Death of a Showgirl (9 page)

‘Sounds like a nice guy.’

‘He was a piece of shit. A true piece of shit. Each time there were little variations, but it was usually the same stuff. He would start by telling me how he only needed to make one call and Di Angelo would put me up there on the stage with the other stars. He would be almost romantic, like he cared about my future. Then we would get to some hotel or flat and he would flip. It was like he was possessed, like he had to blame me for something. He was wild, nasty. And afterwards he wouldn’t even want to talk. He would just tell me to get out, like that was it. Like he was ashamed about what had happened. And I would get paid by Vespa and try to forget about it until the next time. You do something once,’ she said in a dreamy voice, ‘and get paid for it and you think you’ll never do it again. But then you do, because you need the money or the advancement. And then it becomes a habit and you lie to yourself about what you do or what you’ve become.’ She looked at me with tired eyes and nodded. ‘You must think I’m terrible.’

I shook my head. I had seen much worse than an ambitious girl using her charms to get ahead. I looked at her and she was shaking her head now, like she either didn’t believe me or couldn’t believe what her former self had done.

‘That’s why I say I lost myself.’

‘And you lost Simona too?’

She looked at me sharply. ‘What do you mean?’

I didn’t say anything else, but watched her face. I had a hunch about something now and probably only Chiara could tell me if I was right or not. I guessed that she had dropped out of the game because she had fallen pregnant. And that the child she was carrying was Giorgio Gregori’s. Her parents had adopted the child, pretending to everyone that the two girls in their household were sisters. It meant that Chiara’s reputation stayed undamaged. And if Simona was the result of the tawdry liaison between Chiara and Gregori, she would be living proof that Di Angelo used to serve up young girls to oil the wheels of his business empire.

Chiara was breathing heavily now, moving as if pained by something physically coming to the surface. She almost looked like she was going to be sick. She made a couple of false starts, clamping her mouth shut just as something was about to come out. Then she shut her eyes and took some deep breaths.

‘My parents found out I was pregnant. There’s only so long you can hide something like that. They decided everything before I even knew what was going on. They were going to bring up Simona as their own daughter. I didn’t want her anyway. I thought she would be a constant reminder of that man. Of what I had done. I was fine with it. She was supposed to be my little sister and that was OK. But then, when she was born,’ her voice suddenly went up an octave, ‘she was this helpless, tiny baby. My baby.

‘People always used to say how close we were, despite the age difference, and I used to think that they knew, that they must have known. But no one ever did. They just thought we were sisters. We’ve always been so close. I’ve tried to be like a mother to her, even though I’ve done everything to disguise it.’ She had given up keeping the tears back now. ‘Sometimes I’ve just wanted to hug her, you know, to hold her and tell her the truth, but I couldn’t. Not once I’d lied about it all those years, it was impossible. And by now she’s been my sister so long that it seems almost true.’

‘And not even Simona knows the truth?’

She shook her head.

‘And your husband?’

She was still shaking her head, moving her chin from side to side as though it were a slow, heavy pendulum.

I leant forward and touched her shoulder as it bounced with her sobs. I watched her lap being darkened with her tears.

There was an abrupt knock at the door and her husband came in. He looked at us for a second. ‘Everything OK?’

She wiped away a tear with the back of her hand and nodded. ‘Fine.’ She looked at him and smiled apologetically. ‘It’s fine.’

I took my hand off her shoulder, not wanting to appear intimate in front of her husband.

‘OK,’ he said, unconvinced, and shut the door again.

We heard his footsteps retreating down the corridor. ‘I don’t know how I’ll ever tell him all this,’ she whispered. ‘Or what I’ll tell the boys.’

‘The most important thing right now is to find Simona.’

She looked at me with longing. There was something attractive about her damp lips as she smiled wistfully. ‘I should have told you all this at the beginning.’

I shrugged as if it didn’t matter. ‘Tell me about Giorgio Gregori.’

She sighed, throwing her head back to look at the ceiling. ‘I only found out afterwards who he was.’

‘Go on.’

‘The head of Teleshare Italia.’

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s the organisation that measures viewing figures.’ She rested her head on her shoulder as she moved her eyes from the ceiling to me. ‘Get it?’

‘Di Angelo’s studio was providing . . .’ I tried to be tactful, ‘entertainment for the head of Teleshare?’

‘Right.’ Her faraway stare had returned. Her gaze was fixed on the wall behind my shoulders. ‘And Simona,’ she said quietly, almost to herself, ‘is the living evidence of that, of that entertainment.’

I felt like I finally understood Mori’s interest in the young girl. She was the proof that Di Angelo’s TV station was crooked, that it had been employing high-class call girls to service the men who controlled the revenue streams. Not just the important advertisers, but the quango that measured viewing figures. Increases of even fractions of a per cent in audience share could mean millions more in advertising revenue for a studio. With tens or hundreds of thousands of extra viewers, a station could increase its charges to advertisers. Giorgio Gregori, the head of Teleshare, was like the fairy godfather, the man who – with a wave of his wand – could give a media magnate pots of gold. So the media magnate had sent round young girls to please the fairy godfather to persuade him to nudge up the viewing figures. Mori, I guessed, knew what had gone on and was using Simona to squeeze some money out of Gregori or, more probably, Di Angelo.

‘How did Mori know about it?’ I asked her.

She shrugged.

‘You never told him?’

‘I hardly knew him. I only met him once or twice.’

‘With Anna?’

‘Right. They were friends, sort of. I knew he had hung out with Anna in the past. They were from the same tiny village somewhere in Le Marche.’

‘Where was that?’

She shrugged again. ‘I can’t remember, but they were from the same village, or certainly the same area.’

‘What was he like?’

‘A charlatan. I don’t know what she saw in him. He had nothing going for him except her.’

‘And now Simona.’

‘Yeah, that’s what he was like. He used people, nothing more. Are you sure it’s him?’

‘Seems that way.’ I pulled out the old photograph of Mori that his brother had given me. ‘This is him, right?’ I passed it over and she looked at it, shaking her head in disbelief that he was back in her life.

‘Yeah, that’s him.’ She turned the photograph over to look at the back, and then looked at the shot again. ‘Anna must have told him about me before she went missing. I told her I was pregnant. She was more or less the only one I told.’

‘And she knew who the father was?’

‘Sure. She knew.’

Chiara and I looked at each other, thinking the same thing. That Mori must have known about Simona’s existence for years. But it was only when her photograph appeared in a magazine recently that he knew where to look for her, where to find her outside her family home. And it was only now, now that Di Angelo was a senator in parliament pontificating about the state of the nation, that he might be prepared to pay big money to keep his skeletons in the cupboard.

‘Where does this Gregori live?’ I asked.

‘Gregori?’

‘Sure.’

She shut her eyes. ‘He used to be in Via Napoli. One of the apartments on the right of that courtyard opposite the fountain.’

I stood up to go. I looked at her, unsure of what to say. She just sat there, staring ahead. I put a hand on her shoulder briefly and walked out.

Her husband was watching television with his sons. I nodded in his direction and he came over to let me out.

‘She’s been really shaken by this whole Simona thing,’ he said, as if explaining his wife’s tears.

‘I think everyone’s been shaken by it.’

‘Any news?’

I shook my head. ‘Old news. There’s stuff that happened a long time ago. I think it’s bringing back bad memories.’

‘What do you mean?’ He had an uneven smile, and I wondered how much, deep down, he actually knew or suspected.

‘Secrets are like fireworks,’ I said. ‘You don’t see them until they explode.’

He looked at me quizzically as we shook hands. I got in the lift and looked at my reflection in the mirror. I hadn’t shaved for five days and there was a purple patch above my eye where Vespa had hit me in Mori’s caravan. I looked like a boozer after a bar brawl.

I went and sat in the car and watched the world. Pedestrians kept walking past with rectangular shopping bags with string handles. The shops’ logos were printed on the outside. I was tired and bemused. Bemused that the world kept on shopping whatever the warnings, as if it were vital to be well dressed for the economic apocalypse. Bemused that people could keep going despite the grief and terror and tragedy all around them. And bemused that parents who were desperate to find their only daughter seemed to be holding out on me. It didn’t make sense.

I found Via Napoli and Gregori’s place easily enough. It was one of those old palazzi that made Rome seem timeless. I walked in through the main archway and found an old staircase to the right. The centres of the stone steps were worn with time and the stone bannisters had been polished by centuries of palms.

At the top of the staircase there was an internal balcony. I walked along it, looking at the dark wooden doors with their oval brass nameplates. The whole place felt old and august.

At the end of the line I saw the name Gregori on a plaque. I stared at it for a second, not sure what to expect. I realised I didn’t know if he was married, if he had family, if he had other children.

I rang the bell. Almost a minute later the door opened and an elderly woman stood in the doorway. She was wearing an apron and wiping her hands on a blue towel.

‘Hello.’

‘I’m looking for Giorgio Gregori.’

‘And you are?’

‘Castagnetti. I’m a private detective.’

‘My brother’s very frail. He’s not really up to seeing visitors.’

‘A young girl’s life is in danger.’

She frowned, looking at me as if she suspected it was some kind of wind-up. ‘What girl?’

‘Can I come in?’

She held the door open, looking at me as I moved past her and into the hallway. It was the kind of place that was furnished entirely with antiques. There were large oil paintings with curling gold-leaf frames‚ scratched mirrors above marble mantlepieces‚ an oak table with a row of reclining, embossed invitations.

‘This was my parents’ house,’ the woman said. ‘Giorgio has lived here ever since they passed away in the 1970s. I’ve been looking after him since he fell ill.’

‘And you’re his sister?’

‘Mariangela Gregori,’ she held out a hand. ‘Who is this girl who is missing? I’m sure Giorgio can’t help you. He’s barely left his bedroom for the last year.’

I stared at her kind face, wondering how much she knew about her brother.

‘Coffee?’

We went into the kitchen and she went through the habitual motions: water, granules, heat. She asked me a couple of courteous questions as we waited for it to bubble up to the top chamber. When it hissed its arrival, she poured it out and led me through to a dining room. We sat on the corner of a huge, rectangular table surrounded by cabinets of silver bowls and decorated dishes.

‘My brother hasn’t got long,’ she said.

‘I won’t need long,’ I said.

‘I mean, he won’t be with us much longer. He was diagnosed with emphysema years ago and is slowly going downhill.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘He’s always been so active, so strong. It’s strange to see him lying there all day, barely able to feed himself.’

‘He had a very successful career,’ I said vaguely.

She nodded. ‘He did. He was always being asked to chair this or that. People knew he was reliable.’

I smiled at the irony. Reliability was what got you work in this country. You had to do what you were told, making little compromises all the way to the top until, if you got there yourself, you had made so many compromises that you had to start forcing other people to make them to cover up your tracks.

‘Didn’t he work for Teleshare a long time ago?’ I asked innocently.

‘He set it up,’ she said. ‘Before then, there was no trustworthy measure of public taste. He was the first to devise a system to measure audience figures scientifically.’

She was clearly the sort of sister who idolised her older brother. I didn’t want to burst her bubble, but I was facing a race against time to find Simona.

‘The girl I’m looking for is his daughter,’ I said abruptly.

She put down her cup and laughed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she shook her head, ‘Giorgio doesn’t have a daughter.’

‘I believe he does. I need to talk to him.’

She stared at me, still trying to work out if I was serious. I took out my photograph of Simona and passed it across the polished table. ‘This is the girl.’

‘He doesn’t have a daughter,’ she frowned, still sceptical.

‘I don’t think he knows he has one. I need to talk to him. He deserves to know.’

‘You’re sure about this?’

I nodded. She picked up the snap of Simona again and looked at it, staring at the face with a confused smile. When she turned her gaze on me she looked changed, like something had been lit inside her.

‘She’s very beautiful.’

‘So is her mother.’

‘Who is she?’

‘I would rather talk to your brother. Your niece,’ I leant on the word so that she listened, ‘could be in danger.’

She got up and went down a corridor. I heard her knock gently on a door. As it opened, I could hear the old man coughing repeatedly, groaning as he failed to dislodge the obstructions in his lungs.

A few minutes later she came back. ‘He’s weak but he’s still cantankerous.’ She smiled apologetically.

We walked down the corridor together and again she gave a deferential knock before going in.

‘This is the gentleman,’ she said, motioning towards me.

I looked at the double bed where Gregori was propped upright. He was thin and drawn. His face was grey and his lower lip was wobbling like he couldn’t control it. He was wearing pyjamas that looked like a pinstripe suit. He was an invalid but he still meant business. His eyes were stern, staring at me as though he would give no quarter.

‘All right,’ he said abruptly to his sister, nodding her out of the room. ‘What’s this about?’ He looked at me through wiry eyebrows.

There was nowhere to sit, so I stood at the corner of his bed.

‘A young girl’s gone missing,’ I said. ‘She’s only eighteen. I’ve been hired by her family to find her.’

He was still staring at me, his jaw juddering involuntarily. ‘And?’

‘I need your help.’

He started coughing, his whole, frail body folding as he tried to clear his throat. I watched him and waited for him to finish. He spat into a blue handkerchief. I took out the snap of Simona and passed it over. He looked up at me before snatching it from me in his thin, grey fingers. He stared at the page from the magazine. There was no emotion on his face. He passed it back to me with a nonplussed shrug.

‘Never seen her,’ he said. ‘I’ve been in this cursed bed for months. I can’t help you.’ He stared at the far wall as if the interview were ended. But then he started coughing again.

‘Can I get you some water?’ I asked.

He seemed irritated and shook his head. ‘Cigarettes were a weakness of mine. And we all pay for our weaknesses in the end.’

‘I heard you had another weakness. You might be about to pay for that too.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Young girls.’

He sneered. ‘You think I’m responsible for the disappearance of that girl?’

‘I think you’re responsible for her appearance.’

He frowned, like he couldn’t follow. ‘I’ve never been married. I had little histories with women. Little romances now and again.’

‘Not much romance from what I heard.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I heard that Tony Vespa used to send you girls. Why would he do that?’

‘No one ever sent me girls. They came to me.’ He tried to push himself upright with a weak arm. ‘I’ve always been fortunate with women.’ He said it like there was still a chance he would be again.

I offered him my most derisive smile. ‘They were sent. They were call girls. Why would Vespa pick up your brothel bill?’

‘I’ve never heard of this Vespa,’ he said dismissively.

‘Di Angelo?’

‘He runs a TV studio. I was in the industry. We knew each other. So?’

‘And his studio used to send girls your way.’

‘I told you, I’ve never paid for a woman in my life.’

‘Right. Someone else picked up the bill. This girl,’ I held up the snap again, ‘she’s your daughter.’

Nothing changed. He still stared at me as his chin bounced up and down. I waited for him to say something, to show some disbelief or curiosity, but he just stared at me.

‘The mother of this girl is one of the escorts Vespa used to send your way. Her name was Chiara Biondi.’

He smiled like he wanted to show he was still smart. ‘Bull.’

I passed the snap over again. ‘Your daughter,’ I said. ‘You got any other kids?’

‘I haven’t got any kids.’

‘Then she’s your only child. By the looks of you, you’ll be heading into eternity pretty soon. But she,’ I pointed at the photo, ‘she might get there before you if you don’t help me. She’s eighteen, an innocent young girl. She’s your daughter and you can save her if you answer a couple of questions.’

He was staring at the photo differently now. Staring at it longingly as if it was his last hope of happiness, as if there was something left that might complete his life before he checked out.

‘She’s been abducted,’ I said quietly, ‘by a petty crook who likes to squeeze cash out of people with secrets to hide. My guess is he’s headed either here or, more likely, to Di Angelo.’

‘Why?’

‘Because she’s the living evidence of what went on back in the nineties.’

His eyes were glazed over, like he was trying to remember.

‘Di Angelo’s in politics now,’ I reminded him. ‘He’s gone clean, or pretended to. My guess is that he would rather lose the girl than his career.’

Gregori was still looking at the photograph.

‘That’s your daughter. She’s in danger. Don’t you want to meet her before you die?’ He was still staring at the photograph with a look of incomprehension. ‘Why don’t you tell me what went on?’

He didn’t say anything. I could hear the soporific tick-tock of an old grandfather clock in the corner. His breathing was slow now, like he was preparing a final confession.

‘I know what it looks like to you,’ he said slowly, fixing me with his yellowy eyes. ‘You use words like corruption and call girl. Words that make me sound like some sort of gangster.’ He drew breath noisily. ‘It was never like that.’

‘Tell me what it was like.’

He pushed his head back into the pillow and looked at the ceiling. ‘In the late eighties there were hundreds of private TV stations.’ His voice was almost a whisper and I had to lean close to hear properly. ‘Every local businessman wanted his own channel. It didn’t take much. All you needed was a room, a girl with a nice smile and a big bosom, and a cameraman. Everyone was trying it. The only problem was that they needed income, and the only way to get that was advertising. And no advertisers would buy space if they didn’t know how many eyeballs were watching their ad. With a newspaper you know, more or less, your readership. You know how many copies you’ve sold. But advertisers felt that television was just sending images up into the dark sky and they had no idea which households were picking them up. The private TV stations needed advertisers and advertisers needed to know viewing figures.’

‘So?’

‘I set up a company to suit them both. It measured the viewing figures in order that the stations could present clear data, and advertisers could evaluate whether it was worth buying advertising space on any of these channels.’

‘How?’

He rolled his head on the pillow and looked at me. ‘How what? How did we measure it? We gave a couple of hundred households little set-top boxes that measured their viewing habits. We amplified that sample to get an idea of national viewing. It gave us, and the advertisers, an accurate reflection of what programmes were popular and what not.’

‘Accurate?’

‘It was an estimate of course. We were merely elaborating a sample, so there’s always a margin of error. But it was clearer than anything they had had in the past.’ Something caught in his throat and he started rasping. He pushed himself up on his elbows and spat into the handkerchief again. ‘The advertisers wanted accuracy and were always lobbying me to expand the sample. If you have a few hundred households as a sample, the margin of error is fairly high, but if you have a few thousand, it’s greatly reduced. I explained that there were cost implications. Back in the late eighties those set-top boxes cost hundreds of thousands of lire. But we slowly amplified the sample.’

‘And made it more accurate?’

He stared at the ceiling and smiled slightly. ‘Accurate.’ He said it dismissively. ‘What’s accurate? We certainly let the advertisers know exactly what our sample was watching.’

‘But?’

‘What has any of this got to do with this missing girl?’ He still had the photograph between his fingers.

‘Why wasn’t it accurate?’

His breathing sounded laboured. Each time his chest rose it gurgled like static on an old radio. ‘We fudged,’ he said softly, ‘the sample. Our staff were spending hours going through the demographics, trying to find the right balance within our sample. You know,’ he coughed, ‘an old woman, a young woman, a rich man, a poor man. All that stuff. It was taking months and months to get a balanced sample, and even then there was no knowing whether it was really balanced.’ He paused, looking again at the ceiling. I followed his gaze and saw the yellow stains of nicotine. ‘Di Angelo came to me saying they had done some market research years ago and had all sorts of demographics that might save us time.’

‘He had his own, prepared sample of people?’

He nodded. ‘He was suggesting who we should involve. It saved us time and I had no reason to doubt the market research. At least, not until the figures started coming in. As soon as the enlarged sample was up and running, Di Angelo’s studios were recording magnificent ratings. Stuff he could only have dreamt of a few weeks or months before.’

‘You had given these set-top boxes to his best friends?’