The Cinderella Killer by Simon Brett Page A

of famous people in showbiz. Even though well aware that everyone in the entire world knew who they were, they demonstrated apparent humility by identifying themselves.
    â€˜Jasmine del Rio,’ she said, taking his hand.
    â€˜It’s an honour to meet you,’ he said, still playing the humble card.
    â€˜Though actually we have met before … worked together.’
    â€˜Really?’ Kenny looked puzzled and a little wary. Not recognizing someone he’d worked with might tarnish his image of ‘regular guy’ bonhomie. It might even make him look a bit starry. ‘When was this?’
    â€˜More than fifteen years ago. Before the whole
Dwight House
thing began.’
    â€˜Oh.’ He looked relieved. Maybe forgetting someone after fifteen years wasn’t so bad.
    â€˜Besides,’ she went on, ‘I wasn’t called Jasmine del Rio then.’
    â€˜Oh? What were you called?’
    She smiled lazily, delaying the impact of her words. Then she said, ‘Marybeth Docker.’
    It was fortunate that Bix called everyone back to rehearsal at that point, because it obscured Kenny’s reaction to the name. But Charles was near enough to see that the American looked as though he had been slapped in the face, very hard.
    As had now become a habit, Charles lingered by the exit to St Asaph’s Church Halls until Kenny joined him. Going to the pub together had quickly become an evening ritual for the two men. Charles still couldn’t help wondering whether it was a self-imposed test for Kenny, a proof to himself of how completely he had defeated the temptation of the demon drink.
    That evening as they left the hall, they encountered a woman standing outside in the street. Of indeterminate age, she wore a lilac hooded waterproof and sequin-decorated jeans. She had a small wheeled suitcase in a tiger-skin design. Her face was caked with powdery make-up and thick glasses distorted her eyes. For some reason he couldn’t define, Charles felt there was something odd about her.
    But clearly the woman knew Kenny Polizzi, and he knew her.
    â€˜Hello,’ she said. ‘I found you.’ Her accent was American.
    â€˜You always do, Gloria.’ He spoke cautiously, warily, as if he knew that saying the wrong thing could upset her.
    â€˜I sure do,’ the woman agreed.
    â€˜This is Charles Paris. He’s in the show too.’
    â€˜Hi,’ she said abstractedly. She clearly had no interest in Charles.
    â€˜Will you be staying here in Eastbourne?’ asked Kenny with something like foreboding.
    â€˜Oh yes, sure. I’ve booked in. I’ll be here for the duration of the show.’
    â€˜Right.’ Nervously, Kenny asked, ‘Which hotel have you booked into?’ Clearly he was worried she might have found out he was staying in the Grand and followed him there.
    So he looked very relieved when she replied, ‘I’m in a very nice clean bed and breakfast.’ He looked a little less happy when she continued, ‘Very near here, near where you’re rehearsing, Kenny. So I’ll be very close. Like I always am. You know I’m always here for you, Kenny. Or should I say “Dwight”?’
    â€˜Whichever.’ There was an awkward silence. At least it felt awkward to Charles. But the woman seemed unaffected. She just stood, blinking at her idol.
    Kenny broke the impasse. ‘Well, Charles and I must be moving, Gloria.’
    â€˜Sure.’ She stepped back. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Kenny.’
    When they were out of earshot Charles looked quizzically at Kenny. ‘Your Number One Fan?’
    â€˜Kind of.’
    â€˜Harmless, I hope.’
    â€˜So do I. And I’m pretty sure she is. Don’t think she’s about to chop my legs off. No, Gloria’s just a bit of a fruitcake. She usually manages to find out where I am going to be, and she just … rolls up there.’
    â€˜Even when it’s in