by Lin Anderson
The fact that a serving police lieutenant was a ‘friend’ of a Madame, however upmarket her business, didn’t seem to worry Chevalier, or anyone else for that matter.
Patrick paid for his coffee and entered the cinema. This time he was given a ticket and offered a pair of 3D spectacles. Apparently the underwater scenes were better if he donned them. Looking at Angele Valette in 3D didn’t seem a big cross to bear. The blurb in the foyer read like the producer’s T-shirt. The Black Pearl – A Movie to Die For. Patrick hoped that wasn’t true in reality.
The cinema was three-quarters full, which wasn’t bad for an indie movie showing at Cannes. Les Arcades didn’t show trailers, neither during or outwith the festival. Patrick settled himself two rows from the back as the lights dimmed.
The movie opened with a stunning shot of a small fishing craft chugging through the blue waters of the Mediterranean. In the background was a deserted beach, with a backdrop of the blood-red Estérel Mountains. As the camera moved in, Patrick recognized Conor Musso as the young fisherman. As he retrieved his lobster pot, he caught sight of something on the shore. He took the boat closer, realized what it was and jumped into the water, swimming powerfully towards what was undoubtedly the figure of Angele, half-drowned and naked, apart from the black pearl hanging around her neck.
Regaining consciousness, Angele could not remember who she was, or how she had come to be there. Cared for by the fisherman, who became her lover, she was haunted by dreams of what may have happened in the past. One such dream featured the underwater scene Patrick had viewed on the DVD. Then a large black yacht appeared offshore and two men came in search of her. Terrified, she begged Conor to hide her. The two escaped into the mountains, but those who wanted both Angele and the pearl back had no intention of giving either of them up.
One hour and fifty minutes later, Patrick emerged with the feeling that what he’d said to Polinsky had been entirely true, despite having made it up. Angele had turned The Black Pearl into a highly saleable international commodity. The movie might also make Angele into a star.
He checked his watch before heading for Rue d’Antibes and Camille’s place of work. Having now seen the film, Patrick was convinced that Angele, desperate to be a movie star, would not have disappeared by choice. By rights she should be giving countless interviews to promote the film and herself. The Black Pearl was her big chance and Patrick just didn’t buy the idea that Angele would willingly pass it up. Not even for a possible mythical theatre job in Paris.
Five minutes later he stood outside Bijou Magique, which proved to be small, discreet and very classy. The current colour scheme of the window displays was lavender with a backdrop of Provençal artwork. One window housed the diamond collection, unobtrusive and expensive. The second window held a more avant-garde collection of pink-clouded stones in a variety of settings – intricate gold and copper bracelets, and a pair of unusual rings that immediately caught his eye. One was gold, the other silver, each setting resembling an ancient coin. The silver displayed a sky with a half moon and a single star; the gold a bright sun. Evidently designed for a match made in heaven.
As Patrick appeared, a young woman emerged from the back as though on cue. Patrick enquired if Mademoiselle Ager was available. The young woman gave him a steely eyed stare and asked who he was. Patrick offered his correct name and wondered by the flicker of recognition if she had been warned he might turn up.
‘Mademoiselle Ager has gone to Paris to see her sister.’
‘When do you expect her back?’
The young woman shrugged. ‘She did not say, monsieur.’
Patrick thanked her with a warm smile which wasn’t returned, then exited, immediately heading round the corner to the Rue Buttura to glance in through the window. The young woman was engaged in a rapid mobile phone conversation, the words of which he couldn’t decipher, but he was pretty sure it was about his visit.
He left her to it and headed back towards Le Suquet. He had been discharged by Camille Ager and therefore had no reason to pursue the matter any further, yet he, like Chevalier, was concerned enough not to let it go.
He took out the photograph of Angele given him by Camille. Both women were beautiful, but they did not resemble one another in the slightest. That wasn’t unusual when people shared only one parent. There could of course be an entirely different explanation. One that he hadn’t considered until that moment. What if Angele Valette did not in fact have a half-sister?
If that was the case, what was Camille Ager’s role in all of this?
SEVEN
A second and more worrying thought occurred to Patrick as he walked back to the boat. What if Camille was working for Chapayev? What better way to find out the whereabouts of the missing starlet – and more importantly the pearl – than for Chapayev to send Camille to Le Limier and have her profess fear for her sister?
If Chapayev had managed to locate Angele himself, then he, Patrick, was no longer required. Hence the true reason why Camille had dismissed him.
Patrick didn’t like any of the possibilities that were presenting themselves, but the last thing he believed was that Angele was auditioning in Paris.
Reaching the quai, he ducked under the barrier at the fishermen’s zone, where a line of six small boats, each uniquely numbered but unnamed, were tied up. Stephen and a fisherman Patrick recognized as François Girard sat enjoying a pastis under an awning. Beside them a crate held the catch of the day, which was headed for the black yacht’s kitchens and tonight’s dinner party. It seemed sea bass and langoustines were on the menu.
Stephen invited Patrick to join him and, finding another glass, poured him a pastis, while François loaded the crates.
‘I want to come with you,’ Stephen said in a low voice.
‘I prefer to go alone.’
‘Come on, Patrick. I promise I’ll stay in the kitchen while you take your look round.’
Patrick finally succumbed to the Irishman’s pleading look and nodded. Stephen was generally good in a crisis and had a fierce left hook, but Patrick suspected that the Russian contingent might offer an altogether different level of violence.
‘You’ll stay in the kitchen,’ he ordered.
‘Scout’s honour,’ Stephen said solemnly.
‘You were never in the Scouts.’
François, or Posidonie as he was known locally, his beard resembling the tendrils of sea grass prevalent in the bay, said nothing as he directed the small blue fishing craft out of the harbour. Meanwhile Stephen supplied a few more details.
‘His daughter is helping the onboard cook. The second in command in the kitchen was sacked the night of the launch party,’ he told Patrick.
‘Do we know why?’
‘He didn’t turn up for work.’
Leaving the bustling harbour behind, they chugged out into open water. Behind them, dusk was bathing Cannes in a warm rosy glow. Ahead, the upper decks of the Heavenly Princess were a blaze of coloured lights, although the sound of voices was at a much lower level than on Patrick’s previous visit.
‘François says the dinner party is only for twelve. None of them film people.’
That was interesting. ‘Who then?’ Patrick asked.
Stephen made a superior face. ‘Important people from Cannes.’
That could mean many things. Local dignitaries. Prominent businessmen. The rich who had their exclusive villas in Super Cannes or Californie.
Tied up now to the yacht, all three men climbed the metal stairs, Patrick keeping his head down, in case one of the crew should recognize him from his former excursion. Carrying the crates, they made their way to the galley, where they found François’s daughter, Monique, who didn’t resemble her father in the slightest. Her petite and curvaceous body encased in a fitted white jacket, her jet-black hair rolled into a knot, her lips painted bright red, she observed Patrick with interest.
Stephen, catching that look, introduced them.
‘Monique, Patrick de Courvoisier. Th
e reason for our visit.’
Monique’s dark eyes glittered. ‘I’m intrigued, monsieur, but I should warn you my employer is not a man to cross.’
‘I’ll make sure we don’t meet,’ Patrick assured her.
She made a dismissive sound, then said, ‘The crew are having their meal at the moment. You have thirty minutes to take a look around before dinner is served in the stateroom.’
Patrick nodded his thanks, then indicated Stephen. ‘He stays here.’
Monique smiled. ‘I can always use an extra pair of hands.’
She handed Stephen an apron and pointed at a large pile of dishes and pots next to the sink. The Irishman’s expression was a picture. This wasn’t how he’d seen his night’s work.
For Patrick she had a waiter’s uniform. ‘Don’t serve anyone,’ she ordered.
Patrick had no time to thank her, as the chef was heard approaching the galley already shouting orders in bad French. François’s daughter made a dismissive sound.
‘And he thinks he can cook. Salope!’
Patrick swiftly removed himself and looked for a quiet place to don his jacket, eventually locating a laundry cupboard. A boat of this size needed a large crew, but it was common practice to hire locals to help out during the film festival, especially when entertaining on a lavish scale. If he kept a low profile, it shouldn’t be a problem to take a proper look around.
The layout mirrored most super yachts. On the lower deck the swimming pool lay at the stern, followed by five en-suite guest cabins, then the engine room amidships and the crew quarters. The first of the empty luxury cabins was being used by a large male, judging by the clothes. The next three Patrick found made up with sheets and towels, but were seemingly unoccupied. The final one he was sure had been Angele’s. The cupboards were full of clothes that looked to be her size. On the dressing table was a selection of make-up, perfumes and a jewellery box. Seeing her belongings made Angele seem suddenly more real than any discussion he’d had about her. It also increased his concern about her whereabouts.
On the bedside table was a photograph of Angele on the red carpet, a copy of the one Camille had given him. The fact that her belongings hadn’t been disposed of suggested Chapayev expected her to return. Either that or he was keeping up a pretence of it.
On the main deck were a salon, a stateroom, a dining room and the galley, together with what he assumed were Chapayev’s quarters, which were firmly locked. Patrick could hear the buzz of conversation coming from the second stateroom below the sky deck. When he reached there he found waiters putting the finishing touches to the dinner table, while the guests chatted in the open air.
The table was polished mahogany, the glasses cut crystal, sparking in the light of three candelabras. Four bottles of red wine, a rare Chateau Pétrus, stood uncorked and taking the air. The aroma from the galley promised the equivalent level of French cuisine, despite François’s daughter’s concerns.
Chapayev was sparing no expense on his guests, whoever they were.
Defying Monique’s instructions not to serve, Patrick acquired a tray of Kir Royal and carried it outside for a closer look at the assembled party. The atmosphere on deck was muted, the guests behaving much more sedately than those he’d encountered at the launch party. He suspected the important business of money, power and prestige was being discussed here.
The party stood around in small groups, with only three of the guests being women, who looked more like same-age partners than younger arm candy. There was a handsome black couple. The man was tall and dressed in a European suit, his wife more traditionally in a colourful robe and headdress that looked West African in origin. Passing them by, Patrick heard them speak French but with a definite accent.
The rest of the guests looked French. The women were chic, the men well groomed. As he hovered in the background, Patrick picked up a mix of French and English conversations, but recognized no one. If, as Stephen said, these were important people from Cannes, then they didn’t mix in the same company as himself.
Chapayev stood alone talking to a short, grey-haired man whose back was turned towards Patrick. As Patrick approached, the man turned. Almost immediately Patrick swiveled on his heel, to no avail.
‘Garçon!’
Too late now to heed Monique’s warning, he turned to face Lieutenant Martin Moreaux. Moreaux selected a glass and thanked him, the only sign of recognition being a delicately raised eyebrow. Patrick nodded, his face blank.
When Chapayev barked at him in Russian, asking for his name, Patrick feigned puzzlement and explained in French that he didn’t understand. He declared himself a Cannois, hired for the evening.
His explanation brought a hidden smile to Moreaux’s lips, but the detective didn’t out him.
Patrick retreated and quickly dispensed with the tray. Whoever he’d expected to find on the Heavenly Princess, it had not been Lieutenant Martin Moreaux. He removed the waiter’s jacket and headed for the galley, where Stephen eyed his arrival with undisguised relief.
Patrick nodded his thanks to Monique, who indicated she wanted to speak to him. She ushered them both into the corridor outside the galley.
In a low voice she told him, ‘The word is that the woman you’re looking for left the boat with the second chef, Leon Aubert.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Of course that could be kitchen gossip. They also say she took the black pearl with her when she went.’
‘Is that why Moreaux is here?’ Patrick said.
‘Lieutenant Moreaux?’ Stephen looked aghast.
By her expression, Monique hadn’t been aware of the detective’s visit. ‘I don’t know if he’s here because of the pearl, but I do know that our police lieutenant likes to move among the monied and you don’t get any more monied than Chapayev. I hear the fat Russian’s buying a villa in Cannes worth five million euros.’
There was a clang followed by an explosion of curses from the galley.
‘I’ll have to go. If I find out anything else, I’ll tell my father,’ Monique said.
She headed off, before turning back, having suddenly remembered something else.
‘Leon Aubert has a room somewhere in Le Suquet. You could check there.’
As the little fishing boat chugged away from the super yacht, Patrick thought he caught sight of Moreaux watching their departure from the upper deck. If the policeman had been unsure what Patrick was up to, he wasn’t any longer. The question was, why was a lieutenant in the Police Nationale being wined and dined on a Russian’s magnate’s yacht?
EIGHT
Lieutenant Martin Moreaux and his wife, Michelle, lived in a large villa on a rocky promontory on the Estérel peninsula, ten minutes west of Cannes. It had a swimming pool in a walled garden with a wonderful view over the bay to the island of Sainte Marguerite.
Upmarket for a policeman, but rumour had it that Michelle’s family had money. Either that or Moreaux was earning over and above his police pay. If he was, Patrick had never been able to discover how, just as Moreaux had tried and failed to find out Patrick’s history.
Moreaux didn’t like him, that Patrick knew, but the detective had aided him on occasion, when it was to his advantage, and Patrick had returned the favour in full. He had hoped to keep Moreaux out of this job, but their meeting tonight on the Heavenly Princess had rendered that impossible.
His mind filled with such thoughts, Patrick turned down Stephen’s suggestion that they head for the Irish bar. He wanted time to think, and to eat. Neither would be possible in Stephen’s company, agog as the Irishman was over their trip to the black yacht.
Patrick murmured his thanks for Stephen’s help, ignored the disappointed look and headed into Le Suquet. The Rue Saint Antoine was packed, its cobbled route narrowed even further by the occupied tables set out on either side. Patrick didn’t bother checking the menus, most of them gastronomique, but continued to the top and into the square, where a row of small cafés and restaurants, serving the locals, overlooked a park and the local schoo
l.
Los Faroles was a favourite of his. It served excellent fresh food at lunchtime, mostly to locals, although an occasional tourist stumbled upon its menu. At night it operated only as a café-bar.
He skirted the outside tables, fully occupied by beer and wine drinkers, and entered the small space within, making for a corner table stacked with menus. Fritz, the current waiter, was German. A retired school teacher, he lived in a tiny studio flat in the nearby Rue Louis Perissol and was currently writing a history of Le Suquet. When he saw Patrick he came over to him.
‘Whatever you have left over from lunchtime,’ Patrick pleaded.
Fritz nodded. ‘Keep an eye on the outside while I fix it.’
Fritz slipped behind the kitchen counter and Patrick heard the hiss of the gas. He headed outside to fulfil his duties. One of the beer drinkers, a very large man dressed in a light suit and Panama hat, asked for two more beers in bad French. His companion was much younger and dressed in a similar fashion to the Black Pearl producer, in long shorts and T-shirt.
Patrick removed their empty glasses and brought replenished ones and another bowl of potato chips. As he turned back inside, a couple strolled past to sit at a table at the top restaurant on Rue Saint Antoine.
Marie Elise looked stunning in a long pink dress that revealed her shapely shoulders. Her companion was a tall handsome man with white-blond hair. The contrast in colouring was drawing admiring glances from everyone, including the beer drinkers he’d just served. Marie Elise didn’t appear to notice. She had eyes only for her companion, chatting easily to him in Swedish.
Patrick stepped quickly inside.
He was spared working out why he didn’t want to be seen when Fritz gestured to a plate of eggs and sautéed potatoes on the corner table. Patrick gave him the thumbs-up and set to work on it. Eating wasn’t the only reason he had come here tonight, however. Fritz was an authority on current residents of Le Suquet, both itinerant and long established.