Murder Most Fab (31 page)

There was a sudden look of
realization in Juan’s eyes. I could tell, clear as day, that he was remembering
what happened to Bernard.

‘Oh,’
he whispered. ‘You gonna kill me, huh?’

‘Only
joking,’ I said lightly. ‘Don’t be silly. Come on, let’s go to bed. I’ll let
you do all your favourite things to me and I won’t make you wear a condom.’
Desperate measures were called for.

Juan
relaxed slightly but I cursed myself. Stupidly, I’d made him think about the very
thing I’d worked so hard to help him forget. I’d given him the very weapon he
needed to stay with me for ever. I couldn’t bear it.

I
decided that, whatever Catherine’s plan was, I would go along with it.

The
next day Catherine told me to make myself scarce in the evening. ‘I shall tell
Juan you’re at a camera rehearsal. Stay away till about nine.’

When I
got back, I heard voices from the kitchen. I listened outside the door for a
while.

‘Write
this down in English, Juan.
Adios, carino,’
Catherine was saying, in
rather bad Spanish. ‘Have you got that?’

‘Sí’
said Juan.

‘Lo siento
que todo tiene que terminar asi,’
Catherine said
next.

‘Er,
sí,
I understand,’ replied Juan.

‘And
finally,
Te amo,’
Catherine said conclusively. ‘Got it?’

‘I
think so,’ said Juan, tentatively.

‘Read
it back to me in English, then,’ Catherine said encouragingly.

‘Goodbye,
darling,’ said Juan. ‘I’m sorry it has to end this ways, I love you.’

‘That’s
very good!’ said Catherine. ‘We’re both doing very well, I think. Let me see
what you’ve written.’

I
entered the kitchen and saw the pair of them huddled over the table, which was
covered with sheets of paper. Juan leapt up to greet me, wrapping his arms
round me and awarding me a prolonged kiss. Catherine grimaced.

‘I love
you,’ he said quietly, for the ninth time that day.

‘You’re
a bit whiffy, Juan. I’m sure that’s not very nice for your beloved. Why don’t
you go for a shower?’ said Catherine.

Juan
dropped his head and inhaled in the general area of his armpits.
‘Bueno,
Catherine.
I go for shower.
Momentito,’
he said, dragging himself away from me,
blowing me a kiss just before he closed the door.

I felt
cold and afraid. I knew that Catherine’s plan was hatching before my very
eyes.

‘Whatever
are you doing?’ I whispered fiercely. The night before I’d wanted Juan out of
my life. Now I was having second thoughts.

‘Taking
care of business. Taking care of you.’

‘No,
no, no, Catherine! Have some heart!’

‘Let me
tell you something you already know, but may have forgotten. He might be a
poorly educated peasant from Nicaragua, but he knows right from wrong. He saw
you kill Bernard. He could have you arrested tomorrow if he wanted to.

Why
doesn’t he?’

‘He
loves me. He believes it was an accident.’

‘No, he
doesn’t. You know he doesn’t. He’s come here to make his fortune and you,
Cowboy, are the crock of gold. He’s going to stick to you like a limpet.’

‘He
loves me, that’s why.’

‘I’m
sorry?’ said Catherine, angrily. ‘You’re not talking a language I understand. Love?
Him? You? Fuck me pink. Let me spell it out for you. He’s after your money and
he’ll not stop until he’s got his olive mitts on every last penny and then the
rest. It’ll never end, will it? You’ll be buying bloody farms for his cousins
till you’re blue in the face. Then they’ll want tractors and garages and
combine-harvesters. He’ll bleed you dry for the rest of his life. But, with a
little help from me, that will, mercifully, be just a few more hours. If I
wasn’t the caring friend and dedicated manager I am, his dreary existence might
linger on for another fifty years. I would urge you to think about that. I
have. I have thought it through and come to the conclusion that there is no
alternative. The moment he stepped off the plane, his fate was sealed. Even so,
I’ve given him six weeks, hoping he’d go away of his own accord and forget
about you and what he saw — go and become a fisherman or a coffee-bean grower
or whatever they do for a living where he comes from. But he’s not going to, is
he?’

I shook
my head. I knew she was right.

‘He’s here
for ever. You are rich and famous and he’s holding a sword over your head. He’s
got all the aces. Apart from this one. Surely you must see that?’

‘I wish
he’d just go,’ I said weakly. I was in danger of crying.

‘So do
I,’ said Catherine, sincerely — which was so unusual in her that I looked
across the table in surprise. ‘I really do mean that,’ she said, and I saw that
her eyes, too, were full of tears. ‘It’s such a fucking mess. But it can’t go
on being a mess for ever. Can it?’

‘I
guess not. I don’t want him hurt, though.’

‘No.
Leave it to me. That’s what management is for.’ Catherine’s tone had turned
business-like. She got up from the table and darted purposefully over to the
fridge. She took out a large Marks & Spencer’s trifle and put it on the table.
She then laid out three dessert bowls and got some spoons from the drawer. I
watched, intrigued, as she served three generous helping. She licked the spoon
and tossed it into the sink.

‘Delicious!’
was her verdict. ‘But I think something’s missing. We want to impress our
guest with our British cuisine, after all.’ She reached into her black Prada
handbag and took out a square box.

‘What
are they?’ I asked suspiciously.

‘A
means to an end. A last resort. A ticket to ride. Call them what you will.’ She
skipped out a blister pack and began to pop the green, diamond-shaped pills on
to the tablecloth. Slowly, fearing I already knew the answer, I picked up the
now-empty packet and read it. ‘Rohypnol?’ I said, incredulous.

‘Yes,
dear. Rohypnol,’ said Catherine, still counting pills. Then she added, ‘The
date-rape
drug!’

‘Oh, my
God, you can’t!’ I said.

Catherine
was now snapping the pills into tiny quarters and sprinkling them over one bowl
of trifle. ‘I can and I have,’ she shot back. ‘They’re my favourite. Sleep on
these is delicious. It’s like sliding into a hot bath. And, what’s more, I’m
very kindly sacrificing my own personal stash. I’ve saved these from my days
as the merry nurse of Greenwich Hospital. You never know when you might need
them, I thought. Now needs must.’

‘You
are wicked,’ I said, intending the traditional meaning of the word.

‘Thank
you, darling. I’m also thorough.’ She waved the sheet of paper Juan had been
writing on when I arrived, then read, in a mock Spanish accent, “‘Goodbye,
darling. I’m sorry it has to end this ways, I love you.” I’m so fucking
brilliant it hurts. You just make sure he eats it all.’

A tear
ran down my cheek and I wiped it away, staring sadly at the killer trifle. From
the bathroom I could hear Juan clapping as he sang a Nicaraguan salsa.

‘Come
on, you can do it. After all, what’s one more to add to your tally?’

Juan
bounded back into the kitchen like an excited puppy, with a white towel wrapped
round his waist. His muscular torso was still speckled with water and his black
curls were shining and tousled, framing his face so that he looked like a
Pierre et Gilkes model. He kissed the top of my head and joined us at the
table. He looked at the offering before him and said, ‘Mmm! What is called?’

‘Oh,
it’s just a trifle,’ said Catherine casually.

‘Is it
nice?’ he asked innocently, picking up his spoon and taking a mouthful.

‘It’s
delicious. So soft and sugary you don’t need to chew. It just slides down your
throat.’

‘I
like,’ said Juan, nodding enthusiastically.

‘I’m so
pleased.’ Catherine smiled at him. ‘We’d be most offended if you didn’t enjoy
it. Tuck in.’

The
three of us ate in silence . I glanced nervously at Juan, but he finished his
in no time, appearing not to have noticed anything odd about it.

‘Thank
you. Is good,’ he said, looking pleased.

‘
Was
good, Juan,’ corrected Catherine. ‘The past tense has always been my
favourite.’

It was
only about ten minutes later that Juan began to slur. ‘I tired. Was … tired …’
He tried to continue but couldn’t.

‘Good
boy, it’s all right,’ said Catherine, soothingly.

He
stared into the distance for a minute, then began to sway. His head lolled from
one side to the other.

‘Let’s
move him to my bedroom while he can still walk,’ said Catherine, getting up and
moving to his side. She held him by the elbow and tucked her other hand under
his armpit.

‘Why
your bedroom?’ I asked.

‘I know
what I’m doing. We’re going to say he was my boyfriend, stupid. As you may
recall, you, Johnny Debonair, are a famous heterosexual. It’s another example
of my deep, caring nature. Now, chop-chop.’ Catherine had a way of making me
feel stupid. She was always one step ahead.

I moved
to the other side of Juan and, mirroring Catherine’s manoeuvre, helped to
manhandle my unwanted boyfriend into her room where he flopped drunkenly on to
the bed. Catherine arranged his legs neatly. The towel had fallen off on our
short journey and she glanced at his genitals like a housewife considering the
quality of a greengrocer’s produce.

‘I’ve
seen better,’ she said. ‘Help me get the duvet out from under him. It’s only
fair to make him decent. There’s no sign of him vomiting, which is a boon. This
takes me back to my days on A and E.’

We
stood back and inspected our handiwork. Juan looked as if he was in a deep
sleep. It all seemed remarkably easy and painless.

‘Now
what happens?’ I asked.

‘It
takes a while,’ said Catherine, matter-of-factly. ‘We need to move all of lover
boy’s bits and bobs into my room, wash up our trifle dishes, then you and I hit
the town. Your job for the night is to pick up some Muscle Mary and go back to
his place. We don’t want you here for all the amateur dramatics later on.’

‘What
will happen?’ I was gripped.

‘I
shall come home alone in the small hours, discover my boyfriend has topped
himself and call the emergency services.’

We
placed the suicide note tastefully by the bed, changed into our disco fashions,
had a couple of lines of cocaine and took ourselves off to Soho.

In a
club called Stretch, I left Catherine at the bar downing double vodka tonics
and dutifully went cruising. It was an unusually quiet night for available
trade, but Catherine’s instructions were to pick someone up, come what may, so
I made do with a dull little man from the East End called Rupert, who had
weasel eyes and grey sideburns, and had made the unfortunate error of wearing
white socks with black trousers and shoes. Still, it was not a night to be
picky.

We
caught a taxi back to his pretentious studio in Borough, and I had to listen to
his tasteless selection of chill-out albums while he slobbered over me . When
we stood up he was so short, his rock-hard circumcised penis could only jab at
my upper thigh. To save his embarrassment, I lay down on the futon and he came
eventually, crouched over my chest, huffing and puffing like a steam engine.
You don’t know how lucky you are, I thought.

He
pretended not to be interested in my wonderful TV career, but the next morning
I was paraded down the high street and forced to sit for a couple of hours in a
trendy café while his equally dubious friends gasped and tittered behind their
croissants, their eyes like saucers, partly from the drugs they had consumed
the night before and partly in wonderment at seeing me in their local.

When I
said it was time I went home, he scribbled his number on a menu and said, ‘I
really like you, Johnny, and I want to see you again.’

‘Me
too,’ I lied. ‘Thank you for a wonderful night. You’re very special.’

‘Maybe
we could meet up in the week for a bite to eat?’

‘Sounds
great.’

‘Wednesday
suits me. How are you fixed?’

‘Wednesday
it is,’ I said. ‘I’ll call you
re
where and when.’

I
dropped the menu with Rupert’s number on it discreetly into a wastepaper bin by
the door and caught a taxi back to Camden. As I approached, I couldn’t help
feeling apprehensive. Would Juan be furious with a Rohypnol hangover … or …

If he
wasn’t, I was going to have to face some cold, hard truths about myself and the
unfortunate fate of those to whom I became close. One murder might possibly be
excusable. Two were beginning to kook suspicious. Three … Well, I could be
sharing a cell with Dennis Nielsen by Christmas, if I wasn’t careful.

I let
myself into the flat. ‘Hello?’ I half hoped to hear that Spanish accent
calling, ‘Hey, Johnny, where you been, huh?’ But instead I heard a faint ‘In
here!’ from the lounge. I went in.