Rough Cut (4 page)

   “This is a sad time,” said Philippe, breaking the silence, “You will miss Rob very much, I am sure.” Eloise nodded as Philippe paused before continuing with a change of subject. “I hear you will be coming to my part of the world soon,” he said, trying to move her on to less depressing thoughts.

   “Yes, next week, after Moscow. I should be looking forward to it but I’m not. I thought of asking Jeremy if I could give it a miss.”

   “No. You should come. It will help to take your mind off this… this tragedy. For a little while at least.” Eloise nodded and there was an awkward pause before Philippe continued. “And make sure you come and see me while you are there, yes?” Philippe smiled. “Or I will be very cross with you.” He wagged his finger at her and Eloise smiled back weakly.

   Philippe gave Eloise another kiss on the cheek before drawing himself up to his full height and returning to circulating politely amongst the guests. When he had gone, Eloise leaned back against the wall and surveyed the scene; people standing around eating, drinking and making small talk while her brother lay cold and dead in his coffin.

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   Philippe Lacoste’s part of the world was the French Riviera. He lived in Port Grimaud, a small town in the bay of St Tropez, about fifty miles south west of Nice. The town had been built on a swamp in the early nineteen-seventies and from Le Lac Interieur, a small lake at the heart of the town which is fed by the sea, a network of canals branch out allowing every house in the town to have its own quayside.

   The town has the appearance of an old-established Provençale village with each house differing from its neighbours in some small detail of its outward appearance and each being painted in one of a wide variety of the typical pastel colours of the region. After it had been completed, Port Grimaud had quickly become a thriving commercial hub catering to an army of visiting tourists and boating enthusiasts.

   Philippe’s house was the most prestigious in the town and stood at the end of the Rue des Deux-Iles, one of the strips of land between the canals. It was here, in the living room of the house, that Philippe, having returned from Rob’s funeral in Yorkshire, was awaiting the arrival of Gilles Renard, one of his employees, whom he had summoned to a meeting.

   Gilles was a tough looking, muscular man who had grown up in a poor family and who, as a teenager, had followed a path of petty crime. Although this had landed him in trouble with the police on several occasions, Philippe had seen in him something of himself at that age and had wanted to help the young man.

   Having built up an impressive portfolio of businesses which ensured that he never had to worry about money, Philippe was in a position to help Gilles and he had employed him to run one of his businesses, a yacht charter agency, something Gilles still did on a part time basis. Gilles would always be grateful to Philippe for that. It was the financial security afforded by that job which had enabled Gilles to follow Philippe’s example and establish and build up a number of businesses himself, amongst which was a diamond cutting business based in Nice. As with Gilles’ other businesses, Philippe’s support had been critical. Through his diamond mine in Guinea, Philippe had built up a range of contacts in the diamond industry and had been able to introduce Gilles to the right people.

   Over the years, Philippe had learned that he could trust Gilles completely and Gilles had become his closest confidant in matters of business, though not in matters of the heart, an area of his life which Philippe kept very much to himself.

   As Philippe waited, Gilles walked along the road towards the house and when he reached it, he knocked on the door. Shortly afterwards, the door opened and he went in.

   Inside the house, Gilles followed Philippe through the kitchen and into the living room. He stood still in the middle of the room as Philippe walked to the French windows and looked out across Le Lac. After a few moments had passed, he turned to face Gilles and when he spoke, it was clear that there was something on his mind.

   “We need to make this right,” he began, “Rob was my only grandson and from what I have been told about their investigations, we cannot rely on the British police.” Philippe looked intently at Gilles, demanding a response and Gilles dropped his eyes before speaking.

   “I will take care of it,” he said, his tone both confident and matter of fact.

   “How?” demanded Philippe, raising his arms in frustration, “How will you take care of it? What can be done?”

   Gilles raised his eyes and looked straight into Philippe’s eyes. “There are ways,” he said, “Just leave it to me.”

   Philippe paused at this and thought about it for a few moments before nodding and turning back to look out of the French windows again, clasping his hands behind his back.

   After a few moments had passed in silence, Gilles spoke. “Philippe, I know you have other things on your mind right now but I still need more diamonds.”

   Philippe continued to stare out of the window across the lake towards the sea as he spoke. “I have already told you, that is all they can produce,” he said.

   “Well it’s not enough!” retorted Gilles, unable to conceal his frustration, “I have buyers wanting more. And I don’t want them going somewhere else because I can’t give them what they want.”

   Philippe turned quickly on his heel and locked eyes with Gilles.

   “Gilles! It is a diamond mine, not a chocolate factory! If the stones are not there in the ground, we cannot dig them up.”

   Philippe turned away as he finished speaking and looked again across Le Lac towards the Capitainerie. “You will just have to find another supplier.”

   Gilles sighed before responding in a more gentle tone, “What about getting some more from… you know…”

   Philippe turned from the French window and stared at Gilles for several seconds before speaking.

   “You can ask me that? After what has happened?” Philippe relented a little and his tone changed to one of resignation, “You will have to wait until the next shipment. That will be in two weeks.”

   Gilles sighed and nodded his acceptance of something he couldn’t change.

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   After Gilles had left, Philippe went into his study, a room off the living room. Slowly, he opened his laptop computer and pressed the start button. As it was firing up, he recalled what had happened a week earlier.

   The sun had been shining brightly and he had been on board his boat which was moored at the Capitainerie, across Le Lac from his house.

   It is from the Capitainerie that the harbour of Port Grimaud is administered and here, too, can be found the helipad, used by the rich and famous arriving from the airport in Nice. Beyond the Capitainerie, a curving breakwater protects the town from the sea and rising up from the breakwater, two dozen flagpoles bear the flags of the main sea-faring nations of the world.

   Moored stern on between two similar sized boats, with its gangway reaching from the rear deck out over the quayside, Philippe’s boat, the Fleur de Grimaud, was a sixty-five foot Johnson motor yacht. It was one of a number of luxury yachts which Philippe owned, and for which Gilles arranged charters, and it was the one he was currently using for his own purposes.

   That morning, Philippe had been sitting in the saloon of the boat with his laptop on the table in front of him, ready to send an email. Beside him had been a hard backed book and a sheet of paper.

   He had folded the sheet of paper and put it inside the book before looking at the screen of his laptop and starting to type some letters into the email address line. As he was doing so, and before he had entered more than a few characters, his phone started to ring. He stopped typing and looked across at the phone which was lying on the worktop in the galley. After a moment’s hesitation, he decided not to answer the call and returned his attention to the laptop where two email addresses had appeared in a little window below the address line with the first of these being highlighted.

   Philippe’s phone continued to ring. He looked at it again in frustration before looking back at his laptop and quickly hitting the enter button, selecting the highlighted address. As he got up to answer the phone, he used the mouse to click on the send button.

   Philippe then strode across the saloon to the galley, intending to answer the phone, but by the time he got there, it had stopped ringing. Now even more irritated, he returned to the saloon. He picked up the book and leant over his laptop to check that his email had been sent and as he did so, his expression changed to one of consternation. His head moved closer to the screen and he stared at it intently, unable to believe what he had done.

   “Merde!” he exclaimed as he straightened up and looked out of the window. After a few moments, he managed to compose himself and absent-mindedly put the book, which was still in his hand, on the bookshelf. Then he returned his attention to his laptop and sat down in front of it. He checked the message again and sighed deeply before closing the laptop and rising to his feet.

   Slowly, and still deep in thought, Philippe went up the steps to the galley. He picked up his phone and selected a number before pressing the call button and putting the phone to his ear. When the person he was calling answered, he spoke quietly, a tone of resignation in his voice.

   “We have a problem.”

   Philippe was brought back to the present as the desktop picture on his laptop appeared. He looked out through the window of his study from where he could see the Capitainerie and, beyond it, the sea.

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   Opposite the Capitainerie in Port Grimaud, on the other side of the channel which leads from Le Lac to the bay of St Tropez and thence to the open sea, is the marine fuelling station. It is there that small boats and large motor yachts alike top up their fuel tanks before venturing out to sea and for almost three years, the fuelling station had been the workplace of Jacques Armand, a handsome, well toned young Frenchman.

   As Jacques busied himself cleaning the pumps, a large motor yacht pulled in to the jetty and the owner shouted at him from the fly bridge.

   “Eh, Jacques, faites le plein, eh?”

   Jacques nodded and started to fill the boat’s fuel tank with diesel, looking enviously along the lines of the boat. The owner of the boat watched him, smiling.

   “C’est un bateau magnifique, n’est-ce pas?” Jacques ignored him and the boat owner continued. “Comment va ta tres belle mere? Elle est bonne?” Again, Jacques did not respond and the boat owner smiled an even broader smile. “Et ton pere? Comment va-t-il?” At this, Jacques gave the boat owner a withering stare, he didn’t appreciate people mentioning his father. He pulled the nozzle from the tank before replacing it in the holder on the pump and approaching the boat owner. He held out his hand, palm upwards, as he spoke.

   “Trente-deux euros.”

   “Sur mon compte.” The disdainful response from the boat owner did nothing to make Jacques feel more relaxed in his attitude towards him and Jacques’ hand dropped to his side as he looked away. The boat owner’s laugh rang loudly in Jacques’ ears as he pushed the throttles forward and the boat pulled away from the jetty. Jacques turned on his heel and stormed away from the petrol station as his boss watched from the office and shook his head.

   A few minutes later, Jacques entered the Place du Marché, a large square at the centre of Port Grimaud, where a market is held twice a week and which is connected via a bridge over one of the canals to the Place des Artisans. The Place d’Eglise, a third, smaller square just off the other end of the Place du Marché, faces onto Le Lac Interieur and houses the Roman Catholic church, the yacht club and the town hall as well as providing public mooring for visiting boats.

   The market was filled with people wandering round the stalls as Jacques strode across the Place du Marché, his face clearly showing that he was very upset. He left the Place and walked along a canal and past the chandlery before going up the open stone steps which led from the canal side to his mother’s apartment on the first floor. When he reached the top of the steps, he yanked the door open and went in, slamming the door shut behind him.

   Claudine Armand, Jacques’ mother, was an attractive woman with a winning smile. She heard the door open and slam shut and smiled to herself as she left the kitchen and came into the living room to greet Jacques. When she saw how upset he was, the smile quickly disappeared and was replaced by a look of concern.

   “Jacques! What’s the matter?” she asked.

   Jacques gave her a foul look as he answered. “You need to ask?” he questioned as he disappeared into his bedroom.

   A few moments later, he reappeared with his car keys in his hand. Claudine watched as he walked silently past her towards the door.

   “Jacques!” she pleaded, “Where are you going?”

   “Out!“

   “Out where?”

   “Just out.”

The door of the apartment opened and as Jacques went through it, in the background, a concerned Claudine called out to him.

   “But, Jacques! We’ve been through all this before!”

   Jacques responded by slamming the door shut behind him and as he left the apartment, he took the stone steps three or four at a time before shooting out onto the canal side.

   Suddenly finding himself amongst a mass of people, mostly holiday makers enjoying the balmy atmosphere, Jacques calmed himself and ran a hand through his untidy black hair before walking quickly up the steps to the bridge which joins the Place du Marché to the Place des Artisans. He fought his way through the people crowding the archway and strode across the Place, leaving the town behind him.

   As he ran across the road which separates the town of Port Grimaud from the residents’ car park, Jacques’ unbuttoned white shirt flowed out behind him leaving his tanned and well defined torso largely uncovered. A passing motorist, surprised by his sudden appearance, sounded his horn and Jacques turned to look at him. He gave the driver a withering stare before walking on towards the car park where the little ice-blue Peugeot that had been his eighteenth birthday present from his absent father was parked.