Death of a Showgirl (10 page)

‘Something like that. They must have left their TVs on his station all day and all night. Back then he was only a small player, one of hundreds of aspiring media players. He struggled to get to one per cent most of the time. And suddenly he was recording two, three, four per cent. Across the nation. At night it got close to double figures. Crazy results.’

‘So you were accurately recording what people were watching. It’s just that the people you were gathering data from were Di Angelo plants?’

‘Some of them. I was very uncomfortable. I arranged a meeting with him and he admitted it all. He shrugged his shoulders and said sorry, said he had had to do it to build his business. I was astonished at how up front he was about his dishonesty. That was what really struck me. Never denied it. I complained that he had damaged my reputation, that I was compromised, but he was convinced no one would ever know. He said we were now allies,’ he paused to catch his breath, ‘which meant I was in his large pocket.’

Gregori was shaking his head on the pillow, moving his hairy ears from one side to the other. ‘He was all charm, said he was desperate to make it up to me. He offered me money. A lot of money. I said that would only compromise me further.’

‘So?’

‘I walked out. I felt my career was over. Someone would find out about it. I was supposed to be some sort of referee but I had been bought by one of the players. I wanted to go public, to say what had happened.’ He sighed heavily.

‘But you didn’t.’

He looked at me, sensing my disapproval.

‘And then one evening I was sitting here on my own. I had just got back from dinner somewhere. The doorbell went and there was a young woman standing there.’ He closed his eyes and frowned slightly. ‘She was very young and beautiful. She asked if she could come in, asked if there was anything she could do. Said it in such a way that didn’t leave much doubt about what was on offer.’

‘And you knew she was sent by Di Angelo?’

‘I didn’t ask and frankly I didn’t care at that point. I took her in, gave her a drink.’ He rolled his head to look at me again. ‘I thought it would never happen again.’

‘But?’

‘It just went on. I never even spoke to Di Angelo, but girls would come round here, or I would get invited to parties that were unlike anything I had ever seen before. Wild, extraordinary parties. There were Cubans, Brazilians, Russians, the lot. I became,’ he closed his eyes, ‘someone different. I was cruel with them. I felt like I owned them.’

‘Whereas it was Di Angelo that owned you?’

He gave a tired nod. ‘As the company got bigger, we kept increasing the sample. And each time someone from his station would subtly suggest the precise people that should be included. I just went along with it.’

‘And his viewing figures kept rising?’

‘Of course. Double figures by then were normal. In terms of percentages, he was in the teens and twenties. This was a man who had been delivering freesheets door to door only ten years earlier. And now he was charging advertisers billions and billions of lire per minute of airtime. He had found the perfect formula to print money. And more than that, he was always surrounded by hundreds of young women who were desperate to get on screen and who were prepared to do anything to get there.’

‘And Chiara Biondi was one of those girls who was sent your way?’

He nodded. ‘Chiara. That’s right.’

We sat like that for a minute. The whole thing was clear now. Chiara Biondi was one of the young girls who had kept Gregori sweet. He was sent girls in return for bumping up Di Angelo’s viewing figures. No one had ever known about it. And now Di Angelo had reinvented himself as a politician, the sort of red-blooded man that the parliament of a red-blooded country needed. He had presented himself as an honest Joe, the sort of straight-talking businessman who would clean up the corrupt habits of politics. But this was the kind of scandal that could blast a big hole in his new career. Mori, the paparazzo, knew about the story from Anna Sartori, and when he saw Simona’s photo in the magazine he knew he had living evidence of the deal between Di Angelo and Gregori’s Teleshare. She was the walking proof that Di Angelo had made millions from being a high-end pimp.

‘How do I know she’s mine?’ Gregori asked.

‘They can test for these things now.’

‘There might not be time for that.’ He looked around his dishevelled bed as if to say that he was on the home straight.

‘You could take her mother’s word for it.’

‘I don’t know what that’s worth.’

‘I do. And, with respect, she really didn’t want her daughter to be yours.’

‘That so?’ He closed his eyes briefly. ‘I haven’t always been a good man. I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life. I’ve only realised how many since I’ve been immobilised here in bed. Death focuses the mind that way. That period was an aberration, a time when I was prepared to play his game to get the rewards. I didn’t know how dirty the game was, or how fleeting those rewards.’

‘Something good might have come out of it,’ I said, wanting to nudge him back towards Simona.

‘Will you bring her here?’ he said.

‘Simona?’ I looked at him, surprised by his apparent sentimentality.

He nodded. ‘My one regret in life is not having any children. And now I’m confined to this bed you come and tell me I have a daughter. I might be in a position to make amends for what I’ve done.’

‘Not if she doesn’t make it.’

‘You really think she’s in danger?’

‘Sure. I need your help.’

‘There’s nothing I can do. Look at me.’

‘I need you to make a phone call. Call Di Angelo, tell him to meet me.’

He was frowning now, weighing up the chances, I guessed, of even getting through to the senator. His chest rose slowly, sounding like a draining plughole. He was breathing heavily, as if our conversation had exhausted him. I looked around the room as I listened to his wheezy breaths. There were small pots of pills lined up on his bedside table. On the opposite wall the curtains were being gently sucked out of the window by the wind.

‘Pass me that phone.’ He pointed at a cordless standing upright in its cradle. He gave orders like he was used to being obeyed. ‘And that book.’

I handed them both over and he groaned as he fingered through the leather book, looking for a number. He dialled like an old man, using his index finger instead of his thumb as he held the handset at arm’s length to see the numbers. He listened, then hung up again.

‘“Non-existent number” it said. I’ll try another.’

He dialled again and this time I heard the phone ringing the other end. A woman’s voice answered.

‘I need to speak to Di Angelo,’ he said abruptly. ‘It’s Giorgio Gregori.’

Something was said and he was put on hold. Eventually, he was asked to leave a message.

‘Tell him,’ he shut his eyes as if it would add emphasis to his words, ‘tell him Giorgio Gregori called. It’s very important that he allows . . .’ he put his hand over the mouthpiece, ‘what’s your name?’

‘Castagnetti.’

‘. . . that he allows a private investigator called Castagnetti to see him. It’s urgent. It’s my dying wish,’ he said melodramatically.

He hung up and looked at me. ‘It used to be that he would call me every day. Now he’s gone so high up in the world, he wouldn’t even take calls from his mother.’

‘What was he like back then?’

‘Di Angelo?’ He smiled. ‘He was like a boy, a young boy who wanted to be loved by everyone. He was a back-slapping sort, always trying to make friends, telling jokes, oiling the wheels. He was absurdly generous, giving presents to everyone and to their wives and their mistresses. If someone was in hospital, he would send a huge bouquet of flowers. He was constantly trying to make a gesture, a gift, a statement, that marked him out as some sort of benevolent patron.’

Gregori coughed again, turning away from me as he produced more phlegm.

‘He was from Naples and had charm and cunning in equal measure. When he wanted something from you, he would beg and plead and weep. He really was like a little boy who was trying to get sweets from his parents. He could charm the birds from the trees.’

‘And if he didn’t get his own way?’

Gregori shook his head. ‘He always did.’

‘Surely not always?’

‘Anything that stood in his way was simply bought. Around the time I knew him, Di Angelo was so rich he could buy anything and anyone. Of course, people didn’t think they were being bought. They were offered a place on the board of this or that. Usually with a salary of millions of lire for three afternoons a year. They were offered a job, or their own show.’

‘Or a girl?’

He looked at me sharply. ‘Sure. That’s just the way it worked. There didn’t seem to be any harm in it. It was business.’

‘And pleasure.’

‘The two were never separated in Di Angelo’s world. He made money out of his passion, and got plenty of passion for his money.’

‘So why did he go into politics? He wasn’t passionate about that.’

‘You’d have to ask him. My guess is that it was necessary to defend his business interests. He saw the whole political order of the First Republic collapsing and imploding, and was spooked. There were fanatics and puritans on the loose, and a few of them had been muttering about breaking up his media monopoly. By then he had a publishing house, a few newspapers, a stable of magazines and the most-watched channel on the peninsula. If he hadn’t gone into politics it might have all been taken away, broken up and sold off.’

He was talking more and more. He seemed eager to explain to me the way things worked, like I was a naïve youth with no idea of the real world.

‘Before him, politics had been grey, full of dour, pompous politicians and the genteel corruption of eloquent gentlemen. Di Angelo came along and wanted a parliament more like a TV studio: colourful, noisy, full of dreams and aspiration and beautiful young women. If he’d had his own way, he would have hung a glitter ball from the ceiling. When he came along, the shrewd remnants of the First Republic joined his revolution because they knew it was a reactionary movement, an attempt to change everything and so keep it just the same. Those old politicians were scathing about Di Angelo’s lack of class, his want of finesse, but they knew he was the director of the tragic opera now and they still wanted a role, however small. Catholic voters saw Di Angelo’s veneer of piety, and solidly far-right opinions, as far preferable to the real piety, and mildly left-wing tendencies, of the opposition. He couldn’t lose. He never does.’

‘And how will he react if a hustler from the past starts digging up the dirt from decades ago?’

Gregori stared at the wall opposite and narrowed his eyes. ‘My guess is that he’ll laugh it off. He might not even understand what he’s done wrong, what he’s being accused of. And if he does, he’ll simply offer the man a large sum of money and be done with it.’

‘Nothing more drastic?’

He laughed. ‘More drastic?’

‘You heard about a girl called Anna Sartori?’

Gregori frowned, as if the name rang a distant bell.

‘She went missing years ago. She had been at the fringe of the Di Angelo empire. She’s never been seen since. I’m worried the same might happen to my clients’ daughter.’

‘Don’t be silly. Di Angelo’s a fool, not a gangster. He’s a businessman. He entices and charms. He’s in public life anyway.’ He shook his head, like my suggestion was preposterous. ‘Bring her here when you find her.’

‘Simona? When I find her I’m taking her back to her parents.’

He tried to turn over to face me, but only managed to raise his far shoulder slightly. ‘I’m her father.’

‘Some father.’

He stared at me with anger in his rheumy eyes. I got up to leave and his thin fingers reached around my sleeve. ‘Bring her here. Please.’

‘I’ll bring her if she wants to come.’

He nodded and slowly let go of my sleeve. I got up and opened the door. His sister was standing in the corridor, pretending to sweep. We looked at each other as the old man shouted after me, repeating that he demanded to see his own daughter. She went in to calm him down and I let myself out.

Di Angelo lived in a large palazzo that made up the entirety of one side of a block. There was an archway off the main road with two armed guards outside. They stood in little sentry boxes wearing sunglasses and earpieces. They were looking left and right, more to check for girls, I thought, than for trouble. I saw them shout at each other as an attractive girl walked towards them. They said something to her as she passed but she ignored them. I was about to ask the one on the right how to get in when he thumbed at a glass box inside the arch. I moved between the guards and knocked on the window of the booth. Inside, a man was sitting in front of a dozen monitors, all showing images of gateways and doors. He pulled up the window.

‘Good afternoon,’ he said formally.

‘I’m here to see Di Angelo.’

He looked at me, moving his head back slightly as if he didn’t think I had a chance. ‘You got an appointment?’

‘No, but he’s expecting me. My name’s Castagnetti; I’m a private investigator.’

‘That so? Hang on.’ He pulled the window down again and picked up a phone. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he looked back towards me like he had been asked to give a description. He nodded, listening to someone the other end, then nodded again. He hung up and pushed up the window.

‘The senator’s not in residence,’ he said grandly, like he was talking about a monarch.

‘Do you know when he’ll be back?’

He shook his head.

‘Can’t I wait for him inside?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Tell them it’s an emergency. A young girl has been abducted.’

He smiled condescendingly, like I was another of the loons he saw all the time. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, pulling down the window and turning back to his monitors.

In front of me the two huge doors that filled the archway were studded with blunt metal points. Inside those two doors was a wicket gate for pedestrians.

‘I’ll wait,’ I said, knocking on the glass of the booth. He didn’t turn round or acknowledge me.

I went back past the guards and onto the other side of the street. It was a wide boulevard with palm trees every ten metres or so. Their flopping leaves looked like the tops of pineapples. Traffic came in bursts as lights went green then red: a surge of hot, noisy metal, then nothing for thirty seconds, then another surge. I watched the entrance to Di Angelo’s building, seeing no one go in and no one come out. The guards continued to shout at the occasional woman walking past.

Eventually, after almost two hours, an Audi with blackened windows approached the archway, preceded by two motorcycle outriders. The large gate opened and the motorcycles let the car go in first. As the gates opened I could see inside to a large courtyard: there was a fountain in the centre, water flowing off the circular stand below to create a thin curtain of water that glinted in the sun. There were other expensive cars in the courtyard and, just as the gates began to close, I saw the driver leap out of the car and open the back passenger-side door. A stocky man in a double-breasted suit got out.

I crossed the road and went back to the booth. I knocked hard on the glass.

‘Will he see me now?’

The glass went up again. ‘You still here?’

‘I told you, it’s an emergency. I was told Di Angelo would see me.’

‘By whom exactly.’

‘Giorgio Gregori.’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘Your boss has.’

‘That so?’ He looked at me scornfully again, and slowly picked up the phone. He made it very clear how reluctant he was to bother the people inside on my behalf. The glass came down again. He hung up, stood up, and came out under the archway himself with a lollipop-shaped piece of plastic.

‘You know the routine. Arms up, legs apart.’

I stood in star position as he ran the thing all over my limbs. Coins and keys set the thing beeping and he handed over a tray.

‘In there.’

He did the routine again and this time it was quiet. He handed me back the tray and I took my stuff. He pulled out his own keys and opened the pedestrian door.

‘Go up the staircase directly in front of you.’

I walked towards the staircase of wide stone steps. As I reached the bottom step I could hear the click of heels coming down from the flight above. A woman in a knee-length blue skirt and tight white shirt held out her hand towards me.

‘You’re Mr Castagnetti? Pleasure. I’m Rosanna Bianchi, one of Mr Di Angelo’s secretaries.’

‘How many’s he got?’

She smiled. ‘A few.’

We walked up the staircase side by side and she led me into a large waiting room. There were fraying armchairs around the walls and paintings between the huge windows. The room echoed to the sound of quickstep secretaries rushing to and fro as they made arrangements on the phone. The woman showed me to one of the armchairs and told me Di Angelo would see me when he was free. I waited over an hour.

‘He’ll see you now,’ she said eventually, standing by the door.

I walked over and she led me down the corridor into an end room that was dark. The shutters were pulled down and the only natural light was from the thin, horizontal lines between the slats. There was a lamp in a corner with a large green shade. Underneath it, in an armchair, was a man who now stood up.

‘Thank you, Rosanna,’ he said. He was tall and thin, with an odd sort of face that matched his body. They both looked like they had been stretched, pulled from top and bottom so that they had elongated. He had a long nose and long chin and eyes that seemed too close together.

‘I’m Collodi,’ he said, holding out his pencil-like fingers. ‘I’m Mr Di Angelo’s personal lawyer.’

‘Castagnetti,’ I said.

‘Please,’ he said, motioning towards another armchair.

I sat down and looked around the room. It was the sort of study that was used more for discreet meetings than for scholarship. Books were there not for research or reading but for sound proofing.

‘Mr Di Angelo will be with us shortly.’ He looked at his watch. ‘He’s always behind schedule,’ he said apologetically.

We made idle conversation as we waited for Di Angelo. It was another ten minutes before he came in: a short man with a round, boyish face. His suit disguised a well-fed stomach, and his fingers were like sausages. He bounded towards me as if he wanted to embrace.

‘Castagnetti, right? You’re a private investigator, is that what I hear? Very exciting.’

We shook hands and he took my hand in two of his, looking up at me. He had curly, greying hair and teeth that must have been professionally whitened.

‘Very exciting job, yours.’ He was unstoppable. ‘Must take you all over the country, chasing leads and criminals. All that gadgetry and surveillance and software. I’ve hired one or two in my time and they certainly run up the clock, eh? What do you charge?’

‘Three hundred a day.’

‘You’re cheap. Are you any good?’

I nodded. ‘I get the job done. What’s your day rate?’

He smiled bashfully, raising his palms to gesture he didn’t know. ‘Depends.’

‘And are you any good?’ I asked.

He smiled, a gleeful smile that looked like he was ready to attack. ‘Yeah, I can see you’re good at your job. Antonio, get him a drink. What will you have Castagnetti?’

‘Mint julep.’

‘Mint julep, eh?’ He gave me a thump on the arm. ‘Hear that, Antonio? The guy drinks exotic, American stuff. You know how to mix that up?’

The lawyer nodded and went over to a drinks cabinet by the window. Di Angelo had his head to one side and was still smiling at me.

‘Sit down, sit down.’

I went back to the same chair.

‘What’s this about, Castagnetti?’ He kept saying my name like he was trying to be my best friend.

‘I’ve been hired by a couple to find their daughter. She went missing a day or two ago.’

He was still smiling, but listening intently.

‘It seems she’s with a man called Fabrizio Mori. A small-time hustler who’s done time for extortion in the past. He’s got a grey ponytail. Sometimes uses his brother’s passport.’

‘And what’s any of this got to do with me?’

‘I think he’s already made contact with your people, which is why Tony Vespa was rifling through his caravan the other day. I think your people are trying to find him before he finds you.’

His lips had closed around his big teeth now. He was still grinning but was watching me like he didn’t want to be my friend any more.

‘Do you know anything about this, Antonio?’ he asked.

The lawyer turned round, holding a tumbler. He shook his head.

‘Why would a hustler abduct a girl and contact me?’ Di Angelo was watching me with shrewd eyes. All his bonhomie was gone now.

‘The girl, Simona Biondi, is the daughter of a liaison set up to boost your viewing figures. Her mother, Chiara, was one of Vespa’s call girls, one of those young bodies used to pleasure advertisers and the like. Only Chiara was sent to Giorgio Gregori, the then head of Teleshare and the man responsible for calculating viewing figures across the peninsula. He got what he wanted, and in return you got to choose who should be in his sample of representative viewers. The more viewers, the more money you could charge advertisers.’

The lawyer came over and placed a drink in my hand as though he wasn’t listening. It smelt nicely of mint and I took a deep sip as I watched Di Angelo. He was standing there, in the middle of the room, frowning at the rug.

‘The girl,’ I said, ‘is living evidence of the collusion between your business empire and Teleshare. Evidence that for years the viewing figures have been inflated so that you could overcharge advertisers. My guess is that Mori is hoping you’ll pay his rent for a few years in return for his silence.’

Di Angelo looked like a man who was wondering why he was always the victim. He was chuckling silently to himself as if amused by the folly of other people, at their ability to misunderstand him. I decided to play to his sense of victimisation.

‘This man Mori is blackmailing you. If you haven’t heard of it, it’s because your people are keeping it from you, trying to protect you from bad news. This man is trying to wound you and your business.’

He looked at me suddenly, like all he cared about was the fact that we might be able to save our nascent friendship. ‘You’ve got quite an imagination, Castagnetti.’

‘And you’ve got quite a reputation.’

‘For what?’

‘For fantasy. For creativity. All those things that make our country great.’ The man was so vain he didn’t seem to realise I was buttering him both sides. ‘You’re not one of the dullards who trudge along in life. You seize any opportunity, shake it, throw it around until it submits to your will and opens up vast avenues of new opportunity. Nothing can stand in your way. You make up the rules as you go along.’

‘My client,’ the lawyer said from his chair, ‘always obeys the law.’

‘Of course. But when one’s in politics,’ I raised my glass in the senator’s direction, ‘one has to obey more than the law. In politics you have to obey the whims of public morality too. And the puritans and hypocrites in the press and the judiciary,’ I tried to stay on his side, ‘will use anything to slay a man’s reputation. That’s why Mori’s seen his moment. He knows you’re vulnerable now.’

‘I always said you should never have gone into politics,’ the lawyer said. ‘It doubles the number of enemies.’

‘Enemies?’ Di Angelo looked astonished. ‘I don’t have any enemies. Why would anyone be my enemy?’

‘Because you’re in politics,’ the lawyer said quickly. ‘Because you’re powerful.’

‘But that means I can help people. That’s why they love me.’

‘Of course.’ The lawyer was being sarcastic now. ‘Tell us why you really went into politics.’

Di Angelo smiled. ‘They have the most beautiful mistresses.’

‘That’s why you went into politics?’ I asked.

‘Sure. Listen, Castagnetti, when you’ve got a TV channel there are always hundreds of people asking you to put their daughter or mistress on screen. It seems like every girl in the peninsula wants to slip into a sequinned bikini and prance around under the lights. And to satisfy these girls, their fathers or lovers all come to me and try and persuade me that their little darling would be perfect for this or that show. You ignore most of them, but there are some you can’t ignore. Because they’ve got the most beautiful mistresses, and they’ve got the power to pull the plug on your operation.’

‘The politicians?’

‘Right. I realised that was where the real power was. I realised that if I had the studios and a slice of the Senate, no one would tell me who to hire, or what to broadcast. And,’ he smiled, ‘I thought I might even get myself a beautiful mistress.’

‘Did you?’

‘More than I could ever dream of. Ambitious women are drawn to powerful men like kids to ice cream. They want a taste of what we’ve got.’

‘A taste, eh?’

‘And in a way, there’s not that much difference between a parliament and a TV studio. In both you’re trying to give the public images and ideas. You’re trying to show them how incredible the world could be. And, in both, we’re bound to give people what they want. We research meticulously what our audience desires and we try to fulfil those desires. We’re realising their dreams.’

‘Is that the real audience or the fake one?’

He smiled slightly. ‘We’re realising their dreams,’ he repeated.

‘You’re realising your dreams. You’re getting rich while they sit there passively on the sofa, their eyeballs sprayed with ads.’

‘That’s a very cynical view of our creative industry.’

‘Creative.’ I repeated the word. ‘Creative cuts many ways.’

He looked at me and flashed a smile. ‘What is it you want exactly, Castagnetti?’

‘I’m not interested in your creativity, past or present. No interest in what went on in your empire in years gone by. All I want, Senator,’ I tried to put as much respect and solemnity in my voice as possible, ‘is to take a young girl home to her parents.’

‘Of course. Of course. I’m a parent myself, I can understand their anxiety. How can we help you?’

‘I need to know the next time Mori gets in touch. I need to pick up his trail.’