Celebrity Bride

by Alison Kervin

  'Is there something wrong?' he asks.

  'Perhaps you should take a seat, sir,' says the officer.

  'I'm fine,' Rufus replies, but I find myself sinking into the sofa all the same. This is about the diet pills, I just know it. What if Mandy and Sophie get in trouble because they were the ones who flushed them down the loo? Harbouring illegal drugs? Shit. I look up and see that one of the men is watching me constantly. He's very tall; a big chap with flinty blue eyes that seem to rip right through me as he stares. He doesn't stop looking at me. There's a smirk playing on his lips. He knows all about the drugs. Perhaps they had sniffer dogs at the drains outside the girls' flat? I knew I shouldn't have taken the slimming drugs out there. Shit.

  'We're wondering whether you know anything about Elody Elloissie,' says the smaller man, while the big guy keeps staring straight at me. I don't think he's blinked since I walked into the room.

  'I know her,' I say.

  'I know you do,' he replies. 'But did you know that she was found dead this morning? We believe she was murdered.'

  EXCLUSIVE

  By Katie Joseph

  Daily Post Showbiz Correspondent

  ONE of the world's leading fashion stylists was found dead in the early hours of this morning.

  Elody Elloissie, 37, a Parisienne who has lived in London for most of her life is believed to have been stabbed. Her body was found by a cleaner arriving for work at the Royal Institute of Fashion in Richmond, south-west London.

  Elloissie's name became synonymous with red-carpet dressing for the rich and famous when she linked up with the late fashion designer, Jon Boycott, ten years ago. They became lovers and together they designed for and styled photo shoots and magazine covers as well as working with a range of wealthy individuals and most of Hollywood's elite over a decade in the public eye.

  Yesterday her styling came to an end, though, when her body was found slumped in the vestibule at the bottom of the white marble steps of the Royal Institute of Fashion. She had been stabbed through the heart. A police spokesman at Scotland Yard said that there would be a further statement today. It is expected that they will announce the launch of a murder inquiry.

  The news has left residents of luxurious Richmond Hill reeling. Elody Elloissie was a popular and sociable member of the wealthy clique and worked with some of the world's leading celebrities. Her closest friend, Kelly Monsoon, was unavailable for comment.

  Chapter 19

  God it's hard to remember everything. The news that Elody has been murdered is still washing over me; nothing's sinking in. It just can't be true. And she was thirty-seven! I can't believe that; I mean, I knew she was older than she claimed to be, but I assumed she was around thirty-two or something like that. She looked bloody good for thirty-seven. Shit, what a nightmare; I know she was a complete bloody pain at times, but she was also someone I got to know; someone I ended up spending a lot of time with. I keep thinking of that sad face looking back at me as Henry drove her away, the previously unseen vulnerability. Little did I know that I'd never see her again; that someone was waiting to stab her and end her life.

  It's all so unreal. I'm waiting for one of the officers to say, 'Oh, hang on a minute. Is she called Elody? Sorry, we're supposed to be at the house of Elaine.' The woman was so tough, so confident and competent. It's unbelievable that she's been snatched away. Murdered? Are they sure? I wish they'd go and double-check for me, because I'm not convinced they've got this right at all.

  I have so many questions I want to ask them, but the police, in turn, have about 150 million questions that they want to ask me. I know they're only doing their job but they need to know what time it was when she left here and what mood she was in, and why she left. I'm mortified that I threw Elody out, then she came back the next morning and I threw her out again. I can't bear to tell them about the argument and the fight on the gravel driveway. What a horrible thought; I might have been one of the last people to see her and we had a horrible row. Shit. I'm never fighting with anyone ever again. They don't need to know about Elody's behaviour that provoked the argument. It seems disrespectful to Elody's memory to bring it up at all, especially since I know that every word I utter will end up in the newspapers at some stage. I owe it to Elody's memory not to do that.

  What time was it when Elody left that morning? 'Midday?' I say, but Christ, it's hard to remember.

  'Who do you think did it?' I ask.

  'We don't know yet. We're hoping that by talking to her friends and family we'll be able to build up a better picture of her life and particularly her movements yesterday. Hopefully, before too long, we'll be able to work out who had a grudge against her. Do you know of anyone who had a grudge against her?'

  Shit. Most of the people on the street had a grudge against the woman, but I can't tell them that. I look up, see the big cop staring and look back down again. 'No,' I mutter.

  'Sorry?' says the big guy. 'Didn't quite catch that.'

  'No, I don't.'

  'Did you have a grudge against her?' he asks.

  'No,' I say, looking down at my hands. 'Of course not.'

  He scribbles away in his notebook. His name is Detective Inspector Barnes; the other guy is Detective Constable Swann.

  'Just a few more questions,' says the constable. It's mainly the Swann guy who questions me. The big guy just seems to stare at me and butt in every so often, wanting more information, more detail and more explanation. I know they're talking to everyone and just trying to find out what Elody's movements were yesterday, but every time I can't answer a question properly or I stutter or stammer, I see the Barnes guy staring right through me and I feel instantly guilty.

  'What time did you say she left here?' asks the big guy. I honestly can't remember. 'Around 11 am, at a guess.'

  'Around 11 o'clock, or exactly 11 o'clock?' he says.

  Didn't I just say I didn't know exactly? 'Around 11 am,' I repeat.

  'How sure are you? How do you know it was 11 o'clock? You said 12 o'clock a minute ago. Was it dark or light? Did anyone else see her go? Where was she going? How did she travel there? What was the weather like?'

  Once they've started, the questions come raining down on me. They get me to run through everything I did that day – from the moment I got up until I went to bed. As soon as I say something like 'then I had breakfast' they want to know what I had for breakfast and whether I washed up, and was I listening to the radio at the time? Aaaaahhhh . . .

  The whole thing is rather complicated by the fact that I can't mention that I found out Elody had been hiding my letters and that's why I called her back from her shopping trip because it seems so incredibly disrespectful to Elody's memory.

  Rufus is sitting right next to me so I can't mention the arrival of the carpenter and the fact that he saw her sitting outside in the car, and how we ended up having an argument. Rufus would go mad if he knew about that. I don't suppose it matters if I don't mention the broken drawer; it's an irrelevance. These guys aren't interested in whether I broke the drawer or not, they just want to know who killed Elody . . . Still, I do feel really bad about lying to them.

  'You look worried, sweetheart. Is everything OK?' asks Rufus, sitting down next to me.

  'Fine,' I say, rather too quickly. 'Everything's just fine. Honestly. I'm just trying hard to remember everything.'

  'I can't remember where she said she was going, but it was Henry who took her so he'll know. You could ask him.'

  'We will. You didn't mention the weather.'

  'It was cold but it wasn't raining, I don't think.'

  'You don't think?' says the big guy – Detective Chief up-your-arse Barnes.

  'I don't think it was raining. I don't really remember.'

  'Are these questions annoying you?' asks Barnes.

  'A little,' I admit. 'I just don't remember exactly what I was doing at specific times. No one looks at the clock all the time, do they?'

  'But you understand that we're trying to establish specific ti
me points in order to find Elody's killer? You understand that, don't you? We're here to find out who killed your friend. She was your friend, wasn't she?'

  'Yes.'

  'Where were you between 4.30 pm and 5.30 pm yesterday?'

  'I was at my friends' flat; the place where I used to live. In Twickenham.'

  'Where in Twickenham?'

  I give them the address, then they want a description of it, and a description of the route we took to get there. Before long they'll want compass bearings and the precise location marked out on an Ordinance Survey map.

  'What time did you arrive there?'

  'At 4 pm.'

  'And you went in then?'

  'Yes.'

  Well, I didn't go in then but it's too complicated to say otherwise because then they'll ask me fifty million questions about what I was up to, and what I was up to is, frankly, none of their business and doesn't relate in any way to the crime they're supposed to be trying to solve so will only waste their time.

  'And what did you do after that?'

  'I went to the airport to meet Rufus.'

  'What time?'

  'At about 7 pm.'

  'In a black cab?'

  'No, Henry drove me.'

  'And Henry drove you to your friends' flat in Twickenham.'

  'Yes.'

  'Now, is there anything else that you haven't told us, or anything that you think you should add before we take a statement?'

  'A statement?' says Rufus. 'Why does she have to make a statement? Is she a suspect?'

  'In a case like this, everyone's a suspect,' says the smaller guy. 'We need to take a statement from all witnesses at this stage in the investigation.'

  'This is a murder inquiry sir,' says the big guy. 'Do you have a problem with Kelly giving a statement?'

  'No,' says Rufus, standing up. 'The problem I have is with your attitude.' Then he turns to me. 'Wait here. Don't say or do anything. I'm calling my lawyers.'

  Rufus comes back about five minutes later and says I'm to do nothing until a lawyer arrives. By now I'm feeling quite scared. If Rufus is insisting on his lawyer being involved, then he must think this is serious. Surely they can't think that I did it, can they? I wish the whole bloody carpenter thing hadn't happened on the same day. I just don't want to talk about that in front of Rufus.

  We're all sitting there in frosty silence when the doorbell rings and a team of four lawyers walks in. Rufus greets them and takes them off to the snug from where I can hear muffled voices. They walk back in looking quite at ease.

  'It's just routine,' says Detective Swann, looking at Rufus and the two lawyers standing next to him. 'But we really do need to take a statement.'

  The lawyers both nod, and my boyfriend nods. He then looks at me and I nod. It's like we've all caught this mad nodding disease. I then repeat everything I said previously and sign a form. Shit. I'm sure I should be telling them about the carpenter, but how can I? I'll lose Rufus for ever if I do, and I'll end up having to tell them the carpenter's name and he'll be called in for questioning, and he'll mention the row, and that won't reflect well on Elody and it'll all become an impossibly complicated mess and I'll have let everyone down and yet it won't contribute in any way, shape or form to the investigation into Elody's murder.

  Chapter 20

  'Katie Pound is in Richmond for London Today. What's the latest, Katie?'

  'Thanks, Bob. You join us live on Richmond Hill where residents this lunchtime are waking up to the news that one of their most glamorous neighbours was murdered yesterday afternoon. That's right murdered. Police announced at a press conference this morning that they were launching a murder investigation after Elody Elloissie, stylist to the stars, was found stabbed to death yesterday.

  'Now I should emphasise, for those who do not know this area of south-west London, that nothing like this has ever happened here before. If you look behind me you'll be able to see the amazing houses where the likes of Mick Jagger, Rock James and Rufus George live; in these massive gated homes protected by security guards, fences and alarms. I can't go up the road to show you where Elody lived, but if you look past the police cordon on the left you'll see two officers guarding a door. That was Elody's home until brutal, bloody murder cut her life short.

  'Now police estimate the time of death as being around 5.30 pm yesterday. They have CCTV footage of the stylist entering the Royal Institute of Fashion earlier in the day, and it is their belief that someone was lying in wait for her, clutching a knife and preparing to do the dreaded deed. Then she lay alone and dying before being found by a cleaner arriving for her morning shift some twelve hours later.

  'It's a terrible story and, ironically, a story not unlike the script of a Hollywood movie, the like of which so many of those who live in this part of London have starred in during their careers. If anyone saw anything that could help police, please call Detective Inspector Martyn Barnes from Scotland Yard on 08567898989; he's the man who's heading up this inquiry. I spoke to him a little earlier to find out some more about this incredible breaking news story . . .'

  'They're loving this,' Rufus says, as we lie on the sofa, wrapped round each other, neither of us quite able to take in the events of the morning so far. Suddenly the fact that we got engaged last night seems like a lifetime away. 'It's a media dream to have a story like this, isn't it? Glamour and murder. Perfect!'

  'I'm sure they think I did it,' I say, quite out of the blue. I don't know whether I do think that, but I'm sure I must be in the frame, and the way that detective guy was looking at me . . .

  'No one thinks you did anything,' says Rufus, turning to face me. 'You're not capable of harming a fly, let alone killing another human being. You had a row with her. Everyone falls out with Elody eventually. It doesn't mean you killed her. Christ, if everyone who'd ever fallen out with Elody was in the frame for her murder, most of the women in West London would be banged up by now.'

  'Very true,' I say, snuggling up closer to him. Thank God for Rufus and his common sense approach to life.

  'I'm joined by Katie Joseph, showbiz correspondent of the Daily Post. Katie, you've been reporting on the inhabitants of the Hill for the past year. How do you think they'll take this news today?'

  'I think they'll all be wondering who's next. Is this is a serial killer? Is this a guy who's targeting the famous and wealthy?'

  'A serial killer? Is there any evidence of that yet?'

  'Not publicly, but my sources in the police are suggesting that this is likely to be someone who'll strike again very soon, and the conversations I've had with the Hill's most famous residents indicate that they are very, very scared here right now. The murderer is being dubbed the Hill Murderer. Like the terrible Moors Murderers of twenty years ago.'

  'Shit, do you think that's true, Rufus?'

  'No way. She'd love nothing more than for there to be a serial killer buzzing around the place. It would keep her in stories for the rest of time. You know who she is, don't you?'

  I look back at the screen where the attractive woman, madly overdressed and made-up like a clown, is continuing to talk with apparent knowledge about things she knows nothing about. 'Yep,' I say. 'That's the woman who said I'd had a boob job, wrote that I used to be a lesbian and described my mum and great-aunt as "mental home escapees".'

  'So do you think she knows what she's talking about?'

  'Nope.'

  Chapter 21

  It's 3 pm and I'm sitting here alone on the sofa with my knees tucked up under my chin, crying silently. How awful for Elody to have been killed like that. It's unbelievable. There's a light drizzle outside. Freezing cold winds are whipping through the garden as darkness begins its descent. I've switched off the television because I can't bear to hear any more murder speculation. I know she was a pain at times and drove everyone here mad. In the end, she really upset me because of her obsession with clothes and appearances. She should never have given me those drugs and made me feel so paranoid about Rufus but, equally
, it was me who took them, and me who allowed myself to become paranoid. She's not responsible for my feelings. I should have told her that I trusted Rufus. I should have told her that I was happy with the way I looked, but I was so bloody insecure that I allowed myself to become enmeshed in her highly complex world with its twisted sense of morality. My fault; not hers!

  The truth is that Elody was a person – a real living person, not a fictional character like the one being debated on television. She took me under her wing and looked after me in my early days on the Hill. Now she's become an inanimate object at the centre of fevered speculation. People are building careers and establishing their credibility on the back of her still warm corpse. It's horrible. It feels like the police aren't looking for a person who committed a murder, but to solve a crime to develop their careers. The journalists who don't know anyone are speculating wildly about what might have happened and why. The world is astonished and involved in something that has nothing to do with them. I really hate it.

  I can't escape it though. Rufus has had to go out to a meeting and I'm here on my own. In the kitchen, the radio keeps going back to the 'scene of this fascinating news story'. There are apparently millions of people walking around the place 'intrigued by this story'. Good for them. I hope it's brightening up their dull lives. The trouble is, when someone who spent the previous three weeks popping by to see you is found stabbed to death, it doesn't feel like a 'fascinating' news story, it feels like a complete bloody tragedy.