Free The Cinderella Killer by Simon Brett Page A

agree?’
    Lilith Greenstone let out a thick throaty chuckle. ‘Then I’ll kill the bastard!’
    Their drinking session continued most of the afternoon. Once Lilith had indulged in a few cheery fantasies of how she’d shoot her husband with his own gun, they didn’t talk further about the divorce. In fact, afterwards, Charles couldn’t remember too well what they did talk about. There was a bit of discussion as to when Kenny was likely to be back from London, where he was staying, where Lilith might stay if, as seemed likely, she’d be in Eastbourne overnight. (As befitted his starring status, Kenny Polizzi was in the five-star Grand Hotel. Lilith, relishing confrontations, decided she would book in there too.)
    They also talked about acting. And though they came from opposite ends of the showbiz spectrum – Lilith Greenstone a Hollywood and Broadway star, Charles Paris a jobbing actor whose name was never going to be above the title of anything – they found a lot in common as they discussed the idiocies and injustices of their chosen profession.
    Charles found himself warming to Lilith. She could certainly hold her liquor; at no moment did she slur even the smallest word. And though nothing altered the fresh-out-of-the-box perfection of her appearance, further acquaintance revealed that underneath that lay a real, unaffectedly charming woman with a filthy sense of humour. While Charles had started the afternoon appreciating Lilith as a cunningly wrought work of art, by the end of it he was fancying her as a real woman. He even had the daring thought that she might be a little attracted to him too. And he was glad that they had exchanged mobile numbers.
    What broke up their alcohol-fuelled
tête-à-tête
was the appearance in the pub of Lefty Rubenstein. ‘Oh my God,’ he said when he saw Lilith. ‘It’s true.’
    â€˜What’s true, Lefty?’ she drawled.
    â€˜That you’re here.’
    â€˜I sure am.’
    â€˜I’ll have to let Kenny know.’
    â€˜You do that. And fix up a meeting for him with me this evening.’
    â€˜I’m not sure that I—’
    â€˜Do it, Lefty. I assume you still have the role of Kenny’s gofer? His Pooper-Scooper?’
    The lawyer’s sweaty face coloured with anger. ‘I don’t like that expression to—’
    â€˜Fix the meeting, Lefty. You should still have my cellphone number. Text me the time and place.’
    â€˜Kenny isn’t going to like it,’ said the lawyer, ‘you being over here.’
    â€˜I have long since ceased to care what Kenny likes and doesn’t like,’ said Lilith Greenstone magisterially.
    When the ringing of his mobile woke him it took Charles a moment or two to register where he was. And indeed what time of day it was. A quick look around told him that he was lying on the bed in his digs in Eastbourne. And a glance at his watch supplied ‘nine-fifteen’. Since there was darkness outside the windows whose curtains he hadn’t drawn, he assumed it was nine-fifteen in the evening.
    â€˜Hi, Charles,’ said the voice at the other end of the line. ‘It’s Kenny.’
    â€˜Safely back from London?’
    â€˜Back, anyway. Charles, I need to see you. Meet me in the pub by the theatre – what’s it called?’
    â€˜The Sea Dog.’
    â€˜Yeah. Soon as you can get there.’
    It never occurred to Kenny Polizzi that anyone might not be free to answer one of his summonses. Charles, beginning to feel the headache brought on by his afternoon’s excesses, meekly agreed to go straight to the pub.
    â€˜Good. See you there.’
    The ‘S’ of the word ‘see’ sounded just the teensiest little bit slurred.
    Was it possible that Kenny Polizzi was drunk?

SIX
    BARON HARDUP: Don’t drink and drive – this warning’s real!
It slops all over the steering wheel.
    I t didn’t