The St. Tropez Lonely Hearts Club (23 page)

The harsh ringing of the hotel telephone awoke Charlie abruptly.

‘Charlie, I’m afraid I’ve got some news for you and it’s not good,’ said Peter. ‘I’m down in the lobby but I’m coming right up.’

The pool man had discovered Spencer’s corpse in the morning. He was lying naked and splayed out beside the bed of roses Charlie had so carefully cultivated, which was situated next to a crumbling old stone wall, home to nests of wasps. His body was covered in wasp bites; many of them were still buzzing furiously around.

Captain Poulpe and Gabrielle were quickly on the scene with the Saint-Tropez gendarmerie. As well as the wasps, there were many flies buzzing around the body. ‘He’s obviously been dead for at least twenty-four hours,’ said the Captain.

‘Somebody disturbed these wasps – look . . .’ said Gabrielle. ‘Someone poked this stick into the crevices and made the wasps really angry.’

The body was taken to the morgue.

‘
Regardez
,’ said the pathologist, who had been examining Spencer’s body. ‘In his throat there is a dead wasp. It stung in his larynx, which caused it to swell up so he could no longer breathe.’

‘But why?’ asked Gabrielle. ‘Why on earth was he down there, poking a stick into the wasps’ nest? He knew they were dangerous.’

‘I do not know,’ said the pathologist, carefully removing the dead wasp from Spencer’s swollen throat, ‘but there is no question that this little insect is what killed him.’

‘But this is murder then, isn’t it?’ Gabrielle whispered to her father. ‘There’s no other way that this could have happened. Who would want to kill Spencer? Everyone liked him – and they love Charlie.’

‘Who would want to kill Mina? Who would want to cause such chaos on Litvak’s boat the night of his party? Who would pour hot wax on Lara Meyer’s . . .’ Captain Poulpe stumbled over the word.

‘Vagina?’ added Gabrielle helpfully.

‘Erm, yes, of course,’ replied Captain Poulpe, regarding his daughter with raised eyebrows. ‘Exactly what I was going to say.’

Roberto LoBianco was holding court in the corner of the room during a small dinner party he was throwing to celebrate the summer season. Several of the most seriously rich Saint-Tropeziennes, plus Monty Goldman, Khris Kane and Nate Kowalski were glued to his every word as he expounded on his favourite subject: the decline of Saint-Tropez and the glory of his brand-new resort. ‘Saint-Sébastien is going to be the
crème de la crème
of glamour resorts. We’ve already built a small airport, for private use only, of course, because never the twain shall meet.’ He laughed and blew the smoke from his Havana into the warm night air. ‘But if you come commercial, you’ll go to Toulon Airport, and Saint-Sébastien will supply an Augusta Westland helicopter, the same type the president uses, to get you down there – it’ll take less than fifteen minutes.’

‘Will it be that exclusive?’ asked Monty.

‘Absolutely, old man – top of the line. No other resort will be able to touch it.’

‘Sounds too good to be true.’ Khris Kane was ever cynical.

‘Yeah, it’s gonna be gigantic, but we need a few more investors. You all know that to get back millions you have to invest millions. Private resorts are the future, boys, you’d better believe it.’ The men all nodded. ‘Saint-Tropez is a dinosaur. Look at the dreck that shows up here in their crap buses and their motorbikes every day. They bring
nothing
to this place – nothing but trash.’

Monty, who never pulled his punches, agreed angrily, ‘Yeah, and what about the fucking burglars? They come here every summer – I don’t know where the fuck from; Latvia, Romania, you name it. They’re all gypsies who don’t give a fuck, here for the loot. They shit in the doorways of my shops, sometimes, and they often sleep there too; they’re bloody vagrants, for Christ’s sake, and they doss down outside my shops and scare the customers away. They even robbed Lara Meyer. Frankly I’ll be glad to explore new venues – this place is old hat and getting tired.’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, it’s tough at the top,’ said Roberto dismissively. ‘We don’t get the bums on our island. What we do get, to quote you English – ’ he grinned at Nate and Khris, who kept the stony expressions of true gamblers on their faces – ‘is bums on seats in our casino.’ He grinned broadly, ‘Get it?’

‘Casino? Are you kidding? What about permits and gaming licences – all that stuff? We’ve been trying to get a casino in Saint-Tropez for decades without success!’ said Monty.

‘Listen, if they can gamble in Monte-Carlo, they can gamble on my island. I’ve been in the casino business for twenty-five years and, if it’s done properly, it’s a licence to print money.’

‘Just a casino? What about great restaurants, beaches, fabulous shopping – are you gonna have these?’ asked Monty.

‘You bet,’ said LoBianco. ‘Everything that Saint-Tropez has we will have – except more, better, more beautiful and trendier. I’ve already got interest from Gucci, Fendi and Prada.’

‘Sounds too good to be true,’ said Khris Kane. ‘What about nightlife?’

‘Sure, we’ll have great nightlife, but the day life’s gonna be hot too.’

‘Sounds too good to be true,’ echoed Monty.

‘It’s all good. It’s more than good, and it’s ready to roll. All I need now is you gentlemen to put up a little collateral. You put ten million euros each in my bank as seed money and Saint-Sébastien will be set to open by spring 2016. We’re selling the villas and apartments now. There’s huge interest, and there’s been even more since these horrific events,’ said LoBianco. ‘Mina Corbain’s death was the beginning of a terrible cycle. The bomb scare at the Litvak boat, and now the queer guy found with a wasp shoved down his throat – it’s given half the residents here the wind up.’

The other men looked cynical, but LoBianco continued persuasively: ‘Some of them have been quietly putting their homes on the market and looking at our properties for the past month.’

‘I’ve been thinking about it,’ said Monty. ‘But people love Saint-Tropez too much to leave.’

‘Gentlemen, this is an investment opportunity that comes along once in a lifetime. Within five years I can guarantee you’ll get your money back. It can’t miss – a perfect place for perfect people; no tourists, no vagrants, no gypsies and
no
murderers – because that’s what’s freakin’ everyone out here.’

‘Well, sometimes you gotta let something die before you let something live,’ said Khris philosophically.

‘If we have to pay a few people off, we will,’ said LoBianco.

‘Like who?’ asked Monty.

‘Like the villagers that live there now. We’ve started construction already – we have three hotels almost finished and soon we can afford to buy off the fifty or so villagers who still are in their little hovels on what will be prime real-estate.
Prime
, gentlemen. Within a few years you’ll have doubled – no,
tripled
your investment. I’ll tell you one thing,’ LoBianco continued, ‘this spate of incidents has helped me no end! So many people are fed up with Saint-Tropez now and want to get out.

‘So, gentlemen, do you want to take a trip to Saint-Sébastien island with me?’

Roberto LoBianco had invited just a few select guests for a trip to Saint-Sébastien. They set off on a vintage Riva from Le Lavandou, a charming village twenty kilometres from Saint-Tropez.

‘We could have left from Saint-Tropez port,’ Roberto announced as the horizon melted into the background. ‘But I wanted you guys to see how easy it is to get to the island from Toulon Airport.’

They nodded in agreement. It was a perfect June morning. The sky was the pure azure that gave the Côte d’Azur its name, and the irritating mistral had calmed the sea down so the boat glided on it as if it was glass. Roberto had chosen his guests carefully. They were people whom he thought were becoming bored of Saint-Tropez or, in the case of the lovely Contessa Di Ponti and Henry and Blanche Phillips, would be open to the suggestion of buying a home. The speedboat was one of the largest of its kind. It sat twenty people easily, and it sped over the crystal water without causing the passengers any irritable bounces.

The wind whipped Carlotta’s hair into tight curls as she lay back and allowed the sun to warm her. This was the life. How different from the stifling years she had spent in San Miguel. She could live here happily with the sun, the sea and the relaxing and calming atmosphere. Why not? There were good schools close by and Flora would thrive here. If only she had someone to share her life. She had loved getting to know Nick, but a client had suddenly called him away on assignment to cover an ISIS crisis in Iraq. They had tried to keep in touch by cell phone, but it was extremely difficult, so the odd email had to suffice. Although Carlotta didn’t want to admit it, she was a little lonely and she missed Nick. In fact, she thought she might be falling in love with him.

As if reading her thoughts, Fabrizio, who had accepted Roberto’s invitation on Lara’s behalf and then conveniently omitted to relay it to her, came to sit next to Carlotta. He had decided to play it much cooler with her, having realised what an ass he had made of himself at the disastrous party on the boat. Lara was safely tucked away at home, a bottle of vodka next to a large bottle of painkillers and several DVDs of
Sex and the City
waiting to be viewed. But, knowing Lara as he did, Fabrizio was secure in the knowledge that the vodka and pills would keep her in a drugged deep slumber for the rest of the afternoon.

Roberto had informed the group that there would be no cellphone reception or internet access on this trip. ‘But it’s only temporary, guys,’ he announced. ‘My technicians are working on getting everything sorted out, so by the time Saint-Sébastien is ready to roll, everything that the modern world can provide will be at your disposal.’

Harry Silver, Khris Kane, Monty Goldman and Nate Kowalski were all sitting together in the prow of the speeding boat. All mega-rich and long part of this ‘masters of the universe’ boys’ club, they were eager to see if this project had the possibility of yielding them even more mega-bucks.

‘Those guys have more money and property and toys than they could ever use in a million years, but they still need more, more and more,’ Fabrizio grinned at Carlotta.