The Cinderella Killer (10 page)

‘Oh?' The director didn't sound very interested in this piece of information. ‘Anyway, if you could have a look at the lines before rehearsal on Monday …?'

‘Sure. Presumably I won't be doing Kenny's routine about
The Dwight House
and the song based on its signature tune?'

‘No, of course you won't.'

‘What, you'll replace it with something?'

‘No, we'll cut it.'

‘Won't that make the show short?'

‘We'll fill in with another song from Tilly Marcus's album,' replied Bix, once again confirming just how far down the theatrical food chain Charles Paris was.

In spite of the reason why he'd got the job and the demeaning way that he had been offered it, Charles was quite chuffed about his elevation to the role of Baron Hardup. Even with substantial routines cut, it was still a better part than a Broker's Man. And the big bonus was that he'd be spared the Sisyphean task of trying to get some comic rhythm going with Mick ‘The Cobra' Mesquito. So it was good news.

The arrival of the fish and chips rather dampened his mood. The chips had been cooked in an oven, but it was a long time since they had had any contact with their parent potatoes. And the fish itself was dry like a cardboard inner tube from a toilet roll encased in sandpaper. It seemed ironic that a pub within sight of the English Channel was serving fish which had probably spent as much of its life in a freezer as it had in the sea. And the peas were like the peas he remembered from school, hard as bullets.

‘Hello, Charles. How're you doing?' He looked up to see Felix Fisher with a glass of red wine. ‘Mind if I join you?'

‘Be my guest.'

The comedian sat down opposite and raised his glass. He wore an outlandish red diamanté jacket and his full street make-up. ‘Congratulations, Charles.'

‘On what?'

‘I gather you were the one who discovered Kenny's body.'

‘News travels fast.'

‘Sure does. And of course in crime fiction the person who discovers the body—'

‘Is the first suspect for the murder. Yes, I know all that. But are we actually talking about a murder?'

‘I'd say there wasn't much doubt about that. People don't often get bullet holes in their foreheads by accident.'

News had certainly been travelling fast. ‘Where have you got your information from, Felix?'

‘There's been a lot on Twitter about it.'

‘Ah,' said Charles, in a manner which he hoped suggested he was conversant with the ways of Twitter. Which of course he wasn't. ‘Did it say there that I found the body?'

‘Yes.'

‘Any other references to me?'

‘Oh, a few people are being very rude.' Felix's mouth formed into a camp moue of disapproval. ‘Some were suggesting that you topped him.'

‘What? Why would I have done that?'

‘Because you wanted to play Baron Hardup.'

‘Yes, but—'

‘And now you are playing Baron Hardup.'

Felix seemed to know everything. ‘I agree,' said Charles. ‘But if you really think that I would go to the lengths of murder to—'

‘No, I don't think that.'

‘Oh, good.'

‘It's just that some people do.'

‘People on Twitter?'

‘Yes.'

‘Can they be stopped from disseminating wild theories like that?'

‘Oh no, you can't stop people saying whatever they want to on Twitter. I suppose you could tweet yourself and enter the discussion, put your side of the story.'

Even if he knew how to, Charles couldn't see himself following that instruction. ‘And are there other theories on Twitter about who killed Kenny?'

‘Oh yes, hundreds.' Felix let out a melodramatic sigh at the follies of humankind.

‘Any you think make sense?'

‘Well, the most popular one …'

‘Yes?'

‘… is that Kenny had these very big gambling debts and that's why he was killed.'

‘Oh?'

‘It was a Mafia hit.'

Charles couldn't stop himself from saying, ‘In Eastbourne?'

NAUSEA: Your teeth are like stars.

DYSPEPSIA: You mean that they're bright?
You mean that they sparkle?

NAUSEA: No, they come out at night.

T
he two pints and the cardboard fish and chips had helped to make him a bit more human, but he still felt totally knackered. So, when Felix wandered off ‘to check out Eastbourne's antique shops – always looking ahead to when I run my own dinky little emporium in the Cotswolds', Charles made his way back to his digs for what he called ‘doing the crossword' (though in fact it meant more catching up on sleep).

In the serenity brought on by another infusion of alcohol, he congratulated himself on not feeling too bad. The shock from the events he had witnessed the previous night had dulled a little, and he brought his mind to bear on the theory that Felix had put forward, namely that Kenny had been killed by the Mafia.

Well, the guy's surname was Italian, which might be of some relevance. And he had talked of having gambling debts and the fact that ‘the people who want those debts paid aren't necessarily the nicest people around'. Then, when Charles had asked if he was referring to the Mafia, the response had been enigmatic, to say the least.

So maybe Felix's was a theory worth going along with for the time being … particularly because Charles was still too fuddled to have any other theories. Something still didn't ring true about it, though. If the Mafia really wanted to kill Kenny, surely they could have done it more easily in the States? Why go to the trouble of sending a hit man all the way over to England?

Unless, of course, they'd already got someone on the ground over here …? But somehow the idea of the Mafia having an active cell in Eastbourne seemed too incongruous to be anything but funny.

To clear his mind of such speculation Charles focused on the
Times
crossword. He managed to fill in one clue before passing out once again. And once again it was his mobile ringing that woke him up. He pressed the green button and mumbled a ‘Hello'.

‘It's Frances.'

‘Oh, damn. It's Friday, isn't it? I promised I'd ring you.'

‘Don't worry about that,' said Frances wearily. ‘It's Saturday actually, and I never really thought you would.'

‘Oh, but I …' No point in wasting time with excuses. ‘You've had the result of the biopsy?'

‘Yes.'

‘And?'

There seemed to be a long silence before Charles heard the words: ‘It's benign.'

‘Oh God, that's wonderful, Frances. Brilliant news! How do you feel?'

‘I don't really know at the moment. Feel a bit battered. I don't think I've realized how stressed I'd been about the whole business. To be quite honest, I feel rather flat.'

‘No surprise, after the build-up of tension. Once that's released, you … well, it's like the kind of flatness you feel after a first night.'

‘I'm sure it is, Charles,' said Frances with just a hint of irony in her voice.

‘You've told Juliet and Miles?'

‘Of course I have, Charles.'

‘Well, I'm just ecstatic at the news. I've …' He paused. Over the years he had become wary of saying emotional things to Frances. Too often she'd come back at him with a perfectly justified put-down. But that day he thought it was worth the risk. ‘Since we last spoke … since I heard about the biopsy … well, it's just made me realize how much you still mean to me.' He took a bigger risk. ‘It made me realize how much I love you, Frances.'

‘Well, that's nice,' she said. No words of reciprocation. But her tone was benign. Just like the result of the biopsy. It opened up the possibility to Charles that they might get back together on a more permanent basis. At some point. Which was comforting.

The news from Frances gave Charles a real lift. And, emerging from the shocks of the night before, he felt positively euphoric. He noticed it was already dark outside, and switched on the television to watch the six o'clock news.

The police had clearly released more information to the slavering press. In the days of social media extended secrecy on any subject had ceased to be an option. As soon as one person knew something, it was straight away potentially ready to be shared with the entire world. And by now the news had somehow slipped out that Kenny Polizzi had been murdered by a bullet in the forehead.

This made his death an even bigger story, definitely the lead item on the bulletin. More clips from
The Dwight House
were shown. More friends and associates were interviewed – even Bix Rogers got his moment in the media sun, which he clearly enjoyed hugely. Notable by their absence from the screen were Lefty Rubenstein and Lilith Greenstone. Charles wondered how they had reacted to the news.

He wasn't kept waiting long for an answer. Just as the newsreader had moved on to report possible financial meltdown in the Eurozone, he got a call on his mobile from Lilith.

‘Charles, you've heard the news about Kenny?' she asked.

‘I'd have to have buried myself in a bunker under seventeen layers of concrete not to have heard,' he replied.

‘Right.'

‘I'm sorry. I feel I should be offering you condolences or—'

‘The hell with that. I hated the bastard. I'm not about to make with the crocodile tears.'

‘But you must be feeling shock at the very least.'

A verbal shrug came from the other end of the line. ‘Not so much shock. I'm just more aware of my good fortune.'

‘Oh?'

‘Look, Charles, the divorce hasn't come through. I am still the rightful Mrs Kenny Polizzi. Unless the bastard changed his will before the divorce was finalized – which I don't think he did – I'm no longer looking at a slice of his estate, I'm looking at the whole lot. Which I must say, having put up with Kenny for as long as I did, is no less than I deserve.'

‘Have you spoken to the police?'

‘Yeah. They talked to me.'

‘Did they let slip any theories as to who might have shot him?'

‘No, the cops here – and in the States too, though to a lesser extent – tend to play that kind of information close to their chests. I think they were just kinda checking I didn't pull the trigger.'

‘And you managed to convince them you didn't.'

‘I guess.'

Charles chuckled. ‘And if I were to tell them I heard you saying you'd kill the bastard …?'

‘I don't think it'd make too much difference to the way the cops are thinking. Besides –' her voice sank to a level of great sultriness – ‘you're too much of an English gentleman to ever rat on me, aren't you, Charles?'

‘I like to think so.'

‘I like to think that maybe you'd like to join me for a drink at the Grand Hotel.'

‘That sounds a very attractive idea, Lilith. When?'

‘How's about right now?'

There was a uniformed policeman, lingering as unobtrusively as a policeman in uniform can, in the foyer of the Grand Hotel. No great surprise, when Charles thought about it. This was where the late Kenny Polizzi had been staying. This was where his still-current wife was staying. The hotel management might well need back-up to hold at bay inquisitive journalists or devastated fans. The thought made Charles wonder how Gloria van der Groot, Kenny's ‘Number One Fan', had reacted to the news of her idol's death.

Except for the policeman's presence, a visitor to the hotel would have no inkling that anything untoward had happened to one of its guests. The Grand Hotel continued to be run with the quiet decorum that would be expected of a traditional five-star hotel on the south coast.

The girl he approached at the counter wore an immaculate grey suit and spoke good English, but with a marked Russian accent. Every hotel Charles had been into recently – which actually wasn't a great many – had seemed to be staffed entirely by people from the former Eastern Bloc.

It was with some trepidation that he said he was meeting Lilith Greenstone. He was worried about being suspected of being one of the journalists or fans the policeman was there to deter.

But as soon as he said his name, there was no problem. The receptionist immediately said that Ms Greenstone was expecting him in the Debussy Suite, gave him the room number and directions to find the lift.

Of course it was quite logical that they should meet in her suite. Lilith Greenstone was, after all, very high profile. She might not be left in peace by the gawping public in one of the Grand Hotel's public rooms. But Charles Paris couldn't suppress a little flicker of excitement at the
tête-à-tête
that lay ahead.

He could never really believe that real people did live like they did in the movies. Deeply aware of his own inadequacies and vulnerabilities, he always assumed that everyone else was, like him, an assemblage of Achilles heels. But when Lilith let him into the seafront Debussy Suite, he really did feel like he was stepping into a movie.

The sitting room was splendidly lush, subtly illuminated by low table lamps. The windows were uncurtained, showing beyond the private balcony the lights of occasional ships plying the English Channel. The interior door was open, showing the passage to a bedroom. Charles glimpsed a huge bed with a kind of canopy over its head.

Lilith Greenstone too looked as if she had just stepped off a film set. Hair and make-up were perfect, as ever. So were the high heels and the midnight-blue wrap-around dress, which showed a generous amount of her already generous cleavage.

On the sitting-room table was a silver tray on which a bottle of champagne lolled in an ice bucket. It had already been opened. Lilith's flute was half-empty and she poured a full one for Charles.

‘So,' she said as they sat down on the sofa facing the sea, ‘let's raise our glasses to “No more Kenny”.'