Douglas Stewart - Cellars Market: Wine War

Contents

Bart Fraser is a man in crisis. His legal career is in ruins when an old friend who owns a distinguished wine business retains him not as a lawyer but as a Master of Wine. During a prestigious event at an exclusive London restaurant, the Grand Cru wine about to be served is discovered to be plonk. Across the USA and in France the reputation of the French wine industry is under threat as more plonk is discovered. But from where is it coming? That is the brief to Bart Fraser who has to battle his own demons in the greater good of helping his friend.

Following investigations in London, the Burgundy region and the USA, he starts to uncover a multi-million-dollar fraud. But who is behind it? He is helped or is he? by a pretty gossip-column journalist for whom life has always been champagne and parties. Where do the deaths in London, Paris and New York fit into the puzzle? As the action races through France to New Orleans and the east and west coasts of America, a cunning plot emerges leading to a breath-taking and dramatic showdown.

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Ever wanted to get revenge against a casino? Bet you have! Dex did! Revenge an obsessive, all-consuming thirst for revenge is the theme of Tables Turned set in Las Vegas and London. When his sister is cheated in a casino and dies mysteriously while investigating their fraud, Dex is blind to the dangers as he seeks vengeance. Ignoring warnings of who he might be up against, he determines to destroy Dukes, a discreet London casino and to smash Space City, a glitzy new mega-resort on the Vegas Strip shortly to open. Dex needs help to understand the casino business but are the people that he chooses as reliable as he needs? The action races between London and Las Vegas as Dex uses his guile and cunning against the ruthless determination of the casino bosses.

For those of you who have read Late Bet, much of this book will be familiar because that is how it first appeared. However Tables Turned is substantially different. It is based on the movie script version which is adapted to suit the American market.

Det. Inspector Todd Ratso Holtom returns in this short story set in Londons Chinatown. Inscrutable was inspired by a real life murder in which I was professionally involved. The story will initially appear in an anthology being complied by thriller writer Alex Shaw (www.alexshaw.com). Eighteen authors are involved, all being members of the International Thriller Writers. The working title is London Thrills & Kills.

A new full-length thriller involving Ratso is planned for 2016.

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We must expel him from the Partnership. What with rising overheads and a rent review next year, every square foot of space is vital. David Bream spoke with the forceful authority of Senior Partner of Bream and Bream, Solicitors, of London, S.W.1. Yet, despite his apparent concern for the future, his physique, his bearing gave no hint of penury. Indeed, his prosperous, fifty-five-year-old stomach was uncomfortably jammed between Regency chair and table. The hang-dog jowls came from too many chauffeur-driven visits to Ascot, Epsom and Cheltenham, while his other partners were working. Had his tailor been less expensive, the grossness would have been indecent. Above all, the generous expanse of his frame contrasted sharply with his mean, narrow outlook, voiced in the most peremptory tone.

A dollop of cigar ash settled comfortably on his belly. He flicked it aside as casually as he was now proposing to dispose of a partner. He stared at his three colleagues, each in turn. Bart Fraser must go. He hasnt earned his keep for months and Ive got just the right man to replace him in the Partnership.

Rupert Anderson, an ex-Navy man, was always quick to fall in line behind his Senior Partner. Youve persuaded me. Never did like the cut of his jib. Too clever by half. Riding for a fall and all that sort of thing. The faraway look in his eyes showed that his brain was as empty as the Atlantic, which he used to patrol. Regrettably, it was not as deep.

A bit hard on Bart, yet youve persuaded me too, said Bernard Salken, whose good sense and judgment were too frequently clouded by the material rewards for which he craved. Of all the partners, he was the most uncomfortable that the discussion was taking place in the absence of their partner, who was too unwell to attend. But the millstone mortgage, the commitment to his top-hat pension scheme and the lovingly polished Mercedes in Surrey, spoke louder than conscience.

Rolf Stein looked at those around him. Having been admitted as Junior Partner only seven weeks before, he was not expected to say anything and, as it was easier to say nothing, he contented himself with a nod of the head. David Bream was quick to notice such a nod when it suited him.

Then we are all agreed, he said. Bernard, I leave it to you to sort out the formalities. Make sure that Bart gets a letter in tomorrow mornings post.

You dont think we ought to talk to him? Get his viewpoint? Bernard Salken looked somewhat sheepish at the task which had befallen him but he received no reply. For a second the chairman of the meeting looked at him, then simply turned away.

The meeting is closed, gentlemen. He rose from his chair and, pigeon-toed, shuffled silently over the thick carpet. The painting of his late father looked down, smug and complacent like his son. In the distance Big Ben struck eleven. Bream decided that it was time for a glass of malt in the privacy of his own room and then down to the Club for lunch.

The following morning, just across St Jamess Park, on the fourteenth floor of Stage House, the postman pushed the neatly typed envelope through the door of Bartholomew Frasers luxury flat. It was Saturday morning and the heavy silence was broken only by the click of the letter-box as it snapped shut.

The flat enjoyed panoramic views to the south, taking in the sweeping curve of the Thames at Vauxhall, the Crystal Palace mast and the endless nonentity of Battersea and Clapham. A chic address, suitable for Frasers wealth, an address where money was assumed, where residents came and went with infinite regularity, their destinations Antibes, Geneva or New York. A second cousin to the Queen lived down the corridor, though Bartholomew Fraser was not interested, having chosen the flat as a contrast to his past and when his need had been urgent. There hed hoped to rebuild his futurebut it hadnt worked.

The small kitchen was clean and obviously unused. Across the corridor, the lounge-diner was dark, with heavy floor-length curtains shutting out the brightness of the morning. The furnishings were all starkly modern, from the black and red ottoman to the perspex display case and the tungsten spotlights clamped to the heavily patterned walls. Everything had been personally selected by the solicitor but he liked none of it and never had.

The bedroom too had been designed to his own specification, with deep green walls and matching carpet. The cover on the bed was lighter and everything had been blended carefully to the ultimate in modern perfection by interior decorators in Sloane Street. He loathed it.

There was another room into which Fraser would go every evening, staying there for perhaps ten minutes, sometimes longer. Then he would withdraw, lock the door behind him and go to the drinks cabinet to pour a generous Scotch into a Dartington tumbler. If he were not going out, Fraser would stand at the window, watching darkness fall over South London, watching the kaleidoscope of lights, or he would pace about, dragging his left leg behind him. Occasionally he would sit for a moment but then be on the move once again, occasionally replenishing the glass.