Death of a Showgirl by Tobias Jones Read Free Book Online

brother had prevented Massimo from ever entirely being the respectable citizen he craved to be. He was forever associated with his hapless, dishonest half-brother. And because he was only a half-brother, he constantly reminded Massimo of his own father’s absence. And now, worst of all, his mourning for his mother was interrupted by the revelation that Fabrizio, rather than sorting out her estate, was involved in the abduction of a young girl.
    ‘So I suppose his name’s been in the papers?’ I asked.
    ‘Not really. His name only got in the papers when he tried to put other people’s in there.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    He rolled his eyes. ‘Fabrizio went through a phase when he thought he was a paparazzo. You know, a showbiz snapper, a telephoto snooper. It kind of brought his talents, such as they were, together. He would hang out in fashionable clubs and bars in Rome, stay up all night for one shot of a politician’s girlfriend, that sort of nonsense. But he stuck at it. He was good at it. It was the one phase of his life he seemed proud of what he was doing.’
    ‘He used to come round here,’ the wife said brightly, relieved to have the chance to speak well of her brother-in-law, ‘and show us his photographs. The published versions, I mean. He would bring round a copy of this or that magazine for us. You know, the kind you find at the hairdresser’s. And there, in a corner of the page, would be his credit, his name. I’ll never forget the first time he showed me one. His name was written so small I could barely see it. It wasn’t much, but he was proud of his little achievements and he was desperate for us to share his pride. And we did. It wasn’t exactly heroic work, but it was honest and that, by then, was a relief.’
    She paused, looking wistfully at the tray of empty coffee cups.
    They both seemed reluctant to go on.
    ‘So?’
    The husband closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘Fabrizio realised he could make more money from people who didn’t want to appear in gossip magazines than from those who did.’
    ‘How do you mean?’
    ‘Say what you like about Fabrizio, he always saw an opening. After a few months of snapping these semi-celebrities, he realised he was boosting their careers more than his. The magazine he worked for only bought the flattering shots, the ones where their make-up was perfect, where they were smiling and cheerful.’
    The man was hedging around what had happened, not wanting to recall or share his brother’s scam.
    ‘So Fabrizio started a collection of more compromising shots. Not just ones where these people looked less glamorous, but photographs in which they were . . .’ He paused, lost for words, ‘indulging their vices.’
    ‘Meaning?’
    He looked at the ceiling briefly, like something up there could give him strength. ‘It was private stuff. Private moments that these people didn’t want made public. Fabrizio maybe saw a celebrity out on the town with a lover and would snap all evening. Maybe see a sportsman taking drugs and . . .’ He lowered his index finger like someone snapping away and pulled a disdainful grimace. ‘He would find the daughter of a famous industrialist getting passionate in a car and get his shots. I don’t know how he even knew where to look. Fabrizio was effectively blackmailing them. I don’t think he ever realised that’s what he was doing. He said he was just offering his photographs to the highest bidder. Only, of course, the highest bidder was always the compromised person. He started making a lot of money. Significant amounts of money. He stopped coming round here to show us his tiny credits in cheap magazines. In fact, the magazines weren’t even publishing his photos any more. He had found a better way to make money.’
    The wife sighed and stood up, taking the tray of empty coffee cups back into the kitchen. Mori looked at me and rocked his head slowly, looking at me to make sure it had all sunk in.
    ‘How did he