The St. Tropez Lonely Hearts Club (34 page)

‘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 . . .’