The St Tropez Lonely Hearts Club

by Joan Collins

‘Very pretty. Do you want to wear it now?’ asked Carlotta.

  ‘Oh, I am bedecked!’ laughed Sophie, who had already donned various bracelets, rings and scarves gifted to her.

  ‘Enough already – I’ve been spoiled . . . but where’s that black box I saw?’ Adolpho and Carlotta exchanged glances.

  ‘What black box?’

  ‘You know perfectly well, I saw it in the pile last night. Now, now, what have you done with it?’

  ‘I don’t think you will like it,’ said Carlotta gently.

  ‘Don’t tell me what I would or wouldn’t like,’ Sophie snapped. ‘Show it to me!’

  Reluctantly, Carlotta handed it over, and Sophie opened the box.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ she gasped, staring at a framed portrait of herself. ‘I can’t believe someone would do something so horrible.’

  The picture was an old cover of Paris Match. It showed a young Sophie lying on her chaise longue surrounded by seven or eight cats. Each of the cat’s faces had been carefully cut out, and pasted on each was a picture of a hideous grinning skull. Where Sophie’s face would have been, another paper skull was pasted – this one screaming hideously like the figure in the Munch painting, The Scream. There was also a note, which Captain Poulpe had already dusted for fingerprints along with the frame and glass. ‘You are never safe, bitch.’

  ‘Oh, my God!’ Sophie threw the picture and note to the ground. ‘Who hates me enough to have created this horror? Who? Who?’

  In a café in Port Grimaud, a man sat sipping a café crème and smoking a cigarette. He smiled to himself, that should scare the old bitch, he thought, but it’s just the beginning of what I’ve got planned next. . .

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  ‘Are you fucking my wife?’

  Coming out of the shower of the Byblos hotel gym after his afternoon workout, wet and naked except for the gold medallions swinging around his neck, Fabrizio felt at a definite disadvantage. He quickly removed the towel from his neck and attempted to tie it around his waist, but Jonathan was having none of it. He ripped the towel from Fabrizio’s hands and went nose to nose with him.

  ‘Are you? Are you, you little punk? Are you screwing Vanessa?’

  His tone was so ominously calm that Fabrizio’s knees started shaking. Whether this was a reaction from his soaking wet body or from fear, he didn’t know. He’d heard the stories about the legendary Jonathan Meyer. He took no prisoners, either in the boardroom or the bedroom, and if he didn’t get what he wanted by fair means, force was his next power play.

  Fabrizio stammered, ‘Of course not – what a ridiculous idea!’ He cupped his genitals then changed his mind. He didn’t have to hide what he called his ‘noble tool’. Vanessa had whispered to him last week, ‘You have the most beautiful cock I’ve ever seen,’ and Fabrizio had to admit, having seen a few himself, she had exquisite taste.

  Nevertheless, how the fuck had Jonathan found out? Vanessa would never have confessed to their affair – not in a million years. There was no question of that. She had even admitted to Fabrizio that he was only the second man she had slept with since marrying Jonathan. Well, it was only a tiny fib . . . Who the other man had been, he didn’t know: she would only tell him that he was an actor. Fabrizio, immediately assuming she had been attracted to this other guy for the same reason she’d been attracted to him, and with the innate curiosity of the well-endowed, was curious to know who might have a bigger one.

  ‘I don’t believe you, you little cocksucker,’ Jonathan roared as he shook Fabrizio and banged his head against the glass shower door.

  ‘I swear to you, I didn’t,’ he gasped, surprised at the older man’s strength. Although in his fifties, Jonathan Meyer had the powerful musculature of a man much younger and he was furious. Like a mad bull, thought Fabrizio.

  ‘If you did, if you fucked her, you scumbag, I’ll find out and then I’ll cut your balls off and stick them down your throat until you choke to death.’

  Fabrizio started to panic. Jonathan’s hands were around his neck, and he was attempting to squeeze the life out of him as he yelled, ‘Did you? Did you screw my wife, you asshole? Come on, tell me!’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Jonathan, stop it! I didn’t fuck her, I swear on my . . . on my . . . mother’s life,’ he croaked.

  Just then an attendant came running over and tried to pull Jonathan away, saying, ‘I’m sorry, sir, but this is a quiet zone.’

  Jonathan gave the man a terrifying glare and shouted, ‘Get the fuck out of here!’

  ‘Oh well, if you’re going to strangle someone, at least please keep it down,’ stammered the attendant, and scurried away.

  Jonathan took his hands off Fabrizio’s throat, throwing him down on the marble floor like a used towel. Bending over him, he whispered menacingly, ‘If I find out you screwed my wife, your life won’t be worth living, you bum! I’ll fucking ruin you, you little shit!’

  Jonathan straightened up, adjusted his toupee in the mirror and strode out of the shower room. Fabrizio dragged himself on to a bench shivering with fear. What a fool he’d been. Yes, Vanessa was gorgeous and sexy, but the fucking he got from her wasn’t worth the fucking-over he would get from one of the most powerful and influential men in America. He didn’t need this. He didn’t need Vanessa, but he had to find out how – and more importantly if – Jonathan Meyer really knew about their affair.

  The two children pranced down Tahiti Beach from the hotel above it. Their mother had told them not to go near the water as it was too early for the lifeguards to be on duty, and the beach boys hadn’t yet started setting out the bright orange loungers and matching umbrellas.

  Emily and Alexander were shrieking with childish enthusiasm as they played along the wide expanse of clean beach. The temperature was already in the high seventies and it was such fun being the only kids down there. Alex was bending down to pick up their ball, which had rolled near the water’s edge, when he saw something floating in the shallow water. He picked it up and looked at it curiously.

  ‘What is it?’ yelled his sister.

  ‘It’s . . . it’s . . .’ Ten-year-old Alex blushed as he held up a ripped black Lycra bikini bottom covered in golden hearts.

  ‘Oh, silly – it’s just panties.’ Emily, who was a year older, scoffed.

  ‘What are they doing in the water?’ Alex asked.

  ‘Who cares? C’mon, let’s play ball before the beach fills up,’ and with that she threw the ball to him, but it bounced so far away that Alex had to run across half the beach to retrieve it. As he bent over again he saw something that almost made him sick.

  The naked body of a girl was lying face up in the water. Her long blonde hair was entangled in seaweed and crabs were crawling over what was once a beautiful face. Alex shrieked with fear; running to Emily, he grabbed her hands and together they went racing up to the hotel’s beach restaurant, yelling for help.

  ‘There’s a girl in the water,’ Alex screamed. ‘She’s dead!’

  ‘What? What has happened?’ The waiter François – still filling in for his sick friend – rushed out from the kitchen to the bar, where the hysterical children had collapsed on to a banquette in floods of tears. Within minutes everyone at the hotel was awake and clustered around Emily and Alex, who could only point towards the beach in horror-stricken panic at what they had seen.

  Captain Poulpe and Gabrielle were on the scene quickly.

  ‘There is no question about it. This time it is definitely murder,’ said Captain Poulpe.

  ‘Oh, my God! Who would want to kill Zarina?’ Gabrielle felt faint.

  ‘A very sick person indeed,’ replied her father.

  Within minutes a small group of gendarmes arrived and quickly shielded the naked body of Zarina with a tarpaulin tent; but, as if alerted by jungle drums, ‘lookey-loos’ and gawkers descended on the beach in droves.

  ‘What hotel were they staying at?’ Captain Poulpe asked Gabrielle, who had been keeping close tabs on everyone.

 
; ‘The Tropezien Sun,’ she replied.

  ‘Go check out her room,’ he said. ‘Now Gabrielle.’

  Gabrielle jumped on her motorbike and, arriving at the girl’s suite, found it empty, but a complete mess. Clothes, make-up and jewellery were littered around the room, but there was no sign of Sin. Strangely, both their cell phones were still plugged in. Gabrielle carefully photographed everything, along with the girls’ diaries, iPads, and anything else that could give any clues as to Zarina’s murder. She then got on her cell phone to the gendarmerie to round up the forensics team.

  Vanessa Meyer came back to her boat from a morning at the gym to find the singer Sin’s body trussed up in her closet. When she opened the polished blond wooden doors of her built-in wardrobe, she discovered it. She had no idea who the girl was, but whoever put her there had a sense of humour, for they had taken the time to wrap the corpse in Vanessa’s newest gold lace Oscar de la Renta gown and thrown a sable stole over the girl’s battered face.

  Vanessa’s hysterical screams brought Jonathan and most of the boat’s crew running into her stateroom. Sin’s skinny tanned legs were sticking out at an awkward twisted angle and a little mermaid tattoo was visible on her left ankle. Her toenails were painted bright pick with tiny Swarovski diamonds stuck on them, and she had a silver bracelet on her other ankle.

  Jonathan cradled the weeping Vanessa. A take-charge guy, always in control, he immediately instructed Nanny to take little Jonny to the beach, away from all the furore, ‘But be available to talk to the cops when they arrive,’ he added.

  It wasn’t long before they got there. Captain Poulpe and Gabrielle, followed by several deputies and a swarm of gendarmes, descended on Jonathan’s boat, which was moored at the far end of Saint-Tropez harbour. Although there were only a few boats nearby, the word got out fast on the streets, so within the hour the entire village knew about another dead girl and soon the jetty was swarming with the curious. Everyone was stunned, none more than the adrenalin-filled Jonathan and Vanessa, who sat in their elegantly furnished salon being interviewed by Captain Poulpe. Poulpe had cordoned off the boat as a crime scene.

  ‘Where were you last night?’ Captain Poulpe directed himself to Jonathan first.

  ‘I had returned from a business trip to Paris in the afternoon,’ said Jonathan. ‘I went to the Byblos gym then I had dinner at the Café de Paris with a business acquaintance.’

  ‘Who would that be, monsieur?’ asked Poulpe.

  ‘One of my NY partners, Sam Barton – he can confirm that.’

  ‘Please give his details to Lieutenant Gabrielle Poulpe, s’il vous plaît, so we can speak to him. And after dinner?’

  ‘Then we played chemin de fer at the casino until about three a.m. After that my chauffer drove me back here.’

  ‘When did you arrive on the boat?’ asked Gabrielle.

  ‘About four thirty or five a.m. – I went straight to my stateroom and went to sleep. I only woke up when I heard my wife screaming.’

  ‘And you, madame?’

  Vanessa froze. How could she possibly tell Captain Poulpe, let alone in front of Jonathan, that last night she had met Fabrizio for a few hours at the discreet little pension he kept in a back street? She had meant to meet just to tell him that, because of Jonathan’s suspicions, she couldn’t see him any more, but when she told him that Jonathan was in Paris, one thing led to another and before she knew it he had cajoled her into bed for ‘one final fuck’, as he’d whispered.

  No, there was no way she could ever admit this. It would be the end of her marriage and the end of this glamorous life that she loved. Jonathan would probably even take Jonny away from her.

  ‘Madame?’ Captain Poulpe was staring at her impassively, his pen poised over his old-fashioned notebook.

  She felt herself flush and started to weep even more, but the Captain waited patiently, as did Jonathan.

  ‘Yes, where were you, Vanessa? I called you twice but there was no answer,’ asked Jonathan. He was suspicious now, but not for the same reason as Poulpe.

  Vanessa was panicked. Think, think, think – she had to think! In between sobs, she said, ‘I . . . I did a little shopping in the afternoon. I was at Dior for a while . . .’

  Gabrielle busily tapped the screen of her iPad.

  ‘Yes, I bought a dress, actually . . .’ said Vanessa.

  ‘Yes, and after that?’ asked Poulpe.

  ‘Oh, then I went to Sénéquier for an aperitif, at about seven o’clock.’

  ‘By yourself, madame? Did anyone see you?’

  ‘Oh, yes, several friends – Blanche and Henry Phillips. I sat with them for a while.’ At least that part was true. Then she had a brainwave.

  ‘And after that, madame?’

  ‘And then I drove to my brother Jeremy’s apartment in Gassin and we dined together.’

  She slumped on to Jonathan’s shoulder in another paroxysm of tears while frantically thinking. Could she get to her phone in time to call her brother to supply an alibi for her? And would he do that? They had never been close, and although he lived nearby, he was pretty much a recluse, only socialising with a small group of artisans and painters.

  When Gabrielle heard that name she froze. Could it be? Could Jeremy Anstruther-Formby actually be Vanessa Meyer’s brother? She surreptitiously googled Vanessa on her iPad and saw the Wikipedia entry: ‘Vanessa Rosemary Meyer is the third wife of tycoon Jonathan Meyer, formerly the Honourable Vanessa Anstruther-Formby. Born in Gloucestershire, England on 20 August 1983, Vanessa is the fourth child of Lord and . . .’ Gabrielle didn’t need to read any more. She quickly deleted the search but her heart started to pound. She hadn’t had any contact with Jeremy since that horrible afternoon five years ago. He had tried to call her several times afterwards to beg her forgiveness, but that vile scene in the back of his antique shop was branded in her mind and she refused to talk to him, much less see him again.

  ‘Please don’t ever contact me again,’ she had written in a note she had posted to his shop. ‘It’s over.’

  She always went out of her way to avoid his little shop on the Rue du Clocher, and whenever thoughts of him crept into her mind, she banished them with an iron will.

  She had actually caught sight of him in the Place des Lices a few months ago. He looked puffy and decadent, his blond hair lank and laced with traces of grey, and there were lines running from his nose to his mouth. Even his usually immaculate clothes looked untidy, his jacket rumpled and creased, his shirt none too clean.

  For the rest of the interview, Vanessa could only think of calling her brother before the police contacted him. Asking to go to the bathroom, she thanked God she had left her mobile there. Her brother picked up after the second ring.

  ‘Jeremy? Darling, it’s Vanessa.’

  ‘Sister dearest! Long time no speak. And to what do I owe this honour, my dear?’

  ‘Jeremy please, I need a favour. It’s major. Please, please listen to me, darling, very carefully . . .’

  When the news broke of the deaths of two of the most famous young celebrities in the world, Saint-Tropez was swamped once again with camera crews and media from all over the world. Gabrielle and Captain Poulpe were inundated with paparazzi and reporters screaming questions at them wherever they went. The press was wild for any quotes from the other celebrities. Dirk Romano, after a painful interview where he disclosed that he’d had a couple of sexual flings with the two girls earlier in the summer, summoned a private plane and flew out to Ibiza.

  ‘Who could possibly have murdered these girls?’ asked Charlie as he took his morning coffee at Sénéquier with Adolpho. ‘Because this time there’s no question – not like my poor Spencer. Those poor little girls were viciously bludgeoned to death. It’s definitely murder,’ he said sadly.

  Marvin Rheingold had headed off to Saint-Sébastien to scout locations for Suddenly, Last Summer. He had decided to cast Sophie in the Katharine Hepburn role, but was still holding auditions in LA with the half-dozen oth
er contenders for the Elizabeth Taylor role. Sophie stayed in her house with Adolpho and began a rigorous regime of diet and exercise in an effort to shave fifteen years off her seventy-five. She was excited about her first important role in years and determined to be an Oscar contender.

  Because Jonathan’s boat was now cordoned off, he and Vanessa were forced to move to the Château de la Messardière hotel, with strict instructions not to leave Saint-Tropez. They were prime suspects, along with the rest of the boat crew.

  Vanessa had managed to slip away to meet Jeremy in the back room of his tiny antique shop by telling her husband that she had a standing appointment to get her roots done. Captain Poulpe had called Jeremy earlier that morning to confirm her story, but Jeremy, having spoken to his hysterical sister the night before, had been cagey and revealed nothing.

  ‘We will need to interview you at our headquarters tomorrow morning,’ Poulpe ordered.

  ‘Of course,’ he said in his most charming voice. ‘I shall be at your sevice.’

  ‘You’re a slut, Vanessa. You’ve always been a slut and you always will be.’ Jeremy spat it out, his voice laced with scorn.

  ‘How can you say such a thing?’ Vanessa moaned. Her face was tear-stained and she looked exhausted.

  ‘I don’t give a fuck who you fucked, darling. I know perfectly well you could never kill anyone – you couldn’t even drown the kittens we found when we were kids – sooo soft-hearted.’ He laughed in his supercilious way and drew on a long brown cigarillo.

  ‘Well, will you lie for me, even though you think I’m a slut?’ she pleaded. ‘It will be the end of me, you know. Jonathan will take little Jonny away from me – I know he will. He’ll cut me off – I’ll be destitute!’

  ‘Well, my darling, we wouldn’t want that, would we? Lovely aristocratic Vanessa Meyer bonking a gigolo at a filthy pension while another little slut gets murdered on her husband’s boat? Tut-tut-tut! What will the papers say?’

  Vanessa was silent. Jeremy seemed to be enjoying her humiliation – he always had, ever since they were children. He was in the driver’s seat and he knew it and he loved it.