The St Tropez Lonely Hearts Club

by Joan Collins

  ‘Were you alone last night?’ Vanessa asked tentatively.

  ‘As luck would have it, my pet, yes, I was. Giorgio was out of town on business, so it was just me and my DVDs,’ he laughed. ‘You’re a lucky girl, Vanessa, but . . .’ He leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head. ‘What’s in it for me, sister dearest?’

  ‘Whatever you want,’ Vanessa gulped. ‘Money?’

  ‘Of course money, you silly goose – it’s what makes the world go round, and haven’t you got a lot? Does the old man give you an allowance?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said quietly. ‘Jeremy, I can give you . . . whatever you ask for.’

  ‘A million,’ he said simply. ‘A million dollars, darling – that’s less than it would be in euros, and only what I deserve for perjury, even if it is for my darling sis.’

  ‘A million?’ Vanessa asked haltingly. ‘I don’t . . . I don’t exactly have that much, Jeremy. I could come up with one hundred thousand in cash. I can give you the rest in jewellery if that would suit you?’

  ‘Diamond jewellery?’ he asked. She nodded. ‘That would suit me just fine, darling. Perfect. Portable wealth. I shall see you tomorrow then at the prefecture, or wherever they want us to have our little get-together.’

  He stood up to usher her to the door. ‘Go get your roots done, darling – they need it.’

  ‘Thanks, Jeremy, I really appreciate it.’

  ‘De rien, cherie. What are brothers for? Blood is thicker than water, sweetie.’ He bent down to kiss her and whispered in her ear, ‘And don’t forget the diamonds, darling – they’re thicker than anything. I’ll see you demain.’

  Saint-Tropez was in uproar. The ghastly murders made everyone a potential suspect since Zarina and Sin had rubbed many people up the wrong way with their cute but crazy behaviour and their devil-may-care attitude, rudeness and blatant drug-taking.

  Vanessa and her brother Jeremy had sat for four hours at the prefecture being grilled by the French police, Interpol and the FBI. Vanessa wept through most of the sessions, much to the annoyance of Captain Poulpe, and the contempt of her brother.

  Poulpe himself questioned François Lardon, the waiter who had been working at Tahiti Beach, where Zarina’s body was found. Because he’d been at the scene close to the time that forensics had provided for the girl’s death, he was a prime suspect. After Poulpe’s grilling, he was remanded to police headquarters in Nice, where he was interrogated intensely in a process known as garde à vue. He was placed in a holding cell and subjected to several hours of fierce, videotaped interrogation. At the end he was released due to lack of evidence, but Gabrielle and her father still had their suspicions about the waiter. François was still pressuring Gabrielle to go on another date and offering to cook for her. In an effort to probe further, she had decided to accept one of his invitations to sample his cooking and they set a date.

  ‘I will fix you the most superb beef bourguignon you have ever tasted,’ he told her. ‘Or would you prefer my coq . . .’

  ‘I think you should go,’ said Captain Poulpe. ‘Check him out; see if you can find anything – anything that could incriminate him. We’ve had no luck so far with anyone – all their alibis check out.’

  Having accepted François’s offer, a few days later Gabrielle drove up to his home, which was actually a guesthouse on the estate of Roberto LoBianco. François answered the door looking handsome and fresh in white shirt and trousers, wearing a striped cook’s apron.

  ‘I’m so happy to see you!’ he smiled.

  She returned the smile, surprised at the almost monk-like severity of the tiny sitting room. There was little furniture – nothing but a black leather sofa in front of a forty-two-inch TV and a state-of-the-art music system that was playing some kind of weird wailing oriental music. From the tiny kitchen, however, a delicious smell emanated.

  ‘Please, sit down and try some of this excellent Pétale de Rose. I just have to do a few more things in the kitchen and then I’ll join you.’ He smiled again. He did have a lot of charm, she thought, and beautiful teeth.

  A small table in the corner was set for two, with elegant silver cutlery and cream candles flickering softly. Gabrielle sat on the leather sofa and put her hands down the back of it – nothing there. She asked if she could use the rest room.

  ‘There’s only one, I’m afraid, and it’s in my bedroom,’ he said, popping his head out of the kitchen.

  This was lucky, as it meant she would have a chance to check out most of his living quarters by the end of the evening. She quickly opened the doors to his medicine cabinet but found nothing remarkable there, just the usual shaving stuff and a lot of different toothpastes. She checked under a pile of black towels and then went back to the bedroom. The bed was covered in a black and white striped cotton duvet with matching sheets. There was nothing remotely suspicious anywhere in the bedroom or under the bed. In fact, there was precious little of anything.

  When François served the food, Gabrielle ate ravenously. She usually cooked for her father and rarely had time herself to eat.

  ‘This is delicious. Where did you learn to cook like this?’

  ‘In Marseille at a little restaurant I worked in. I want to open my own restaurant one day and Mr LoBianco said he would help me.’

  ‘Is that why he lets you stay at his guesthouse?’ Gabrielle enquired.

  ‘Yes,’ he smiled. ‘He loves my cooking, so whenever he has a small dinner party or he wants a meal, I’m on call to serve him in exchange for lodging.’

  ‘Really? I guess you would have cooked for him the night of Zarina and Sin’s murders?’

  ‘Yes. For him and a couple of friends.’

  ‘And then you were at the beach the next morning when Zarina’s body was found?’

  He frowned. ‘Yes, I was subbing for a friend of mine who was ill. I already told the police all this. Are you interrogating me again?’

  ‘No, no, of course not. I’m police too, you know. I can never switch off,’ she laughed. ‘So where and how did you meet Mr LoBianco, if that’s not too intrusive a question?’

  François started to look irritated. ‘In Marseille, at the café where I worked. I told you already. Can we talk about something else?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Gabrielle lightly, and they started discussing movies they both loved, music and their childhoods. Gabrielle realised as he kept refilling her glass that dinner was not the only thing that François had on the menu that night. But she had prepared herself for this eventuality and the timing could not have been more perfect.

  As François placed a glass plate of crème brûlée in front of her and casually brushed an auburn curl away from her cheek, her cell phone rang. She put the call on speaker and her father’s voice rang out with great authority. They both heard him say:

  ‘Gabrielle, there has been a break-in at a small villa – you must come and meet me there immediately.’

  ‘Yes, Papa,’ she said obediently. ‘Of course, I’ll be there as soon as possible.’

  She took the address and disconnected the call, then turned apologetically to François. ‘I’m so sorry, François – duty calls . . . literally. I really enjoyed your bourguignon. You are an excellent cook.’

  He looked so crestfallen that she felt a slight twinge of pity for him. He was sweet and funny and he had made an effort with dinner, but she wasn’t ready for an affair. In fact, she was not really interested in him at all, except as a possible suspect.

  Gabrielle knocked on Lara’s door. ‘Can I speak to Signor Bricconni?’ she shouted through the door.

  ‘What the hell do you want him for?’ Lara grumbled, then opened her front door. She looked a total wreck. Her red hair, matted like a bird’s nest, stuck out in spikes, her lipstick was smudged around cracked lips and her make-up streaked. She wore a terry-cloth robe that hadn’t been washed in many moons.

  ‘We need to know his whereabouts last night. May I come in?’

  Reluctantly Lara moved to let her in an
d Gabrielle caught a strong whiff of stale vodka and some exotic perfume. The woman looked haggard, as if she’d been dieting too much, and her face was gaunt in spite of the Botox and fat injections. She searched for the fountain of youth and got the fountain of fillers, Gabrielle thought.

  The living room was dark and dirty, and although the furniture and fittings looked expensive, they had a worn-out look. There were ashtrays full of butts and empty glasses everywhere.

  Lara lit a cigarette and motioned for Gabrielle to sit.

  ‘Last night my fiancé was here with me,’ Lara said flatly.

  ‘Would that be Mr Fabrizio Bricconni?’ asked Gabrielle.

  ‘That is correct,’ said Lara firmly. ‘We were here, we watched TV, I cooked – I can cook, you know – and we went to bed early.’

  ‘I see. Mr Bricconni – where is he now?’

  ‘Here,’ said a sleepy voice in another room, from which Fabrizio appeared, bleary-eyed. ‘I went for a run this morning but I’ve been here all night. Ciao, darling.’

  ‘Ciao, sweetie.’

  Was it Gabrielle’s imagination, or did Lara shoot a mean and meaningful glance towards her lover? Nevertheless, after a few more questions, Gabrielle left. Their alibis checked out and there were many more people to interview.

  ‘Thank you for your time. You’ve been most helpful,’ Gabrielle said as Fabrizio gallantly escorted her to the door.

  As soon as the door closed on Gabrielle, Lara threw the book at Fabrizio.

  ‘Stronzo, bastardo! You little shit! Where were you last night, you faithless piece of scum?’

  ‘Okay, okay, okay, I admit it. I was with a woman. For Christ’s sake, Lara! I’m sorry, really I’m sorry, but you know I’m just a man – I have needs, Lara my darling, my love, and you have been . . .’ He struggled for the words. ‘Off games for a while,’ he finished lamely.

  ‘Oh, so you can’t go three weeks without pussy?’ she hissed. ‘What’s wrong with watching porn and fiddling with your perfectly healthy right hand, huh?’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Lara, you know I hate doing that.’

  ‘Did you fuck those two little sluts?’

  ‘No, absolutely not.’

  ‘So who were you with last night then?’

  Fabrizio knew Lara would probably kill him if he told her that he had been with Vanessa.

  ‘Err, well, you don’t know her.’

  ‘Try me, I know everyone.’

  Fabrizio racked his brain. God, what could he tell her that wouldn’t cause even more of a major eruption? He’d have to confess to some indiscretion to get Lara’s cooperation. He had been on a long morning run around Saint-Tropez’ coast road when he had seen the crowd of onlookers scurrying towards the port. He had stopped a girl to enquire what was going on, and when she told him there had been a murder on Jonathan Meyer’s boat he had almost had a heart attack. He’d hotfooted it back home and begged Lara to say that she had been with him if the police came.

  Eureka! He had it. ‘She’s nothing – not even that good-looking,’ he confessed humbly.

  ‘I though you were particular about who you fucked?’ she sneered.

  ‘It’s Betty,’ he said.

  ‘Who’s Betty?’

  ‘She’s the English girl who’s been teaching me to sing and dance.’

  ‘Little bitch! I’ll give her a piece of my mind. Give me her number.’

  ‘No, no, you can’t. She . . . left on a cruise ship . . . to Norway . . . this morning . . . and, and,’ he stumbled and fumbled for words, ‘I just went to see her for a last lesson . . .’

  ‘And a quick fuck?’

  ‘Yes . . . I mean no – it wasn’t meant to happen but it did. I’m so sorry – it was the first time,’ he lied lamely.

  ‘Oh, fuck you, Fabrizio, you testosterone-filled asshole!’

  ‘Look, it was just a quickie. It was nothing special!’

  ‘That’s too much information,’ snapped Lara. ‘You know, Fabrizio, I believe this is the end of the line for us.’

  Suddenly Lara took command of the situation. She seemed to grow in stature.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Fabrizio said desperately. ‘I love you, Lara. You know I do.’

  ‘I don’t think you do, sweetie,’ she said sadly. ‘I’m just a meal ticket for you. You’re a pathological narcissist, not to mention a pathological liar. I think you only love yourself. It’s sad but true.’

  ‘Not true. Not true at all.’ He grabbed her by the collar of the stained dressing gown and tried to kiss her, but she pushed him away with surprising strength.

  ‘Go away, Fabrizio – I don’t want to see you any more. Go to Paris – go live with that pimp Maximus. Go to one of your girls, your baby-mammas, and your bastard kids . . .’

  Fabrizio looked stunned.

  ‘Yes, I found out about them – all your dirty little secrets. I’ve had it. So take your silk shirts and your tight pants and get the fuck out of my life!’

  With that Lara turned and wearily limped into the bedroom. ‘I’m going to go to sleep and when I wake up I don’t want to see you or any of your stuff ever again.’

  ‘You’re kidding, Lara – you don’t mean it?’

  ‘Don’t I? We’ll see. Right now I’m tired. Tired of life and tired of this pain and I’m really tired of Saint-Tropez. I just wanna go to sleep.’

  ‘Well, you know that they say when a man is tired of Saint-Tropez he is tired of life . . .’ Fabrizio tried a touch of humour but it failed.

  ‘That’s London, you stupid cunt! Just go, please.’

  Gabrielle spent two hours questioning Roberto LoBianco. She thought he was the typical mega-wealthy Eurotrash, but his alibi checked out with François Lardon’s and also with one Guido Franciosa, Roberto’s other dinner guest that night – the night of the murders.

  Gabrielle was not convinced by Roberto’s blustering innocence. He appeared to be far too cocky and self-assured, and she disliked his boastful talk of the wonders of Saint-Sébastien island. She was suspicious.

  ‘Before I leave, may I use your rest room?’ she enquired guilelessly.

  ‘Of course. In fact you may use my bathroom.’ He escorted her gallantly to an over-decorated suite, heavy with black velvet curtains and golden silk hangings around the enormous bed.

  She locked the bedroom door, donned some latex gloves and quickly checked out the bathroom cabinet and the chest of drawers. Nothing of interest there, other than the usual sex toys. She knelt on the black and white zebra rug next to the bed and, holding a small flashlight in her teeth, peered under the bed to discover a giant black dildo. She shuddered and then ran her fingers expertly over the fur carpet. She didn’t know what she expected to find until her sensitive fingers felt a tiny metallic object stuck on the rug, half hidden under the silk valance. She gently prised it free. It was some sort of little glittering object, which she immediately put into a plastic evidence bag. She would look at it later with forensics and her father.

  She then went to interview the other guest, Guido Franciosa, at the Château de la Messardière. A very large Italian man, he was completely bald, with muscles that bulged, just like his eyes. He came from Marseille, where he ran a successful import/export business.

  François Lardon’s alibi had fitted perfectly with Roberto LoBianco and Guido Franciosa’s, as he had been the waiter at the intimate dinner and then claimed to have slept in the little maid’s room off the kitchen with one of the local call girls. LoBianco vouched for it, as did the lanky Russian call girl who had stayed in Roberto’s bed all night. The fourth guest was Monty Goldman, who had left his sexy wife to her own devices that night in order to help Roberto entertain the hookers.

  ‘But the girls seemed so stoned and out of it that I don’t know if I can believe them,’ admitted Gabrielle Poulpe to her father, back at the Prefecture.

  And then, after the paparazzi and the press had their day, the Twitter and Facebook trolls came crawling out of the dark undergrowth o
f the internet to spew forth their filth online. The anonymous scum sat in their lairs and conjured up the most vile and frightening messages with which to skewer their victims.

  Fabrizio was the first victim. ‘You filthy wop, you raped those two girls and killed them. Die, monster, die!’

  Fabrizio, who, after his fight with Lara, had holed himself up in his tiny pension room was freaked out. He rushed over to Maximus’s hotel only to find him packing.

  ‘What the hell! Where are you going?’ he demanded breathlessly.

  ‘Out of this place. The police are letting me go – I’m not a suspect.’ Max was throwing shirts and pants indiscriminately into a duffel bag. ‘I’m taking the train to Paris until this whole thing blows over. Look, look at this,’ he threw his smartphone towards Fabrizio, who read the text message with horror.

  ‘Get out of town, fatso, or I’ll put a bomb in your house like I did with that old bitch actress.’

  ‘Jesus!’ Fabrizio groaned, ‘who sent it?’

  ‘No idea. Scroll up – there’s more,’ Max said breathlessly.

  Fabrizio, in his haste, hit a wrong button, and saw with dismay an email from the mothers of his children.

  ‘Tell Fabrizio we’ve come to Saint-Tropez to find him. We are hungry – we need clothes for the children – we need help. Tell us where he is now because that Lara woman doesn’t know, or won’t tell us. Help us, Maximus, or we talk to the press, and the police.’ Both Raimunda and Carina had signed it.

  ‘Maximus, why didn’t you tell me about this? Oh God, they must have gone to see Lara and that’s why she kicked me out!’

  ‘Fuck you! I have bigger problems than your CRAP.’

  ‘Oh shit, oh Christ! What can I do? I’m broke, Max. I have nothing to give them.’

  ‘I can’t help you, caro, it’s your problem now.’ Max closed his suitcase and walked to the door. ‘I’ll be back when things have calmed down, although I don’t expect it will calm down for you for quite some time. Face the music. It’s time, my friend.’