The St. Tropez Lonely Hearts Club (18 page)

Carlotta sat shivering on the quay next to Nick. He was also soaking wet and covered in filth, and even though his blond hair was plastered flat to his head as he tried to pick a strand of seaweed out of it, she thought he still looked attractive.

‘I think it’s about time we got out of Dodge,’ he smiled.

‘We can’t – here comes the Sheriff to string us up,’ she laughed.

Captain Poulpe marched over to the couple and, after briefly questioning them, released them with the warning that they might be more extensively interviewed at a later date.

In the police car taking her back to her villa, Carlotta told Nick that she had definitely felt somebody push her from behind.

‘Did you see who it was?’ he asked.

‘No – I have no idea. Maybe it was a passing waiter but I’m sure they didn’t mean it.’

She shivered and Nick tentatively put his arm around her. She liked the comforting feel of his body so close to hers – it made her feel warm and safe, and it had been a long time since she’d had that feeling.

‘Let’s try and forget all this. Why don’t we get to know each other a little bit better? How about lunch tomorrow?’

‘That would be nice. Why don’t you call me?’ She smiled up into his eyes and gently moved away from his embrace. ‘I’d love to go somewhere quiet, away from the Saint-Tropez razzmatazz.’

‘I know the perfect place,’ he said.

After the crowds finally dispersed, Gabrielle sat on the edge of the quay, making notes on her cell phone. François, the waiter, came to sit beside her.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Has anybody ever told you you’re too pretty to be a cop?’

Oh, please
, she thought –
from what clichéd movie had he stolen that line?

She coolly appraised him. He certainly had a boyish charm and good looks in abundance, and his alibis for Mina’s death had checked out after the interrogations, as did his credentials. François Lardon’s profile stated that he came from a good bourgeois family in Marseille and had been working as a waiter there until he became employed at Sénéquier the previous year.

As they chatted, Gabrielle started to realise she enjoyed talking to this young man. She had had no boyfriends since the terrible night when she had discovered the truth about Jeremy. Because her mother had died when she was so young, she had become the woman of the house. She had devoted herself to her father, ran their
ménage
and was determined to be the best she could at her job in the gendarmerie. What little spare time she had was taken up by working out diligently in the gym, honing her strength with karate lessons and T’ai Chi. There had been little time for dating, but she was only twenty-four and her hormones were rampant, so when François Lardon asked her to a concert in Ramatuelle with him the following week, she decided to accept.

The next day, Nick took Carlotta to L’Auberge de la Môle, a small family-run restaurant in the picturesque town of La Môle – a good half-hour away from Saint-Tropez. The owner Clothilde came bustling up and hugged Nick, who was obviously a regular and valued customer, and escorted them to a table in the corner of the forecourt, next to the wall where the bougainvillea bloomed in abundance.

‘You will love the food here. I hope you have a good appetite.’

‘I certainly do,’ said Carlotta. ‘I’m ravenous.’

Clothilde brought them five fabulous courses and Carlotta enjoyed every single one of them, particularly the large terrines of assorted pâtés like mousse de canard and pâté de campagne, which she devoured with large hunks of buttered grilled rustic bread and a big jar of assorted
cornichons
and other pickled delicacies.

They talked as if they had known each other for years. He told her about his life as a journalist working on a range of stories, including being in the frontlines of hotspots all over the world. Carlotta wasn’t ready to tell him too much about her miserable life with Nicanor, however. At the end of the dinner, he drove her home, and at her front door said, ‘Goodnight, Contessa. This has been very special.’

‘For me too,’ she replied tenderly. Reaching up she kissed him softly, and he gently pulled her closer to him. He felt so safe and strong – a world apart from the way Nicanor had held her, even in his tenderest moments. The thought made her shudder involuntarily.

As if reading her thoughts, he whispered, ‘So special that whatever happens between us should start slowly.’

‘I agree,’ said Carlotta. Although she was still eager for the sensual feel of his mouth on hers, she gently pulled away.

‘I have to go away tomorrow on an assignment – just a day or two – and when I return I want to see a lot more of you, Carlotta.’

‘And I want to see a lot more of you too,’ she said softly.

After a screaming row, which only ended when Fabrizio reluctantly calmed Lara down in the way she liked best, she gave him the silent treatment over the next few days. Any attempts by him at conversation were met with monosyllabic replies or sarcastic grunts.

Feeling totally pussy-whipped, he expunged his anger by fierce games of tennis and even fiercer bedroom games with Betty, the pretty Brit who was teaching him how to dance. He tried to call Carlotta and she sweetly but firmly refused his attempts to ask her out.

But life goes on in Saint-Tropez, and its denizens wouldn’t let a little thing like Mina’s murder or a bomb threat deter them from having the time of their lives. As the big party month of July grew closer, every day dozens of humongous yachts pulled into the tiny port of Saint-Tropez. Those that couldn’t fit, or couldn’t afford the unbelievably high mooring charges, parked their massive gin palaces in the choppy waters outside the beaches of Pampelonne.

Lara loved her jewellery. All of it had sentimental value for her. She had received most of it when she was the queen of Manhattan society, and she kept it all under her bed in a big leather jewel case from Asprey’s. Fabrizio had often told her she was foolish to keep so many goodies in their flat and not in the bank, but she always told him to ‘Shut the fuck up – I always keep it locked,
stupido!
’

Stumbling home from a boozy boat lunch with Maximus and some of his young studs one afternoon, where she had fallen asleep sunbathing without her make-up, Lara collapsed drunkenly into her bed. Staring down, she was vexed to see her beautiful jewel case on the floor, smashed to pieces, which sobered her up immediately.

‘My jewels!’ she screamed, and fell to the ground attempting to pick up the few remaining trinkets that the thief hadn’t bothered to take. ‘Oh, my God, I’ve been robbed! Help, help, somebody help me!’

She staggered to the window, where a couple of passing tourists looked up curiously. ‘Oh, look, Mags, isn’t it that Lara something or other?’ said the English holidaymaker, whipping out his iPhone and snapping the dishevelled socialite as she waved her arms frantically, shouting for help in such a slurred voice that no one understood her.

Lara’s red hairpiece was slipping down her forehead and getting in the way of her pleas for help. She ripped it from her head, leaving her looking, without her massive beehive hairdo and her unmade-up face, like a pink boiled egg.

‘Cor, Barry, she looks bloody awful! Can’t be ’er,’ said Mags, rolls of junk-food flesh oozing out from above her tight Lycra mini-dress.

‘It is,’ said Barry, snapping more photos, his brawny tattoo-encrusted arms holding up the phone as high as possible to get the best shot. ‘Wot’s ’at she’s holding in ’er hands, eh?’

‘Her syrup,’ replied the woman with practised knowledge.

‘Aw, yeah – syrup of fig – wig – got it,’ Barry smirked. ‘Hullo, Lara, darlin’. ‘Ow’r you doin’?’

‘Help me – please get the police,’ cried Lara piteously, only it sounded more like ‘Heppe plis get ’e please.’

‘Yes, heppy, darlin’. Pleased yer happy, darlin’,’ laughed Barry, snapping more photos on his iPhone.

‘
Nooooo! Hep-hep-Heeeeeppppe me
,’ raged Lara in frustration. ‘Paleeze –
Paleeeeeeze!
’

‘Wot’s that she’s sayin’? Sumpthing about the palace?’ Mags was still smiling and waving at Lara. ‘I think she’s well “hit and missed”.’

‘Yeah, as a newt,’ said Barry. ‘The
Sun
will pay a bundle for these pics, I bet.’

‘Just wave and smile,’ said Mags, and they slowly walked away, leaving Lara so distraught that she fainted, her body half-hanging out of the window. Her hairpiece fell to the ground, where minutes later a stray mongrel found it, sniffed it cautiously, cocked its leg and urinated on it.

When Fabrizio returned he found her sprawled on the floor, her face swollen and tear-stained, and buried in what remained of the Asprey box.