A Fatal Façade

by Linda M. James

  Carla came in with a tray of tea and put it down.

  ‘I know how to make the British tea, Signore Bradley,’ she said proudly.

  Jack turned to smile at her. ‘Your English is improving, Carla.’

  ‘Mrs. Monty – she good teacher. She come now.’

  As if on cue Mrs. Montgomery hobbled into the room and beamed at him. ‘Sorry I’m late. My chauffeur is useless in heavy traffic. I ought to sack him, but I’d only have to get someone else.’ She slumped into her chair in relief. ‘How are you, Jack?’ She studied him as he poured the tea out for them.

  ‘Better, Mrs. M. I thought it was all rubbish, but time does help.’

  ‘I read a quotation the other day. “If time heals all wounds, why don’t they make clock band-aids.”’

  Jack smiled at her. He liked being with her; she didn’t swamp him with unwanted sympathy. He passed her a cup of tea.

  ‘Now tell me what you’re working on at the moment.’ Her eyes lit up. She loved Jack’s visits. ‘Is it another murder? I like murders.’

  Jack laughed. ‘You’re incorrigible Mrs. M. Wasn’t Paolo Cellini’s murder enough for you?’

  ‘Strange that Angelica never confessed, isn’t it? She confessed about her other crimes, so why not Paolo’s? You know Mark Logan has resigned from his job. It must have been appalling for him to read all those dreadful things about Angelica in the newspapers.’

  ‘Well, she did some dreadful things, Mrs. M.’

  ‘Yes, I know, that’s why it’s niggling me that she hasn’t confessed. Catholics like confessions, don’t they?’

  ‘Perhaps she’s confessed to a priest. We don’t know.’

  ‘Perhaps she can’t, Jack. I hated all those media programmes about how she escaped justice by pleading insanity. People don’t choose to have schizophrenia, do they?’ Mrs. M sipped her tea as she waited for Jack’s answer. She knew that he felt responsible for the Albanian boy’s trauma after his mother’s death. Perhaps he felt no pity for Angelica; perhaps he just wanted retribution.

  ‘It must be a living hell, Mrs. M,’ Jack said, then realized he had no idea what it would be like to have schizophrenia. Perhaps it had been far worse for Mark Logan, than her.

  ‘I wonder if anyone goes to see her now that the media frenzy has died down. Apparently her husband doesn’t anymore. I wish I could, but I can’t face visiting a psychiatric hospital.’

  ‘Frightened they won’t let you out, Mrs. M?’ Jack said, smiling at her.

  She roared with laughter. Jack stopped his car outside St. Bernard’s Hospital in Ealing, wondering why he’d come. Paolo Cellini’s death was old news. He was working on another case of organized crime. But Mrs. M had given him the nudge he needed. He liked every part of a puzzle completed and she was right. It was strange that Angelica Logan hadn’t confessed to Cellini’s murder.

  He got out of the car and asked the way to The Orchard; a medium secure mental-health unit. He was surprised by The clean, contemporary lines of the building; he’d expected something Gothic and oppressive. He smiled as he walked in; his thinking was pure nineteenth-century lunatic asylums. The corridors were light and whitewashed; the walls full of contemporary posters. The whole atmosphere was designed to be uplifting. As he looked around for a nurse, one magically appeared at the end of the corridor. When he explained that he’d come to see Angelica Logan, she smiled at him and showed him her room.

  ‘She doesn’t get many visitors. Don’t expect too much of her,’ the nurse said enigmatically, before she opened a door and popped her head into Angelica’s room to announce his arrival. She smiled at him briefly again before striding off.

  Jack crept in, not knowing what to expect. She was sitting in a chair, staring at the window and looking as insubstantial as a shadow.

  ‘Hello, Mrs. Logan. I came to your house once with Margaret Montgomery.’ His voice sounded too loud; there was a long, embarrassing silence. He stood nervously in the center of the room, not knowing what to do.

  She suddenly turned to look at him. ‘Do I know you?’ She frowned as if trying to search her memory banks. ‘Shall I ring for tea?’ She looked around as if the room was bugged and whispered. ‘Actually, I don’t think the service here is very good. I’ve rung a number of times in the past and no one comes, but don’t say anything. Did I tell you I can’t be redeemed?’

  Jack was thrown by the sudden shift in conversation. ‘No, you haven’t mentioned that,’ he said, sitting down opposite her.

  ‘You can’t be redeemed if you deprive a mother of her child. No Madonna can forgive you for that, can she?’

  ‘What child are you talking about?’ Jack whispered. Perhaps she would tell him something important.

  ‘I had hundreds of lovers. Perhaps you didn’t know that.’

  Jack held his breath. Her mind was fire-working in all directions. So was this was what schizophrenia was like? He wondered how much medication she was on; her eyes held no light.

  ‘Paolo was one of many, but I’ve done worse things than that.’ She rang a small bell at her side and listened to it tinkling. ‘I like that sound, don’t you?’

  ‘What things?’ Jack desperately wanted her to concentrate.

  Angelica got up from her hard chair and stared out at the uninspiring view of a courtyard full of weeds. ‘I wish they’d put me in the room with a better view. I like trees. My mother was put away too. I didn’t see her much.’ She turned to look at him. ‘Do you know my husband?’ she asked as if she was making social conversation at a dinner party.

  ‘Only by reputation,’ Jack said, disturbed by her desperate lurches in conversation.

  ‘Everyone in London knows Mark. He’s a very good editor. Did you know?’

  ‘Yes, so I’ve heard.’

  ‘Now what can I do for you?’

  Her tone was almost regal, Jack thought; amazed by how complex the mind was.

  ‘I wondered if you could tell me about the night that Paolo Cellini died,’ Jack spoke casually as if his question wasn’t important.

  ‘That’s a long time ago, Mr…What is your name?’

  ‘Jack Bradley.’

  ‘Paulo. He was very beautiful. A woman came that night. I don’t know why. I thought she looked…I wish they’d bring the tea. It is tea-time.’

  ‘What woman?’ Jack tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. She couldn’t help the way her mind worked.

  ‘How could I be redeemed if I prayed to a plaster copy?’

  She looked at him as if he knew the answer. It suddenly came.

  ‘Paolo Cellini had the real Madonna and you needed it.’

  ‘Of course I did.’

  ‘Who was the woman you mentioned? It wasn’t the Madonna, was it?’

  She frowned at him, trying to remember. ‘She was jealous. She shouted at me.’

  Jack’s heart started to thump hard. ‘Was her name Bianca Vella?’

  ‘She said I went to school with her as if I could remember.’ She smiled at him. ‘I went to school with hundreds of girls.’

  So Bianca and Angelica were both with Paolo Cellini the night he died! ‘What happened, Mrs. Logan?’

  She turned to look at him as if she’d only just seen him. ‘When? Oh, I’ll have to ring again. It’s so irritating.’ She rang the bell and listened. ‘Are they coming?’

  ‘What happened the night Paolo Cellini died?’ Jack whispered. If only she could concentrate long enough to give him an answer.

  ‘At last,’ she said as the door opened and a nurse came in with an arsenal of tablets on a tray. Angelica Logan suddenly turned to Jack and said clearly. ‘I destroyed him, you know.’

  CHAPTER 47

  15th June 2013

  It had taken Bianca a long time to recover after the drugs raid; she’d had recurring nightmares for months, but Rico was right; she was a fighter and fought she had. She had decided two months ago that Angelica Logan wasn’t going to destroy her life as she’d destroyed other people’s.

&nb
sp; She sat in her new dressing room and put the finishing touches to her make-up; she was an expert on knowing exactly how each audience wanted her to look like; tonight she was going for exotic sophistication. Everything had been altered since Paolo’s death; she didn’t want any reminder of him in her club. A large colorful Maltese rug covered the parquet floor; a burgundy velvet-covered settee was angled in the corner, giving the room the comfortable feel that had been lacking from it before. Her large oak dressing table was surrounded by soft lights; here she could store hundreds of bottles of lotions and make-up so all the clutter was gone. She sat back and smiled; she too was uncluttered. The trauma of the past was buried; at last, she could appreciate the present.

  A knock on the door.

  ‘Yes?’ she called out.

  ‘There’s a gentleman at the bar, Miss Vella. He’d like you to have a drink with him,’ Sam, the new manager called through the door; he’d learned never to walk into her room.

  She frowned. ‘How many times do I have to tell you, Sam? I never drink with the customers!’ She was only hiring him until Rico came out of prison; Rico’s organization was meticulous.

  ‘He says he knows you. Jack Bradley.’

  Bianca smiled in the mirror. She’d been waiting for him to come for a long time. ‘Tell him I’ll be out in five minutes.’

  She stood up and placed a gold necklace around her neck, then put her burgundy evening gown on; she’d discovered the elegance of burgundy after Paolo’s death. She studied herself in the mirror and smiled; she looked like the sophisticated owner of an up-market nightclub.

  Jack sat in the bar looking around in amazement. The club had been transformed; from a seedy jazz club to a sophisticated nightclub. Gone was the glitzy lighting and cheap-looking stage; now the stage wouldn’t have looked out of place at a top London theater and the decor was state-of-the-art. The only thing that was the same was the band and the barman. Like the decor, the band had improved. When Bianca had rung him to say how sorry she was about his wife’s death, she’d told him she was opening a new club called Number One and when he was feeling better, she’d like him to come. He’d thought the name too ambitious at the time, but he didn’t now. He’d read online reviews which raved about the excellence of the food, the superlative quality of its wine list and the sexual allure of its resident singer’s voice. Obviously, everyone else had read the reviews as the place was packed. Jack got up and glanced at the menu which was placed in front of the dining-room. He sat down quickly; if he ate here he could say goodbye to a month’s salary. Where on earth did Bianca get the money from to buy the place? The newspapers said that Cellini had left all his money to Catholic Convents in Italy; nothing for his girlfriend or father. He looked at the clientele and suddenly felt under-dressed in his lounge suit; all the other men were wearing dinner suits.

  He glanced up and saw someone who resembled Bianca sashaying towards him, but this woman was far too sophisticated. He almost choked on his cocktail when he realized it actually was her. ‘Good God. You look like a different woman.’

  She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Thanks, Jack. I am. The woman standing before you would never have gone with a bastard like Cellini.’ She looked over to Pierre and mouthed champagne. He smiled at her and went to get it.

  Jack noticed that she now called her dead lover by his surname. Interesting, he thought.

  ‘You look good, Jack. Being a DCI suits you better than being a chauffeur. How are you both coping?’

  ‘Better now. I’m trying to remember all the good times, not the bad. I think it will take Tom a little longer, but he’s getting there.’ Jack smiled at her. ‘And how are you? Stupid question, you look stunning.’ She gave him a coquettish smile. She was a very alluring woman, Jack thought.

  ‘I was in a bad place for a while. Lots of bad dreams, but…’ she shook her head. ‘I’m here now. What do you think of Number One?’

  ‘Amazing, it must have cost a fortune.’ He looked at her questioningly.

  ‘It did.’ She glanced up at Pierre as he hovered near her.

  ‘I’ve put it in ice by your table, Bianca.’ He walked over to her table and waited for them.

  ‘Come and join me, Jack. I’m not singing for a while and I always sing better after vintage champagne.’

  She got up and people waved or smiled at her she oscillated towards a table near the stage. Jack watched the motion of her hips and felt himself becoming aroused for the first time since Lucy had died.

  He heard a man at the nearby table say, ‘You think that’s hot. You wait until you hear her sing.’ The men at the next table looked enviously at Jack as he sat down beside her.

  ‘You’ve got a fan-club, Bianca.’

  Pierre showed her the bottle of champagne and she nodded. He opened it in his usual expert manner and poured them two glasses.

  ‘I’ve always had fans, but in the past they were sad losers; now they’re all wealthy winners,’ she said, touching his glass with hers as Pierre walked off. ‘Cheers, Jack.’

  ‘Cheers.’ Jack sipped the most superb champagne he’d ever tasted. ‘This is amazing.’

  ‘I know. Cellini gave me expensive tastes. Now I can indulge them.’

  ‘How?’ Jack asked bluntly.

  ‘He gave me a flawless emerald necklace. The only thing of any value he ever gave me. I had it valued. It was worth a great deal of money so I sold it and now I’m enjoying life in the fast lane, Jack. It’s good. You should try it.’

  ‘My salary forces me to live in a slow lane, Bianca.’

  She smiled at him suggestively. ‘That could be changed.’

  Jack smiled back. ‘I’m too old to be a gigolo and I like my job.’

  ‘That’s a pity. I’ve not met a man who’s so good with a gun before.’ She laughed as she poured some more champagne.

  ‘I wanted to see you, but there’s another reason I’m here tonight. I went to see Angelica Logan in the psychiatric unit recently.’

  Bianca went very still and put down her glass. ‘Why?’

  ‘I hate unsolved puzzles. I couldn’t understand why she’d never mentioned switching Cellini’s heart tablets.’

  Bianca shot him a look. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘That you were at his apartment the night he died. What happened?’

  Bianca drank more champagne, then stared at him for some time before she spoke. ‘Paolo Cellini was a bastard who had a heart condition, Jack. When I found Angelica with him, I shouted, threw a few things and then left. It made me sick seeing them together.’

  The band started to play and Bianca turned her attention on them. ‘You must always listen to good music, Jack.’ She put a finger across her mouth in a gesture of silence.

  Jack stared at her as she listened to the band, wondering what really had happened that night.

  Bianca was back in Paolo’s apartment again on that horrific night; the night that was knitted into her dreams.

  She’d found him with the woman who’d almost destroyed her life. They were standing close together in his bedroom and the emerald necklace was fastened around her neck; Bianca’s face flooded with blood.

  ‘You bitch!’ she screamed at Angelica. ‘You fucked up my school-life and now you’re fucking my man!’ And suddenly she was hitting her with years of suppressed anger. Suddenly she felt a searing pain in her arms as they were wrenched behind her.

  ‘What the fuck’s wrong with you?’ Paolo screamed at her.

  ‘Wrong with me?’ Bianca screamed back at him. ‘Nothing’s wrong with me! What’s wrong with you? We’ve been going out for two years and you’re fucking her!’

  Paolo released her arms and smiled. ‘No, I’m not. I’m fucking a woman called Stella.’

  Bianca looked at him confused; who was Stella?

  ‘I’m going,’ Angelica drawled as if she was bored.

  Bianca gasped as she saw the vulnerability on Paolo’s face; she had never seen him look like that ever before. He held Angeli
ca’s shoulders in an effort to stop her leaving.

  ‘No, don’t, please. I’ve got something to show you.’

  Bianca felt a sharp pain in her chest. He was pleading with Angelica to stay, not her. And Angelica looked at Paulo with sudden disdain as if she hated his need of her.

  ‘You really ought to choose women more carefully, Paolo.’ Angelica glanced briefly at Bianca if she’d found her under a stone. ‘I’ll leave you lovebirds together.’

  She sauntered off into the lounge and Paolo hurried after her as if Bianca didn’t exist. A knife lodged in her chest as she slumped on the bed. They were speaking about a statue as if she wasn’t there! As if a religious icon was important when she had been betrayed by a man for whom she would have sacrificed her life! She sat still as Paolo told Angelica that her Madonna was a fake. Bianca heard her groan loudly. She suddenly shot up; she wasn’t going to let that bitch win a second time.

  She stormed into the lounge and found Angelica staring into a crate with look of horror on her face. ‘You don’t even remember me, do you?’ She poked her to get her attention.

  Angelica turned to her as if she’d never seen her before in her life. How can she have forgotten what she’s done to me? Bianca thought. It was unbelievable.

  ‘We went to school together in Italy. You got me expelled. You must remember me!’ Bianca fought to stop herself crying.

  Paolo looked at them in surprise. ‘You know each other?’

  ‘No,’ Angelica said.

  ‘Yes,’ shouted Bianca at the same time. ‘I caught her fucking the gardener’s son and everyone thought she was so pure.’

  For the first time, Paolo looked at Angelica in confusion. ‘Angelica?’

  ‘Neither of you know anything about each other. Does she know you were adopted, Paolo?’ Bianca enjoyed the look of horrified surprise on Paolo’s face. ‘He was abandoned as a child, Angelica, his father told me. Perhaps that’s why you’re such a bastard, Paolo. You’ve just never felt loved since your mother’s death, have you?’