The Cinderella Killer

by Simon Brett

  ‘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?’

  NINE

  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.

  The 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”.’

  ‘Yes, all right, but I should say I did quite like the guy.’

  ‘You weren’t married to him.’

  ‘That is undeniably true.’

  They raised their glasses and clinked.

  ‘And, like I said on the phone … condolences or whatever’s appropriate to—’

  ‘And like I said on the phone, no need.’

  ‘Right. Fine.’

  ‘So the cops have talked to you, Charles?’

  ‘You bet. I was actually the one who found the body.’

  ‘I heard that.’

  ‘Whether I was the first person to find the body, though, who knows?’

  ‘Howdja mean?’

  ‘Well, not having actually witnessed the death, I don’t know how many other people might have seen him.’

  ‘Right, got you.’

  ‘Mind you, the time frame was fairly short, between Kenny summoning me on the phone and my finding him.’

  ‘How short?’

  ‘Twenty minutes, half an hour tops.’

  ‘OK. You have any thoughts who might have shot the bastard?’

  Charles realized again that, beneath all the surface charm and sexiness, Lilith was a woman with an agenda. She had invited him to the Debussy Suite because there was information she wanted from him. Or maybe she wanted to know the extent of his ignorance.

  ‘I haven’t a clue,’ he replied. ‘You know a lot more about his background than I do. You know who might have had a grievance against him.’

  ‘Yes, like me, for instance. If I started listing the grievances I had against Kenny, we could be here all night.’ She smiles a deliberately provocative smile. ‘That is assuming we’re not here all night anyway.’

  Charles didn’t know how to respond. Maybe he was meant to come back with some slick movie-dialogue riposte, but it didn’t feel right to him. Instead he said, rather formally, ‘I’m working from the assumption that you didn’t kill him, Lilith.’

  She nodded in mock-approval. ‘Good assumption.’

  ‘But, as I say, you know a lot more about Kenny than I do. You’re more likely to be able to come up with a list of suspects than I am.’

  ‘Maybe. But I wanted to ask you if he’d been antagonizing anyone in your Cinderella company. Any bust-ups there?’

  Charles shook his head slowly. ‘No, Kenny seemed to get on with everyone.’ He decided not to mention the brief confrontation the star had had with Jasmine del Rio. No need to cast suspicion on an incident that was probably perfectly harmless. Until he had worked out what Lilith wanted from him, he decided to play things cagey.

  ‘Yup, good old Kenny,’ said Lilith. ‘Everybody’s buddy. The big star who doesn’t act like a big star, the regular guy who nobody gets pissed with. And if he does inadvertently upset someone, then he always sends in Lefty Rubenstein to clear up the mess, smooth things over, pay a little hush money if necessary. Good old Kenny.’

  ‘Well, I can’t think of anyone in the Cinderella company who might have wanted to kill him.’

  ‘You mean rehearsals have been completely harmonious?’

  ‘That might be overstating it – I’m sure you know enough about working in the theatre to understand that – but the arguments that have come up … Kenny wasn’t involved in any of them.’

  ‘And, knowing how keen showbiz people are on gossip … are there theories around the company about who might have topped him?’

  ‘Well, the only Cinderella cast member I’ve seen since the murder is of the view that it was a Mafia hit.’

  Lilith Greenstone looked genuinely amazed. ‘What the hell would the Mafia have to do with Kenny? Not everyone who’s got an Italian surname is a “made man”. They don’t all qualify for The Sopranos.’

  ‘Kenny suggested to me that he had substantial gambling debts …’

  ‘That’s certainly true.’

  ‘And the people trying to reclaim them were not necessarily the most salubrious types.’

  ‘Go along with that too. But we’re still not talking Mafia. Kenny had these fantasies, saw himself as the big star. Bit of a Sinatra complex. He loved promoting the suggestion that he was tied up with the Mafia. Gave him some kind of macho kick.’

  ‘But not true?’

  ‘Totally untrue. The kind of thing he’d sound off about when he’d had a few drinks – or the odd line of cocaine – to anyone who’d listen. And Kenny could usually find somebody who’d listen … because of course he was Kenny Polizzi, star of The Dwight House. But nothing to do with the Mafia.’

  ‘Do you mind if I ask you something personal, Lilith?’

  The magnificent shoulders shrugged. ‘What’s personal?’

  ‘Why did you marry Kenny?’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I mean, given that since I’ve met you you’ve said nothing about him that wasn’t pure vitriol.’

  ‘Charles, you say you haven’t been divorced, but surely you know enough about life to realize that what you feel when you’re coming out of a marriage is kind of different from what you feel when you go into it.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that, but on our brief acquaintance you don’t strike me as a woman who has a lot of illusions about life …’

  ‘We all still have a few illusions, Charles – even the most hardbitten of us. And the image of marriage for a girl like me, brought up as a God-fearing Southerner, kinda looms over one’s life. I’d done it twice and screwed up. I hoped the third time I could make it work. And Kenny was that much older, I thought he’d bring me a sense of security. I’m one of those lost girls whose daddy died young.’ She was silent for a moment. ‘He died of a heart attack just around the time I was making the awkward transition from child star to adult star. I guess I’ve
been looking for a father figure ever since.’

  ‘But Kenny doesn’t seem natural casting as a father figure. You and him … it still seems unlikely somehow.’

  ‘Not so unlikely. Even now I can acknowledge the guy had a lot of charisma. And after his hellraising days, he was seriously determined to turn over a new leaf. When we met, he was off the booze, off the drugs, he was genuinely wanting to start over. And I guess I was a part of the redemption process.’

  ‘And would I be wrong,’ Charles asked cautiously, ‘to think that you saw Kenny as something of a project? You could civilize him, you could turn his personality around in a way that his previous wives had failed to?’

  ‘You’re quite shrewd, Charles,’ said Lilith, and she patted him on the knee, rather in the way a dog might be congratulated for bringing the stick back. ‘Yup, there was an element of challenge there. I guess I thought I could tame Kenny.’ She sighed, then said, ‘There’s another thing too, Charles …’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Kenny was high-profile. Like me. The fact that big names in showbiz keep getting into relationships with each other is not just to keep the celebrity magazines salivating. It’s also because you gravitate towards people who understand the system, who know about the pressures of trying to find some privacy in their lives. They know about the bodyguards, the security consultants, the discreet limo companies … all that garbage which may look to the outsider like extravagant pampering, but is actually necessary just to get through life as a celebrity. You hook up with someone who knows about all that shit, there’s a lot less time wasted in explanations.’

  ‘I can see that,’ said Charles Paris, whose career had never required the services of bodyguards, security consultants or discreet limo companies, and was never likely to. ‘So how long did the honeymoon with Kenny last?’

  ‘Until he fell off the wagon. Which he managed to do within three weeks of the wedding.’

  ‘He’d climbed back on it, though, hadn’t he? Mr Squeaky Clean again. Or at least he had until yesterday.’ All that got from Lilith was a snort of contempt. ‘Can I ask – were you the cause of him falling off the wagon yesterday evening, Lilith?’