Murder Most Fab (29 page)

The job of television
presenting is a peculiar one, and if I can say anything with certainty, it is
that I never fell into the trap of taking it seriously. Dear, departed Bernard
had plucked me from a life of obscure prostitution and, with little or no
ambition on my part, had put me in the right place at the right time. Nature
and nurture had ticked some of the requisite boxes for my success: I had a
pleasing face, a soothing voice and could read an autocue. Furthermore, I
acknowledge, Bernard had wielded his influence and called in favours to get my
shows commissioned. The rest, as they say, had been down to luck.

The
trick to gaining high ratings is that you must have broad appeal. The show that
made me,
Shout!,
had been aimed at teenagers, but was watched by
students, young adults — anyone interested in youth culture and what was or
wasn’t ‘cool’. The indefinable touch, the X factor of my success and the thing
that I transmitted, without being aware of it, was sex. I smelt of it, exuded
it and, through me, desire smouldered. My sexual confidence beamed its way into
millions of hearts and homes. Being photographed at Heathrow on my return from
Nicaragua made me realize I was seriously famous.

How was
I supposed to cope with being gorgeous, rich, a murderer of two men —
and
famous?
My ego, of course, became blissed out, hopeless at any detached assessment of
my situation. I simply excused my actions and refused to feel guilty. I thought
I was invincible and that fame had made me complete. I felt that everything had
been leading up to it. Even if my life was a puzzle that would only be
deciphered when it was over, I believed that God was on my side.

I had tried to call
Catherine from Nicaragua but it was impossible. On the few occasions when I
managed to get a line to England, there was no reply. I decided it was safer to
leave the whole story till I got home. As soon as I was back, I sat her down
and gave her the true account of what had happened up the mountain and how
Bernard had died.

She
frowned, then said, ‘Most unpleasant for you both. Speaking as your manager, I
suppose we could have put a bit more planning into it, but Bernard was becoming
a serious drag. The important thing is that he’s out of the way. Well done,
Cowboy.’

She
didn’t like the sound of Juan, though. ‘That was a bit careless of you.
Witnesses are always a mistake. I’d have tossed him in too. It would have been
a lot tidier.’

‘I
never thought of that,’ I said. ‘We can all be wise after the event.’

Of
course I would never have dreamt of chucking Juan into the volcano. He was not
only extremely beautiful but had provided me with exquisite pleasure . Most
importantly, he had taken my mind off Tim.

Bernard,
on the other hand, had expressed his wish to die —perhaps not as clearly and
convincingly as Georgie had but, still, he had said as much — and would have
jumped himself if Juan had not made the mistake of stopping him. By pushing him
in, I might be technically guilty of murder but I knew I wasn’t really. I had
merely corrected a small glitch in the order of things. Killing Juan would have
been something different altogether. It had never occurred to me. I wasn’t that
kind of boy.

‘Well,
you say this Juan can’t speak English, and he won’t have any idea of who you
are, so perhaps we’ll be all right,’ Catherine said. ‘I take it you gave him a
massive wad of cash to keep quiet about what really happened? That should take
care of him. What we have to focus on now is getting your reaction to Bernard’s
death just right. This, Cowboy, is what they call a key moment.’

Catherine had taken to
media manipulation like a duck to water. After all, she had been manipulating
those around her all her life so she’d had plenty of practice. ‘The editor of
the
Sun
likes me,’ was all she would say. ‘He’s more important than the
prime minister, as far as you’re concerned.’

She had
long since given up her life of vice and now moulded her image on Helen Mirren
in
Prime Suspect,
wearing sharp, muted suits, high heels and a neat
haircut. She was self-possessed and calm at all times. Now that she wasn’t on
the game, she had struck it lucky and was the (more or less) exclusive mistress
of a married Algerian drugs baron. He gave her an excellent seeing-to every
time he was in town, along with oodles of cash, a drawerful of diamonds and emeralds
and as much cocaine as the pair of us could snort. Which was quite a lot.

Ali was
of a jealous nature and not at all happy about Catherine sharing a flat with
me, a man. But Catherine had put down her expensively pedicured foot. ‘He’s a woofter,
Ali. He’s not interested in me! You’re being ridiculous. Johnny makes sure I
come to no harm. We look after each other.’

Ali
wasn’t convinced and seemed to have no concept of homosexuality (unusual in an
Algerian). He was only satisfied after he had sent round his personal physician
to give me a rectal examination. After that, Catherine and he continued their
affair, but when he wasn’t in town, she made the most of her freedom and often
went out on the pull.

‘Aren’t
you supposed to belong to Ali?’ I teased her.

‘Fuck
that for a game of soldiers,’ she said. ‘I may have sucked cock for cash, but I
ain’t kissing ass.’

After
Bernard’s death, she managed the press carefully and brilliantly, and although
I was declared too upset to give any interviews, the ‘Tragic Death Of Hero TV
Star’s Mentor’ was front-page news. The story Catherine (‘a close friend’) had
sold, needless to say, for a substantial fee, was that Bernard and I had been
attacked by a band of ruthless robbers while visiting Mount Massaya. I had
bravely fought them off but poor Bernard had been flung mercilessly into a mudpool
before my very eyes. Traumatized as I was, I had fearlessly chased the
murdering thieves for several exhausting miles, but they had eventually got
away.

Of
course, the one person (apart from myself and Catherine) who knew the truth of
what had happened that afternoon was Juan. I had clung to him as I kicked
Bernard that afternoon. He had seen what I’d done and had looked at me,
stupefied with shock.

‘It was
an accident,’ I had repeated to him, like a sort of mantra. And then he, in
turn, clung to me. He had stayed with me for the remainder of my time in
Nicaragua and confirmed to the police my version of events although it was
probably my bribe of several hundred dollars that saved the day. I thought it
wise to turn all my guns of seduction on him. I lavished him with affection and
money, and saw to it that we were inseparable. Besides, sex with Juan was no
great chore and, given his rudimentary grasp of English, one of the most effective
ways of communicating. I feel foolish confessing it, but maybe I was a little
in love with him, too. But only a little. And only maybe. Our bodies fitted
together so well, and the raw, animal nature of our relationship obscured any
wise, self-protective assessment of matters. By the time I left him crying at
the airport he was well and truly under my spell, and I was sure that my secret
was safe with him.

Now I
could get on with my career. I couldn’t help feeling refreshed and happy
without the constant drain of Bernard’s snipes and demands.

Despite the attempts of
the Nicaraguan authorities, Bernard’s body had never been recovered, nor the
murderers apprehended (unsurprisingly), so Catherine thought it would be a good
idea to hold a memorial for Bernard at the actors’ church in Covent Garden. I
was to be chief mourner. The press were alerted.

‘Wear
dark glasses and look as if you’ve been crying, please,’

Catherine
instructed. ‘Stay up all night or something. But shave —show some respect. All
eyes will be on you. I’ll be there with smelling-salts if you feel faint.’

Bernard
had worked with many celebrities in his career, but I was the hottest and the
most famous. I stood on the church steps wearing black Prada from head to toe,
smiling weakly (with, I liked to think, a hint of allure still) and shaking
hands with the many guests. The tabloids called me brave and broken-hearted. It
couldn’t have been better.

The
best moment was the release of fifty doves dyed canary yellow — Bernard’s
favourite colour. A flock of seagulls swarmed in and attacked them as the
mourners were gazing skyward. They were killed, every last one.

The
public, however, saw another side of me and responded with genuine sympathy. I
had hundreds of letters from people who wanted to express their sorrow, share
their grief or send their best wishes and fervent hopes that I would be back on
their TV screens soon. I was touched, and almost able to forget that I had
pushed Bernard into a mudpool in the first place. Offers of work and magazine spreads
poured in.

I was at home alone in the
flat one afternoon (Catherine was having a long lunch with the editor of
Hello!
magazine) when I noticed that my favourite Gucci trousers had been returned
from the cleaners. Stapled to the protective cover was a white envelope, the
words ‘contents of pocket’ scrawled across it. I ripped it off and opened it.
Inside was a small white business card, and across the middle was engraved ‘
Timothy
Thornchurch’.

Just
seeing the name made my stomach quiver. I stared at it for a long time, running
my fingers over the raised lettering. The urge to speak to him became
unbearable. On impulse, I picked up the phone and, heart in my mouth, dialled
his chambers in Fleet Street. ‘Could I speak to Timothy Thornchurch, please?’ I
asked the unfeasibly posh-sounding woman who answered.

‘Who
shall I say is calling?’

My name
was likely to cause a stir even in her plummy circles, so I said I was a Mr Bassey.

‘Putting
you through,’ she said.

He
sounded business-like when he answered. ‘Timothy Thornchurch. How may I help
you, Mr Bassey?’

‘Meet
me at a hotel tonight and make love to me,’ I said.

‘Er,
who is this?’ Then his voice changed. ‘Johnny?’

‘Do
many of your clients ask you for a fuck?’

‘Johnny,
I’ve been so worried about you!’ He sounded soft and friendly and I wanted to
rush over to Fleet Street right there and then and fling myself into his arms.
‘Are you all right? I’ve been reading about what happened to you. It sounded
absolutely dreadful. I hope they catch the bastards.’

‘I’m fine,
a bit shaken. It’s good to be home.’

‘That
poor bloke, drowned in boiling mud, right in front of you. It must have been
horrible.’

‘It
was. He was such a dear old boy. I’m mentally scarred for life. I think I might
be cracking up …’ I let my voice trail away.

‘Listen.
I have a meeting at six tonight but I could meet you afterwards. Would you like
that?’

I
managed a weak ‘Thank you. I’ll book a room at the Savoy.’

‘Under
the name of Mr Bassey?’

‘Of
course.’

‘See
you about eight.’

It had
been so easy. Tim had responded sympathetically to my situation and now I would
have him again. After all the years of silence and absence! If only I’d known
that all I had to do was get famous and chuck some old duffer into a volcano,
I’d have done it sooner.

When he
tapped on the door soon after eight that evening, I had to stop myself opening
it with a big, happy smile. I rubbed my eyes a little and slumped my shoulders,
presenting myself as distraught. He cradled me in his arms and I wept like a
child. ‘It’s all right,’ he whispered. ‘I’m here now.’

The
role of heroic saviour clearly appealed to him; his lovemaking was gentle and
considerate and afterwards, I told him, I felt truly healed. Remarkable,
really.

That
was how our second affair began. We would meet every week when we could,
usually at the Savoy, and spend a night together. I was so truly happy that I
couldn’t hide it, and within days Catherine had guessed my secret.

‘I know
what’s happening,’ she said in disgust. ‘You’re like a pig in shit.’