A Fatal Façade

by Linda M. James

  ‘What have I done to deserve you?’ he said.

  ‘Nothing, but I’m still all yours, Marky.’

  She started to massage his chest with perfumed oil, moving over his pectorals like a professional. Angelica had learned to play his body with all the expertise of a professional musician.

  An hour later, she was lying on her stomach, biting her knuckles and Mark was above her. His thrusting hurt her deep inside her body, but she endured it because she loved him and he loved this position. At last, he climaxed and rolled over onto his back, exhausted, but elated. She lay completely still, waiting for the pain to lessen.

  ‘Nothing happened at the Christmas party,’ Mark said at last. ‘Why the hell would I want another woman? Have you any idea what you do to me?’

  Angelica didn’t answer. She simply turned and licked his stomach sensuously.

  ‘Jesus – she’s trying to kill me,’ Mark said, smiling as he closed his eyes.

  Angelica got up quietly and walked out of the bedroom and down the stairs. Although the house was cold she didn’t stop to put on her dressing-gown over her silk nightdress. Some things couldn’t wait. She knelt in front of her Black Madonna and made the sign of the cross. Mark called from a distance, but she didn’t respond. She had to pray.

  ‘Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.’

  Mark opened his eyes, wondering why Angelica was taking so long. Obviously in the bathroom, staring at the calendar. He stumbled out of bed and went into the bathroom, exhausted from love-making. It was empty. He walked out and sighed. Not again.

  As he moved silently downstairs, he could hear her reciting her Hail Marys through the open door of her prayer room. There she was – kneeling in front of her statue, surrounded by candles and twisting a rosary between her fingers in supplication.

  ‘Angel, what are you doing in here? It’s freezing.’

  She stopped her mantra. ‘You know what I’m doing. Praying.’

  Mark kept his voice light. ‘For what?’

  ‘Forgiveness.’

  ‘But you hadn’t done anything that needs forgiveness, sweetheart.’

  ‘We’re all sinners.’

  Mark tried to control his anger. ‘Christ – that’s the nuns talking, not you. Come on, come back to bed.’

  She shook her head. Mark wanted to pick her up and carry upstairs into the warmth of their bed, but he knew he couldn’t, even though her body was trembling with cold.

  ‘I can’t…not yet.’

  He stared at her for a few moments; so beautiful and so remote; already back with her Madonna. She started reciting her Hail Marys again. Mark wanted to scream that it was all an empty ritual, but he stopped himself. He reached over and touched her belly.

  ‘Listen, sweetheart. It will happen – I know it will, but God won’t have anything to do with it. We will.’

  CHAPTER 10

  10th December 2012

  Rico had been trying for two nights to get into Cellini’s apartment. He hadn’t anticipated a concierge in the foyer monitoring everyone who went there. He paced up and down in the wind, opposite Palladian Place, the mansion block where Cellini used to live, praying that a crowd of people would go in. Some bastard must be having a Christmas party there, surely! He kept glancing around, terrified that they were watching him. Tonight, he had to get in. There were only a few days left before they kneecapped him or worse. He shuddered at the thought of the pain. Suddenly he heard shouts of laughter. A throng of drunken young people surged up the street; their public-school voices carrying on the wind. They were obviously intent on having a great night out. Rico couldn’t remember the last time he’d had one. He smiled as they opened the glass doors of Cellini’s block and ran across to join them.

  The old concierge Rico had seen for hours through the glass doors looked up from his tapestry and tutted as he saw the noisy group. ‘Just a minute…who are you going to see?’ he asked suspiciously.

  A young man with expensive vowels drawled drunkenly. ‘Our old school-friend, Giles Fortesque! We’re all going to his party!’

  The group roared with laughter as the concierge muttered, ’4th Floor. Apartment 42.’

  The group surged past him and the concierge concentrated on his tapestry. Rico couldn’t understand it. Why would a guy want to work on embroidery? As the partygoers waited at the lift, Rico merged with them, then separated himself by walking up the stairs as they were talking. It was five flights up and Rico could hardly breathe by the time he’d reached the top. He had no time to work out in gyms with two jobs.

  He crept out of the lift and did a quick reconnaissance of the long corridor, trying to slow his rapid heart rate. He relaxed when he saw that it was empty. He hurried over to Cellini’s apartment and inserted the key he had stolen from Bianca’s flat, silently thanking him for putting the number 57 on the key fob in case Bianca forgot it. The key turned effortlessly. Rico pushed the door open, closed it silently and switched the lights on. He walked through the wide hall with its numerous paintings and went into the lounge and stopped short. He was stunned by the abundance of religious artifacts there. He’d expected a palatial apartment but thought Cellini only bought religious artifacts to sell, not to live with: Paolo Cellini and religion were a total contradiction. Everything in the room reeked of wealth. All the bitterness he felt against a man who had everything rose up his throat. Rico slumped into a large leather settee, swallowing back the bile. Spread out before him was a treasure trove of casual wealth; the remnants of a life that was spent in decadence at the expense of other people. He wondered why his life was spent living on the edge of society; an outsider who was always looking in on other men’s lives; men who had money; men who could decide what they wanted to do with their lives; men who didn’t have other people telling them how to live; men who could have any women they wanted and didn’t care how many they hurt. Why couldn’t he have had Cellini’s life? The irony of this question missed Rico completely. He was alive: Cellini was dead.

  As Rico looked around the room, the first flickering of fear twisted his gut. No crate in here. It must be in one of the other rooms. He rushed into all of them; the flickering of fear had now become a burning ulcer eating through his stomach wall – there was no crate anywhere. He slumped down on Cellini’s bed and cradled his head in his hands. He only had three days left before they came for him. Suddenly the click of the front door opening. Rico jumped up and rushed over to Cellini’s enormous wardrobe and hid behind a rail of expensive suits. His body was suddenly awash with sweat. He tried to slow the loud agitated beating of his heart in case the new intruder could hear it. There was no sound in the apartment at all. Rico leaned against one of Cellini’s Armani suits to control his shaking. They couldn’t have followed him here, could they? Then he smelt her perfume and knew who it was. Opening the door a fraction, he saw Bianca pick up a photograph of an older woman which stood beside Cellini’s bed.

  ‘Hello, Bi.’

  Bianca screamed and dropped the photograph. ‘Jesus Christ – what the fuck are you doing here? How’d you get in?’

  ‘Sorry I frightened you, but I’m in deep shit. I owe a lot of money to a lot of people and Cellini owes me.’

  ‘Paolo owes nothing to anyone and he never keeps money here.’

  ‘I’m not looking for money. I’m looking for a Black Madonna.’

  Bianca looked at him, suspiciously. ‘Why?

  ‘I was supposed to sell it for him.’

  Bianca walked out of the room in disgust. ‘You’re such a bullshitter, Rico. I should call the police.’

  Rico followed her into the lounge. ‘They’d ask what you are doing here too.’

  Bianca sat down on one of Paolo’s white leather settees. ‘I’d show them all the keys he gave me. So that’s why you wanted to have a coffee at my place. You just wanted to steal his k
ey! You’re just like all the rest, Rico. A user.’

  Rico felt as if she’d punched him in the stomach. ‘I’ve never used you. Not like Cellini.’ He collapsed into the settee beside her and laid his head back. ‘If I don’t find out where the statue is, I’m a dead man, Bi. You’ll find me in an alleyway with my throat cut.’

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about? Paolo always sends his valuable art to his gallery, not here and why should he use you? What do you know about art?’

  ‘Nothing, but I know about…other things.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘I don’t want to involve you. It’s too dangerous. They can’t get any information out of You if you don’t know anything.’

  ‘Jesus, Rico – you sound like a cheap Hollywood cop. You’ve been watching the wrong T.V. shows.’

  ‘This is serious, Bi. You know how I feel about you. I don’t want you to get hurt.’

  ‘Why the fuck should I get hurt?’ Suddenly Bianca felt her hands go clammy as she saw the sweat on Rico’s white face. He was telling her the truth. ‘What was Paolo messed up with?’

  ‘How can I get out of here without being seen?’ Rico whispered.

  ‘Jesus – it’s bad, isn’t it?’

  He wiped his hand across his sweating face and nodded.

  CHAPTER 11

  11th December 2012

  Jack could see the tall spire of St Sebastian’s Church from some distance away as he crawled through the traffic. Of course, he hadn’t told Mrs. Montgomery about his past. ‘Nothing to do with anyone else,’ he said aloud. ‘It should be buried.’ The blue Volvo in front of him braked again, but for once, Jack was happy to stop-start along the street. The thought of a funeral was too raw. Damn. The traffic suddenly surged forward. He had no choice but to follow it.

  St Sebastian’s had been a resplendent Gothic church for centuries after it had been built in 1262, but now time and neglect had etched itself deeply into its architecture. The large traceried windows had been boarded up against vandals and an air of desolation hung around its crumbling stones. Jack stopped the Daimler near the church, wondering why anyone would want to be buried in such a desolate corner. Paolo had left explicit instructions about his funeral in one of his bureaux. Jamila had rung Jack to ask him what he thought about a thirty-year-old man who arranged his funeral details meticulously: the church must be St. Stephens; the music must be Monteverdi’s Vespers; donations must be sent to the Children’s Hospital in Great Ormond Street, instead of flowers; Father O’Brian must officiate if he was still alive. Jack found it incredible that a young man had thought about his funeral at all, let alone left such detailed instructions. He suddenly realized he hadn’t even made a will. I should, he thought as he climbed out of the Daimler, sucking in great gulps of cold air to wake himself up. Not much sleep again; Lucy had been restless last night and his bottle of sleeping tablets was empty.

  Jack dawdled towards the knot of people in the distance, then stopped short. Why on earth would a millionaire want to be buried in a run-down East End church? Everything about this man was enigma, Jack thought, remembering the small white towel covering Cellini’s body and the lack of one female hair in his apartment. He suddenly felt guilty; not only had he missed the service, he was even late for the burial.

  A large number of people fringed Cellini’s open grave; nearly all were women. Jack walked self-consciously towards the scene. He hated funerals, but he hated Catholic priests even more. He stood at the back of the crowd, trying to block out the priest’s depressing dust-to-dust oratory as he studied the women fringing the grave. A Mediterranean-looking woman was standing very near the grave, crying noisily as the priest spoke. Jack glanced around at the other people and suddenly noticed a woman half-hidden by an elder tree in the distance. She was elegantly dressed in an olive-green cashmere coat and a black scarf over ash-blonde hair and she was fingering a rosary. As She tilted her head the sun formed a halo around her head. Jack immediately got out his mobile and took her photo before realizing that it was totally inappropriate at a funeral. She glanced into the distance, looking startled as she saw someone she knew and suddenly she ran off. Jack was riveted by the interplay. The man followed her and Jack started to follow them, but his attention was abruptly brought back to the funeral by a woman shouting as earth thudded onto Cellini’s coffin.

  ‘You bastard! You fucking bastard! How could you leave me?’

  The priest looked at the woman in horror as she started to sway. Everyone stood transfixed. Jack rushed forward to catch her before she fell on top of the coffin.

  ‘She’s upset!’ Jack shouted into the priest’s horrified face.

  The café had the same air of decay and neglect as the church. Jack sipped his coffee and winced – it tasted of iron filings.

  He and Bianca sat opposite each other in a half-empty greasy spoon café.

  ‘You feeling better?’

  She nodded. ‘Yeah…thanks. It was…just a bit too much. I’ve been to too many funerals recently. Both my parents died last year.’

  ‘I’m sorry. You obviously knew Paolo Cellini well,’ Jack said, appalled by his hypocrisy.

  ‘We’ve been going out for over two years…I thought…’ Bianca suddenly looked at Jack suspiciously. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Just a chauffeur who works for one of Mr. Cellini’s neighbors. She liked him.’

  ‘Everyone liked Paolo…well…women did.’

  ‘It’s odd that he wanted to be buried in the East End with all his wealth, isn’t it?’ Jack said lightly, avoiding any eye contact by staring out of the dirty windows.

  ‘No, it’s not. People didn’t know Paolo. He was brought up here. Didn’t want people to know. Bad for his image, I suppose, but he told me everything.’

  ‘Did he?’ Jack said, disingenuously.

  ‘What’s that mean?’ Bianca sounded hostile.

  ‘Well, it’s difficult to know everything about another person, isn’t it? Even if you love them. My wife once told me a French saying: “In love there is always one who kisses and one who offers the cheek.”’

  ‘So which one are you?’ she snapped.

  Jack lifted his cracked cup and sipped his coffee. ‘This is the worst coffee I’ve ever tasted in my life.’ He smiled at her and her face relaxed a little.

  ‘Yeah, it is…sorry, I’m a bit…’ she trailed off into silence.

  Jack watched her repeatedly dipping a plastic spoon into the sugar and twisting it until the table was carpeted with granules.

  ‘The French may be right,’ she suddenly said, ‘but we had something special Paolo and me. We were both immigrants – didn’t fit in. He told me things about his past.’

  ‘Like what?’

  Her eyes narrowed as she studied Jack. ‘You ask a lot of questions.’

  ‘My grandmother told me when I was eight that if I didn’t ask questions, I’d never get answers.’

  Bianca smiled at him. ‘My granny said that too and she was Maltese…you haven’t got Maltese ancestors, have you?’

  ‘No, only Welsh,’ Jack answered, waiting for her to continue. the smell of over-cooked, greasy food in the café was beginning to make him feel nauseous.

  Bianca was silent for so long that Jack thought of paying for the iron filings and leaving. Just as he was about to get up, she said, ‘Paolo hated his father.’

  Jack kept his voice casual. ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t know…something to do with his mother.’ She looked around the café and saw a number of old men staring at her as if trying to remember the feel of firm flesh. ‘Paolo didn’t talk about his past much. He always liked to live in the present.’

  Her face crumpled as she realized what she’d said. ‘Jesus – what am I doing in a dump like this? Let’s get out.’

  Jack took out his wallet and a photo of Lucy and Tom fell out. Bianca picked it up and stared at it.

  ‘This your family?’

  Jack nodded.

  ‘Your son looks like
you. The same watchful eyes.’

  Jack looked at the photo; he’d never seen the similarity before. ‘That’s about all we’ve got in common at the moment.’

  Jack threw some coins on the table before they walked out.

  They ambled around Haggerston Park, so deep in their own personal pain that neither noticed their elongated shadows creeping ahead of them towards the shelter of the trees.

  The pond, a mirror of light in the summer, now lay like a sheet of unpolished lead in front of them. As they walked towards it, Bianca turned to him and said, ‘Paolo was going to manage my career. He’d booked venues all over the world for me to sing in.’

  They walked on in silence, then Bianca touched his arm. ‘You know what you said in the café about never knowing everything about someone you love. I never knew Paolo had a heart condition. How could I? He made love as if it was last time he’d ever do it.’ Her mouth suddenly twisted. ‘Oh my God – that’s what he thought, isn’t it?’

  ‘He must have loved you a great deal if he didn’t tell you.’

  Bianca hung onto these words, desperate to believe him. ‘You think so?’

  Two mallard ducks sliced the water with their reflections. Looking at the picture they painted almost made Jack forget the deadly conundrum he was trying to solve.

  ‘Everything’s in pairs, isn’t it?’ Bianca said, staring at the ducks as she unconsciously opened and closed the clasp on her leather handbag.

  ‘Something’s worrying you,’ Jack said at last.

  ‘Oh, Christ – I’ve got to show someone – it’s driving me nuts.’ She took out a small black book and gave it to him. ‘I found this diary in Paolo’s jacket in the club. Open it.’

  The word STELLA jumped out from numerous pages as Jack flicked through it. He caught his breath, but Bianca didn’t notice his agitation.

  ‘The night he died he left the club early. He was seeing this Stella…I know that now. I couldn’t believe it. I’m not mentioned once.’

  Jack’s face was full of compassion as he looked at her. ‘I’m sure there’s a good reason for that.’