One of Us Is Dead

50 Saturday 8 October 2022

The Victory Vintage, it was called. That’s what Fiona had told her husband, a few years ago, when she’d arrived home lugging a light-coloured pine box, with a triumphant smile, then put it down, very carefully, on the hall floor. She could still remember their conversation.

‘This is special, my gorgeous!’ she’d said. ‘So bloody special! I think we should have one bottle to celebrate, it’s not every day you’re going to see this.’

‘What is it?’ Rufus had asked.

She vanished into the scullery then returned with a hammer and chisel and began to lever open the top of the case. ‘I just got it, at an auction at Christie’s — this is something else.’

‘OK.’

‘Seriously, this is something else.’

‘I believe you, Fiona.’

The top of the case broke and a strip of wood with a nail attached came away. She lifted an arched piece of wood from inside, discarded it, then reached inside again, lifted out a bottle and held it up triumphantly. It had a red top, with dark contents, but most of the glass below the neck was obscured by the yellowing, faded label. At the top of the label was a large, ornate ‘V’. Further down he saw the date, ‘1945’.

She was feeling ridiculously pleased with herself.

‘1945?’ he’d said.

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Is that the sell-by date?’ he asked, teasing.

‘You’re a bloody philistine,’ she’d replied. ‘This is not only one of the finest wines on the planet, this is a piece of history. That “V” you see?’

He nodded.

She explained that Chateau Mouton Rothschild commissioned the artist Philippe Jullian to design it, to commemorate the end of the Second World War. It was one of the most sought after and collectible wines in the world. He hadn’t asked her how much she’d paid at the Christie’s auction; he knew she would think nothing of paying upwards of £100k for a case of fine wine.

There were eleven bottles left after they’d drunk that one on the night she’d brought the case home. It was pretty nice, he’d had to admit, although he hadn’t thought it was that special. But then, as Fiona had always told him, he didn’t have much of a palate — he cared much more about how booze made him feel than what it tasted like.

Right now Fiona was feeling special. And especially bold and playful after a nice little glass of Dutch courage — a few fingers of neat Scotch. She needed it, because tonight she had a date — and he would be here in half an hour!

The boys were away on a sleepover. She was ready, dressed to kill — or preferably seduce — in the short, black, slinky Chanel that showed off her fine legs and her equally fine cleavage, minimal bling, her seriously classy Audemars Piguet watch, and her sensational Louboutins.

She’d laid the table for two and was properly pushing the boat out, with a few touches of Domestic Goddess thrown in, such as the candles, the flowers on the table, the elegant lobster salad starter, the tournedos Rossini with chilli broccoli and fondant potatoes all prepped, and the cheese soufflé to finish. But what was going to impress Robert Drummond most of all was her choice of wines tonight.

On their previous — and first — date in the London restaurant Scott’s, he’d chosen extravagantly off the wine list and had delighted in telling her that wine was one of his passions. He’d been utterly fascinated to learn about her collection, although Fiona liked to think it hadn’t just been the lure of that that had made him accept her invitation to dinner tonight.

Two hours ago she’d put a bottle of Roederer Cristal 2014 into the wine cooler in the kitchen. An hour ago she’d added a Corton-Charlemagne 2000. But now she was about to fetch the ultimate wow from the cellar. Her three Pomeranians followed her to the door to the cellar, but that was where they always stopped. Although they were named after three of the most brutal Roman emperors, Nero, Caligula and Tiberius, they were wusses when it came to the cellar stairs. They would stand at the top, refusing to descend and each barking in turn at some unseen enemy down in the darkness below.

With the dim lights on, Fiona made her way in the chilly air along the brick floor. As she walked through the interconnecting cellars lined floor-to-low-ceiling with racks of single bottles, magnums, jeroboams and even larger bottles still, she wrinkled her nose at the damp, musty smell, vinous in parts where a cork or seal had failed and the wine was leaking.

Reaching the end of the far cellar, which housed many of the jewels of the collection, she saw the two empty slots in the Victory Vintage section of the racks. Until three days ago, there had been just one empty slot — the bottle they’d drunk on the night she had bought them — but now there was another space, vacated by the bottle Fiona was planning for them to drink tonight. It was standing upright on the floor, keeping cool and out of the light. She knew all about sediment. It was important to let an old bottle stand for at least a couple of days and preferably longer, to allow it to settle before decanting it.

She knelt, closed her fingers tightly around the neck of the precious bottle and held it up. It was a little dusty after several years down here, but she was pleased to see the level was still high up the neck — something she always checked. If it was high, the chances were the wine was still fine.

She smiled. If this beauty didn’t blow her wine buff date’s socks off — and hopefully his underpants too — nothing would.

Then, looking at the two empty slots, she smiled again, but now for a different reason. One of the first things Rufus had done after buying this property, ten years ago now, was to put a substantial safe down at the far end of the wine cellar, where he thought it extremely unlikely a burglar would find it, or even the police in the event of a raid. It was concealed directly behind the Victory Vintage bottles.

Rufus used to keep large quantities of cash in the safe, con-verting them into Bitcoins then back to cash, laundering them through a London casino that was a haunt of high rollers. He wouldn’t be pleased if he knew what she kept in this safe currently.

It was his Apple laptop. The one that, on the night of Rufus’s disappearance, it was agreed she would throw overboard.

Except of course she hadn’t done that. Instead she’d concealed it among her belongings in her suitcase, and when the Barbados Police had searched the yacht, they had been too polite to start rummaging through the clothes of Rufus Rorke’s grieving widow.

Rufus would not be at all happy to know she still had it, and so far she had never told him. She was well aware it contained enough information to have Rufus put away for much of the rest of his life.

She didn’t intend telling him any day soon, because she knew how ruthless he was, and what he was capable of doing. And how he dealt with people he considered to be obstacles or threats.

She had told no one about the laptop or where it was hidden, but she had left a sealed letter, to be opened in the event of her death, with her solicitor.

Fiona looked at those two empty slots again and smiled, knowing what was concealed behind them. She liked to think of it as her insurance policy. Then, carrying the bottle upstairs, she turned her attention to one of the things in life she liked doing best.