Death of a Showgirl by Tobias Jones

you doing here?’
    ‘I’m trying to find a girl.’
    ‘Who?’ He straightened up, still staring at me with his mouth twisted in disdain.
    ‘Simona Biondi.’ I tried to push myself up. ‘That name mean anything to you?’
    ‘Why come here?’
    ‘She’s been abducted by Fabrizio Mori.’
    ‘That so?’ he asked disinterestedly. ‘And who are you?’
    I pushed myself to my feet. My head was still throbbing and I rolled it round my shoulders, keeping my eyes on the thug. ‘Castagnetti. I’m a private detective.’
    ‘Who hired you?’
    ‘The parents of the missing girl.’
    He looked at me through narrowed eyes. He took one last drag on his cigarette and then flicked it out of the broken window. ‘You won’t find anything here.’
    ‘I found you.’
    He snorted in derision as if he were small fry. It looked like a sign of weakness and I tried to exploit it.
    ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked.
    ‘Same as you. Been hired by someone to find Mori.’
    ‘Why?’
    He shook his head. ‘Just got to find him. That’s all I know.’
    ‘Who hired you?’
    He clicked his tongue, tutting away the question. The moment of weakness was gone.
    ‘Mind if I look around?’
    ‘There’s nothing here.’
    He was blocking my way, standing between the end of the bed and the wall. I shook some glass off the pillow and sat down on it. I put my head between my knees and looked underneath the bed. There were a lot of boxes down there, a grey T-shirt, a cobwebbed sock. I pulled one of the boxes out and rifled through it briefly: it was mostly copies of old gossip magazines. I lifted them above the bed and dropped them onto the thin mattress. Dust billowed in all directions. Magazines fanned out across the faded floral sheets. I pushed them apart and looked at one or two covers: the smiles of the eager girls on the covers looked strange behind the dust, like they were dated and their moment had passed. Their glamour looked long gone.
    On the white plastic bedside table I saw the issue of Moda in which Simona’s photograph had appeared. I flicked through until I found her and passed it over to the man.
    ‘There,’ I said to the thug, ‘that’s the girl I’m looking for.’
    He took the magazine and leered at her. ‘Nice piece.’
    The other boxes were the same: more gossip magazines, older this time. The stars were different but the poses and the pouts were the same. I leafed through them quickly, trying to find anything or anyone that might help.
    Next to me the man picked up a copy at random and leafed through it. ‘That man was a cretin,’ he said, looking at a snap of a man in a black shirt and black suit. He threw the magazine down and picked up another. ‘Sweet little piece she was. She was always going to rise to the top.’
    ‘You know these people?’
    ‘Sure. Most of them.’
    I looked at him again. His bare chest was smooth and suntanned. He looked like a bull who hung out with the peacocks.
    ‘How come?’
    ‘I work in the industry.’
    ‘Which industry?’
    He threw his chin at the pile of magazines fanned across the mattress. ‘That one,’ he said disparagingly. ‘The gossip industry. Showbiz.’ He grinned for the first time and I saw that one of his front teeth was gold-plated. ‘I work for one of the big TV stations.’
    ‘Which one?’
    He looked at me with his head on one side, weighing up whether to spill or not. Pride got the better of him. ‘TV Sogni.’
    ‘Quite a comedown to breaking into caravans and beating up members of the public.’
    He looked at me and bounced his head to one side. ‘All part of my job.’
    ‘And what’s that exactly?’
    He just tutted again, refusing to answer. I looked at him again and smiled derisively. In the world of showbiz he might have passed for a hard man, but I had seen much harder. His only advantages were surprise and a wooden club, and the first was gone.
    I barged past him and went to the other end of the caravan. It wasn’t far. There was a