Playing Dead

He opened the bathroom door.

Maybe she was ill? Puking up all that gin, no doubt. He heard water flowing.

‘Viv? Honey?’ he said softly.

Through the half-open window the moon cast its silvery light into the room. He could see the bath filled to the brim and overflowing. Something was lolling in there, arms akimbo.

Shit! Had she fallen asleep and fucking well drowned? How the hell were they going to hush that up if she had? He felt a spasm of fear at the thought. His career, his fabulous career, in ruins, and for a gormless whore he’d been stupid enough to get the hots for, and marry.

He flicked on the light with a movement that was half panic, half anger, and fell back instantly.

Vivienne was in the bath, but her head was above the water. Her eyes were open, but they weren’t going to see anything, ever again. There was a long gash across her forehead. Her face was a blanched, vacant mask. The water in the bath was bright red.

He made a noise in his throat, horrified.

No. She was just playing dead or something; he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

But . . . it was true. He reached out, picked up one limp, cold hand. Felt for a pulse and found none.

She was dead. Now how the fuck were they going to keep this quiet?

He heard a movement. Letting out a half-strangled shriek, he turned and saw Frances standing silently in the hall, watching him.

Chapter 9

1971

Constantine Barolli’s estate on Long Island’s stylish Montauk peninsula would be a stunning location for Lucco Barolli’s marriage to Daniella Carlucci. The house itself was massive, clapboarded in soft duck-egg blue-and-white trim; it was fronted by huge decks and terraces that overlooked and led down onto the long white beach and into sand dunes thick with the billowing fronds of marram grass.

Cara had told the men on the gate to expect Saul Jury at four, that he had business with her, and that they were to show him straight in; she’d be waiting in the waterfront lounge. The roar of the Atlantic breakers pounding the beach was a throaty, ominous counterpoint to her black mood.

Saul Jury arrived promptly at the agreed time. He always did; with high-end clients you learned early on not to fuck around too much. Shame her husband hadn’t learned the same lesson, because Saul suspected that this was not a lady who’d take betrayal lightly; she didn’t have the look of a gentle, forgiving sort of girl.

As he was shown in to the huge lounge with its big expanse of glass that displayed the ocean out there beyond the white stretch of the beach, Saul felt overawed. He’d had wealthy clients before, but these folks lived like the Rockefellers. Schlepping home to his little apartment in the Bronx, he had often glanced up and wondered about the flashy Manhattan types and the rarefied air they breathed – that special, radiant space they occupied. He knew he was in the presence of great wealth here. But seeing the scary people on the gates and patrolling the grounds, he also knew that these were not the sort of people you would ever want to upset. Olive oil and fruit importers, for fuck’s sake. Saul knew what that meant. He was starting to feel more than a little sorry for the erring Rocco.

When she’d first taken him on they’d met up in Central Park, neutral territory, but now Saul was seeing Cara in her natural environment, and it made him feel like the small fry he was. Hell, he was happy to be small fry. He didn’t want to be up too close and personal with people like this.

She looked vindictive and trigger-happy; he’d thought that the very first time he’d seen her: Here is a woman who won’t take prisoners. What if she now decided to shoot the messenger?

Cara stood up as he was shown in by Frederico, who waited around the house when he was not driving for her father. Frederico – or ‘Fredo’ as he was affectionately known by the family – was the son of one of Constantine’s gardeners and a cook. He was her own age and she knew he adored her – he had been making cow-eyes at her ever since kindergarten; but he was beneath her and they both knew it. It was Fredo who had driven her to the meeting with Saul in Central Park. He had asked no questions, but she had seen the curiosity in his eyes. Idiot, she’d thought, as if I would tell you anything.

Dismissing Fredo with a wave, Cara swept imperiously towards Saul – dwarfing him in will and in size too. Cara winced as she shook his limp, ineffectual hand. She hated using the services of this cheap little man, but he was a nobody, he was outside her family’s normal circle of influence, and that was good: she didn’t want any of this getting back to Rocco’s ears before she was ready. ‘What have you found out?’ she asked.

For a split second, Saul thought of saying that he’d found nothing, that Rocco was clean, and high-tailing it out of there; fuck the money. But the thought lasted a split second only, because he needed that money. He had a bit of a gambling habit, and yes, both his mother and his wife knew about it and nagged him day and night.

There was some professional pride involved here, too. He had caught Rocco red-handed doing the dirty with his fag boyfriend. He had pictures, dates, information, everything gathered together; he’d done a good, thorough job, like he always did. But now, being here, seeing this place, these people, the look in Cara’s eyes, he thought he would just as soon not get involved because what he might be doing by staying out of it was saving Rocco Mancini from a whole heap of trouble.

Professional pride won. Saul fished out the photos and the neatly typed information; he handed them to Cara. And as Cara looked at them in growing disbelief, slowly her face emptied of colour, her hands tightening on the sheets of paper and the damning photos until her long, beautifully manicured nails dug in.

‘But . . .’ Cara glanced up at him. ‘What is this? You said he was seeing someone called Frances Ducane . . .’

Saul nodded. ‘That’s him. That’s Frances Ducane.’

‘But . . . for God’s sake! I thought you meant a woman.’

‘No. A man. I’m sorry if you misunderstood, Mrs Mancini. That’s Frances Ducane. His dad was a big Hollywood star; then there was a scandal and . . .’ His voice trailed away.

Cara was silent, staring at the pictures of her husband betraying her with a man. Finally, she said: ‘You can go.’

‘I’ll send the bill on,’ he said.

She said nothing. She was still staring at what he’d shown her: her husband of only a year, kissing a handsome young actor. Not even a woman. Her husband was cheating on her with a man called Frances Ducane, son of the more famous Rick.

Chapter 10

1950

Mud sticks. Oh, so true. Rick knew it. The first thing he’d done when he’d found Viv’s body was to phone the studio, tell them. They would know what to do; they would help him.

Only, they didn’t. He couldn’t get hold of anyone.

As he was going apeshit trying to figure out what to do, Frances came into the lounge and said, ‘I phoned.’

Rick stopped his anxious pacing and stared at the boy. ‘. . . You what?’

‘The ambulance. I phoned.’

Oh shit.

He could see it all caving in on him. Could see it all hitting the fan.

He phoned the only one he could truly count on. He phoned LaLa.

‘Rick? What the fuck? It’s four o’clock in the morning.’

‘LaLa. You’ve got to help me. Viv’s dead.’

‘She’s what?’

Rick was standing in the hall. ‘She’s dead,’ he said again. LaLa would help. She would know what to do. ‘Looks like she slipped or something getting in the tub. Cut her head open. Either that or one of her drinking cronies whacked her. Either way, she’s dead.’

‘Oh.’

‘Oh? Is that all you can say? LaLa, the woman’s dead . . . Shit a brick . . .’

The ambulance was pulling up, and the police. Frances opened the door to them.

‘Oh dear. Are the police there?’ asked Lala.