Free Death of a Showgirl by Tobias Jones Page B

hair made her look like the austere adult guardian of these childish fantasies.
    ‘I’m looking for Gianni Esposito,’ I said to her.
    She raised one eyebrow. ‘It’s press day today so he’ll be very tied up. Have you got an appointment?’
    I shook my head.
    ‘Name?’
    ‘Castagnetti. I’m a private investigator.’
    She looked at me like she wanted to ask more questions. She picked up the phone instead. ‘Someone here to see Gianni,’ she barked. ‘I know, I know. Shall I send him up anyway?’
    I couldn’t hear the reply, but when she hung up she nodded towards the lift. ‘Eighth floor,’ she said.
    ‘All these magazines are part of the Sogni stable, right?’
    She nodded.
    ‘Who owns Sogni?’
    ‘Mario Di Angelo. He’s got more titles than a medieval monarch.’ She didn’t smile as she said it, but picked up the phone again, ready to make another call.
    I took the lift up to the eighth floor and came out into a reception area with frosted glass doors in all directions. The girl behind the front desk was cute and knew it.
    ‘Can I help you?’ she asked.
    ‘I’m here to see Gianni Esposito,’ I said.
    ‘He’ll be busy all day today. You got an appointment?’
    I shook my head. She looked at me like there wasn’t a chance, so I showed her a copy of my badge. She looked nonplussed, but stood up and walked through one of the glass doors, moving like she was trying to swat flies with her hips.
    I went and sat down, picking up a copy of Desire ’s latest issue. It only took a couple of minutes to read. It was almost all photos, the usual sort of stuff at this time of year: minor stars sunbathing topless on a distant yacht, some actor who had a new squeeze, a few collages from parties in Sardinia and Forte. I only recognised a couple of the faces or names.
    The girl came back and told me that Esposito would see me in a few minutes. She went and sat back at her computer and tapped away. The first time the phone rang she put on a headset so she could answer it without taking her hands off the keyboard. Her voice was from the streets of Rome, a hard, gurgling voice that sounded like it wouldn’t take any shit but could certainly dish it out.
    It was quarter of an hour before Esposito came in. He had grey hair cut so short that it was only visible as white specks against his tanned scalp. His face was unnaturally tanned and what looked like a muscular torso was squeezed into a shiny mauve shirt.
    ‘You Castagnetti?’
    I stood up and nodded. He held out a hand and he looked at me with curiosity.
    ‘Come on. It’s press day. I haven’t got much time.’
    He walked back the way he had come, expecting me to follow like a faithful dog. He led me into an office with a large plasma screen showing some muted talk show. There were piles of newspapers and invitations and DVDs in all directions. He walked over to a water cooler and filled a small plastic cup. ‘What’s this about?’ He sat behind his desk and motioned with his chin that I should sit on a chair the other side.
    ‘A young girl’s gone missing. She’s called Simona Biondi. I’ve been hired to find her.’
    He shrugged. ‘Who’s she?’
    ‘An eighteen-year-old girl.’
    He flicked the bottom of a soft packet of cigarettes and put an emerging filter tip in his mouth. ‘How can I help?’ The cigarette bounced up and down as he spoke.
    ‘She’s with a man. Someone you know. Or did. Fabrizio Mori.’
    He put his head back, looking at the ceiling. He rolled his jaw left and right so that the thin cigarette moved like the needle of a metronome. He leant forward and flicked open a lighter and brought the flame to the cigarette. ‘Mori, eh? Haven’t heard of him for twenty years.’ He sucked deeply and then turned to the side as he exhaled white smoke. ‘You got a photo of this girl?’
    I passed over the shot from the magazine.
    ‘Cute. Very cute.’ He looked at the paper, turned it over like he recognised the magazine. ‘Was she in