by Simon Brett
On that Friday morning there was to be a company call at twelve ‘for notes’, which meant Bix knew he’d reached the point when no more tinkering would make the show any better. Some of the company were no doubt making or shopping for first performance presents, but such gestures were a bit too theatrical for Charles Paris.
So he twitched around his digs, nibbling some stale toast and trying to convince himself that the afternoon would be all right.
And then he had a phone call from Detective Inspector Malik. She would like to talk to him.
He explained that he had to be in the theatre for twelve, so she suggested they should meet in the coffee shop near the stage door. She sounded unnervingly affable.
But her first question when they met was full of suspicion. ‘Mr Paris, what were you doing at the flat of Vinnie McCree on Wednesday morning?’
Oh dear. So he had been seen there.
‘Well, I wanted to see him,’ he said feebly.
‘Why?’
‘You’d mentioned the day before that you’d talked to him and I …’
‘You didn’t get the chance to talk to him, did you?’
‘No, I found him dead in his room.’ He searched for comfort in Detective Inspector Malik’s black eyes. ‘How did you know I was there? Did someone see me?’
‘There were surveillance cameras set up opposite the house.’
‘Police surveillance?’
‘No, they were set up by the other side.’
‘Other side?’
‘Very fortunate for us, as it turns out.’
Charles was finding the conversation a little gnomic. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite get what you mean.’
‘Well, the fact is that the drug scene here in Eastbourne – there’s always been one, but it’s been fairly low key, almost a cottage industry. But now some of the Albanian gangs who operate in other south-coast towns are trying to muscle in. They’re the ones who set up the surveillance cameras. And thereby produced a great deal of evidence for us.’
‘Why did they set the cameras up, though?’
‘They were suspicious of Mr McCree. He’d been asking too many questions about their operations. So they wanted to see who his associates were.’
‘So they’d also have seen you when you visited him at the house too, wouldn’t they? Police cars … they wouldn’t have liked that.’
‘No. I think that’s possibly why they decided that he was a threat to their security.’
‘Why they shot him, in fact?’
‘It’s possible,’ she said without any hint of guilt. ‘But of course we could never have known that was going to happen. I think Mr McCree did behave foolishly, though. He got in rather deeper than he intended.’
Charles agreed. Though he couldn’t help feeling a level of pity for Vinnie McCree. Silly, pathetic old fool, still thinking he could come up with the career-driving scoop. And ending up being executed by an Albanian drug-trafficker.
Then a rather unpleasant thought came to him. ‘If I’m caught on their surveillance cameras, then these Albanians might think I’m one of Vinnie’s associates and …’
Detective Inspector Malik smiled. ‘Down worry about it, Mr Paris. The good thing about recent events is that they’ve opened up this Albanian connection. We’ve arrested the lot of them.’
‘Oh, well done,’ said Charles, with considerable relief. ‘And, er, what about the other murders?’
‘The other murders?’
‘Well, we’ve had quite a succession of them now, haven’t we? You know, connected with Cinderella. First Kenny Polizzi, then Jasmine del Rio, then—’
‘Mr Paris …’
‘Yes?’
‘I think we in the police force are quite capable of sorting out any connections there may be between those crimes.’
‘Oh yes. I’m sure you are. I wasn’t suggesting that … It’s just, I mean, I did know the people involved and if you needed any, as it were …’
‘I’m sure you did, Mr Paris. And I’m sure if we reach a point when we need help in joining the dots on the case, you’ll be the first person we’ll get in touch with.’
‘Oh well, thank you.’
‘But don’t hold your breath.’
Detective Inspector Malik didn’t call him again, so Charles reckoned the police had worked out exactly what happened with what became known as the ‘Cinderella shootings’.
And a long time later (the wheels of justice turn slowly) he saw in The Times that Gloria van der Groot had been committed to a secure institution. But he never knew that she spent her time there very happily, watching continuous box sets of The Dwight House.
That series got a boost from the publicity surrounding the murder. Like Elvis’s, as Lefty Rubenstein had predicted, Kenny Polizzi’s death had proved ‘a good career move’.
And a large percentage of the international royalties from the show went to Lilith Greenstone who, at the time of his death, was still Kenny’s wife. Her career continued to blossom, but in spite of road-testing a lot of men in her bed, Lilith still didn’t find what she was looking for.
Cinderella did open on time for the Friday matinee to an auditorium full of screaming kids. It wasn’t the greatest performance ever, but the company got through it. The evening show was trickier. An adult audience was less forgiving to the longueurs of the set changes and the gaping holes in the plot. But, as Danny Fitz kept saying, ‘First week of performances in pantomime is always like the third week of rehearsal.’
And slowly the show took shape. The cast began to feel the rhythms of the story and it shook down into not a bad little show. Even more remarkably, a couple of the local newspapers praised Bix’s direction, describing it as ‘tight and lively’. There was only one review for Baron Hardup. ‘Charles Paris looked as if he’d wandered in from another show (and would rather be back there).’ Eastbourne Herald.
And in time the various lives of the Cinderella company took various directions. Kitty Woo, desolated by the loss of Jasmine del Rio, began to see quite a lot of Laura Hahn. United in their grief, a mutual attraction grew. Neither wanted to move too fast, both were wary, but maybe in time something might develop there.
After much toing and froing, and many misgivings, as soon as he’d finished the run of Cinderella, Felix Fisher came out as straight. He couldn’t any longer stand the pressure of keeping his wife and children secret. And to his amazement, the revelation had exactly the effect that his career needed. Within six months he was hosting a family-friendly television quiz.
Arthur Bodimeade died within a fortnight of Cinderella’s last performance. But during the run he hadn’t missed a single show and, though there were only a few of them, connoisseurs of the theatre sat in the auditorium of the Empire Theatre, realizing they were in the presence of genius.
And Charles Paris … For him life chuntered on. The shock of hearing about Frances’s potential illness, the reminder that one day he might lose her, had affected him deeply. But not deeply enough for him to arrange to see her more often. Or even to ring her more often.
He did, however, get through to her between the matinee and the evening show on Christmas Eve.
‘Frances, just rang to wish you a Happy Christmas.’
‘That’s very thoughtful of you,’ she said with just the slightest edge to her voice. ‘Happy Christmas to you too.’
‘I assume you’ll be spending tomorrow with Juliet and Miles?’
‘Yes. I’m sure, if you had got in touch earlier, you’d have been very welcome to—’
‘Couldn’t have done it. We only get tomorrow off, then two shows again on Boxing Day. And what with there being no trains on Christmas Day …’
‘So what will you be doing tomorrow?’
He was encouraged to hear concern in her voice. ‘Oh, I’m sure I’ll find something to do.’
‘Joining up with some other people from the Cinderella company?’
‘Something like that, yes.’ Though he hadn’t discu
ssed plans with anyone.
‘And I’m sorry, Frances. I haven’t got you a present. It’ll have to be in the New Year.’
‘I’m used to that, Charles.’
‘Yes.’
There was a silence. Then Frances said, ‘I have got quite a lot of present-wrapping and stuff to be getting on with, so I …’
‘Yes, yes, of course. I just wanted to say, about the breast cancer …’
‘The good news is that I haven’t got breast cancer.’
‘Yes, but I just wanted to say … you know, the scare, when I thought you might have it … well, it made me realize how much you do still mean to me … how upset I’d be if something were to happen to you.’
‘I’d be pretty pissed off too,’ said Frances, deliberately lightening the tone.
‘And I’d just like to say, coming up to New Year and resolutions and all that …’
‘Keeping resolutions has never been one of your strong points, Charles.’
‘No, I know.’ He took a moment to build up his courage and then asked in a rush, ‘But shall we make next year the year we see a lot more of each other?’
‘I don’t know, Charles. Shall we?’ She didn’t sound convinced.
He did find a pub that was open at lunchtime on Christmas Day. Only serving drinks. The ones doing a full Christmas lunch had all been booked up weeks before. But when everyone was turned out of the pub at three in the afternoon, Charles found a convenience store open and bought some stuff, took it back to his self-catering digs, and self-catered.
He got through the day.
Thereafter, as long as he was in Eastbourne, he just got on with the show. And twice a day, along with Nausea, Dyspepsia and Buttons, Baron Hardup watched as the sheet of words came down from the flies, and they all encouraged the audience to join in the community singing.
Smile if you’re happy, smile if you’re not.
Smile if you’re in clover, or if you’re in a spot.
If you want to be in style,
Just make sure you always smile.
So for the world of worries we could not care a jot.
Life for us is lovely and we’re happy with our lot!
(RALLENTANDO)
Life for us is lovely and – we’re – happy – with – our – lot!‚