Remix

by Lexi Revellian

  Exclusive

  I KILLED BRYAN

  Emma Redfern reveals all to Daily Mail reporter

  My three years of shame

  Voices manager terrorized me

  Why I was too scared to go to the police

  I turned the page. A photo showed her arm-in-arm with Phil Sharott. In it he looked a lot older than her, more than he actually was. She was at a slight angle, pulling away from him; his eyes stared fixedly at her cleavage. I wondered how long it had taken them to find a shot like that. In another, Bryan Orr posed, chin on hand, his expression devil-may-care. I read,

  THE DAY BRYAN DIED ~ Emma tells Mail reporter the truth

  I NEVER MEANT TO KILL HIM

  Bryan’s girlfriend said: “It’s such a relief, to be able to speak out about what really happened at last. Now I can go to the police and tell them everything.”

  Emma started dating The Voices bass guitarist only months before his death. Their romance blossomed, and she moved into his Regent’s Park appartment soon after. She added, “I loved Bryan so much, but there was a side to him not many people saw – he took drugs supplied by The Voices manager, multi-millionaire solicitor Phil Sharott, which made him irrational and terribly jealous…”

  I skip-read to the next bit, THE DAY BRYAN DIED… Alongside was a photo of Ric and Bryan, arms over each other’s shoulders, grinning at the camera.

  Trembling with emotion, tears spilling from her eyes, the 25-year-old said, “That dreadful day in April three years ago, I was alone in Bryan’s flat when a friend of his called. He took advantage of me being alone, and raped me. I can’t say who he was for legal reasons. Bryan came in, saw me with this man and leaped to the wrong conclusions. Though he was completely mistaken, and I was totally innocent, he went berserk. I was distraught, shattered. I told him he’d got it wrong, but he wouldn’t listen. He got really angry, shouted at me, then picked up a knife. I was so scared – I tried to make him calm down. I managed to get hold of the knife – he lunged at me and it went into his chest. I never meant to kill him, I loved him.”

  “I can’t say who he was for legal reasons” – I guessed the newspaper had jibbed at printing Ric’s name without corroborating evidence. They’d put the photo instead. People would guess who she meant, and it would come out at the trial. And maybe Bryan had gone mad and attacked her; maybe it had been self-defence. Only she knew the truth, and she was going to say whatever would earn her least time in jail.

  WHY I LIED TO THE POLICE

  Horrified, Emma agonized over what to do next. “When he slumped to the floor I was devastated at what I’d done. I tried to revive him, but he died in my arms. My first thought was to ring for an ambulance – not that they could have saved him – and the police, but Ric’s manager, Phil Sharott, arrived before I was able to and wouldn’t let me. He said they would charge me with murder, that I’d go to prison for twenty years. He’s a lawyer, so I trusted him, and he said he was trying to help me. He told me to lie to them, and he would arrange a cover-up. In the end I agreed – I was too upset to think straight. Afterwards, I knew I’d done wrong, but it was too late – I thought the police wouldn’t believe me after I’d lied to them, and Phil told me since Ric was dead, it wouldn’t help him in any case. I felt I had to do what Phil said – I even felt grateful to him. He manipulated me, and took advantage of me while I was in a fragile state after the rape, and grieving over Bryan. Later, when I knew Phil better, I thought he might kill me if I stood up to him – I was afraid, I knew by then he was capable of it.”

  “PHIL SCHEMED TO GET RIC’S MILLIONS”

  Emma reveals how little she knew about Phil Sharott, now 37, even when she became his unsuspecting girlfriend. He played Svengali in her life, running her singing career and dictating everything she did.

  “He was a control-freak. He would even tell me what to wear – he liked me to look good when we went out together, but he didn’t want me to be too successful. He was possessive and jealous. He’d always had his eye on me, right from the start. But it wasn’t just me in Phil’s plans – he wanted Ric Kealey out of the way so he could get his hands on his money. That was part of his scheme, to let him take the blame for Bryan’s death. I knew nothing about this, I had no idea Ric was alive, until today when Ric came to his house.”

  Emma was stunned when she discovered, just yesterday, that Phil had organized the fake accident in which Ric ‘died’ three years ago. “He told Ric to take his Cessna aeroplane, and picked him from the sea in his yacht and took him abroad to go into hiding. Phil was married to Ric’s sister, and she inherited his fortune. When she died, Phil got his hands on it, which is what he wanted all the time.”

  I finished the article, then worked my way through all the others. Though totally absorbed in reading, I was distantly aware of Ric on the mezzanine getting out of bed, going to the bathroom for a shower and dressing. Now he came downstairs, smiled, flipped on the kettle and picked up the nearest paper.

  “Look at this one. Here.” I handed him the Daily Mail, and watched his face as he read, his frown deepening.

  “She doesn’t name me. That figures. It’d be libel, now I’m alive. But it won’t take long for people to work out who she means…” He read on, and gave a short laugh. “So she’s dropped Phil in it…we might have guessed. That’s why she scarpered before the police arrived. Not to escape – to get her version on record.”

  “Yes. I suppose if they’d charged her, the paper wouldn’t have been able to print an interview, it would have been contempt of court or something – prejudicing legal proceedings? She’s scheming as well as horrible.”

  “Now Ric has returned, I’m so relieved all the lies are over. I’m going public so people know what really happened, so Bryan’s family can find peace of mind at last,” Ric read, his voice acerbic. “Big of her. She’s all heart, is our Emma.”

  “I feel a bit sorry for Phil.”

  His eyebrows went up. “You’re talking about some other Phil, I take it, not the Phil who tied you up, injected you with K and planned to strangle you and set fire to your workshop?”

  I laughed. “You have a point…but he was trying to protect her, and take the blame himself. And now she’s saying it was all his doing.”

  “Then they’re in total agreement. They both want him to be the fall-guy. I don’t see the problem.” Ric spooned coffee, and added water and milk.

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “Make toast. Then take you back to bed. After that, Maidenhead. If you come too, I can load the bike in your van and you can drive to London while I get the third degree from the police.”

  “Fine, but I really meant, now you’re back. What are your plans for the future?”

  “Make an album that’ll blow everyone else out of the water.” Ric’s expression was assured, happy; he’d got his life back and he knew what to do with it, this time round. I hoped I’d fit into it somewhere.

  Chapter

  33

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  It’s autumn now; bright blue skies, leaves edging the pavements for toddlers to shuffle through, and crisp dark evenings with a hint of bonfires in the air. The summer’s events, culminating in that July night, forged a lasting connection between the four of us; me, Ric, James and Jeff. It changed us all too.

  I suppose the biggest change is for Ric. He’s got what he wanted; a second chance to get it right. He hasn’t got his fortune back yet, and it seems he won’t until the trial is over – it hasn’t even begun, there have got to be hearings first, and it may be months before it does. The law moves slowly. Phil and Emma were refused bail. The police believe me and Ric, not them. They found the remains of the pink folder and its evidence, in a part of the garden well away from the house; charred Armani buttons among the ashes of the blouse and the photos, concealed with a covering of earth. The buckle and studs from Dog’s collar were there too.

  I can’t imagine Emma in Holloway, but she’s wily enough to survive life in jail. Phil
less so, I think. I know Ric’s right, but when I think of Phil in prison, having lost everything, betrayed by the woman he loves, and no doubt being given a hard time by Voices fans, I feel a twinge of pity. There is going to be mammoth publicity around the trial, given its sensational aspects – one murder, two attempted murders, Phil and Emma’s testimony conflicting, and the main witness a rock god back from the dead. A bonanza for the press.

  Rumours about Ric raping Emma are circulating, but none of the newspapers will print them. Private Eye came closer than any of the others, but stuck to hints and allusions, nothing actionable. Ric’s not happy about this, but accepts he’ll just have to live with it.

  He’s hired a forensic accountant to track down and identify his money from Phil’s financial records: a far from straightforward task, since Phil had moved it around in multiple offshore accounts to conceal its provenance. The whole thing will be a nightmare to unravel, but at least the documents I emailed myself from Phil’s computer have turned out to be a useful starting place.

  Meanwhile, Ric’s already begun to earn himself a new fortune. Jeff had the idea for a benefit gig, a final get-together at the O2 arena for the remaining three Voices. It sold out within minutes, with tickets going for thousands on the black market. I went, watching from backstage, and it was fantastic, unbelievable, a night to remember. When Ric walked on stage with all the spotlights focused on him the crowd went wild – I thought they’d never stop clapping, cheering and whistling. In the end, Ric did a thumbs up and started playing, and the audience quietened down. Twenty thousand people controlled by one man. The waves of enthusiasm, the energy coming from the fans filling that vast space was palpable. And the band earned it; you’d never have thought it had been over three years since their last performance. (Ric told me later the substitute bassist was bland. Ric misses Bryan, though I think he’s less troubled in his mind now he knows how he died – he still blames himself, but he’s coming to terms with it.) He spent an hour signing autographs afterwards. The crowd round him didn’t diminish, indeed it got bigger, and at last we dragged him away.

  In the car, I got him to sign my Access All Areas pass. I told him I’d sell it on eBay if I was ever desperate for money. Not that I really would…

  It’s staggering, the adulation Ric attracts. I hadn’t realized what it was like, never having been a fan, or particularly interested in celebrities. Everywhere he goes, and that includes the most exclusive places, people stare, take photographs and more often than not approach him. And their attitude varies from goodwill and admiration for his talent to fanatical worship; from discreet glances to stalking, harassment, mobbing and offers of sexual favours. Ric handles the attention well. He’s pretty laid back about it, accepts it as part of the deal, is even, I suspect, reassured by it, after years of living as a nonentity.

  Jeff has lent Ric ten million pounds to be getting on with.

  “Ten million?”

  The idea of Jeff slipping it to him as if it were a few quid because he’d left home without any cash made me burst out laughing.

  Ric grinned. “Yeah. Means I can get on with stuff now, not wait for my money to come through. D’you want some? Pay off the bank loan?”

  Some old-fashioned scruple prevented my saying yes. But Hello Magazine is going to do a feature on me and my rocking horses. They rang last week, mentioning a mind-boggling fee.

  “You want to pay me how much?” I put my hand over the receiver and relayed the news to Ric. He calmly took the phone from me, and offered to be in the background of one of the shots, if they’d double their bid. Which they did. I didn’t agree to it immediately, because I wasn’t sure I wanted to become any more well-known than I already was.

  It’s a bit of a drag, to be honest, being a minor celebrity, though it has its amusing side. Even when Ric’s not here, there’s often a handful of paparazzi hanging around in Fox Hollow Yard, and if I go anywhere they follow, poking cameras in my face and generally getting in the way, doing their job. I’ve got quite friendly with some of them, through seeing them so frequently. Sometimes they give me a hand loading or unloading horses from my van. These guys are oddly protective of me if they think a new paparazzo is overstepping the line. I’ve learned to live with their presence – but I resist the urge to buy the papers to look at the pictures and check what they say about me. That way madness lies.

  Though I’m only famous for being Ric’s girlfriend, and nearly being murdered by Phil and Emma, it’s been good for business. The Google ranking on my website has rocketed from three to five. I’ve sold almost my entire stock of horses, and am working hard to replace them. Only Teasel and Saladin remain in the office/showroom. Saladin turned out as well as I predicted he would when I bought him in a sorry state last spring. I’m proud of my work. With perfect dapples, a dark grey mane and tail, tan harness and crimson velvet saddlecloth with gold fringing, he looks as splendid as he did more than a century ago when he was new. He’s a special horse. Dave Calder says he wants to buy Saladin. I’m not sure how serious he is – or whether I can bring myself to part with him.

  Ric bought himself a couple of side-by-side penthouse flats in SE1, on the edge of the Thames near the Globe, and has had one adapted into a state-of-the-art recording studio. He’s working on his solo album; he’s really excited about it. He comes to see me on the Harley, or I bike over London Bridge to his place. When he’s out of London, Dog stays with me.

  James and I are back to our old easy relationship, just the way we used to be…more or less. We still see each other at least once a week; he comes to my place or takes me out for a meal, and him, me, Ric and Jeff go out together quite often too. But James has changed. Sometimes I catch him looking at me, and I have a dark suspicion he is keeping a scrapbook with newspaper cuttings about me. A few weeks ago I dropped into his flat to pick him up for another trip to the garden centre. (His garden’s improved with all the work we’ve put into it, and next summer, when the new plants have settled and grown, it’ll be really nice.) On the sofa were open copies of the Sun and the Daily Mail – not at all his normal reading – with bits cut neatly out of their pages. I pretended not to notice, and next thing they weren’t there, he’d whisked them away. But he’ll find another girlfriend soon, no doubt. He’s such a nice guy.

  Three months on, Jeff’s still dropping in unannounced, and still a pain. He’s never going to mellow, but I’ve got used to him, and it’s as though he now accepts me, both as Ric’s girlfriend and as one of the gang – I’m in the inner circle in a way Emma never was. He still calls me Vikki half the time. He’s caustic with me, but then he needles Ric even more, sometimes to a point where I don’t know how he puts up with it. In an odd way, it’s how Jeff expresses his affection. Ric’s easy-going with him, though on a couple of occasions he’s kicked him out when he’s gone too far. This doesn’t seem to bother Jeff, or stop him from returning. James sometimes says, “I wouldn’t do that, old chap,” if Jeff’s about to do something extra outrageous, and we’ve all started chanting it in unison as appropriate. Even Dave Calder does.

  How have I changed? Well, my muscles are stronger and my reflexes faster because I now take Jitsu lessons twice a week. I never want to feel as powerless again as I did that night at Phil Sharott’s. It also occurs to me that I wasn’t quite as hopeless at private investigating as I thought – after all, Ric and I got to the truth in the end. But mainly it’s my feelings for Ric, which have grown and spread like one of those invasive creepers they advise you not to plant in Gardeners’ Question Time in case it gets totally out of hand. I haven’t felt this way before, it’s new to me, uncharted territory. It’s like drinking champagne all the time but never getting drunk or having a hangover. And that’s all I’m going to say; I’m superstitious, I don’t want to boast or tempt fate. Will Ric and I still be together in a year’s time? In five years? I’ll have to wait and see. I don’t look too far ahead; none of us knows what the future will bring.

  But now is good.
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  www.lexirevellian.com

  If you have enjoyed reading Remix, you may like another novel by Lexi Revellian, Replica.

  Replica UK

  Replica US