The White Amah (21 page)

‘Your
daughter!’
said Rubiah fiercely. ‘Here.’ She hunted through her bag for her mobile phone. ‘Look,’ she said, bringing up a photo of Mei Li.

Under David’s tutelage, Mei Li was becoming competent with technology and she’d sent the photo to Rubiah’s mobile in the belief the woman she thought of as her mother was still in Miri. David had taken the photo of Mei Li feeding the pigeons in Trafalgar Square. Her long black hair was tied back in a ponytail and her face, which could have been Tuff’s own at the same age, was smiling joyfully into the camera.

‘She looks like me.’

‘Daughters usually look like their mothers,’ said Rubiah. Privately she didn’t think sweet-faced Mei Li looked anything like her hag of a mother, but she hadn’t known Crystal at seventeen, before she reinvented herself.

Tuff handed back the mobile. ‘Does she know about me?’

‘Not, yet,’ replied Rubiah, the threat implicit.

‘What do you want?’

‘What do you think? Either you pay me to keep quiet or I’ll sell the story to the highest bidder. I read a story about you and those
orphaned twins you adopted in the Sun. What a follow-up this would be. I only have to make one call and you’re finished.’

‘Don’t do that. I’m a very rich woman. I’ll give you anything you want.’

‘Good, you’re very wise. I’m staying at the Dorchester in suite twenty-three. Be there tomorrow at three pm and bring your cheque book.’

When she’d gone Tuff locked herself in a stall and sat with her head in her hands, moaning softly in case someone heard. She was finished if this came out, especially now when she had made such a display over adopting the twins. She wondered how much the
Sun
would pay that mercenary cow for a tell-all story. It wasn’t fair. She allowed herself to cry even though she knew it meant panda eyes.

T
UFF DRESSED CONSERVATIVELY FOR HER ASSIGNATION WITH
R
UBIAH
in a tailored navy Chanel suit, a hand-painted silk scarf round her neck to hide her famous tattoo. She had several wigs she regularly wore when she craved anonymity and now she put on a mid-length black one. The transformation was amazing. Tuff felt confident that any photographers lurking outside the Dorchester wouldn’t recognise her. Still, she couldn’t disguise her striking beauty and she caught the eye of a number of guests milling round the hotel’s foyer, but none of them identified the tall, elegant woman behind the dark glasses as the queen of rock and roll.

Rubiah had left her door ajar. Anticipating the pay-off, Tuff thought sourly. She had agonised over the situation and made up her mind to give the unscrupulous blackmailer whatever she asked as long as she kept her mouth shut. She rapped on the door sharply, and without bothering to wait for an invitation walked in.

Rubiah lay on the tumbled bed in a crumpled heap like a discarded doll, white satin robe stained crimson and with the long sash bound tightly round her throat. Tuff backed away from the bruised and bloodstained body in horror, shaking with fear. She had to get out of there. Just then Rubiah moaned feebly. She’s not dead, thought Tuff with relief, and rushed to help her.

After she removed the sash she tried to sit Rubiah up, but she had lost consciousness again. Tuff knew she had to call for help, but her instinct for self-preservation was quickly coming to the fore and she decided to call from a lobby phone. She looked at her bloodstained hands in horror. She’d have to wash them first. She was drying her hands when the Filipino housemaid came into the bedroom and screamed loudly enough to wake the dead. Tuff looked around for somewhere to hide. Drawing the curtain of the shower stall, she huddled in the corner, praying she wouldn’t be discovered.
Go for help!
she willed the maid.
Don’t just stand there screaming, you stupid cow.
Tuff hoped she might still have a chance to slip away unnoticed, but her prayer went unanswered.

In no time the room was full of hotel staff and fifteen minutes later the police arrived. The sergeant found Tuff cowering in the shower, too frightened to show herself.

‘I’m Chief Inspector Marwick and this is Detective Sergeant Berry,’ said a burly, middle- aged man. He looked self-satisfied. He hadn’t expected to find the assailant so easily. ‘Could you tell us your name, madam?’

Tuff shook her head. She was trembling violently. Berry pulled out a chair and she sank into it.

‘We’d like to ask you some questions about what took place. Could you explain what you were doing here, madam?’

‘I have nothing to say until I’ve talked to my lawyer.’

‘You can phone him from the station. We’re quite happy for him to be present when we charge you.’

‘Charge me … What with, for christ’s sake?’

‘Murder.’

‘Murder? That’s impossible. She was alive when I found her.
Surely you can’t think I had anything to do with her death. This is outrageous. Do I look like a murderer?’

Both officers looked coldly at the wild-eyed woman in the bloodstained suit; neither had the slightest doubt of her guilt.

‘We would like to ask you some more questions at the station,’ said Marwick, grasping her firmly by the upper arm, surprised to feel iron-hard muscles under her fine cashmere jacket. She was certainly strong enough to have beaten up and strangled such a tiny woman, he judged.

‘Don’t touch me,’ warned Tuff, pulling away and lashing out furiously. In the short scuffle before she was overpowered, her wig fell off and her dark glasses were broken.

‘Well, just look who’ve we’ve got here,’ said Marwick as he placed the wig and sunglasses in a plastic evidence bag, thinking what a tale he’d have to tell his wife.

‘Give that back to me,’ she hissed.

‘Are you going to come quietly or are you going to make things … tough on yourself.’ Marwick smirked, his beady eyes agleam.

Berry grinned. He couldn’t wait to see his mates’ faces when they brought in the most well-known celebrity in Britain. It was worth a cut lip, he thought.

The media pack was assembled outside, eager to get pictures and a statement for the six o’clock news.

‘My God, that’s Tuff,’ exclaimed the astonished reporter from the
Telegraph
to his rival on the Sun, thrown by such an unexpected scoop.

There was a momentary hiatus as the newshounds took in the startling revelation, then cameras flashed endlessly as a
demented Tuff was half dragged and half carried to the waiting police car by two stern-faced detectives. She was charged with the murder of Rubiah.

‘But I’m innocent,’ she sobbed as she was led away to a cell.

After the police officers left, Tuff stalked backwards and forwards like a caged tigress. Her heart was pounding furiously and she was too hyped up to stop her endless circuits of the tiny cell. She couldn’t understand why everyone was so ready to believe she was guilty, not only the detectives but her solicitor too. She’d spent over two hours with him and she could tell he hadn’t believed a word of her story, although he had agreed to represent her.

‘The police seem confident that the blood on your suit will match up with the victim’s,’ Bailey, the poker-faced solicitor had pointed out.

‘I’ve already told you how that happened. I was trying to resuscitate her.’

‘And it hasn’t helped your case that you were discovered hiding in the bathroom in disguise.’

‘I didn’t kill her. I was trying to save her. Why won’t anyone believe me?’

‘I’m afraid the fact that you admitted the victim was blackmailing you has provided a motive for the crime.’

‘But I didn’t touch her. She was dying when I arrived. You’ve got to believe me. It’s not fair that a woman in my position should be treated like a common criminal. Why don’t the police look for the real killer instead of picking on me just because I’m rich and famous?’

‘If someone else is responsible the police will find him or her. If you’re innocent you have no need to fear.’

‘But what happens in the meantime? When am I going to get out of here?’ she screeched.

‘I’m sorry, but you’ll have to stay in custody until the police have provided all their evidence to the Department of Public Prosecutions and –’

‘I’m not staying here,’ she said in horror. ‘Get me out, now. Do you hear me, Bailey? They can’t keep me in this place.’ She wrinkled her nose and looked around the bare cell. ‘It’s not hygienic. I won’t stay.’

‘Calm down, Ms Brooke,’ Bailey said, removing her frantic hands from the lapels of his bespoke pinstriped suit. ‘I’m doing all that’s possible to have you released on bail.’

‘Bail … oh, thank god. How long will that take?’ She gave him a half-smile.

‘Tomorrow morning at the earliest.’

‘You mean I have to stay in here tonight? No way. Let me out,’ she yelled and began pounding on the cell door.

‘You mustn’t upset yourself like this, my dear,’ he said, drawing her back to the hard narrow bunk. ‘Try to rest. You have to appear before the magistrate tomorrow and you want to make a good impression, don’t you?’

Bailey knew Sir Alaric Eddy had an eye for the ladies. It was well known that he was predisposed to show leniency when his sexual interest was piqued, but it was unlikely he’d be attracted by this client’s bizarre appearance. The solicitor sighed. It had been a long day and he needed to put in a hard night’s work if he was to convince the old goat to grant bail.

He stood up and rapped on the cell door. ‘I’ll ask the warden if your doctor can visit you. Perhaps he can prescribe a sedative to help you get through the night.’

The door opened and he went out quickly without a backward glance at his traumatised client, who was standing in the middle of the cell trying to avoid touching any surface. There was no way she was going to lie down on the bunk, even if it meant she had to stand up the entire night.

As expected, the court was packed. The media turned up in full force to hear Sir Alaric Eddy remand Crystal Brooke, also known as Tuff, to trial without bail.

‘Not So Tuff!’ screamed the Sun’s headline above a picture of the hysterical rock star being bundled into the paddy wagon along with prostitutes, drug dealers, muggers and shoplifters, bound for Holloway Prison.

T
HE CROWDED PRISON WAS EXPERIENCING MASSIVE STAFF SHORTAGES
and overworked prison officers were fighting a losing battle when it came to hygiene. The double cell allocated to Tuff hadn’t been cleaned after the previous inmate was moved to a bail hostel. The old woman who shared Tuff’s cell didn’t give a monkey’s but the millionaire rock star was used to fivestar service. When she complained, the prison officer told her to hurry up and make her bed and then she’d show her where the mops were kept.

Tuff stared at the prison-issue bedding in disbelief. Her own seven-hundred-thread-count embroidered sheets were woven from Italian linen and coordinated perfectly with her handcrafted Egyptian cotton duvet. Tuff loved the feel of clean, pressed sheets every night, and her housekeeper changed them twice a day, in the morning and after her afternoon nap. Clumsily, she made up the bunk with the greyed sheets and spread the thin blanket on top. When she finished she curled up on the rough blanket and tried to sleep.

How had it come to this? There wasn’t a single person who really cared what happened to her. They’re all jealous, she told herself, forcing back a sob. It was just because she was a tall poppy. She remembered how, when she first started to make a name for herself, she’d thought about contacting her father but there were too many secrets in the way. Now she was glad she’d
resisted the urge. She hoped he’d never find out she was rotting in prison, accused of murder. She felt tears start in her eyes.

The other occupant smiled to herself. She knew Tuff’s mattress was infested with bedbugs. Their itchy bites had driven the previous occupant mad and covered her completely in swollen, infected sores. The old woman would have warned anyone else but she wasn’t having any truck with a heartless monster who had sold her newborn baby to headhunters. ‘It’s a wonder they didn’t eat the poor thing,’ she said to anyone who’d listen. ‘They’re cannibals, yer know.’

The first wretched day dragged on and the prisoners were locked in their cells at three-thirty in the afternoon.

‘Get used to it,’ the old lag told Tuff when she complained. ‘This is nothing. In the old days we could be banged up for twenty-four hours a day.’

‘They’ll have to let us out to go to the bathroom,’ Tuff said when she found out their toilet was blocked.

‘Not on your nelly.’ She pointed to a bucket beside the hand basin. ‘In case you get caught short.’

Tuff couldn’t believe it when the shrivelled-up old woman lifted up her skirt, pulled down her knickers and squatted over a plastic bucket. A sour gaseous smell like rotten eggs spread through the cell, saturating the air and overlaying the institutional odour of carbolic and urine that infused the entire prison and seeped into the pores of the inmates.

‘When you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go,’ she said.

‘You can’t expect me to eat in here,’ Tuff screeched at the prison officer when she brought the evening meal. ‘It’s unhygienic.’