by Joan Collins
The door slammed and Fabrizio stood in shock. He had lost everything. Lara had dumped him, Max had abandoned him and was getting out of what had now become a dangerous hell-hole. He was being threatened by an online monster and his two ex-baby-mammas had turned up in Saint-Tropez with his kids. What else could possibly go wrong? And to make matters worse, he could potentially end up as a suspect in a murder case if Lara squawked and told the truth about where he was that night.
‘What to do, where to go?’ he muttered to himself. Then, catching sight of himself in the mirror, he started to smile and flick his hair. He was still handsome, still young, and still a great lover. Maybe it was time to go full throttle for Carlotta.
Charlie Chalk removed his old string bag from behind the kitchen door, patted the pockets of his orange safari shirt and baggy shorts to make sure he had euros and credit cards, and set off down the winding lanes behind the Place des Lices to go to the Saturday market.
The weekly jaunt to the market had been one of his and Spencer’s favourite outings, browsing the bustling market with its stalls filled with everything from ceramic ashtrays to tacky ‘I heart Saint-Tropez’ T-shirts and all manner of dresses, blouses, sarongs and skirts, made in developing countries and sold for hugely inflated prices. The open-air market was unusually busy and bustling this Saturday. Although it was early, the hot summer sun already dappled the cobblestone streets and there was little wind to shift the plane trees that provided shade over the hundreds of stalls of the traders who plied their wares.
Charlie paused at one of the first stalls in the narrow street leading to the main square to peruse an abundance of cheap watches and pendants newly arrived from China or Korea. He tried on several while chatting to the stall owner and then handed over ten euros for his selection – a bright orange plastic watch that matched his shirt and which he immediately clasped on to his wrist.
Before he took off towards the bustling crowds, he checked his reflection in a small mirror that hung from a pole that in turn supported the stall’s awning. Was it his imagination, or was someone in a black hoodie leaning against the bank’s ATM machine staring at him? He turned to look but the person had disappeared into the crowds.
Shaking off a feeling of foreboding, Charlie strolled into the main square, stopping to admire a selection of vintage Louis Vuitton luggage for sale, only slightly less expensive than a new set. While he chatted to the stall owner, an old acquaintance, he was startled when someone roughly bumped into him and almost made him lose his balance. He glimpsed a hooded figure melting into the crowds around a stall selling straw baskets.
‘Did you see who that was?’ he asked the stall owner.
‘Non. I saw no one,’ he shrugged in that inimitable Gallic way. ‘Just the crowds, Charlie – so many people today,’ he sighed, as if to forgive all manner of transgressions. ‘But no one’s buying.’
Slowly Charlie strolled into the midst of the bustling throng. The air was filled with a delicious aroma and he realised he hadn’t eaten breakfast. He and Spencer had always breakfasted together on the terrace of their little villa. Charlie reminisced about the croissants oozing butter, soft-boiled eggs and strong coffee they shared together, and it made him sad, and hungry at the same time. His stomach grumbled as he walked to the stall where the smell came from and ordered a slice of pepperoni pizza.
He took a bite, closing his eyes as he relished masticating the gooey cheese and meat with the delicate crust, and when he opened them again he saw the hooded, bearded figure, eyes covered by aviator shades, boldly staring at him from the opposite stall.
Maybe he’s a fan, thought Charlie, conscious of his status as a popular British ‘national treasure’. He smiled at the man and waved, but was stunned when the man in response raised his middle finger in the international sign for ‘fuck you’. The hooded apparition then magically evaporated behind some passing tourists. Charlie began to feel decidedly uncomfortable. He didn’t like the feeling that he was being stalked. He decided he needed a cup of coffee, maybe something stronger, and so, dodging the scooters and honking lorries, he crossed the street to the Café Clemenceau across the square, the popular market café on the corner of Rue Clemenceau.
The tiny café was cramped and bursting to the brim with tourists, but Charlie was offered an empty seat by a couple of middle-aged English tourists who were more than delighted to share a table with this British legend.
Charlie gratefully squeezed his vast bulk into the rickety aluminium chair, and to his dismay glimpsed the hooded figure outside the café performing a macabre dance. He had put on a skeleton mask over his face now, and started moving maniacally, giving everyone in the café the finger. Some children were laughing but the adults ignored him and admonished the youngsters for encouraging the bizarre street performance. Charlie and the couple next to him were appalled.
‘Well, I never,’ said the lady, whose name was Mags. ‘That’s a ’orrible sight, innit? Scares me to death, ’e does!’
As the hooded figure began to push his way into the café, a policeman suddenly appeared and dragged the dancing weirdo into the road. Charlie breathed a sigh of relief until he saw the figure apply a neat judo move on the policeman, leaving him stunned on the ground as he once again magically evaporated, drawing a gasp of wonder from the crowd, who thought it must be a magic act.
Charlie threw back his aperitif gratefully as soon as it was put down in front of him. He was surveying the room in case the horrible apparition decided to reappear, when he saw behind him, huddled in a corner at a small table, Roberto LoBianco, Nate Kowalski and . . . could the young man in the white shirt with his back to him be that cute young waiter, François from Sénéquier?
Whatever – he’d had enough today and he didn’t care any more. He dropped money on the table, said goodbye to the tourists and wended his way home, looking over his shoulder nervously all the way.
‘Oi, look Mags. ’E’s got the Hattie Jacques,’ said Mags’s husband, Barry.
When she read the tweet, ‘Kill yourself, you ugly old bitch, before I do,’ Sophie decided to hole herself up in her villa with Adolpho.
‘Ridiculous! It’s some deluded fan. Maybe the same one who sent the photo with the skeleton faces. Don’t check my Twitter feed any more, Adolpho. I refuse to be intimidated.’
‘Don’t you think we should leave Saint-Tropez?’ Adolpho asked nervously. ‘All these deaths – the murders – it’s not safe here any more, Sophie.’
‘Nonsense! We have the dogs to protect us.’ Adolpho cast a doubtful glance at a tiny Pomeranian, who yelped at him. ‘We have plenty of food. We will just batten down the hatches as they say in the films and stay put. I’m sure Captain Poulpe will find whoever has committed these terrible crimes, and I hear Interpol and the FBI are here too because those two little sluts were Americans.’
‘But everyone is leaving!’ cried Adolpho. ‘Blanche and Henry have sold their house and bought a place in Saint-Sébastien. Nate Kowalski was so upset by Zarina’s death that he’s put his house on the market – so has Monty Goldman and many others.’
‘But Charlie is staying, is he not?’ she enquired.
‘Yes, he said he would never leave, even though he was followed by some crazy guy. He’s received horrible threats too.’
‘What threats?’
‘Oh, emails about how he would be killed like Spencer – poisoned or horribly stung by wasps or something like that.’
‘And Carlotta?’
‘Yes, she is staying, and she and Nick see each other every day now. They are very much in love.’
‘Hmm, good! It’s time she had some happiness. Well, we are staying here too, Adolpho. I have my regime to follow every day. I must prepare for the movie.’
‘Okay,’ whispered Adolpho. There was no arguing with his mistress when she felt like this. Maybe he could make the best of it and have a fling with Charlie? He was always the life and soul of every gathering and Adolpho adored him.
Fabriz
io’s exes had been given his cell-phone number by Maximus and he went cold when he heard their long-forgotten but familiar voices.
‘Caro mio, it’s us. The mothers of your babies,’ cooed Carina.
‘I’m here too!’ crowed Raimunda.
‘So are we, Papà!’ two childish voices joined in, yelling, ‘Papà, Papà, we want to see you. Come and see us. We’re hungry, Papà – we need food. We want our papà!’
Fabrizio dropped his phone on to the bed as the yelling and entreaties continued. Finally he picked it up again and decided he had to say something.
‘Where are you?’ he croaked.
‘We are in a caravan in the camping area next to Port Grimaud,’ cried Carina. ‘Please come to us, Fabrizio – we’ve come all the way from Rome. Please do come – we need you. Our life is in your hands.’
‘Okay, okay, okay! I’ll be there. Give me a bit of time. Look, I promise. I’ll try and bring you some money.’
Fabrizio had remembered the joint bank account that Lara had opened several years ago when they had just started seeing each other. They had never used it as they paid for everything on her account, on Amex or other credit cards. Could there possibly be any money left in it?
He rummaged frantically in the Gucci holdall that he always travelled with and found the chequebook in a zippered side pocket. Then he jumped on his bike and zoomed to the Place des Lices. It was nearly four o’clock and the bank was crowded as it was about to close.
Fabrizio requested his balance from the teller and to his delight he saw he was in the black to the tune of twenty-seven thousand four hundred euros. He drew out the whole amount. Saved, he thought. Saved for a little while. Twenty-seven grand would not go far, given his lifestyle, and he knew he was obligated to give a substantial amount to his exes, but he calculated that, having pleaded poverty to them, giving them ten thousand euros should buy them off until he could get on his feet again.
Kazakhstan X Factor had finally called last night and told him to hang on for a few more days, as he was really close now to being one of the fourteen final contestants.
Fingers crossed, he thought. It’s time my luck changed.
Along with the FBI and Interpol, who were trying to solve the murders, a team of internet crimes specialists had been brought into the investigation in an effort to see if the Twitter and Facebook threats had any connection to the murders but, aside from a few known trolls of no relevance, some of the more menacing messages were so well hidden behind firewalls and proxy servers that the investigators threw their hands up in frustration. Two weeks had passed since the murders of Zarina and Sin and the teams were no closer to discovering the killer, or killers. Captain Poulpe believed there was a conspiracy, since forensics thought it likely that the girls had been killed around the same time, but in different places by a different person.
Meanwhile the hordes of holidaymakers that normally swamped the village in July and August had drained to a trickle. Not so the press and the paparazzi who, sensing one of the biggest stories of the decade, were making hay while the sun shone.
‘Saint-Tropez: Murder Capital of the World,’ screamed one tabloid, while other press outlets and media revelled in every juicy detail. They rehashed stories about Mina and Spencer’s deaths and the tragedy on the funicular at Sophie’s house, and generally made up articles arguing that every high-profile denizen of Saint-Tropez could be a suspect.
‘Business is terrible,’ confided Patrick, owner of the popular Tahiti Beach, to Charlie. ‘They’re cancelling reservations in droves – look at the beach, it’s almost empty.’
Charlie surveyed the vast expanse of golden sand with only a few orange loungers and parasols on it.
‘And the mistrals we’ve been having all year only make it worse,’ he sighed. ‘Well, things can only get better,’ he added optimistically. But they didn’t.
Lara opened the door on her way to Sénéquier for her morning vodka cocktail and almost tripped over a package that had been left outside. Without thinking she opened it. Inside the box, which was strangely wrapped in Christmas wrapping papers, lay a dead rat oozing with maggots on top of black tissue paper, with a scrawled note that read, ‘You’re next, bitch’.
HAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Fabrizio found the shabby little caravan easily. It was parked in a scrubby piece of land next to several others on the camping site. Two women sat outside on broken beach chairs. The vestiges of prettiness still clung to their faces, but they looked tired and worn out. When they saw Fabrizio tanned, toned and handsome in white linen pants and black silk shirt, their faces lit up.
‘Fabrizio, caro, mio amore!’ they cried and ran towards him.
‘Guarda, guarda i tuoi bambini! Look at your children!’ said Raimunda, as two strapping young boys shyly approached. Fabrizio shook hands solemnly with his sons, whom he could see had inherited his dark good looks.
‘Piacere,’ he said as the boys studied him with interest.
‘Sit, sit,’ said Raimunda, eagerly brushing imaginary dust off the rickety chair. ‘Sit down and talk to us, Fabrizio. We’ve missed you so much.’
‘Yes, we still love you,’ said Carina wistfully. ‘We want to be with you again.’
Oh, God! Fabrizio felt totally out of his depth. That two girls he had slept with and impregnated by mistake when he was eighteen or nineteen and then never seen again had come back into his life was a major pain in the ass, to put it mildly. He had to get this farce over with as quickly as possible. He was raring to go to work on Carlotta. As for these women, my God, they didn’t even shave their armpits, let alone their legs!
He tried to explain that anything to do with them in the future was out of the question.
‘You see, I’m off to Kazakhstan tonight,’ he said desperately, ‘to be on The X Factor.’
‘Oh! You gonna be a star, Papà?’ asked one of the boys innocently.
Fabrizio winced. The word ‘Papà’ made him feel old.
‘Yeah, well, I hope so.’
One of the women later brought out a huge steaming bowl of spaghetti and calamari. Fabrizio realised he hadn’t eaten since the previous night.
‘Mangia, mangia,’ said Raimunda as Carina brought out a platter of delicious-smelling garlic bread. Second to sex, good food was one of Fabrizio’s passions, and he dug in while the women watched him, cooing with delight.
Fabrizio sped on his Harley through the darkened hilly streets of Saint-Tropez, towards Carlotta’s villa, which was owned by a French banker who had never used it and only rented it out. A small modern mansion, it was next door to Roberto LoBianco’s villa. It was nine o’clock but the nights were drawing shorter now that it was July. Fabrizio hadn’t realised how fast the time had flown while he was with Carina and Raimunda and his sons. Following the excellent meal, he had presented the women with a big stack of euros and they were delirious with joy. After promising to come and visit them in Rome, he let each boy ride pillion with him on his motorcycle, which he really quite enjoyed. Lara called him on his cell twice but he didn’t pick up. He was actually having fun.
Fabrizio parked on the street and then moved swiftly through a garden full of parasol pines, hibiscus, hydrangeas and rose bushes. There were so many bushes and plants that he got entangled and tripped over a couple of times, cursing under his breath. Finally he found the thick gravelled path that led to Carlotta’s house. Lights were glowing from the ground floor and he could hear mood music emanating from there, something mellow by Diana Krall. She has good taste in music, he thought, but then – having observed her for the past few months – he realised Carlotta had good taste in just about everything.
He noticed a nondescript cheap rental car in the driveway. So, she had a visitor – who could it be? Maybe this wasn’t a good idea after all. The adrenalin rush that had led him to race off to Carlotta’s house was wearing off. He was tired and he was angry with himself for spreading himself so thin with so many women, and even angrier with the person who had k
illed Zarina and Sin causing him to have to confess his infidelity to Lara.
He peered through the window of the living room. Carlotta and Nick were entwined on the sofa listening to the music. There was a bottle of champagne on the table in front of them and they seemed totally engrossed in each other. Nick was wearing a white terry-cloth robe and she was in a silky clingy negligee.
So the rumours were true – he was definitely her boyfriend. The body language was intimate – obviously that of a couple who had just made love. Fabrizio stared for a few moments then shrugged to himself, thinking, What the hell, she’s taken. No use barking up that tree. Time to start a new life. Kazakhstan, here I come. Then his cell vibrated and Lara’s name came up on the screen with a plaintive message.
So she wanted him back, huh? Well, she can fucking think again, he thought. Let her stew. He had given CRAP ten thousand euros so he still had seventeen left. That should last until Kazakhstan X Factor started paying.
As Fabrizio clambered back down the hill, he noticed a motorbike zooming up the drive to Roberto LoBianco’s house. Was he having a party? No one was giving parties in Saint-Tropez now, not with the threat of a savage murderer at large, but Fabrizio’s curiosity was piqued. He quickly scurried across Carlotta’s lawn and, crawling on his hands and knees, peered through the window into LoBianco’s living room. What he saw took his breath away.
Carlotta and Nick had been growing closer and closer. After her chat with Sophie, she had called Nick and asked him to dinner ‘à deux’ at her villa.
‘It will be just you and me,’ she said. ‘I hope you won’t be bored,’ she added shyly.
‘Never with you, my darling. You know I adore you.’
Nick had been incredibly understanding about Carlotta’s reticence to consummate their relationship. They had spent many evenings together at quiet, out-of-the-way bistros, well away from the Saint-Tropez gossips, but this would be the first time they would be spending the whole evening alone at her house.