Murder Most Fab (21 page)

Catherine
dropped me off at the end of Castlenau Gardens at two forty-five a.m. The
streets were deserted and every window was dark. As the car pulled up, she
turned to me. ‘Good luck, Cowboy. Keep your nerve.’

We
looked at each other for a moment, and I think Catherine saw fear in my eyes. She
stroked my face. ‘It’ll be fine. You can do it. Don’t worry.’

I got
out of the car, longing to be anywhere but there. Then she drove slowly away.

I went
to the phone box at the end of the street and waited. I was jumpy and nervous,
certain I was being watched by a host of nosy neighbours who were already
practising describing me to the
Crimewatch
artist. The phone rang, as
arranged, at exactly two fifty-five. I knew it was Georgie, phoning to make
sure there were no last-minute delays or unexpected developments. I let it ring
only once before I picked it up.

“Ello, Georgie.
‘Ow yer doin’?’ I said, using the rough south-London accent that had turned him
on so much in our more conventional encounters. I knew he’d like that touch.

‘An!’
He gave a little gasp of excitement. ‘All set here. Ready to go.’ He hung up.

I felt
sick. So, this was it. Time to test my resolve. I took a deep breath. It was
too late to back out. All I could do was give it my all, and try, in the
strangest of circumstances, to remain the epitome of professionalism. I put on
my black leather gloves and pulled my Vivienne Westwood jacket collar up around
my ears.

No one
was about but I managed a casual saunter just in case, looking, I imagined,
like an innocent youth mooching home after a frustratingly chaste date with his
frigid girlfriend. I had always been good at making up scenarios.

A few
moments later I moved silently down the side of the house. There was a single
lamp on in the lounge and the french windows were unlocked, as agreed. I
climbed over the balcony and let myself in as quietly as I could, glancing
round to make doubly sure that no one was about.

Inside,
I drew the curtains and listened. There wasn’t a sound except the ticking of a
clock. On the sofa were the overalls, surgical gloves and shoe covers Georgie
had bought for me. I slipped them on, exchanging leather for latex, amazed at
how calm and collected I was feeling. I moved into the bedroom and saw the
shape of a sleeping form under the duvet. When I reached the bedside Georgie
stirred and said, ‘Who’s there?’ just as arranged.

His
acting’s a trifle wooden, I thought. Never mind.

I had
memorized the instructions he had given me and ticked them off in my mind one
by one, needing just the occasional glance at my watch to check I was on
schedule. The sex I could do with my eyes closed (and frequently did) and the
moderate S and M wasn’t unusual either. Once things began hotting up, though, I
believe I went into automatic pilot. If someone asks you, pays you even, to
hog-tie them and take a pair of pliers to their nipples, it’s important to
remind yourself that their muffled cries are really of satisfaction, not pain.

There
was only one unexpected glitch: he choked rather violently on the lemon I
pushed, as instructed, into his mouth. He went very purple and tears streamed
down his cheeks. Should I remove the zesty fruit and offer him a glass of
water, I wondered, or press gamely on? In the end the choking subsided and his
cheeks returned to near-normal pinkness.

I was
as ready as he was for the end when it came. I took a couple of deep breaths,
wound the strap twice round his neck and pulled. I guess I hadn’t bargained for
how long it would take or the amount of thrashing about that ensued. I could
see, as I looked into his eyes, that deep down, underneath it all, Georgie was
having the time of his life, but that didn’t stop the involuntary struggling as
his body tried to overrule his wishes. When he finally slumped, dead at last, I
realized we were no longer on the bed but halfway across the room. I continued
to hold the strap tight with both fists clenched and counted to a thousand.

As a
consequence I finished seven minutes later than intended.

I laid Georgie’s body out
as he had requested, and took the liberty of adding a squirt of Clinique’s
Happiness. There had been some loss of bowel and bladder control, as you might
expect under the circumstances. I cleared this up with surprisingly little
squeamishness (that’s country folk for you) but a heavy faecal odour lingered
in the air. Respectfully, I kit the incense and lowered the lights. I was hot
and sweaty, but as my instructions were now to go out dancing it didn’t much
matter.

Before
I closed the bedroom door, I stood back to admire my handiwork. I had done it,
and it hadn’t been as bad as I’d expected. Clean and serene (if a little red in
the face), Georgie lay with his hands clasped across his chest and he was
wrapped in freshly ironed antique linen, folded about his face; it gave him an
unexpected —and, I suspect, unwanted — nun-like appearance. The blue smoke from
the incense curled round him. It all seemed rather Victorian.

I
smiled at the shrouded figure in his chapel of rest and considered my work
well done. I packed the rubber gloves and the other paraphernalia into a small
black sports bag and left the flat silently through the french windows.

‘Remember
me, Georgie,’ I whispered.

Just as
we’d arranged, Catherine was waiting outside in our new red sports car (she had
already taken care of the first ten thousand pounds of my payment). She looked
at me but I didn’t say a word. We drove away in silence. When we eventually
stopped at traffic-lights on Vauxhall Bridge she said, ‘I don’t know why
I’m
shaking. How did it go?’

Sounding
rather like a doctor after a difficult operation, I said, ‘As well as can be
expected.’

‘Good.
Well done, I knew you could do it. How was he?’

‘He
went with a smile on his face.’

‘That’s
just what he wanted. Now — everything in the sports bag?’ she asked.

I
nodded.

‘Off
you go and enjoy yourself, then,’ she said. ‘Here’s a little pick-me-up for
you.’ She handed me a miniature plastic bag with three thick yellowish pills in
it. ‘Best to swallow them now to avoid any security nonsense. While you’re
shaking your stuff, I’ll take the bag to the incinerator and watch it burn.
Have you got the money?’

‘Here
it is.’ I pulled the envelope of cash out of my pocket.

‘Take a
hundred pounds or so for tonight, and give me the rest. It’ll be safer that
way.’

‘Okay.’
I peeked off some notes and handed the envelope to her.

‘Good.’
She tucked it into the side pocket in the door. ‘I’ll look after it. Now go and
have fun. I’ll see you when I see you, Cowboy.’

I got
out of the car. A light drizzle was falling but Catherine leant across, wound
down the passenger window and said, ‘It wasn’t murder, sweetheart. It was an
act of kindness.’

Then
she roared off. I watched as the tail-lights of our whizzy new car disappeared
on the Vauxhall roundabout, then headed for the dark doors under the bridge
that led to the steamy world of a club called the White Swallow.

Once
inside, I took my ecstasy and danced topless on a podium for a couple of hours,
gyrating and gurning with the best of them. Drugged and delirious, I greeted
even the vaguest acquaintance with uncharacteristic friendliness.

‘Nicholas!
You’re looking fabulous!’ I squeaked at one. In reality, he was overdressed as
usual, the stunted attempt at a Mohican he was sporting doing little to
disguise his imminent baldness, but now was not the time to tell him the
blindingly obvious. I wanted to escape reality, particularly on that night of
all nights. ‘It’s so wonderful to see you!’

Nicholas
wittered on and I pretended to listen. Suddenly, through the steamy haze, a
figure emerged, swanning into my vision with a sinister smoothness. ‘Well,
hello, stranger,’ it said.

To my
astonishment, I recognized him. It was the unpleasant Sean from Lewisham School
of Musical Theatre. ‘Sean,’ I said. ‘How charming.’

He
still looked bizarrely thin, his cheeks hollower than ever. He smiled, like a
cheerful skulk. ‘It’s been ages. You seem to be having a good time. Mind if I
dance with you?’

The
drug to make that an attractive proposition had not been invented, but here was
another witness to my whereabouts, and I had to force myself. ‘Of course! It’ll
be like old times.’

Off he
went, giving it his all. Sean’s step-balk-change style of dancing might have
got him into the chorus of an Eastbourne production of
Dick Whittington
but
it earned him few admirers on the dance-floor that night. Queens dressed as
garage mechanics forgot their butch act and arched their backs, hurrying to get
as far away from Sean’s display as they could, as fast as their Dr Martens
could carry them. Sean did a perfect double-spin and was suddenly up close to
my face. ‘You know something, Johnny?’

He was
puckering up to me, I saw with horror. ‘What’s that, Sean?’

‘We’ve
had our differences, but I’ve always felt a special connection to you—’

I had
to stop him right there. ‘Sean, I once said to you that I thought anyone could
sing or dance.’

‘You
did, but you regret it now, I expect?’ He stroked my sweat-wet hair and gazed
lovingly into my dilated pupils.

‘I was
wrong. Not everyone can dance. You can’t.’

It was about noon when I
got back to the flat, completely washed out and very depressed from the
inevitable comedown. I had shaken off Sean, but it hadn’t made me feel any
better.

Catherine
was busy on the phone to John Lewis. She mouthed, ‘
Ciao!’
at me as I
slumped on to the sofa, eyes like saucers and a cold sweat on my brow. Then she
went on, ‘And have you got one in stock now? With the glitterball? How soon can
you deliver? Great. We’ll be in this afternoon to pay in cash. Thank you.’ She
looked me up and down. ‘Go and have a shower, Cowboy,’ she said, waving a hand
under her nose. ‘You smell like an abattoir. Then we’ll go shopping. The
Italian sofas and the fridge will be with us by next Wednesday. Doesn’t that
make it all worthwhile?’

‘Not
really,’ I said.

‘Oh,
you’ll soon forget about dispatching the old trout when we’ve got ice cubes at
the press of a button.’

I left
her to her shopping and went for a shower and a lie-down. I wouldn’t say I had
a clear head, but for the first time I allowed myself to contemplate my
actions.

So. Now
I was a murderer. It didn’t feel as bad as I’d thought it would but perhaps
that was because it was so hard to believe I’d never see Georgie again. The
whole thing still felt like one of the games we played, where I was tough and
merciless, punishing him in just the way he liked. Would he really never greet
me at the door, paunchy and pink-cheeked, telling me what a saucebox I was and
could I do it again next week?

Come
on, I told myself sternly. It’s not as though you’re going to make a habit of
it. This was essentially self-harming — and was what Georgie had wanted. He’d
just done it by proxy.

I
repeated this to myself until I felt innocent. I was almost able to forget what
I’d done, but not quite. I felt a vague, distant sense of worry and regret, as
if I’d run over a cat or been needlessly rude to a shop assistant. I must learn
to live with this feeling, I thought. In case it never goes away.

But I
very much hoped it would.

It was about four o’clock
when Sammy called.

‘I’m
afraid I have bad news,’ he said calmly. ‘Our dear friend Georgie is dead.’

‘Oh,
Sammy, I’m so sorry,’ I replied. I sounded convincing, even to myself I’d done
a very good job of persuading myself that I’d had nothing to do with it.
‘That’s a terrible shock. He told me he was unwell but I thought he had some
time …’

‘I’ve
been away for the weekend and there was no sign of him on the veranda this
morning. I was worried because his curtains were still drawn. I had an awful
feeling that something—’ He stopped, and a big sob of grief distorted the line.

‘What
do you mean?’ I said carefully. I had to remember what I knew and what I
didn’t. ‘What happened?’

‘I went
in and he was laid out on the bed, covered with a sheet. I had a little peep —
it was awful, he was obviously dead — then ran back to my flat and called the
police at once. There are dozens of them, forensics, photographers, yellow
crime-scene tape everywhere. ‘‘Sammy,’ I said, in a deep voice, ‘how terrible.
Whatever happened to him?’

‘I
think he was murdered. He must have gone out again and picked up someone
dangerous. I told him not to, but he was always hot-headed. But, then, he was
laid out so beautifully. Why would a thug go to such trouble? I don’t
understand. And no one will tell me anything.’

There
was a pause.

‘I’m
just so shocked,’ I said — rather believably, I thought.

‘Georgie
was my sister,’ Sammy almost whispered. ‘Why would someone want to hurt him?’