashed to the cellar, casting furtive glances back down the corridor.
Fiona fumbled with the key, yanked the door open, and switched on the light.
Her heart pounded; with Rose on the school run and George cooking breakfasts, this might be the perfect opportunity for the thief to strike.
She took a deep breath, then locked herself in, leaving the key in the lock.
She started with the red burgundies. The most valuable bottles were worth over ￡500 each.
An hour later and the scale of the disaster was starting to unfold.
Where there should have been a half case of 2005 Chambertin-Clos de Bèze by a renowned grower, there were only two bottles.
An entire pine case of Richebourg, worth even more , was missing.
Bordeaux had also been plundered. At ten o’clock, she did a rough calculation: over ￡10,000’s worth of wine was missing – and she had only skimmed the surface.
Fiona slumped to the floor, her fingers scrabbling in the dust. She heaved herself upright telling herself this wasn’t her problem. Or was it? Who else with access to the cellar knew the value of those missing red burgundies?
The next morning when Fiona arrived for her breakfast meeting with Rose, Timmy let her into the flat wearing his school uniform and what looked like most of his breakfast. There was porridge clinging to his hair, neck and shirt.
‘I didn’t start it,’ he announced triumphantly.
‘Good morning to you too, Timmy,’ she replied.
Rose appeared, the other culprit of the food fight wriggling in her grasp.
‘Give me a hand getting these two changed, will you?’
‘It wasn’t me,’ trilled Becky.
‘It was so,’ yelled Timmy.
‘ Enough !’ shouted Rose, ‘I don’t want to hear about it. You’re both in trouble.’
Fiona trailed behind the family. In the living room what remained of breakfast littered the carpet. ‘If you strip their tops, I’ll nip and get clean ones and a hairbrush,’ muttered Rose.
‘And a skirt for Becky,’ said Fiona, spotting a clump of porridge stuck to the waistband. ‘Come here you,’ she said, grasping the girl by the hand. ‘Arms up,’ she instructed, then wriggled the top over Becky’s head. ‘I don’t know how you cope, Rose. Two kids, the pub and the rooms ...’
Rose sighed and tossed a clean shirt at Fiona. ‘I think you’re about to add to my workload. Please tell me the problem isn’t that you’re resigning.’
Fiona shook her head and threaded Becky’s arms through the shirt sleeves. Unless Rose suspended her while she investigated the missing wine, Fiona wasn’t going anywhere.
‘I think there’s some wine missing.’
Rose gasped. ‘Expensive stuff?’
Fiona nodded. She had thought through her options.
Rose knew how familiar her sommelier was with the cellar; down there Fiona was like a cat patrolling its territory.
Rose would be slower, but if her investigation concluded the loss was worse than Fiona suggested, suspicion might fall on the sommelier.
‘I don’t know exactly how bad it is, not without doing a stock check, but it looks like there might be ￡10,000 worth of stock missing. ’
Rose staggered backwards, dragging the hairbrush with her.
‘Ow, that hurts, Mummy,’ cried Timmy.
‘Stand still then. I need to brush your hair.’ Rose puffed out a sigh. ‘A lot of bottles or a few expensive ones?’
Fiona picked a splodge of cold, sticky porridge from Becky’s hair, telling herself this wasn’t her problem to solve, any more than the food fight was. She was just helping Rose with both. ‘Expensive ones.’ Very expensive .
Rose’s eyes met Fiona’s, and there was an accusatory tone in her voice. ‘The thief knows their way around the cellar then,’ said Rose.
Fiona flinched, sensing the hairs stand up on her arms. ‘Or they’ve seen the wine list,’ she suggested.
A fleeting look of realization shot across her boss’s face. ‘Sorry, that sounded nasty.’ Rose was holding out the hairbrush towards Fiona, as if offering an olive branch. ‘It’s not you – of course it’s not. Anyway, why would you draw my attention to your own crime?’
Smiling weakly to acknowledge the apology, Fiona took the hairbrush and unthreaded Becky’s plaits. ‘Give your head a shake, that should dislodge the worst of it,’ she instructed the child.
‘We had this happen in London too. Champagne and spirits, no wine, thankfully we didn’t have a fine wine list then,’ Rose said.
‘Is that why you moved here? Because of a thief.’
‘No. It’s tough making a living in a London pub, so when the lease on this came up, we leaped at it.
A new start, a bit more support with the kids.
What I want to know is, what is the thief doing with the stuff?
I get how you can fence a case of spirits or a bottle of champagne, but’ she screwed up her face, ‘who buys stray bottles of fine wine?’
‘Lots of places. There are dedicated auctions, or upmarket merchants will buy rare wine, provided it’s been properly cellared. They have light filters which can detect if it’s gone off.’
‘Which this has not. George’s uncle kept it in a temperature-controlled cellar. We left it where it was when we were in London.’ Rose groaned, ‘That wine was our nest egg. I wish we’d sold it.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
Rose licked a finger and rubbed at a splodge of porridge on Timmy’s trousers.
‘George wanted to sell it to a high-end merchant straightaway. But when he did the research, we discovered a bottle of top-notch wine costing ￡100 in a shop would only sell for ￡50 to a merchant, but I suspected we could charge ￡150 in a restaurant.’ She sighed, ‘It was my idea. When we knew we were moving somewhere with a reputation for fine dining, I suggested shifting it over time in the restaurant, and we arranged to have it delivered to the pub. I know it will take time, but the wines George inherited are from excellent vintages and won’t go off any time soon. ’
Fiona gave a slight headshake. ‘It’s not all good vintages. The 2017, for example—’
Fiona’s thoughts froze. There was a fluttery sensation in her stomach. She was clearly much more knowledgeable about the contents of the cellar than her boss. ‘Are you insured?’
‘Yes, but I’m not sure they’ll pay up. We’ve been a bit lax about security and too many people know where that key is hidden.’
Fiona blushed. Whichever way she looked at this, the prime suspect was the sommelier. ‘Will you go to the police?’
‘Not yet. I’d like to encourage the culprit to confess. Will you help me do a stock take when I get back from the school run?’
Fiona nodded. ‘This one’s ready,’ she said, patting Becky on the back.
With a child in each hand, Rose strode towards the flat door, speaking over her shoulder, ‘It’s got to be Josh or Ruben from the kitchen.
’ Hearing Ru’s name, Fiona winced. Rose ushered Fiona into the corridor.
‘It’s just you and me from the dining room.
Kim and the bar staff don’t know where the key is kept. ’
Fiona grimaced. ‘Sorry, Rose. That list is actually a bit longer. When you had the flu, Trish, Kim and Ivy were shown where that key lives.’
‘Who took that decision?’ barked Rose.
‘Me.’
Rose tutted, then slammed the door shut behind them, leaving Fiona questioning how much longer her boss would believe her innocent.
As they descended the stairs, Fiona could see a sliver of light shining from the end of the corridor.
The cellar door was ajar. She felt beads of sweat on her upper lip and stopped, clasping the stock list to her chest. Rose held a finger up to her mouth.
‘Wait here,’ she whispered, her voice wavering.
Conscious of her thumping heart, Fiona took quick, shallow breaths.
Was the thief down there? Rose dashed to the door, yanked it wide and disappeared, her footsteps thudding on the stone steps.
Fiona heard raised voices: Rose’s and a man she couldn’t identify, nor could she detect what either was saying.
Suddenly, George strode out, a bottle of wine in each hand, his face red and mutinous. ‘It’s a bog standard chardonnay.’
Rose followed her husband into the corridor, hands on hips. ‘I messaged you – Fiona thinks there’s some wine missing, and you promised you wouldn’t take anything until after I’d checked.’
George marched towards Fiona, who flattened herself against the wall. ‘I can’t run a kitchen around the school run.’ He held out the bottles of wine, jabbing his head at them. ‘Ask our sommelier – this is just plonk. We need it to poach the halibut for tonight’s fish special.’
‘Nothing else?’ demanded Rose.
He held his arms aloft. ‘Frisk me. Fiona, satisfy the detective superintendent here.’
Rose muttered something under her breath.
Poor woman. Like Fiona, she managed staff – a challenging role with its share of uncomfortable dilemmas.
Fiona recalled suspecting one of her own employees of skimming cash tips.
The experience had been awful. Doubting your team eroded trust and weighed heavily on the mind.
She figured Rose must have handled the London theft and didn’t envy her boss having to face an ordeal again.
Since Fiona knew much more about wine than her employer, Rose kept score – using Fiona’s pen, after spending a fruitless five minutes looking for her own – while Fiona moved from bin to bin, calling out the contents.
Each time missing bottles were identified, Fiona tried to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach by concentrating on her ideas for Josh’s wine tutorial this evening.
By 11.30 a.m., they’d scoured Europe, identifying over ￡25,000 worth of missing wine.
A chunk of that was a rare bottle of Champagne by the famous house Krug, a Clos du Mesnil.
The pale silver shiny wooden box was still on the shelf, but it was empty.
‘I’ve got the replacement cost down as ￡750,’ exclaimed Rose.
‘Sounds about right,’ Fiona confirmed.
‘Who pays that sort of money for a bottle of fizz!’
Fiona winced. It was sacrilege to refer to any bottle of Krug as ‘fizz’.
In Fiona’s expert opinion, Krug was the finest non-vintage Champagne; a complex, rich blend of over a hundred wines spanning over ten vintages, offering layers of flavour and a long, elegant finish.
But the Clos du Mesnil was a vintage Champagne.
The combination of high quality, limited availability and the Krug reputation made it a Champagne gem. ‘It’s pretty special, Rose.’
‘Well, it was pretty special,’ groaned her boss.
Footsteps thundered on the stone stairs, then George strode in. ‘Rose, how much longer is this going to take? The blinking phone keeps ringing, and we can’t keep interrupting prep to answer.’
Rose sighed. ‘All right. Let’s finish this off tomorrow, Fiona.’
In the space of a morning, the scale of the loss had more than doubled.
But it was the pattern of disappearances, not just the value, that made Fiona’s throat feel tight.
Someone with intimate knowledge of the collection was behind this – someone who knew exactly which bottles were less likely to be missed.
Yet another black mark against the sommelier.