The Cinderella Killer (12 page)

All in all, Charles decided it was an experience he would rather have had than not had. He'd needed sex and it had been good sex. He'd acquitted himself well. It would be interesting to see whether there would be any repeat of the encounter. He knew that if there was to be there'd be no decision required from him on the matter. Lilith would make that call. And if she did make it, he thought he would be up for a return fixture.

It wasn't till he was getting into the bed at his digs that Charles thought about Frances. And remembered the huge relief that her call had brought to him. The biopsy had proved that the growth was benign. She didn't have breast cancer. It was partly the euphoria brought on by that news which had made him feel so good about going to bed with Lilith.

And the thought that, in relation to Frances, he should have felt guilty about that encounter didn't enter Charles Paris's head.

A call on his mobile woke him at nine the next morning. Exhaustion and the large amount of Bell's consumed before finally passing out left him a little muzzy and he didn't recognize the polite, purposeful female voice until she identified herself as Detective Inspector Malik.

She wanted to talk to him further, either at his digs or in the suite of rooms in the local station they had requisitioned as an incident room. Charles chose the police option. Even though he was living in an anonymous self-catering apartment, he was resistant to the idea of the cops coming knocking at his door.

Detective Inspector Malik was as courteous as she had been at their previous meeting and saw him supplied immediately with a cup of coffee. She introduced a male uniformed officer in the corner of the room, whose name Charles instantly forgot, and asked if he had any objections to their conversation being recorded.

He said he hadn't, eager to be as cooperative as possible. Even though he knew himself to be completely innocent, the prospect of being questioned by the police brought the same instinctive sense of guilt as an imminent visit to the headmaster's study back in his schooldays.

Detective Inspector Malik explained that their investigations were proceeding in a number of different directions. The fact that the murder victim was a foreign national complicated matters, and her team would shortly be joined by detectives who were flying over from the States. (Charles was interested that she referred to a ‘murder'. But since the word had been on the television news and was now splashed all over that morning's Sunday papers that presumably was now the official line on the investigation.) The inspector emphasized how much she appreciated Charles's cooperation and insisted that there was nothing sinister about this second bout of questioning. All she and her team were trying to do was to get as detailed a picture as they could of the sequence of events on the night of Kenny Polizzi's death.

‘Could we go back,' asked Detective Inspector Malik after all of this preamble had been completed, ‘to the call you had from Mr Polizzi on the Friday night?'

‘Of course,' replied Charles, still eager to be the class goody-goody.

Detective Inspector Malik consulted some notes on her iPad. ‘According to what you told us last time we spoke, Mr Polizzi said that he needed you to help him.'

‘Yes. That's exactly what he said.'

‘Did you have any idea in what way he needed help?'

‘No.'

‘So why did you immediately do as he requested?'

‘Well, wouldn't that be a normal reaction from anyone?' asked Charles, a bit tentative.

‘It might be a normal reaction in different circumstances. But the call came through after one o'clock in the morning. You had gone back to your digs for the night. You said you were asleep. Would it be normal to respond to that kind of summons from someone who you had known for less than a week?'

Charles didn't like all this harping on the word ‘normal'. He felt he was being edged into a position where all of his behaviour might become classed as abnormal. ‘I liked Kenny,' he replied rather feebly. ‘And he was away from home in a foreign country. So he probably didn't have many other people to ring. I thought if he said he needed help then he probably did need help. And the fact that when I found him he'd been shot through the head suggested that he really did need help.'

This was greeted by a long silence from Detective Inspector Malik and Charles wondered whether he'd been foolish to add the last sentence. But finally she said, ‘Yes, you may have a point. So when he called you, how did Mr Polizzi sound?'

‘He sounded a bit drunk.'

‘Panicky?'

‘I'd say “urgent” rather than “panicky”.'

‘He didn't sound like a man who was actually being threatened by a gun at that moment?'

‘No.'

‘You may think that's a pointless question I've just asked, Mr Paris, but it could have been useful in establishing the exact time of Mr Polizzi's death.'

‘I understand that.'

‘The fact that you met Mr Polizzi in a pub where he had evidently been drinking is also interesting to us.' Charles didn't say anything; he'd wait for her to tell him why it was interesting. ‘Because Mr Polizzi had made a considerable number of public statements about how he had beaten his addiction to alcohol. He'd even apparently reiterated the fact in a recent interview on British television …' She looked down at the iPad. ‘On
The Johnny Martin Show
. So inevitably we ask ourselves what it was that made him break his vow of sobriety.'

‘I'd been wondering the same thing.'

‘And coming to any conclusions?'

‘No. I have spoken to Kenny Polizzi's wife, Lilith Greenstone, about that very subject.'

‘Yes, we know you have spoken to her, Mr Paris.'

The inspector's words weren't said in a chilling manner, but chilling was the effect they had on Charles. Yes, of course, the uniformed copper in the foyer must've noted his arrival and departure from the Grand Hotel. He wondered how much else they knew. Surely they wouldn't have bugged the Debussy Suite? Would they?

He found himself faffing around for what to say next rather in the way he'd done when playing the guilty husband in a terrible farce called
Don't Get Your Knockers in a Twist
. (‘Charles Paris's character died of a heart attack towards the end of Act One – a merciful release to all concerned.'
Malvern Gazette
.)

‘Yes, well, I, er … Lilith Greenstone's view was that, though their discussion was acrimonious … you know, about the final terms for settlement of their divorce … that she was still surprised that that should have knocked him off the wagon in such a … er, well … spectacular style.'

Detective Inspector Malik nodded. ‘Yes, that confirms what she said to us. And you don't know of any other meeting Mr Polizzi might have arranged after he'd left Ms Greenstone?'

‘No, I don't.'

‘But you can see how useful it would be for us to establish the precise sequence of events, what Mr Polizzi actually did, where he went and with whom, that evening?'

‘Of course.'

Another silence from Detective Inspector Malik. Then, ‘Did Ms Greenstone talk to you about her husband's need for drugs?'

‘She did say that when he'd previously taken up drinking again he'd pretty quickly felt an appetite for coke.'

Another confirmatory nod.

‘Did Mr Polizzi mention drugs to you, either in his last phone call or at any other time?'

‘Not in the phone call, but when we were in the Sea Dog earlier in the evening he asked me if I did drugs. Maybe he thought I could find a supply route for him.'

‘And?'

‘I had to disappoint him. I'm afraid I've never managed to do drugs successfully.'

This half-joke was greeted by a frozen stare from Detective Inspector Malik. ‘Did Mr Polizzi suggest to you that he might have some alternative supply?'

Charles was in a quandary. He couldn't forget Kenny's mention of ‘synchronicity' when Lefty Rubenstein rang just after their conversation about drugs. Or the implication in Kenny's responses that the lawyer had successfully sourced something for him. He also remembered Lilith's reference to Lefty frequently obtaining drugs for his employer. But something in Charles rebelled against the idea of landing anyone so firmly in the shit. The police could do their own investigations into the activities of Lefty Rubenstein. He wasn't going to help them. So he answered a negative to Malik's question.

‘If we could move on to another matter, Mr Paris …'

‘Sure.'

‘I gather that Mr Polizzi's death has resulted in you taking over his part?'

‘Yes. I am now playing Baron Hardup.'

‘Is it a part you have always wanted to play, Mr Paris?'

‘It's a fun part – one I have played before, actually – but if you're suggesting that my desire to take over the role was strong enough for me to have shot Kenny Polizzi in cold blood …'

She did even crack a smile at that. ‘I'm sorry, but it's the kind of question I have to ask. Goes with the job.'

‘Of course.'

‘Did you know that Mr Polizzi had a gun in his possession, Mr Paris?'

Another tricky one, for which a truthful answer could once again implicate Lefty Rubenstein. Charles decided, having backed the lawyer so far, he should continue on the course he'd set himself. ‘I didn't know for sure, but Kenny did keep talking about guns. He was a great supporter of the gun lobby at home in the States. He frequently said he felt naked without a gun, so I wouldn't be surprised if he had turned out to be carrying one.'

‘But you didn't see him with one?'

Charles's instinctive reaction to protect Lefty was leading him into ever-deeper waters. Still, his vision of the handover of the gun to Kenny outside the pub had been at best blurred. He denied having seen Kenny with a gun. Then, thinking illogically that the gun itself might betray his lie, he asked, ‘Has the murder weapon been found, Inspector?'

‘No. The assumption must be that the murderer threw it into the sea. Which means it may get washed up somewhere … or it may not.'

‘Will you be sending divers down to look for it?'

‘Perhaps. Though, with the tides being as they are in Eastbourne, I think it could be something of a wild-goose chase. Probably better for us to focus our resources in more fruitful areas.'

‘I can see that,' said Charles, feeling obscurely relieved that the gun hadn't been found, as if that would somehow make the police less likely to know he hadn't been telling the truth.

‘One further thing, Mr Paris …' said Detective Inspector Malik, ‘and then we can leave you to enjoy the rest of your Sunday.'

‘Yes?'

‘We've been in touch with most of the acting company for
Cinderella
– the company stage manager gave us a copy of her contact sheets, and we've spoken to nearly all of them. A few haven't returned our calls on their mobiles and haven't been contactable at their digs …'

‘That's really no surprise, Inspector. Today, Sunday, is the only scheduled day off in our rehearsal schedule and, what with Eastbourne being relatively near to London, a lot of the company will have gone back home as soon as they heard that yesterday's rehearsal schedule had been cancelled.'

‘Thank you for telling us that, Mr Paris. It's very helpful.' Detective Inspector Malik keyed in a note. ‘There's one member of the company we are very keen to contact, though. Her name is …' she consulted her iPad ‘… Jasmine del Rio. You know her?'

‘Yes, of course. I know everyone in the company. Not well, but I know her.'

‘But you haven't had any contact with her since Mr Polizzi's murder?'

‘No,' replied Charles Paris.

Detective Inspector Malik had said he was free ‘to enjoy the rest of his Sunday', but Charles wasn't sure how best to do that. Events of the previous twenty-four hours had left him understandably confused and it took him some time to untangle his emotions and work out the optimum way of spending ‘the rest of his Sunday'.

On previous mornings after bedding a new woman, he might have considered a grateful phone call to her, even a suggestion of another tryst. A boozy Sunday lunch together in some relaxed, ungastrified pub, followed by a return visit to her hotel room …? But somehow he knew that would be inappropriate for Lilith Greenstone.

Probably a better option would be to stock up with Sunday papers and enjoy the relaxed, ungastrified pub experience on his own. He looked at his watch. Pubs wouldn't open for another hour. And, to keep him going till then, there was a welcoming half-bottle of Bell's back at his digs.

In fact he didn't make it back there. While he was in a convenience store buying a
Sunday Times
and a
Telegraph
(Charles worried he was getting right wing in his old age, but he did find the
Observer
rather smug), his mobile rang.

‘Hello. Charles?' A female voice. Pure cockney.

‘Sorry, who is this?'

‘It's Kitty Woo … you know, the dancer from—'

‘Of course I know who you are. What can I do for you?'

‘Well, I just wondered if you'd heard anything from Jasmine … you know, Jasmine del Rio who—'

‘Yes, of course I know.' Second time he'd been asked the same question that morning. ‘No, I'm afraid I haven't. Not since we finished rehearsal on Friday.'

‘Oh.' The girl sounded so desolated that Charles suggested they should meet up for a drink. A pub lunch, maybe …?

She sounded almost pathetically pleased by the suggestion. ‘That'd be great, Charles. So long as we sit outside.'

‘Oh. Why's that?'

‘So that I can smoke.'

CINDERELLA: Oh, I'm so lonely. Pushed and shoved
By my two sisters, I'll never be loved.