Murder Most Fab (40 page)

‘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 of 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.

I
worried terribly about my mother, and prayed that reporters weren’t camped
outside the cottage in Cherry Lane, making her life a misery. After a fortnight
or so, she came to visit me. She looked smaller and wide-eyed. I knew it must
have been strange for her to venture out of Kent. She was wearing a pretty lace
blouse with an oatmeal cardigan and a russet hemp skirt. People looked at her
as she skipped towards me, their eyes lingering on her feet. Bless her, I
thought. She was wearing red wellington boots, covered with authentic Kentish
mud.

‘I
haven’t seen you for ages!’ was her greeting. ‘Why haven’t you been home to see
me, you naughty boy?’

‘A bit
tricky at the moment,’ I said. ‘I’m in prison, Mother.’

‘Still,
it seems very nice here,’ she said, beaming around the visitors’ hall as if it
were a dormitory at Eton. ‘I can see lots of nice men with tattoos for you to
make chums with.’

‘How’s
Grandma Rita?’ I asked. ‘Is she any better?’

‘Oh,
no, dear. She refuses to get out of bed. What a carry-on. She’s got bedsores
and …’ she lowered her voice ‘… there’s a terrible smell, like rotting
meat. Who knows what’s going on under that eiderdown?’

‘Shouldn’t
she be in hospital?’ I asked.

‘Well,
yes. But she’s terribly worried the doctors might make her better. They’re
known for it, apparently, and it’s not what she wants right now.’

‘She
wants to die?’

‘Oh,
yes, she’s looking forward to it. She could do with a change.’

‘Is she
conscious?’

‘Well,
she speaks and moves her head about, but it’s not very interesting. I’d say
she’s on a par with Gyles Brandreth.’

‘It’s all
my fault,’ I said.

‘Oh,
no, precious! Gyles has only himself to blame.’

‘I mean
about Grandma.’

‘At
least she rallied enough to arrange your legal representation. Grandpa was
very high up in the Masons — he had to sit on Prince Philip’s lap in one
ceremony, he told me. Anyway, she made a few phone calls and got you the best
lawyers emeralds can buy. I believe this Mr Lipsmack charges a great deal of
money. Let’s hope he gets you off.’

I felt
deeply depressed by all the trouble I was causing. ‘I’m sorry, Mother. I can’t
tell you what a ghastly mess it is. I feel terrible about bringing you to a
place like this.’

‘You’re
not to worry about me. A nice man from the
Daily Mail
drove me here.’

I
covered my eyes with my hands. ‘No, Mother. There are no nice men at the
Daily
Mail.’

‘Well,
this one is!’ she said indignantly. ‘He’s giving me a lift home too, with his
photographer friend.’ Leaning towards me, she whispered, ‘So. What they want to
know is … did you do it?’

I had
no idea how to reply. I had pleaded not guilty, but I knew I was guilty of
something. I just didn’t think it was murder in the way that everyone else
seemed to think it was. And as whatever I said would be printed in the
Daily
Mail,
I had to choose my words carefully.

‘I’ve
lost everything,’ I said. ‘Catherine’s waltzed off with all my money.’

Alice
shrugged. ‘Life’s easier without too many material possessions. Remember how we
used to be?’ For a fleeting moment, she looked sad.