After collecting Anna, Daisy had no time to do more than send her first report to Bill before doing a quick internet search for information on Philippe Cambone – which yielded very little of interest. Mainly the titles of the major films he’d been involved with. Not a hint of any scandal, which was what Daisy had secretly been hoping for.

      As Marcus said, he’d obviously liked the ladies as there were lots of publicity shots taken down the years at various festivals and film premieres, though rarely with the same companion hanging from his arm.

      No real gossip anywhere about his private life, other than he was a keen sailor and kept a boat in his home port of Cannes. Maybe she could locate that and get Marcus to take a photo. She sighed as she shut down her laptop. She’d have another go tomorrow; there had to be something out there about him.

      A quick shower and Daisy dithered over what to wear that was practical for the first part of the evening but would look dressy enough for the party later, which she knew would almost certainly be full of skinny women dressed to impress. Her normal jeans and T-shirt definitely wouldn’t do. In the end, she decided on her black velvet trouser suit with a glittery silver spaghetti strap top under the jacket. Evenings could turn cold down here after the sun had set, so she would at least be warm.

      ‘You look great,’ Poppy assured her. ‘Have fun.’

      ‘Don’t know what time I’ll be back. I promise to creep in as quietly as I can.’

      Daisy took a shortcut down through Le Suquet, hoping to miss the crowds. A ploy that worked until she reached the top of rue Saint Antoine. From there on, the place was buzzing with people intent on enjoying themselves. Although still early, the restaurants were beginning to fill with the first diners of the evening, and Daisy caught tantalising whiffs of food being cooked as she passed the various eateries.

      Men, Daisy privately nicknamed ‘the suits’ with their official festival passes hanging around their necks, and their loud important voices, were out in force, busy networking on their mobiles and laptops, setting up deals to be finalised later in the week.

      Gendarmes and security men were everywhere too, nonchalantly watching the proceedings but alert to any possible trouble erupting. The paparazzi, ten deep around the Palais des Festivals steps, were busy photographing the stars arriving for the evening screening.

      Daisy squeezed into a space next to a stepladder that had been positioned on the middle of the road island separating the wide Croisette from the bord de mer. The woman sitting on top of it looked down and said, ‘You’re welcome to stand on the bottom for a better view.’

      ‘Great. Thanks,’ Daisy replied. ‘Amazing crowds.’

      ‘Is it your first festival? I’ve been every year for the past ten,’ the woman continued, not waiting for an answer. ‘Can’t stay away. Know now to bring this and get here early for the best view. Oooh look, there’s my favourite, George Clooney. Fancy a coffee, George?’ and she laughingly held out a flask in his direction.

      By the time all the stars had arrived and walked up the red carpet, it was twilight and the lights were coming on. Declining her new friend’s offer of going for a drink, Daisy opted instead to have a wander around the tents of Village International while she waited to meet up with Marcus.

      It proved to be a long wait. The evening screening had run on late and then Marcus had wanted to get some shots of the celebrities being whisked off to a private yacht for a champagne party. It was gone eleven before they began to make their way through the crowds still milling around on the Croisette to the party that Marcus had invites for.

      There was no mistaking their party venue as they turned into a narrow street off rue d’Antibes: blazing lights and pounding music and a crush of people queuing to enter the building.

      ‘I’m not sure I’m up for this,’ Daisy said, stifling a yawn as they joined the tail end of the queue. ‘It’s been a long day. Might just call a taxi and go home.’

      ‘Come on, Daisy, don’t be a wimp, it’s only the first day of the festival,’ Marcus said. ‘I did warn you about the late nights. Bernard’s a good contact for you, he knows everyone worth knowing – you never know who might be inside.’

      ‘Okay. If I fall down asleep, it’s your fault.’

      ‘Not a chance with this racket going on,’ Marcus said, taking her by the hand and leading her into the building as the security men took their tickets. ‘Now let’s mingle and see if we can find our host.’

      Bernard, when they eventually located him holding court on a first-floor balcony, welcomed Marcus enthusiastically and kissed Daisy on the cheek when Marcus introduced her.

      ‘Bernard, you knew Philippe Cambone well, didn’t you?’ Marcus asked. ‘Daisy’s writing a piece for the paper.’

      Bernard gave brief nod. ‘We go way back. He was best man at my wedding. He’s my son’s godfather. A terrible shock.’ Bernard bit his lip, clearly upset. ‘He was supposed to be here tonight, helping me host this bash. Instead I have to help arrange a tribute for later, but his family are being difficult.’

      ‘How?’ Daisy asked.

      ‘They say it’s a private matter and Philippe wouldn’t have wanted a fuss.’ Bernard sighed. ‘What they don’t seem to realise is how big a name he is – was – in the industry. We can’t just ignore his passing. C’est pas possible.’ Bernard took a sip of champagne from the glass he was holding. ‘His brother, Jacques, says it’s complicated. That there are other people to be considered – presumably he means Agnes, their mother. At nearly a hundred, the news about Philippe dying has made her ill. So everything has to be low key to avoid upsetting her further. All Jacques will tell me so far is that the body will be back in France by the end of this week and an announcement will be made then about a memorial service.’

      ‘Do you think anyone in the family would talk to me about Philippe for a feature for the paper?’ Daisy asked hopefully but received the answer she’d expected.

      Bernard shook his head. ‘Doubt it. The whole Cambone family appear to have closed ranks. They’re not even talking to the French press.’

      ‘Talk down at the Palais this afternoon was that there’s some sort of scandal about to blow up,’ Marcus said. ‘That Mr Nice Guy Cambone wasn’t all he seemed.’

      Bernard glanced at him sharply. ‘Philippe was the original Mr Nice Guy, I can assure you.’ He sighed. ‘Of course he’s got this playboy reputation because he loved women – he was French after all.’ Bernard gave a gallic shrug. ‘Women adored him. He stayed friends with all his ex-lovers.’ Bernard stared into his champagne glass thoughtfully. ‘Still can’t believe he’s gone.’

      A loud burst of music drowned out his next remark and he smiled apologetically at Daisy. As the noise abated, he handed her a business card.

      ‘Great to meet you. Ring me sometime if you want to talk more about Philippe. I’ll do what I can to help,’ and he turned to greet another guest.

      Daisy