Murder Most Fab

by Julian Clary

  I closed my eyes, refusing to allow Sammy the pleasure of seeing me shocked.

  ‘When I found Georgie’s body 1 went home and opened the letter. Would you like to know what it said?’

  I didn’t answer.

  ‘He told me all about your arrangement and how he’d talked you into it. He pleaded with me not to mention your name to the police. Nor did I. You ought to thank me.’ He waited. ‘Oughtn’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you, Sammy,’ I said, without sincerity, like an insolent schoolboy. I was utterly hollow, unable to feel anything.

  ‘It was against my better judgement,’ he said quietly. ‘But then you moved on to Bernard and superstardom beckoned. I went to the Isle of Wight and my ability to keep tabs on you lessened. But every now and then I would come to town and practise tailing you, just to see what my little JD was up to. And as you grew more famous and more successful, it occurred to me that you weren’t truly happy. And why was that? You were no longer servicing David, or anyone else. You were living for pleasure, for the moment. Then one day in Nicaragua — oops! Another of my friends gone west. Quite the little butterfingers, aren’t we? But you came home with Juan, so thank goodness for that. Your career continued to flourish. I saw the pair of you together one night, dining at the Ivy. Such a handsome, cheerful boy, I thought. But, no, it seems not. Poor Juan was full of inner turmoil and soon to take his own life. Who’d have thought it? One way or another anyone in your circle, as it were, isn’t long for this world. You really are an unlucky charm.

  ‘Then I saw you meet up with Timothy Thornchurch and the plot really started to thicken. What on earth were you up to? He was the one you loved, I could see that much. It was all so familiar.

  ‘But everything was different now. I had begun to suspect you. After all, everyone you’d got close to — except for the awful woman you live with — had ended up dead. What would happen to poor Tim? I began to fear for his safety, and for the heartbreak David would suffer if anything befell his beloved boy. I was mad with worry. I should have gone to the police then but I didn’t think they’d believe my theories about a BAFTA-award-winning serial-killer.

  ‘When we met in that restaurant — and I intended you to see me — I recognized the light of hedonism in your eyes along with a coldness I’d never thought you capable of. After that, I knew Tim was probably not long for this world. I had you tailed — sometimes by Big Boy, sometimes by one of his friends — with strict instructions that you should be stopped if it seemed you were going to harm Tim in any way. And last night was the night, wasn’t it? You were going to batter him to death, weren’t you?’

  ‘No! No!’ I cried, suddenly able to feel again. It seemed terribly important that Sammy believed me. ‘I wasn’t going to kill Tim.

  I admit, I went to his flat thinking I’d have to get rid of him. He’d threatened to reveal everything about me, you see, and I thought I had to stop him. But when I got there, I knew I couldn’t do it.

  I was going to leave the brick outside his door as a secret sign for him. You must believe me, Sammy!’

  ‘A likely story, JD,’ Sammy said scornfully. ‘You must think I’m a fool.’

  ‘Listen to me,’ I said, trying to convince him, speaking in a torrent in the attempt. ‘I’m telling you the truth! I killed Georgie because death was all he had to look forward to, Bernard because it was what he wanted and Juan because he couldn’t live without me. Believe me! But I would never have harmed a hair on Tim’s head—’

  Sammy cut me off. ‘Thank you. That will do.’

  He reached into his jacket pocket and I heard a click. For a moment I thought he had a gun, but he pulled out a Dictaphone. He pressed a button and I heard my last sentence repeated back to me: ‘… I killed Georgie because death was all he had to look forward to, Bernard because it was what he wanted and Juan because he couldn’t live without me.’

  Sammy stopped the machine. ‘You can come in now, Detective Inspector Anderton.’

  Handcuffed in the back of the police car, I asked if it was really necessary to have the sirens on. To my surprise they turned them off DI Anderton turned slowly to kook at me. ‘I thought you might like it, Mr Debonair. Thought it might make you feel important.’

  ‘My importance is in no doubt, Inspector. Where are we going?’ I asked.

  ‘Back to the beginning. Barnes nick.’

  ‘Do I get my phone call there? I think that’s my right.’ As soon as possible I had to call Catherine. She’d get me out of this mess. She’d know what to do. I half expected her to have contacted my solicitor already. No doubt a team of legal wizards was waiting for me in leafy old Barnes. The less I said the better, until I could take their advice. ‘No comment’, I believed, was the correct answer to any questions, serious or casual.

  DI Anderton was a bulky man, and I was directly behind him, studying the grey bristles on the back of his neck. I observed the way they undulated and fanned outwards, like a sea creature, as he moved his head from side to side.

  ‘Are you arresting me on suspicion of murder?’ I asked.

  ‘Correct, sir. Your taped confession is a great help, pointing us in the right direction as it has.’

  ‘But I might be lying. What if I simply say I made it all up to help an old man in his fantasies? Apart from the tape, you don’t have any real evidence,’ I said.

  ‘As it happens, we have rather a lot of evidence, sir. Very obliging, your manager. She seems to know all your secrets. But, as she said to me, things aren’t looking too good for her Christmas bonus.’

  I had no idea what he meant. I told myself he was bluffing. I decided to keep quiet until I had a lawyer in the room, or at least had talked to Catherine.

  ‘I’m thinking of pressing charges myself,’ I said, a little sulkily. ‘No one seems to care a jot that I’ve been kidnapped, drugged, tied to a chair and tricked into a bogus confession.’

  ‘I shouldn’t be so keen to mention drugs if I were you, sir. We’ll be taking a blood test shortly.’

  When we got to Barnes police station I was marched through the main entrance, past an Irish drunk and a woman, her hair scraped back into a greasy ponytail, in charge of a hysterical toddler. ‘Johnny D!’ she shrieked, stunning her child into momentary silence. ‘What are you doing here? Has he been nicked? Can I have your autograph?’

  DI Anderton and his colleague marched me past her, their minds clearly on the task in hand. They were not to be stopped by anyone. ‘What’s ‘e doin’ ‘ere?’ were the last words I heard in the free world. Seconds later I was shoved into a cell and the door was slammed behind me. Another, more genteel, noise interrupted the echo, as the cover slid from a slot in the heavy steel door.

  DI Anderton puckered up to the narrow bars.

  ‘It’s not exactly the kind of luxury you’re used to, Mr Debonair, but please bear with us. I must ask you to remain where you are.’ I heard a distinct snigger. ‘I’m sure all this unpleasantness will be sorted out in no time. Meanwhile, if you do require anything be sure to make a mental note of it and your “people” will be only too happy to provide it for you the moment your liberty is restored.’

  I was eventually granted my free phone call but every number I tried for Catherine went unanswered. I rang my mother.

  ‘Mother, it’s me. I’m in a spot of bother and I’ve been arrested. Could you get me a good lawyer?’

  ‘Darling? Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘It’s quite serious. “Murder most foul, as in the best it is…” if you get my general drift.’

  ‘Not really, dear.’

  ‘I’ve been accused of murder, Mother.’

  ‘Oh. I see. Whatever is going on with the world? I’d better phone Grandma. She’ll know what to do, I’m sure. My geraniums are still blooming beautifully — isn’t it amazing? Bye!’

  Of course. My mother didn’t yet know about Grandma Rita’s condition and it was quite likely that when she discovered it she would forget about me. I would have to reques
t a duty counsel, or whatever it was.

  But before that, lay a cold and uncomfortable night in the cells, punctuated with sightseers opening the grille on my door to peer in at my plight. The great Johnny D, curled up on a nasty hard bed in a rank little cell. Who would have believed it? Goodness only knew how many policemen were on the phone to their contacts in the press, selling the story.

  Grandma Rita must have had a burst of energy when Mother told her the news and used some of her connections in legal circles. The next morning, I found that Henry Vaughan had been appointed my solicitor.

  ‘There hasn’t been a more sensational case since Fatty Arbuckle’s! You’re all over the papers,’ he told me excitedly. ‘This could put me on the map at last! Things are moving at quite a pace. It’s considered that there’s enough evidence to prosecute you for three murders, although I believe that the CPS is still deciding about the third — that is, the death of Juan Castinello. I’m told there’s also a possible charge for the attempted murder of the Honourable Timothy Thornchurch but no more news on that one yet. Anyway, you’re to appear in court tomorrow to answer the first charges — the murders of George Hillington and Bernard Cohen — and then a trial date will be set.

  ‘A little later in the day, your barrister will be over to meet you and set out your case. Is that all clear?’

  I nodded, speechless. I still couldn’t quite believe what had happened to me .

  ‘Excellent. Lovely to meet you, Mr D. May I say that I’m a big fan? I really am! My wife is the president of the Essex Boxer Dog Rescue Association. Such a worthwhile charity. They rescue dogs, as long as they’re boxers and as long as they’re in Essex. Might you be so kind as to donate something for our fund-raising auction?’

  Then it was back into my cell until later in the afternoon when I was brought out to meet my barrister, also appointed for me by Grandma Rita, a man of suitable pomposity called Richard Lipsmack, QC.

  We faced each other over a battered old table in a cold little room lit by a fluorescent tube.

  ‘I took silk in 1986,’ he told me.

  ‘That’s nothing,’ I said. ‘I took polyester and cotton in 1992.’

  ‘Very good. I was told you were a comedian. Now then. I wouldn’t be surprised if you had no recollection of any of the alleged murders. Just a stab in the dark, but might I be right? At the time you were on a number of drugs, I suspect, and subject to blackouts both on that account and the terrible abuse, both mental and physical, to which these men subjected you …’ He was a wiry, eagle-like man in his fifties, and he eyed me beadily through his black-rimmed glasses, holding his head on one side as he waited for me to nod my reply to each question. This he wrote down, as if it were now established fact.

  ‘Well, this is a miscarriage of justice and no mistake. We’ll have to see what kind of evidence they’ve got but you’re obviously innocent. We’ll soon have you out of here and back on television where you belong.’

  It was a long time since anyone had had such blind faith in me, and I was grateful for it.

  I sat in my cell and tried to be optimistic about the future.

  I appeared in court briefly the next morning and was charged with three counts of murder: Georgie, Bernard and Juan. I spoke only twice, to confirm my name and to plead not guilty. People in the public gallery jeered and swooned in equal numbers. I scanned the rows for a reassuring glimpse of Catherine, but she wasn’t there, just hordes of scribbling journalists. The whole thing lasted a few minutes, after which I was remanded in custody and sent to Wandsworth Prison.

  The paparazzi managed to capture one image of me looking rather Christ-like as I slouched, gazing heavenward, in the prison transit van. The following day it was on the front page of every newspaper. The Sun came up with ‘Shout, Rattle and Rot!’ which I thought was one parody too many. ‘Shout Porridge!’ said the Daily Mirror, while the broadsheets said, rather obviously, ‘Shout! TV Star Charged With Three Murders Over Five Years.’

  But where on earth was Catherine in my hour of need? I asked Richard to find out why she wasn’t helping me or standing bail at least. Besides, I needed to see her so we could discuss the Juan story and get our facts straight. Would I be carrying the can for that one on my own? What evidence was there that his death wasn’t suicide, besides my taped confession? Perhaps I could still get out of it.

  I had to get used to the noise and smell of prison life: the constant banging, clanging, jingling, and the sound of feet on concrete. The smell was a mixture of piss, shit, sweat, paint and over-boiled cabbage.

  It’s not for long, I told myself. I’ll get out soon and write a bestselling book about my experience — Don’t Throw Away the Key or Snakes and Ladders — The Life of a Modern Celebrity. All I needed was a happy ending and my suffering would be justified.

  The next day Richard came to see me in my cell in the remand wing at Wandsworth Prison. He looked worried and not a little put out.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t have very good news.’ He opened his briefcase and took out several papers. ‘Can you confirm that this is your signature on each of these documents?’ He passed them to me and cocked his head while he waited for me to answer.

  ‘Yes, that’s mine. Why?’

  He sighed. ‘Mr Debonair, these are Deeds of Gift,’ he said, as if addressing a small child. ‘Your entire property portfolio was signed over to Catherine Baxter some six months ago. Legally you gave her everything.’ He paused for dramatic effect and raised his eyebrows. ‘Were you aware of this situation?’

  I frowned. I had bought the Camden flat soon after I began earning serious money on TV, and more recently I had purchased a stylish penthouse, overlooking the Thames in Docklands, and a rustic villa in Tuscany. ‘That’s ridiculous. I didn’t know I’d given her my property … I mean, I’m always signing things she asks me to sign. I expect this is a tax dodge of some sort.’

  ‘You don’t remember signing them?’ Richard sounded incredulous. ‘And these other papers, which relate to investments and similar matters?’

  ‘I sign all sorts of papers practically every day,’ I said. ‘Of course I don’t read them. That’s the whole point of having someone like Catherine. She takes care of everything like that.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ he said, rather quietly. ‘It appears that she’s sold the lot, mostly to an offshore company called Cowboy Holdings.’

  ‘Well, that’s what I mean. It’s probably a dodge. “Cowboy” is what she calls me,’ I said, convinced all this would be sorted out the moment Catherine turned up. ‘And I’m still living in the Camden flat.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Richard, ‘but you’ve been renting the property from this company at the cost of …’ he consulted the papers ‘… five hundred pounds a week.’

  I had to admit I couldn’t see how that would help me save money. It was a spacious flat in a sought-after street, but even so, that was way above the going rate. But still … There had to be an explanation. ‘Well, where is Catherine?’ I said.

  ‘Gone. Somewhere.’ He reached into his suitcase and handed me a bank statement. ‘Along with the entire contents of your bank accounts. Everything was transferred to hers some weeks ago and almost immediately withdrawn. You’ve been left with nothing. All your assets have gone. Make no mistake, Catherine has sold you down the river. She has emptied your bank accounts, sold your properties, and it appears she has even disposed of your car. You haven’t so much as a pair of cufflinks left to your name.’

  I began to sweat.

  ‘She left the country on the day of your arrest on a nine p.m. flight to Algiers.’

  I could fool myself no longer. The full extent of Catherine’s betrayal was now clear. I stood up, wiped my forehead and paced the cramped room as best I could, cold horror crawling all over my skin. ‘I can’t believe she’d do this to me,’ I said. ‘We loved each other.’

  ‘It seems such feelings may not have been mutual,’ said Mr Lipsmack, drily. ‘If Catherine loves you she has a funny way o
f showing it. She has thrown you to the lions.’

  So, we’ll go no more a-roving

  So late into the night,

  Though the heart be still as loving,

  And the moon be still as bright.

  I was in shock. I had lost everything. I had gone, in a matter of hours, from the nation’s favourite TV personality to a penniless has-been, banged up with child molesters and murderers. It was hard to take in.

  I felt so far from it all.

  Because I was on remand I was allowed to wear my own clothes but I was still locked up for twenty hours a day, given the most revolting food and forced to grapple with my desperate need of a line. For years I hadn’t gone for more than a couple of days without one, and now it was showing in my pallid, sweaty skin and shaking hands. I shared a cell with an old Albanian man called something like ‘Nango’, who spoke no English and had some sort of bowel disorder that saw him crouched over a bucket for most of the time. We had access to a toilet, but Nango’s condition meant he required his own receptacle, his straining occasionally rewarded with a foul splutter against the plastic. I could only assume that putting me in with him was some sort of evil joke on the part of the screws. I was grateful, however, that Nango had no idea who I was. Prison is the one place where you don’t want to be well-known. My famous face inspired shouts of derision whenever it was recognized. I was jostled and spat at in the lunch queue, punched and elbowed violently in the showers, and every night after lights out the entire wing would hum a discordant version of the theme tune to Shout!.

  I tried to cope as best I could by shutting it all out. I couldn’t think about what was happening and instead pretended it was a bad dream from which I would soon wake up. That wasn’t easy, though, as I was plastered all over the papers every day as the press went into a feeding frenzy, delighting in all the facts of the case as they emerged — and emerge they did, as my life was dissected by scores of journalists. My rent-boy past thrilled them, my homosexual proclivities delighted them but my allegedly homicidal nature was the biggest treat of all, the icing on a cake of scandal.