by Joan Collins
‘You don’t need to be a brain surgeon to figure out how to screw up a funicular,’ said François.
‘We hoped to kill the old actress – that would have had great press, but we had to settle on that pouf assistant of hers,’ explained Roberto. ‘We tried again with the chocolate-box bomb we sent her, but it killed her maid instead. That Silvestri bitch must have used up all her nine lives by now.’
‘Yeah, we didn’t get enough press coverage on that,’ agreed François. ‘The bomb on the boat was good, though. That made up for it. You couldn’t move for the media.’
‘That was great,’ laughed LoBianco.
‘But why kill the two girls?’ asked Fabrizio, panicked that they were tiring of recounting their exploits.
‘We needed a biggie. You know the press. They were getting bored – bigger things were happening in other places and we still weren’t getting the right fear effect. People kept wondering if they were pranks and the deaths accidental. We needed to make a definite statement to finally scare the residents out of Saint-Tropez. It was collateral damage. They were all low-lifes and sluts anyway! But boy, did I have fun with those two skanks before I throttled them,’ he laughed. ‘They were up for anything. The two of them gave me a really great sex show, then I brought Roberto in with me and a giant black dildo,’ he giggled. ‘It’s called “Steely Dan”.’
Fabrizio felt sick at the perversion of these men. He didn’t want to hear any more but he had to buy time and François seemed happy to brag about every sordid detail.
‘Yeah, I fucked them with Steely – they screamed like the little pigs they were. Then when they were all worn out and begging for mercy, I gave it to them.’
‘What,’ Fabrizio gulped, still working his fingers towards his phone, ‘did you give to them?’
‘Mercy, you schmuck! I put them out of their misery – we both did!’ He laughed at the memory of the horror he had inflicted on the beautiful girls and all the men chortled.
‘Okay, I guess it’s about time to say adieu, Fabrizio.’ François lifted his gun and pointed it towards their prisoner.
‘CALL POLICE!’ screamed Fabrizio as he held down the home button on his phone. ‘CALL POLICE! CALL POLICE! CALL POLICE!’
‘What the fuck are you screaming for? No one’s going to hear you down here,’ barked Guido, who spoke for the first time.
‘Calling emergency services,’ a disembowelled electronic voice replied.
‘You motherfucker!’ François suddenly realised what Fabrizio was doing and dropped the gun to his side. ‘Search him, Guido.’
They quickly untied Fabrizio’s hands and found the phone strapped to his spine. François grabbed it and stamped on it until it smashed, then punched Fabrizio in the face.
‘Now you’ve done it, asshole.’
As soon as Captain Poulpe received the forensic results back from analysing the tiny glittering object Carlotta had discovered under LoBianco’s bed, it was all systems go. The sequin had traces that matched the nail lacquer that Sin had worn. Not enough to go to court with, given how the sequin had been found, but at least enough to start building a case and make LoBianco the prime suspect. At least they didn’t have to waste time on anyone else.
‘Let’s go pay him a visit,’ said Poulpe. ‘Looks like he’s our man.’
He walked rapidly to the police car followed by Gabrielle and two other gendarmes. They sped up the dark hilly streets and, when they were three blocks away, they heard the police dispatcher announce, ‘Reports of disturbance at Villa L’Orangerie, Cap Tahiti. All units respond.’
‘That’s Roberto LoBianco’s villa,’ cried Gabrielle.
‘What was that?’ asked Carlotta.
Nick and she were now lovingly entwined on her terrace, admiring the almost full moon. She was still glowing in the aftermath of the most wonderful lovemaking she had ever experienced, feeling warm, safe and thoroughly amorous.
‘Did you hear that? It sounded like someone screaming from next door.’
‘Yes,’ Nick replied, jumping up. ‘I’d better find out. That pervert LoBianco could be hurting one of his hookers.’
Before Carlotta could object he was racing across the terrace, and just as he got to LoBianco’s lawn he saw two men coming out of the house, carrying a body between them.
François and Guido held the semi-conscious Fabrizio up between them, while dragging him outside towards LoBianco’s car.
‘Get him the fuck out of here, and kill him somewhere else!’ LoBianco had hissed at them. ‘I don’t want any trace of Bricconni in my house. Get him out of here now! I’ll clean up. Hurry the fuck up!’
Suddenly Guido and François saw a figure in a flowing white terry-cloth robe flying towards them.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ yelled Nick, recognising the unconscious Fabrizio. ‘What’s going on here, for Christ’s sake? Put him down now – I mean now!’
‘Get the fuck out of our way,’ warned François. He pointed his Glock pistol at Nick. ‘Fuck off, Nick, or you’re gonna get hurt. Get out of here, asshole – I’m warning you.’
No way, buddy, Nick thought, then bending low, he ran towards them in zigzags as he had learned in Afghanistan, when reporting during battles. François fired several shots in his direction but Nick managed to take cover behind a stone pillar.
François and Guido continued dragging Fabrizio’s body down the grassy slope that led to the pool area and the carport. Nick followed them, yelling to Carlotta, who had run after him.
‘Go back and call the police right now, Carlotta, call them!’
Carlotta ran back into the house for her phone. As she called the police and tried her best to describe what was happening, she watched in terror as she saw Nick positioning himself to . . . what on earth was he doing?
Nick had skirted a low hedge around to the edge of the pool, on the blind side of Guido and François, who were busy trying to drag Fabrizio’s limp body down the slope. He launched himself in a rugby tackle worthy of a professional, praying that gravity would do the rest. It did.
I’ve just agreed to marry a lunatic, Carlotta said to herself as she watched helplessly.
The four men tumbled down the grassy hill towards the pool, which was glimmering in the moonlight, when suddenly LoBianco lumbered out of the house and ran to the middle of the slope.
‘Stop it or I’ll shoot, motherfuckers!’ he yelled as the three men recovered and stood up groggily. François pointed his Glock at Nick, while Guido picked Fabrizio up. Then they heard the police sirens approaching.
LoBianco, sweating profusely, realised he was in deep shit. He quickly did calculations in his mind about how to minimise the damage. François had spilled the beans to Fabrizio, who knew everything now. But he was the only witness. He had to shut him up permanently, otherwise he was ruined. If he killed him, his lawyers could argue that Fabrizio was an intruder who had startled Roberto, who had shot him involuntarily. Guido and François would back him up. He had no choice.
He raised his gun and fired at Fabrizio twice. Guido, startled, jumped back. Fabrizio’s body convulsed and he fell to his knees, then tumbled into the pool, his blood turning the water dark around him.
‘Jesus Christ, Roberto’s gone fucking insane!’ yelled Guido, scrambling across the grass to get to his car. ‘He’s killed him in front of a fucking witness!’
‘Oh, I don’t think so . . .’ said François, as he watched LoBianco take aim at Nick Stevens’s heart. Carlotta screamed, making LoBianco and François turn. The realisation now that he had a third witness to deal with was written all over LoBianco’s face.
‘What’s the stupid prick think he’s going to do? Kill half of Saint-Tropez in one night?’ muttered François.
Just then Gabrielle Poulpe’s voice rang out.
‘FREEZE, POLICE! PUT YOUR WEAPON DOWN OR I’LL SHOOT!’
EPILOGUE
Fabrizio spent a month in hospital recuperating. The two bullets had torn through his stomach and
hip but fortunately damaged no vital organs. The enormous press attention he received made a successful singing career happen quickly after he left hospital. In September Fabrizio made a hit record that went to number five. Ghastly Derek Flukle came out of the woodwork to claim his 20 per cent, but Fabrizio could now afford a good lawyer to put him in his place.
Soon after he released a very entertaining video that went viral. The video was a cover of Barry Manilow’s big hit ‘Copacabana’. In a twist that made the video popular, Lara had been persuaded to be in it and was cast as the old Lola of the story, who was the showgirl past her prime who drinks herself half-blind thirty years after the disco closes. Ironically, Fabrizio re-enacted being shot by LoBianco.
Fabrizio soon gained hundreds of thousands of screaming female fans because of his good looks and charisma, and was booked solidly for European singing tours for the next three years. He also gave generous child support to his children and alimony to the baby-mammas.
Maximus decided to give up pimping and dedicated himself solely to being Fabrizio’s manager. With his manipulative cleverness, along with his elephantine memory of indiscretions carried out by many of his show-business colleagues, he was able to make a great deal of money for both of them.
Lara, after unsuccessfully begging Fabrizio to marry her, sold her apartment in Saint-Tropez and decided that in future she would spend her summer in The Hamptons, ‘Where they speak English,’ she spat to Blanche and Henry, who became her new best friends and neighbours. There she met a handsome young actor who had a couple of bit parts in horror movies and she promptly decided to become his mentor as well as his lover. ‘He’s going to be the next Brad Pitt,’ she boasted to everyone.
And when he did, he left her.
Jonathan and Vanessa Meyer hotfooted it (by yacht) back to Manhattan, where they continued as one of the most popular couples on the social and charity circuit. At one of Vanessa’s charities in the fall, she entreated Jonathan to pay Fabrizio to sing.
‘He will be a huge draw,’ she insisted.
‘No way, honey,’ said the ever-pragmatic Mr Meyer. ‘I don’t trust that guy within an inch of you.’
Vanessa at least had the good grace to blush, but continued to follow Fabrizio’s career in the gossip columns with great interest.
Charlie Chalk and Adolpho fell in love, discovering during their time together that they had a lot in common. However, Adolpho was so loyal to Sophie that he would never leave her, so Charlie sold his villa and moved in with them, replacing Frick as stylist, companion and confidant. He planted and tended a beautiful rose garden at the bottom of the funicular track, and he made sure that no wasp nests were allowed to take hold anywhere near it.
Sophie Silvestri got the role of Violet Venable in Suddenly, Last Summer. She gave such a true, gritty performance that there was major Oscar buzz about her portrayal. Marvin Rheingold didn’t make the film in Saint-Sébastien, but instead shot it in the charming village and beaches of Le Lavandou, just a few kilometres away from Saint-Tropez. He didn’t get Angelina Jolie in the end, but discovered a new young actress fresh out of RADA who, he announced, was going to become the ‘new Elizabeth Taylor’. Thanks to the steamy sex scenes between her and a hot young actor, the movie was a smash hit.
The entire resort and complex of Saint-Sébastien was allowed to fall into ruins when Roberto LoBianco was sentenced to life imprisonment in the notorious Baumettes Prison in Marseille for the murders he had committed. François also received a long sentence, but the thought of returning to Baumettes horrified him so much that after the trial he hanged himself in his cell.
Gabrielle and her father decided to take a winter break from Saint-Tropez and went skiing in Courchevel. Gabrielle had never skied before, so took lessons from a handsome ski instructor. Free from the responsibilities of being a housewife to her father, she allowed herself to fall in love with the ski instructor, to the delight of her father. They had a quiet winter wedding in a little chalet in the middle of a snowstorm. Although she loved Saint-Tropez, Gabrielle adored the peace and tranquillity she had found in the Alps and she decided to live there with her new husband.
‘I’ll miss you, Papa,’ she said after the wedding, ‘but I will visit you often. You’re not going to get rid of me so easily.’
‘My darling,’ Captain Poulpe said, ‘you are a wonderful daughter and you’ve done enough for me. It’s time you live your own life now, and look after your husband as you have looked after me.’ And I won’t miss your bouillabaisse, he thought to himself.
Carlotta and Nick were married at the ancient little church in Ramatuelle. All their friends from Saint-Tropez attended the beautiful traditional wedding and the celebration afterwards at a gorgeous villa nestled in a valley overlooking the bay of Saint-Tropez.
‘I’ve never been happier,’ murmured Carlotta to Nick as they stood gazing at the panoramic view and the sunset on the terrace of the villa.
‘Oh, I think I can make you happier,’ he said. ‘We are going to be happier and happier with each passing year.’
Sophie, who had been Carlotta’s matron of honour, sighed as she watched the happy couple’s embrace.
‘Ah yes, marriage,’ she said, turning to Captain Poulpe. ‘The deep, deep peace of the double bed after the hurly-burly of the chaise longue.’
‘You can say that again,’ replied Captain Poulpe, as they exchanged a meaningful glance.
Looking down on the village and the bay in all its glory was a breathtaking view. The shining, peach-coloured roofs of the village houses glistened in the late afternoon sun and the small yachts skipped along atop the glimmering deep blue Mediterranean, their sails flapping gently in the light breeze. With the dreadful murders solved, Saint-Tropez soon returned to the glamorous, idyllic paradise that everyone loved. The residents went back to their homes and, with its reputation restored, Saint-Tropez looked forward to the following summer and another sizzling season of sun, sex, and maybe just a little bit of scandal.
