Playing Dead. Jessie Keane

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.

      Then the press were crowding into the hallway, flashbulbs were popping in his face.

      ‘Yeah. And the press. Some bastard must have tipped them off.’

      LaLa hung up.

      ‘LaLa? Hello?’ He redialled, but she didn’t answer. Anyway, the police wanted to talk with him . . .

      Within days – hellish long days when the press camped outside, trapping him inside his own home with nobody but Frances for company – the studio heads wrote and very politely told him that he should consider his contract terminated, with immediate effect.

      He phoned LaLa, but her secretary said she was in a meeting.

      The day after the studio heads dumped him, LaLa dumped him too.

      The papers came, and he flinched at the headlines.

      ‘Secret wife of dashing movie star Rick Ducane in suicide drama’, they shrieked.

      ‘Mystery death of Mrs Rick Ducane.’

      ‘Did he do it?’ Beneath that one, there was a picture of him standing in his hallway, white-faced with shock, holding up a hand to fend off not only the photographers but also disaster. But he couldn’t stop this.

      Vivienne had killed him. Killed his career, killed his life.

      The police questioned him endlessly, but his alibi was watertight. They hauled in a couple of her drinking buddies and questioned them, too, but nothing stuck. Finally, they seemed to be satisfied that Viv’s death was nothing but a tragic accident.

      Within a month he fled back to England with Frances, and he never acted again.

      Chapter 11

      1971

      Once she had recovered from the shock of it – for Christ’s sake, a man? – and had stood there for several minutes, staring out with sightless eyes at the sunlit sea and wondering how he would dare do that to her, Cara went quickly to her father’s study. He was busy of course; Nico, his right-hand man was there, standing beside him as he sat at the big walnut desk, and there were other men with him too. Her father was doing business, but there was no business that could be more urgent than this.

      Constantine looked surprised at the interruption, but he quickly read her expression and apologized to the three men who were there with him and asked them to wait outside while Cara spoke to him.

      ‘Nico, can you go too please?’ Cara said, and flung herself down in a chair.

      Nico looked at Constantine. He nodded, and Nico quietly left the room.

      ‘So what’s so important?’ asked Constantine mildly.

      Cara flung the brown envelope containing the photos and the reports onto her father’s desk. Constantine looked at his daughter’s face for a long moment, then picked up the envelope and tipped out the contents. Cara watched him as he looked through them, giving each document and each photograph his full attention. Finally, he put the items back in the envelope and pushed it back into the centre of the desk.

      ‘I’m sorry, Cara,’ he said.

      ‘Not as sorry as I am, Papa,’ fumed Cara. ‘I knew. I just knew he was up to something.’

      ‘You used an outsider for this?’

      ‘I used a private detective. I didn’t want all the family and their friends knowing my business.’

      Constantine gazed at her levelly. ‘But now you don’t mind, uh?’

      ‘Only you, Papa. I only want you to know this. I couldn’t stand to be made to look such an idiot.’ Cara stared at him and her eyes filled with tears. ‘He has insulted me, made a fool of me.’

      ‘So now you bring this to me. Why?’

      ‘Why?’ wailed Cara, red-faced with temper, the tears flooding over and running down her cheeks. She looked like a large, angry child – which, he thought, was effectively what she was.

      Constantine loved his daughter. He loved