The St. Tropez Lonely Hearts Club (10 page)

He and Gabrielle then thoroughly queried each of the guests’ activities on the day of the party to ascertain that none of them had anything to do with the preparation of the food. Having satisfied himself that none of them would fall under immediate suspicion, he allowed them to go home at four a.m., dazed and confused about the horrifying night. He even gallantly escorted Sophie to Adolpho and Frick’s awaiting ministrations; much as he admired her, he had to place her on his list of suspects as well – now everyone was on it.

After the guests departed, Captain Poulpe returned to Harry Silver’s staff waiting at the mansion. The chef told him that he had received the oysters from his regular party supplier the previous day.

‘I thought they came from the Nice fish market, but I wasn’t sure, so I kept them in ice for all that time,’ he bleated. ‘They couldn’t possibly have gone bad.’

‘Well, they did,’ snapped Captain Poulpe. ‘They most certainly did. Thirty people don’t become extremely sick, with one dying, unless they’ve gone bad.’

The chef moaned, terrified of losing his job. ‘It’s not my fault, I’ve never had a problem before and I’ve been serving oysters for Mr Silver for five years.’

‘I know, I believe you.’ Poulpe actually did believe the Algerian chef, a small, timid man, in France illegally. After all, he would be foolish to jeopardise his tenuous hold on residency.

‘Understand that you are under suspicion – you’ll be watched. If you as much as step out of the country, even out of this area, I will know about it,’ he warned the chef, as he had all the other staff.

‘I’m wondering whether someone tampered with the food,’ Captain Poulpe told his daughter. ‘It just seems odd that
so
many of the guests had such a violent reaction – so many, but not
all
. It would be understandable if one or two oysters had been contaminated, or one or two people were allergic; or indeed for everyone to fall ill if the whole batch was contaminated. But to have about half the guests falling sick – well, that seems really strange.’ He would make sure the coroner checked all the possibilities at Mina’s post-mortem.

Although the Mayor wanted this incident brushed under the carpet as quickly as possible to avoid the bad publicity that was sure to follow, Poulpe was certain this evening was far from accidental.

‘No one is above suspicion,’ he sighed to Gabrielle. ‘Keep your eyes open for a very twisted mind.’

It was the day after Mina’s tragic death and Gabrielle had started the morning investigating the fishmongers who plied their trade in the ancient fish market situated behind the popular Sénéquier Café. The fishmongers displayed their wares beautifully, with every kind of fish laid out geometrically on marble slabs. The market was no more than a tiny alleyway from the main street leading to a small square where flowers, cheese and every kind of bread and pastry were sold. Work started at six a.m. and finished at two p.m., by which time the ground was awash with dirty, smelly water. Although the tradesmen cleaned the pavement, walls and surfaces of the alleyway assiduously with powerful lye, the odour of fish lingered in the aged tiled walls. At night the alley was dark and ominous, and few people fancied taking the stinking shortcut.

Gabrielle asked all the vendors to whom they had sold oysters within the past two days, but it appeared that the only bulk buyer had been a cook from a giant cruise ship that had departed before Harry Silver’s party began. All other purchases had been small, but she logged them dutifully as her father had taught her.

Gabrielle finished her inquiries with each fishmonger and decided she merited a drink at Sénéquier. Everyone who was anyone – and plenty who weren’t – visited the legendary Sénéquier Café. This area was truly the heart of the village, constantly bubbling with life. In the middle of the busy cobble-stoned street, and right in front of the port where the big white gin palaces lay at anchor, next to dozens of chic boutiques and restaurants, stood the Sénéquier, which had been feeding Saint-Tropez visitors since 1887.

She joined Charlie and his blond-headed lover Spencer, who sat at a table in the front of the Sénéquier sipping kirs and watching the world stroll by.

Cuddly Charlie Chalk, one of England’s best-loved comedians, lived on a hill above Saint-Tropez, with his much younger civil partner Spencer Brown, in a small but beautifully decorated villa within walking distance of the town.

In the 1980s Charlie had made his money in England with a camp comedy sitcom called
Charlie’s World
. He had invested shrewdly in that decade, a time when investments actually paid off, and now he and Spencer lived an idyllic life all year round, either in Saint-Tropez or travelling to exotic climes.

Gabrielle gently and casually started questioning Charlie and Spencer about the previous night as they sipped their kirs.

‘It was a nightmare,’ Charlie sighed, ‘insane – I’m still feeling queasy. Poor, poor Mina! Such a great talent.’ He sighed again, slightly more theatrically this time. ‘But in spite of all the horror, the south of France is still the best place in the world to live.
J’adore Saint-Tropez
,’ said Charlie, breaking out his execrable French accent.

‘Oh, Lord, why don’t you learn how to speak French properly?’ sighed Spencer in exasperation. ‘You’ve lived here long enough.’

Charlie was so popular that he spent his days accepting – and very occasionally declining – the myriad invitations he received. This also guaranteed that Spencer would always be around for the fun. Charlie was the life and soul of every lunch, cocktail soirée and dinner, and the confidant of many of Saint-Tropez’s elite. When he wasn’t socialising or travelling, he spent his time cultivating beautiful English roses, a difficult task in a Mediterranean climate, particularly since nests of wasps lived in the old stone walls of his garden.

‘Don’t you miss England then?’ Gabrielle giggled, slightly forgetting the interrogation in her amusement. Charlie could make the most banal remarks entertaining with his theatrical delivery. Round and ruddy-faced, he was always beaming, and had a hearty laugh that announced his arrival at any gathering.

‘Darling, I visit the cold and depressing UK only occasionally for medical or dental work. In fact, going there is exactly like having root canal treatment!’ he guffawed.

‘And for your charity work,’ said Spencer loyally.

‘Ah yes, of course.’ Charlie smiled modestly, then wrinkled his nose. ‘Join us for lunch now, darling. This smell is getting to me. It’s all very fishy,’ he quipped.

‘I don’t have time for lunch,’ said Gabrielle. ‘I still have to interrogate the caterers and the rest of the vendors that provided food for Harry Silver’s dinner.’

‘Phew! I can still smell the fish!’ gasped Charlie, fanning himself with a copy of
Nice Matin
. ‘Let’s go to the Aqua Club.’

‘Sorry, I can’t.’ Gabrielle stood up to leave, then blew him a kiss goodbye and walked away.

‘Oh, I do love it here,’ grinned Spencer, eyeing up the cute young waiter who was serving the table next to them. ‘Oh look, here come the autograph hunters now, Charlie. Aren’t you the lucky one?’

With that a portly mother and father from Yorkshire shyly shuffled up to Charlie with their two bored-looking children and asked if they could have their photo taken with him.

‘Of course,’ said Charlie benevolently, as he attempted to balance the rather overweight twins on his already overburdened knees. ‘My pleasure,’ he croaked.

‘We love your show,’ screeched the harridan mother, her stringy hair pulled back tightly into a ‘Croydon facelift’. ‘We watch all the re-runs.’

‘Thank you, my dear, you’re too kind,’ Charlie gasped, trying to remove the children, who insisted on clinging to him while the father snapped frantically away on his mobile phone. Charlie was sweating hard, but the six-year-olds had attached themselves to him like leeches, mugging and grinning for their dad’s camera.

A couple of local paparazzi magically appeared and started snapping the happy scene. Charlie attempted an avuncular grin while shifting the kids in front of him to try and hide his tummy.

Suddenly François, the young waiter, stepped in.

‘
Excusez-moi
,’ he snapped to the father, ‘Monsieur Chalk is on holiday, so please respect his privacy.’

The children started to whimper as their mother pulled them off the puce-faced comedian, and in the struggle spilled his drink all over the front of his trousers. The eager snappers continued snapping furiously, to the amusement of the other habitués.

The waiter got busy with a napkin to mop Charlie up, which gave Charlie a burgeoning erection. The children began screaming with rage as the fat mother grabbed at their chubby little legs, trying to remove them from Charlie’s ankles. The photographers loved it.

‘I’ll get five hundred quid for these from
OK!
,’ grinned Pete the ‘Brit-pap’ as he was known locally. His red hair was sticking out of his weathered NY baseball cap and sweat was running down his freckled face.

‘Forget them, I’m trying for the
Daily Mail
online with this one!’ The older photographer, Jean-Pierre, had spotted the famous American actor Dirk Romano, descending from a yacht, with two gorgeous Russian hookers on his arm. He scooted over, scattering irate patrons on the way.

‘Thank you so much, young man,’ Spencer purred sweetly, as the waiter mopped up the spilled kir from Charlie’s lap. Always aware of a pretty face he gushed, ‘That’s so considerate of you.’

‘It’s nothing,’ said François, locking eyes with Spencer and virtually ignoring Charlie.

‘These people are pests,’ said Spencer, focusing all his charm on François.

‘Your English is so good. What’s your name?’ asked Charlie, not taking kindly to being overlooked.

‘François,’ he replied, quickly pocketing the twenty-euro note Spencer had slipped in the pouch of his apron. ‘François Lardon,
à votre service
.’ He gave a tiny bow and a secret smile: ‘François Lardon, which in English translates to Francis Bacon.’

‘Rather amusing,’ Charlie said frostily, realising that Spencer seemed far too interested in the handsome waiter.

Gabrielle suddenly reappeared on her scooter and shooed the paparazzo away. François grinned at her.
Too pretty to be a cop
, he thought.
What a waste – those gorgeous auburn curls, those cute freckles, that hint of cleavage peeking out from her white uniform shirt. She is hot.

Gabrielle stared back. This waiter looked familiar. Where had she seen him? Suddenly she remembered: Harry Silver’s party – he had been one of the hired helps. She didn’t remember interviewing him, though. She parked her bike and went over to the table.

‘You were at Mr Silver’s last night, during the party in which Mina Corbain died, right?’

François raised amused brows. ‘
Oui, mademoiselle
, I was there. In fact I helped many of the poor, sick guests. I believe I told your father everything I saw.’

‘Dreadful, wasn’t it, François?’ Spencer was eager to get the sassy waiter’s attention. ‘My poor darling Charlie was so sick, weren’t you, poppet?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Charlie snapped, then with a winning smile turned to the waiter, ‘François, dear boy, could you bring me another kir royale, please, and some of those yummy nuts?’

Spencer was glancing at François’s nether regions with the sly grin that Charlie recognised only too well. He knew Spencer loved him, and he loved Spencer to death, but my goodness, the boy was a world-class flirt.

François gave another little bow after smiling seductively at Gabrielle and left, leaving her staring after him as he zigzagged deftly around the crowded tables. He was certainly attractive, but something about him bothered her. She couldn’t put a finger on it, but she would ask her father tonight what he thought about the waiter. He would know. There was just something a little too slick about him.

June 2015

Sophie Silvestri sat at her dressing table preparing for yet another grand soirée, even though it was only five o’clock. Frick and Adolpho buzzed around her like worker bees as the ‘queen’ studied her face in the pink-tinted mirror while her haggard features became transformed into a vision of gilded beauty. Frick was plaiting several tiny braids next to her hairline, which he then secured with a rubber band and pulled up as tightly as possible to be secured on a small bun of hair on her crown. This was the famous ‘Hollywood lift’ taught to Sophie by Marlene Dietrich long, long ago. Marlene had been very kind to the (then) young and beautiful Sophie, who had watched in wonder as the seventy-four-year-old diva had transformed herself into the ultimate glamour girl.