Death of a Showgirl by Tobias Jones Read Free Book Online Page A

get found out?’
    ‘One of his victims denounced him. Fabrizio was put on trial, convicted of extortion.’
    ‘How long ago was this?’
    ‘Twenty years ago maybe. I can’t remember. He spent a few months in prison and then sort of spiralled downhill from there. He had made a lot of money from his little racket but that all disappeared quickly enough. With his reputation, he couldn’t get a proper job and, even if he had, he wouldn’t have been able to hold it down. At least before he had some energy and charisma, such as it was. For the last few years he’s . . .’ Mori shrugged as he left the sentence unfinished.
    ‘Where does he live?’
    ‘Campeggio del Sole. It’s one of those campsites to the south of the capital. He lives in a static caravan out there. Lot 37 South.’
    ‘You got a phone number?’
    I dialled as he said the numbers. There was no reply. I let it ring on as I turned back towards Massimo Mori.
    ‘A young girl is missing and it seems certain she’s with your brother. I need to understand what sort of threat he poses. Is he likely to harm her?’
    Mori closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘No.’
    ‘Presumably you didn’t think he would steal or extort either?’
    He stared at me. ‘You’re wrong. I’m afraid I wasn’t even surprised when he was arrested for this or that. Not surprised. But he wouldn’t, wouldn’t ever . . .’ He trailed off again, staring at the wall behind me as he shook his head.
    ‘Does the name Simona Biondi mean anything to you?’
    He shook his head again. ‘Who’s that?’
    ‘The girl. Fabrizio’s never been connected with anyone called Biondi?’
    ‘Not that I know.’
    ‘Have you got a photograph of him?’
    ‘Of Fabrizio?’
    I nodded and he stood up, groaning slightly with the effort as he pushed himself up by leaning on the arm of his chair. He came back a minute later, holding a framed photograph. He passed it over and I looked at the two brothers, arms around each other’s shoulders. Fabrizio’s face looked longer than his older brother’s. He was staring at the camera as if it had insulted him and he looked surly, his eyelids low over his dark, shrewd eyes.
    ‘Nothing more recent?’ I asked. The photo I was looking at must have been from twenty years ago.
    He shook his head. ‘We haven’t exactly met up much recently. And even when we do, we don’t take snaps for the family album.’
    ‘Mind if I take this?’ I asked.
    He shrugged as if it were all the same to him. I opened up the back of the frame and slipped out the photo. I tried to imagine him with grey hair in a ponytail.
    I gave the man a card and told him to call me if he heard from his brother. He looked at it wearily, like he had been told something similar many times before. He walked me to the door and shook my hand. He looked sheepish, as if he were to blame for his brother’s conduct.
    ‘When you find him, tell him to give me my passport back.’
    I nodded, thanked him for the coffee, and headed down the nine flights of stairs.

  
     
     
    By now the sun was high and hot. The car felt like a sauna as I got in, a gust of dense air hitting me as I bent into the scalding seat. I wound down the windows and drove as fast as I could to get some cool air coming in.
    The road to Rome was snarled up as usual. One lane was closed, so cars were aggressively cutting into the remaining one at the last minute to get ahead. I flicked on the radio and heard the same discussion about football that I had heard earlier. I searched for another station and found some Roman reggae. It suited the sunshine and I put my elbow out of the window.
    The countryside south of the city was beautiful. I drove past vineyards, large lakes and distant hill towns. And, in between, the scars of industrialisation: old quarries and oil depots and forgotten railways. Rubbish had been dumped randomly and plastic bags hung in the trees, shredding in the wind and turning grey. Eventually the road ran