A Fatal Façade

by Linda M. James

  Rico studied her; she looked exhausted and vulnerable. ‘It’ll only hurt you.’

  She stared at him, waiting.

  ‘Sometimes he brought women to the club when you weren’t there.’ He didn’t want to say this. ‘Blondes.’

  All the blood seemed to drain out of Bianca’s face, but her voice was strong. ‘Bollocks - he wouldn’t do that! Someone would have told me!’

  She had to know the truth about Cellini. ‘I told them not to, Bi. I wouldn’t make it up – I love you too much. I don’t want to hurt you like him. We’re the same, you and me – we don’t fit in – not like that bastard who had everything.’

  Bianca knocked the rest of her coffee over in agitation. ‘You know nothing about Paolo! He came from nothing, and look where he got to?’

  Rico stared at her for some time. ‘Yeah – a coffin.’

  CHAPTER 6

  10th December 2012

  Mud-colored clouds prolapsed from a flinty sky. Lucy studied their shapes from the depths of her wheelchair.

  ‘Mum?’ Tom stopped hammering to look at her. ‘What you looking at?’

  She pointed a finger at the clouds and Tom smiled. ‘They look like giant hammocks stretched across the sky.’

  Lucy wanted to smile back at him; she loved the way Tom looked at things, but he was already back building his bird table. ‘I’ve only got to put the roof on, Mum, and it’s finished.’ His face was full of grim determination.

  Frost had glazed the garden and icicles encased the withered reeds around the pond. She couldn’t tell him she was frozen because he’d wrapped two large blankets around her and she knew he wanted to please her.

  Tom’s clumsy hammer blows resounded around the neglected garden as Jack stormed out of the house, holding a newspaper.

  ‘Why on earth did you bring your mother out in this cold?’ he shouted at his son. ‘She could have caught her…’

  The unspoken word hung in the air as Tom dropped the hammer and ran into the house, his face contorted.

  The silence froze Jack and suddenly all his anger was directed against himself. Lucy tried to move her chair away from him, but he blocked it by kneeling in front of her.

  ‘I’m sorry, Luc, I always seem to say the wrong thing to Tom these days.’

  Jack stared at the misshapen bird table; Tom’s love for his mother could be seen in every hammer blow. ‘Come on…let’s get you in out of the cold. I’ll go and talk to him, Luc. Make him…you know…’ Jack trailed away. Did he know? As he pushed Lucy’s wheelchair up the gravel path she pointed to the weeds which had choked her unborn flowers.

  ‘You know I’m no good with gardens, Luc – everything dies on me.’ Jack bit his lower lip, wishing he could rewind words as easily as a video recorder.

  He found Tom sitting on his bed, staring fixedly at a book when he entered his bedroom. His loud agitated breathing filled the room.

  ‘The bird table looks great, Tom…couldn’t had made it better myself. Well, actually, I don’t think I could make it at all. You know what I’m like with a hammer.’ Jack attempted a small laugh.

  Tom carried on staring at the book.

  ‘Tom…I just wanted to—’

  ‘I’m busy,’ he snapped.

  Jack stood there, watching his son’s determined efforts to dam up his tears. He’d had all sorts of training in the police-force: how to deal with violent prisoners, murderers, drug-dealers, arsonists, even rapists. He knew how to deal with all these people, but not with his own son. Not when his son knew his mother was dying.

  ‘Listen…we need to talk about…you know—’

  ‘Leave me alone – I’m reading!’ Tom yelled; his mouth contorted with pain.

  Jack noticed that Tom’s Batman comic book was upside down. And in that instant, he remembered the excitement on his son’s face three years before Lucy’s illness. They’d had a wonderful holiday staying at a cottage near the stunning Barafundle Bay on the Pembrokeshire coast in Wales; smelling the salt-edged air; watching the greedy sea gobbling up the shore and fighting to stop the ocean demolishing the enormous castle the three of them had built. He walked out of Tom’s bedroom thinking if only he could have stopped time that perfect day; the day Tom had sung as they climbed up the cliff; the day his high-pitched voice had pierced his heart; the day they had all laughed.

  In his bedroom, Jack concentrated on getting his chauffeur’s uniform on, his shoulders tight with tension. How the hell am I going to cope with him when Lucy’s gone? His hand went into his jacket pocket and touched silk. He pulled the panties out in surprise. He’d forgotten them. How important was a pair of silk panties, hidden behind a radiator anyway? He went into the study, sat at the desk and logged onto the computer. Jack’s fingers sped over the key board as he typed Paolo Cellini into a search engine. A number of sites appeared. He clicked onto one and details of Cellini’s playboy lifestyle popped up: Cellini at the Opera; Cellini at the races; Cellini on a yacht. And every time he was with a blonde. Why only blondes? Jack fingered the silk panties, imagining the sort of woman who wore them – an expensive one. The sudden squeak of Lucy’s wheelchair alerted him to her approach and in an instant, the panties were thrown in a desk drawer. He couldn’t let Lucy see them even though she’d been a forensic scientist before her illness. Panties like that reeked of sex; a painful reminder of the past. He turned to smile at her.

  ‘What do you think, Luc?’ Her grey eyes blinked at the screen as she studied the pictures of Cellini with his variety of blondes. ‘This was the man who died a couple of days ago. What do you think when you look at him?’

  Lucy stared at Cellini’s smiling face and typed one word facade

  ‘What do you mean?’ Jack asked her, frowning. ‘I’ve seen his apartment. Full of the most beautiful paintings and sculptures I’ve ever seen. Nothing fake there.’

  Lucy made a derisive noise as she typed her mantra in the Met assume nothing believe nothing check everything

  The phone suddenly rang. Mrs. Montgomery asking him to pick up The Times newspaper on his way to work.

  ‘Have a look at the site and see if you can find out anything useful, will you?’

  She stared at him and typed yre not a dci now

  Jack glanced at his watch. ‘Got to go. Irina will look after you.’ He kissed her quickly and rushed out.

  There was chaos at Mrs. Montgomery’s apartment block when Jack arrived. Frank was supervising a group of men who were desperately trying to erect an eighteen-foot Christmas tree in the foyer. Pulleys and ladders and pine needles littered the floor and walls. Workmen were shouting conflicting instructions to each other while Frank added to the chaos by shouting out even more. The tree oscillated between angles of 45° and 180°.

  ‘Left a bit…no, right…no, not that way!’ Frank shouted.

  Mrs. Montgomery sat in a large armchair, watching the entertainment with great enjoyment. Frank walked over to her.

  ‘You know something, Mrs. Montgomery – my old mum could do a better job of putting up a Christmas tree and she’s nearly 90!’

  Jack gave Mrs. Montgomery the newspaper, but their attention was suddenly drawn to Frank’s portable T.V. set on his desk. Alan Saunders was talking to an interviewer about Paolo Cellini’s death.

  ‘Apparently Mr. Cellini had been suffering from a heart condition for many years which nobody we’ve questioned seemed to know about,’ Alan said to the camera.

  The interviewer stared at him. ‘Well, having a heart condition wasn’t too good for the image of one of the most eligible young bachelors in London, I imagine. Could you tell us a little more about how the body was discovered? There’s a great deal of public interest in this case.’

  Jack could tell that the public interest didn’t spread as far as Alan; his eyes were glazed with boredom.

  ‘I don’t understand that,’ Frank said to Jack. ‘You’d never know he had a bad heart. I saw him bounding up those stairs the night he died.’

  ‘So did I,’ Mrs.
Montgomery added.

  Jack’s antennae started twitching. ‘Was he with someone, Frank?’

  Frank shook his head. ‘Not that night. Must have been expecting someone, though. He had an excited look in his eye – you know…mind you, he had strings of girls. Well, only to be expected with his looks and money – only blondes, though. Never saw him with a brunette.’

  ‘I wonder why?’ Mrs. Montgomery said, looking at Jack.

  Frank suddenly noticed the Christmas tree was just about to topple over and shouted at the men who were fighting to get it upright. Wiping his forehead with his sleeve, he muttered, ‘Bloody Christmas. I’d ban it.’

  Suddenly Mrs. Montgomery looked into her handbag and groaned. ‘Oh, no!’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Jack asked.

  ‘I left my glasses in Paolo’s apartment when I was trying to calm his maid. I can’t read without them.’ She looked at Jack innocently.

  ‘No problem, Mrs. Montgomery.’ Frank got a key from under his desk. ‘I can’t leave the foyer or I’d get them for you, but we all trust Jack here, don’t we? Being an ex-copper an’ all.’

  Mrs. Montgomery looked only mildly embarrassed when Jack stared at her. She took the key off Frank. ‘Thank you, Frank. I don’t know how we all managed before you came.’

  Frank beamed at her.

  As Mrs. Montgomery and Jack headed towards the lift, Jack leaned over to her. ‘You should have been a psychologist, Mrs. M.’

  Mrs. Montgomery smiled at him. ‘I’ve no idea what you mean, Jack.’

  Cellini’s lounge looked exactly as it did on the night of his death. Jack wasn’t sure why he was surprised. But the smell was different. Camphor-like and musky. His nostrils wrinkled. Mrs. Montgomery stared at the paintings in amazement.

  ‘I’ve always wanted to see Paolo’s apartment, but I was never invited. Not a young beautiful blonde, you see.’ She turned back to the paintings. ‘They must be worth a fortune.’

  Again, Jack was drawn to the triptych of heaven and hell; amazed that anyone could believe in a religion that frightened its believers half to death with the thought of the horrific damnation they would suffer if they sinned.

  ‘I’ve never been to the scene of a murder before.’ Mrs. Montgomery’s comment broke into Jack’s thoughts.

  ‘It’s not a murder scene, Mrs. M. Paolo Cellini had a heart attack.’

  ‘Oh, rubbish – we both know someone bumped him off and I want you to find out who did.’

  Mrs. M’s walking-stick tapped on the polished floor as she hobbled towards the kitchen. Jack went into Cellini’s massive bedroom and wandered around in fascination. An enormous bed was center stage, surrounded by expensive Italian furniture and a collection of Post-Impressionist paintings. Although Jack recognized the thick lively strokes of Cézanne, one of his favourite painters, he didn’t recognize the paintings. The Murder, was written on one, The Abduction, on another. Interesting that out of all of Cézanne’s paintings, Paolo Cellini chose two full of turbu- lence and violence to look at it while he was in bed.

  He moved across to an antique wardrobe and opened it. Rack upon rack of designer clothes lined the inside. How could one man possibly wear all those? Jack glanced at the bed and saw four silk cords tied to the bed posts. So Cellini was into S & M. He walked over and slid his fingers slowly along one of the cords, wondering who he tied up with it.

  By the side of the immense bed was a faded photograph. A middle-aged Italian-looking woman stared out at the camera. Jack picked it up and studied it. There was no resemblance to Cellini’s fair coloring. As Jack stared around the room, trying to find a way to understand the mixed metaphor of Cellini’s life, he took a notebook out of his jacket pocket and wrote the murder in surprisingly beautiful handwriting; the handwriting of a man who had studied calligraphy. Around the words he drew lines radiating away from them. At the end of the lines he wrote in italics: guilt, hell-fire, Catholic Church, blondes, Italy, panties, tablets. He stopped writing and delved into his pocket. Of course, the white tablets he found under the panties. He put one in his mouth and tasted it. Vitamin C. Why were they on the floor? He wrote vitamin C on his mind-map before closing his notebook.

  ‘Jack!’ He heard Mrs. Montgomery call him from the other room and automatically ran his fingers over the furniture before leaving. He studied them. Nothing.

  He wandered back into the lounge, glancing uneasily at all the religious figures who were staring at him from the walls. Suddenly, he trod on something that crackled. He knelt down and saw some bubble wrap. He put it automatically in his pocket as Mrs. Montgomery entered the room.

  ‘Did you find anything interesting?’ Mrs. Montgomery asked him.

  ‘Women have a tendency to leave things behind if they want to see someone again – even if it’s only a strand of hair. In Paolo Cellini’s bedroom, there’s nothing at all.’

  ‘I must see it,’ Mrs. Montgomery said, pulling Jack back towards Paolo’s bedroom as she spoke. ‘That’s very odd. Every time I comb my hair, some drops out. Mind you, it might be my age, but everyone leaves some hair somewhere, don’t they?’ She paused. ‘You know what I’ve found out in my long life of acting, Jack? You can fool too many of the people too much of the time.’

  ‘What do you notice about this room, Mrs. M?’

  Mrs. Montgomery’s mouth opened in astonishment when she saw the size of Paolo’s bed and the silk cords attached to the bed posts. ‘Good God – there’s enough room for four people in there and those cords…so he was into S & M.’

  She saw the surprise on Jack’s face.

  ‘Look, I may be old, Jack, but I’ve been around. My third husband was into S & M…with other women, naturally. Anyway, I thought an ex-DCI like you couldn’t be surprised by anything.’

  There was a small silence before Jack asked. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘That nice-looking sergeant told me. She said you were the best DCI she’d ever worked for. Mind you, she’s very young, isn’t she?’ Mrs. Montgomery laughed. Jack couldn’t help smiling.

  ‘You must smile more, Jack. You look quite handsome. If I weren’t—’

  ‘You said you saw Paolo Cellini the night he died,’ Jack interrupted quickly. ‘Did he look ill?’

  ‘No, elated. A large crate had arrived for him. I happened to hear the delivery men ringing his doorbell. Well, I’m not nosy, but I knew he wasn’t home, so I went out to tell them. You ought to have seen the look on their faces at the thought of having to carry it down again. Then just as they were about to leave, Paolo bounded up the stairs. He looked just like I imagine Paul did on the road to Damascus. When he saw the crate he said “Una gioia sparge un centinaio di dolori.”’

  Jack frowned at Mrs. Montgomery. ‘I only passed O-level Italian, Mrs. M.’

  ‘Paolo told me it means “One joy scatters a hundred sorrows.” A funny thing to say, wasn’t it? I never associated him with sorrow. I told him that he’d obviously brought something exciting back from Italy and he said another strange thing. “I’ve bought what God would have bought, if he had any money, Mrs. Montgomery.” Then he disappeared into his apartment. I wonder what he meant.’

  Jack looked thoughtful. ‘So do I.’

  They stared at each other, both thinking of Cellini’s words, then suddenly Jack realized the significance of what Mrs. Montgomery had told him: there was no crate in Cellini’s apartment when his body was found. How the hell could a crate disappear? Was there something in it worth killing for? Everything about this case was an enigma and Jack loved solving enigmas, but he wasn’t a DCI anymore. He must leave the case to Alan and forget it.

  ‘Paolo Cellini was the best-looking charmer I’ve ever met and I’ve met a lot as an actress,’ Mrs. M said, breaking into his thoughts. ‘Of course, he knew it, but I still liked him and so it seemed did every woman he met.’ She suddenly sneezed loudly. ‘Oh, no – not another cold. Let’s go into my apartment, Jack. There’s something I want to ask you.’

  Mrs. Montg
omery’s lounge reminded Jack of a theatrical agency; every available inch of wall space was covered with a lifetime’s work in the theater: large colorful posters advertising every Shakespearean production she had acted in. She nestled back into a large olive-colored settee, sipping a Whisky Mac before speaking.

  ‘I was going to Paolo’s funeral tomorrow, but I don’t think it’s a good idea with a cold, do you?’ She took another sip of her whisky before adding. ‘You see, the thing is…I fear death more than death itself. Could I ask you a big favor? Would you go as my representative?’

  Jack studied her cream carpet before answering: the last thing he wanted to do was go to a funeral with his family problems, but he couldn’t tell Mrs. Montgomery about Lucy.

  ‘Of course I will,’ he said.

  ‘That’s very kind of you.’ Mrs. Montgomery suddenly looked much better. ‘Oh, and find out all you can, will you? Do you know something, Jack? I haven’t felt this excited since I played Lady Macbeth fifty years ago. That’s me, over there.’ She pointed to a large poster of an attractive dark-haired girl dressed in a long purple gown holding out blood-covered hands. Jack couldn’t help the shock showing on his face. ‘Oh yes, I know – hard to imagine that this ravaged old bag ever looked like that, but I did, Jack. Had men falling at my feet all the time. Most of them were drunk, of course.’

  And suddenly, Jack was laughing. Great explosive laughter. It went on and on. Mrs. Montgomery struggled to get up from the settee and poured him a large Whisky Mac. The laughter abruptly stopped and Jack covered his eyes with his hands.

  ‘Drink this,’ she insisted.

  ‘I’ve got to drive home. You don’t want to employ a chauffeur who drinks and drives.’

  She smiled at him. ‘You know what Alan Bennet once said, Jack? –“Life is rather like a tin of sardines and we’re all looking for the key.”’

  Jack uncovered his eyes to look at her.

  She smiled at him. ‘I haven’t found mine either. I wonder if Paolo ever did.’