by Lin Anderson
Monique’s opening remark made him laugh, sprinkled as it was with French curses, as she demanded to know who the fool was who’d had coffee with Patrick earlier.
‘A former colleague of mine,’ he told her honestly.
‘He asked a lot of questions about you.’
‘Such as?’
‘Why you are here.’
‘And what did you tell him?’
‘That I was your lover and you couldn’t stay away from me.’ Monique gave a throaty laugh.
‘Well done,’ Patrick said with a smile. ‘Is he still around?’
She shook her head. ‘I saw him get on the ferry for Cap d’Antibes.’
‘Good.’
‘So,’ Monique said, ‘you’re here about the missing painting?’
‘I thought it was supposed to be a secret,’ Patrick said, feigning surprise at Monique’s direct question.
‘Brother Thomas and I are friends. Platonic, of course,’ she added firmly. ‘He’s very distressed that the Madonna is missing.’
‘She seems to have quite a fan club.’
Monique gave one of her signature shrugs. ‘There’s little opportunity here to view a beautiful naked woman.’
‘Any idea what happened to her?’
‘My father thinks she’s been taken off the island.’
When Patrick asked how François knew this, Monique explained, ‘There was a large yacht anchored in the bay last night. He saw it send a dinghy ashore.’
‘Maybe they were just visiting the island.’
‘At three o’clock in the morning?’ Monique said dismissively.
Which chimed with Patrick’s thoughts exactly.
‘Did your father catch the name of the yacht?’
‘Hirondelle. He says it’s now in Cannes harbour.’
Patrick thought highly of François Girard. If the fisherman believed the Hirondelle was worth checking out, then he would do so.
‘Thanks, Monique.’
‘You’re welcome. What are you planning to do?’
Patrick asked Monique to call the monastery and let them know he was headed for Cannes. ‘I left Oscar with Brother Thomas. Will you tell him I’ll return later?’
‘The last boat back’s at five thirty,’ she warned him.
Patrick joined the queue of visitors waiting by the steps as the ferry approached. This time Benedict wasn’t at the helm, replaced by a younger man, so there was no chance to find out whether Benedict knew anything about the Hirondelle or to warn him that he might not make their glass of wine together.
Patrick decided on the return journey that staying on St Honorat might hamper the investigation unless he had quick and easy access to the mainland. His best bet would be to ask to borrow Stephen’s motorboat, which was small enough to tie up in Honorat’s tiny harbour. Pleasure craft weren’t generally permitted to use the harbour, but under the circumstances Patrick thought Brother Robert would agree.
An impatient twenty minutes followed as he watched while the ferry slowly approached Cannes. There was no sign of the Hirondelle at the western end of the harbour, but most of the larger yachts tied up in the eastern area.
Patrick disembarked and swiftly made his way round the bay. Entering it next to the casino, he walked the length of the L-shaped quay. There were a dozen yachts tied up on this stretch. All large, all luxurious, but none of them were named Hirondelle. The outer wall had only one yacht, which he recognized as Le Ciel Bleu, its current caretaker being Hercule Allard, a man Patrick knew well.
Disappointed, Patrick considered his next move. The yacht in question might be anywhere by now, but there was a way to find out when it had departed and maybe even its destination. Patrick made for the harbour office, hoping that Jacques Dupont was on duty.
‘Mon ami, I heard you’d gone to London,’ the big burly figure gave him the statutory two kisses.
Patrick prayed he wouldn’t be asked about the Queen yet again. Thankfully he wasn’t.
‘What can I do for you?’
Patrick had helped Jacques out a few months back, when he’d got into debt at the casino. The money involved wasn’t a large sum, and at the time Patrick saw it as a goodwill investment. He also knew he could win it back, being a better poker player than Jacques, who wore his thoughts on his face. A bad feature for a gambler to have.
‘There was a yacht anchored here last night, name of Hirondelle. Has she gone?’
‘Let me take a look for you.’ Jacques punched the name into the computer log. ‘Here she is. Hirondelle, one night only. Took on fuel and water. Left this morning.’
‘Any idea where she was heading?’
‘Cap d’Antibes.’ Jacques smiled, knowingly. ‘You on a job?’
‘You could say that,’ Patrick said. ‘Can you tell me the owner’s name?’
Jacques glanced at the screen again. ‘It’s registered to a company called Blue Water Holdings.’
‘Did the captain say anything about his passengers?’
‘No. Very discreet.’ Jacques paused. ‘I could check with my friend at Port Vauban. See if they’re berthed there.’
‘That would be very helpful.’
Patrick thanked Jacques, although he’d already decided that since his car was back on the road he might as well take it for a spin and check the yacht’s whereabouts on Cap d’Antibes for himself.
He called Daniel in advance and asked if the car was ready to go.
‘Sure thing. When are you coming for her?’
‘I’ll be with you in ten minutes.’ Patrick’s heart lifted at the thought of driving his beloved Ferrari again. Bullet-torn and pushed off the road as she was, Patrick had kissed her goodbye that day in the mountains as he’d tried to save his own life.
Yet here was the Ferrari, almost good as new. Lovingly polished, she gleamed in the sunlight. Daniel had done a fine job on her. One that Patrick would repay in kind.
‘I’ve been considering your problem and think I may have a solution,’ he told Daniel. ‘When are you expecting them back?’
‘They gave me thirty-six hours to come up with the money …’ Daniel wasn’t easily frightened, so if he was showing fear, there was a good reason.
‘That place we discussed?’ Patrick said. ‘I want you and Fidella to go there tonight. I’ve told Jean-Paul to expect you. Stay until I contact you.’
‘What about the garage?’
‘Put up a closed sign.’ Patrick told him. ‘I’ll call you when it’s OK to return.’
Daniel looked as though he might ask for more details.
‘It’s better you don’t know,’ Patrick said firmly.
Daniel nodded. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’ve thanked me enough already.’ Patrick indicated the gleaming car.
Settling himself inside, he took a few moments to savour the pleasure, then made a phone call. Jean-Paul answered immediately.
‘They’re heading your way tonight,’ Patrick told him.
‘When do you need me?’ Jean-Paul asked, sounding excited by the call to arms.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ Patrick promised.
There was a grunt of agreement and Jean-Paul rang off. A man of few words, but when he gave his word he kept it. He and his English wife, Joanne, had a small beach restaurant with cabins in the hamlet of Le Dramont, a short drive west along the coast road. Jean-Paul’s grandfather, a resistance fighter during the Second World War, was a son of Le Suquet and had a cobbled alley leading to the castle named after him, because of his heroic exploits during that war. His father had served in the Foreign Legion, and Jean-Paul, following in his father’s footsteps, had served in France’s special forces. Now he did what he loved most, preparing and serving the dishes of Provence in his small restaurant on the beach where the American forces had landed.
Jean-Paul was, like his father and grandfather, not a man to get into a fight with, unless he was on your side.
Patrick sounded the horn as he drew out into Rue Hibert and gave Daniel a farewell wave. Wit
hin minutes he had wound his way through Le Suquet and on to the Voie Rapide, en route to Antibes. Joining the coast road once outside the town, he made his way past the luxury villas that dotted the hillsides of La Californie and Super Cannes, with their views of the passing superyachts that ploughed the Côte d’Azur.
Luxury yachting had always been a part of the Riviera legend and its harbours were open to anyone wishing to take a closer look at the lifestyles of the rich and famous, unlike on land where their villas and châteaux were hidden behind security gates and high walls.
Although Cannes and Monaco had a reputation for berthing luxury yachts, Port Vauban in Antibes was the true centre of Mediterranean yachting. Patrick’s intention was to check Port Vauban first. If the Hirondelle wasn’t there, then she might have chosen to moor either side of Cap d’Antibes.
As he approached Juan-les-Pins, his mobile buzzed an incoming text from Jacques. Glancing at the screen, Patrick noted that word had come back from Jacques’ friend at Port Vauban that the Hirondelle wasn’t berthed there, but had anchored off Hôtel du Cap-Eden Roc on the western side of the peninsula. Patrick silently thanked Jacques for sparing him an unnecessary journey, and at the junction near the casino headed south on to the peninsular.
Eden Roc was one of the most famous hotels in the world, especially popular with Hollywood stars, particularly during the Cannes film festival. It had been the setting for Scott Fitzgerald’s Tender is the Night. You didn’t anchor off such a hotel, Patrick reasoned, without intending to visit it.
The original hotel, a stately white Napoleon III building, was reached by a wide avenue through the extensive gardens. Beyond this, a further avenue led you to the newer buildings, which clustered above the rocks and around an organic-shaped pool that overflowed into the sea. These were the rocks that Scott Fitzgerald’s ‘mad’ wife Zelda had dived from. Patrick had done so himself, and thus admired her fearlessness.
He handed the car over to a parking attendant and walked through the gardens towards the glistening sea and the sight of a large white yacht, which with the aid of his binoculars proved to be the Hirondelle. It stood three storeys high and had its own helipad.
Pleased to have located the mystery yacht, Patrick made his way up to the Champagne Lounge. Perched above the pool, with a clear view to the jetty below, it would provide a vantage point from which he could watch any comings and goings involving the Hirondelle.
It was at this point Patrick noticed a woman standing at the far corner of the terrace, gazing out to sea or, perhaps like him, towards the yacht. This time Grazia Lucca was dressed in glorious red. Despite the fact that her back was towards him, Patrick recognized her immediately, by her height, the way she held herself, and her luxurious long dark hair. His surprise at discovering Grazia here immediately gave way to caution. Where Grazia was, Huntington might also be.
Patrick sat down at the bar, keeping his face averted. When asked what he would like to drink, Patrick requested the champagne menu, to give himself time to decide his next move. He had no wish to meet Grazia again, at least not in such circumstances, and was even less enamoured at the prospect of encountering Huntington. But he was here for a purpose and didn’t want to leave yet.
As it was, Patrick didn’t get to decide how to play this, because Grazia suddenly appeared beside him.
‘Grazia! Where did you spring from?’ Patrick said, feigning surprise.
As those green eyes surveyed him, Patrick imagined what she might be thinking. That de Courvoisier had finally been brought on side and was now here to offer his help in searching for the House of Windsor’s stolen painting.
‘Why are you here?’ Grazia asked sharply.
‘I live near here, remember? And this is one of my favourite places to drink champagne.’
Hearing this, the barman approached, anticipating that Patrick was ready to place his order. Patrick did so.
‘A bottle of the Cuvée Paradis, s’il vous plaît.’
‘Two glasses, Monsieur?’ the barman said with an enquiring glance.
Patrick turned to Grazia. ‘Would you care to join me? It’s a nice champagne.’
Grazia indicated her acceptance, although she seemed ill at ease at the turn of events.
‘Is Huntington with you?’ Patrick said, when the barman went to fetch the champagne.
‘No.’
‘May I ask when you expect him?’
Grazia hesitated, before finally meeting Patrick’s eye. ‘He was supposed to meet me here at lunchtime but didn’t arrive, and now he doesn’t answer his phone.’ A flicker of concern crossed her face.
‘Giles isn’t known for working well with others,’ Patrick said. ‘But I assume Charles warned you of that?’
At this moment, the chilled champagne arrived, preventing Grazia’s response.
Patrick sampled it, pronounced it satisfactory, and asked that it be brought to a table at the seaward side of the terrace. Once they were settled there, Patrick took stock. He’d told no one he was coming to the Eden Roc, although Huntington had made a point of his own intended afternoon visit to the nearby Château de la Croë. Patrick assumed that was where he was now, but why then arrange to meet Grazia here at lunchtime, when he was in fact visiting the monastery on St Honorat?
Patrick toyed with the idea of revealing what he knew of Huntington’s movements, but decided not to for the moment.
‘If you’re concerned about Giles, you could always check with London,’ he suggested.
‘I don’t think that’s necessary,’ Grazia said firmly.
Patrick recalled his first impressions of this woman and the term formidable sprang to mind again. Perhaps Huntington had met his match in Grazia Lucca. Patrick hoped so.
Patrick refilled their glasses. As he did so, he noticed a motor launch swiftly approaching from the Hirondelle. Using his binoculars, he scanned for passengers. There was only one figure on board apart from the pilot. A man, whom he didn’t recognize.
He looked round to discover Grazia was watching his actions intently.
‘You’re on a job?’ she said.
‘Yes, but my paymaster isn’t London,’ Patrick assured her.
‘So it has nothing to do with what you discussed with Charles?’
‘Nothing at all,’ Patrick said honestly.
The launch had docked and its sole occupant was disembarking. Patrick watched the tall figure climb towards the promontory.
‘I need to check out this man,’ Patrick told her.
Before Grazia could respond, the man appeared at their level. Tall, darkly tanned, wearing a smart cream suit. His eyes swept the room, and settled immediately on Grazia.
He walked swiftly towards her.
‘Grazia!’ he said, his face beaming with pleasure.
From Grazia’s expression, Patrick was certain she did know the man but had not anticipated this meeting. Either that or she was a very good actress.
She finally rallied. ‘Marco, how good to see you again.’
They embraced, then Marco turned to Patrick and held out his hand.
‘Marco Fratelli. Mr Coburn, I presume?’
Patrick registered the Coburn name and immediately accepted the firm handshake. ‘Delighted to meet you.’
It appeared from Grazia’s reaction that she had no knowledge of the nom de plume Huntington had bandied about on St Honorat and so assumed Patrick was posing as Coburn.
Patrick gave her a conspiratorial smile, hoping she would play along with him.
Grazia might be puzzled, but she was no fool.
‘You two haven’t met before?’ she said.
‘No,’ Marco said. ‘But I’m delighted to be working with you.’
His eyes lingered on Grazia.
He’s been her lover, Patrick decided. And would like to be again.
‘I see you’ve already ordered,’ Marco said, noting the open bottle of champagne. ‘May I ask what you chose?’
‘The Cuvée Paradis,’ Patrick told him.
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He nodded. ‘A serviceable wine, but perhaps we might try something a little more exciting.’
‘What do you recommend?’ Patrick asked.
‘The 2003 Dom Pérignon Rosé?’
‘Sounds good,’ Patrick said, aware that Marco’s choice of champagne cost four times as much as his own. It seemed he was keen to impress. Whether he was trying to impress Mr Coburn, that connoisseur of wines and supplier to the House of Windsor, or Grazia Lucca was still to be established.
When Fratelli went to the bar, Grazia turned on Patrick.
‘He thinks you’re Giles,’ she said.
Patrick opted to stay as close to the truth as possible. ‘Maybe,’ he admitted. ‘But I need to speak to the owner of that yacht, and this provides an opportunity to do so.’
‘How has Marco got anything to do with the job you’re on?’ When Patrick hesitated, Grazia added, ‘If you don’t tell me, then I’ll tell him who you really are.’
Patrick glanced at the bar where Marco was deep in conversation with the barman. He decided to come clean.
‘A valuable painting has gone missing from the monastery on St Honorat. I think the Hirondelle may have been used to take it from the island.’
Grazia looked shocked by this. ‘You must be mistaken,’ she said.
‘Who exactly is Marco Fratelli?’ Patrick said.
‘He’s an eminent Italian art dealer.’
‘Well, I have it on good authority that a boat went from his yacht to the harbour on St Honorat at three o’clock yesterday morning,’ Patrick explained. When Grazia didn’t look convinced, Patrick added, ‘And Giles was also on St Honorat this morning, masquerading as a Mr Coburn, purveyor of fine wines to the Windsors.’
‘What?’
‘He was having lunch there, when he should have been meeting you.’
Patrick felt suddenly sorry for Grazia. If she was indeed an art historian and that was the only part she’d been given to play in this project, then discovering her colleagues were being anything but honest with her must be unsettling.
‘I don’t understand …’ she began.
‘Neither do I,’ Patrick admitted. ‘Perhaps Marco can explain.’
Marco was now on his way back, accompanied by a waiter bearing the bottle of choice. As the waiter prepared to pour the champagne, Patrick decided to open the proceedings.
