by Fern Britton
‘Upset his family! Is that all you can say?’ Christie was incensed. ‘Don’t you think they deserve to know the truth about how he died? Of course we have to tell the police.’ She ignored Julia’s sound of protest. ‘Apart from the truth about Ben’s death, they should be looking into the way you run your business.’
‘This really isn’t necessary,’ Julia said wearily. ‘Nothing will bring back Ben. As for any financial irregularities, they all lie at Lenny’s door. I’ve told you that. Listen to me, both of you, please.’ Her eyes widened and she placed her hands together as if in prayer. ‘What you’re proposing to do will ruin my business – ruin me. But without me, you wouldn’t have got to where you are so fast, you really wouldn’t. And there are all my other clients who rely on me for their livelihood. If Lenny’s been fiddling the books, you have my word that I’ll get rid of him and square anything outstanding myself – with my own savings, if necessary.’
In that moment, she sounded so plausible that Christie glanced at Richard, unsure. His eyes were on Julia, equally uncertain of what their next step should be.
‘Please,’ Julia added softly. Not an afterthought but a final request. She knew she was at their mercy.
‘I don’t know,’ said Christie, hesitating. She didn’t want to be responsible for destroying anyone’s life or career – not even Julia’s. Who was she to sit in judgement over someone else? If Ben’s death was an accident that had just happened differently from the way the world believed, was it better to let the matter go? Perhaps Julia wasn’t entirely to blame for the company’s business dealings. Perhaps Lenny really was responsible for forging signatures and embezzling client payments. But if that was the case, why hadn’t Julia worked that out weeks ago when Christie had asked her about her own money worries?
‘Let me at least talk to him, before you decide what you want to do. That’s not unreasonable, is it?’ Julia interrupted Christie’s train of thought. ‘I should have treated you better. I should have looked into your cash-flow problems immediately and I certainly should have discussed my PR strategy with you.’
They faced each other: Julia contrite and seeking forgiveness; Christie torn between wanting to punish her agent for what she’d done and a desperate wish to let all this go and put it behind her. She didn’t want revenge on Julia: she wanted nothing more to do with her. That was enough. Richard was keeping a diplomatic silence, waiting to follow her lead. She looked at Julia: pathetic, broken, desperate. Christie made her decision.
‘All right. Talk to Lenny.’ She got up and, Richard behind her, headed for the door. All she could think about was getting out of there, away from her now ex-agent. They walked briskly to the lift and returned to the Land Rover in silence, each listening to their own thoughts. They didn’t speak, even when they were driving through the streets. While he concentrated on the road, Christie stared out of the window, going over what had just happened. Unable to get the image of Ben lying dead out of her head, she went through everything Julia had said and her own reactions. She remembered Frank and his friendship with Ben, his suspicions of Julia, and what he would say if he knew what they had just heard. She didn’t allow herself to speak until they were well on their way home. Then she broke the silence. ‘What the hell was going on in there? I was so taken aback by her admitting what had happened to Ben and she’s so damn persuasive. What was I thinking? I’ve let her off the hook.’ She banged her fist on her lap.
‘She had me convinced too,’ Richard consoled her.
‘Of course she did. She’s an actress – a bloody good one.’ She remembered Frank’s account of meeting her at drama school.
‘No shit, Sherlock! Should we have walked away and left her?’
‘No, we absolutely shouldn’t. We’ve got to go to the police. If we don’t, we’re just as guilty as she is.’ And I’ll never be able to look Frank in the eyes again, she thought, or come to that, myself. ‘I’m going to call her and tell her.’
‘Is that wise?’
‘Maybe not but . . . What are you doing?’
‘Turning into this service station while you decide.’ He followed the road as it curled left then straightened out into a wide, half-empty rectangular car park surrounded by tall straight trees. He pulled into one of the marked spaces. In front of them stood a brightly lit, modern rectangular building with a roof that fanned protectively over the entrance. The last thing Christie wanted was to thrash this out in the company of strangers, so they agreed to stay in the dark of the car, the occasional headlights panning over them.
‘Is it or isn’t it the right thing to do?’ persisted Christie, anxious to have his support now that she had made up her mind.
‘Completely the right thing to do,’ he agreed. ‘But what I’m wondering is whether you really need to warn her.’
‘Despite everything, I do feel a kind of weird loyalty to her. That probably sounds mad to you.’
He nodded. ‘Yup.’
‘I know she’s done terrible things – she must have arranged for Lenny to steal the photos just to frighten me off – and that there’s no way she wouldn’t know what he was up to, but like her style or not, she has done a lot for me. Can you understand what I’m trying to say?’ She knew how absurd her reasoning must sound.
‘That’s another thing I love about you, Mrs Lynch – your sometimes misguided sense of fair play.’ He kissed her as she aimed a punch at his arm. ‘You must make the call. Now.’
‘No. Tomorrow.’ She was adamant.
Decision made, they drove home.
Her call to Scotland Yard the next morning was brief. The duty officer listened to what she had to say, put her on hold, then returned a few minutes later to ask if she would come in as soon as possible for a meeting with DI Webster, who had been in charge of the Ben Chapman case.
That done, she called White Management. No reply. Surprised, she called Julia’s mobile. Again no reply. No voicemail. Nothing.
Chapter 33
By the end of that week, the abrupt closure of White Management and the disappearance of Julia Keen and Lenny Chow were headline news. Grainy CCTV grabs had been printed, showing Lenny at Heathrow before he boarded a flight for the Far East. But he had flown the coop long before the footage had been found. Of Julia, there was no sign. She had vanished into thin air, leaving her clients in disarray.
After listening to Christie’s claims, with the promise of witness statements from Richard, Ted and Lily, the police had hot-footed it to the offices of White Management. On the locked door, they found a notice reading ‘WHITE MANAGEMENT CEASED TRADING AT MIDNIGHT.’ Inside, the office had been cleared of any potentially incriminating evidence: the computer files were wiped, the shredder was overflowing. Julia and Lenny must have been up all night. An immediate alert was put out for both of them and search warrants issued for Julia’s properties. The housekeeper at the Kensington house was as bemused as everyone else, denying any knowledge of Julia’s whereabouts. The half-bottle of gin that she’d enjoyed that night had knocked her out so she hadn’t heard Julia return home, empty her desk, pack a bag and grab her laptop. Judging from the upheaval in her bedroom and study, that was clearly what had happened. The house in the Cotswolds was locked up, curtains drawn, the Mercedes CLS still in the garage.
Eventually a taxi driver came forward to say that he had received a call from the Kensington house at six thirty that Wednesday morning. He had picked up a middle-aged woman wearing a heavy coat, headscarf and dark glasses and taken her to St Pancras, where she was assumed to have boarded Eurostar. Later Julia would be identified on Charles de Gaulle International Airport CCTV but, without the name under which she was travelling, her destination was never found. She must have had her escape route planned, just in case, for months.
Frank couldn’t disguise his pleasure as Julia was revealed in her true colours, every day bringing a new revelation. Her extraordinary and unscheduled disappearance had stimulated a media feeding frenzy. Not least was the speculation surr
ounding her ability to adopt a second persona for travelling – which was her true identity? Ben’s death filled the front pages again, especially when minor soap star Janina Terry stepped in for her pound of flesh by admitting that she had been paid by Julia to take the heat off her after Ben’s death by lying to the press about his drug-taking and ‘unusual’ sexual predilections. Former clients stepped forward to air their hitherto unspoken grievances. Gradually it became clear that Frank’s suspicions had been right: Ben’s death had taken a hidden toll on White Management. With the defection of a few key high-earners, the company’s turnover had dropped while the cost of Julia’s lifestyle and Lenny’s family in Malaysia had not. The shortfall could only be made up by embezzling more of their clients’ earnings. With no danger of any comeback, previously silenced relatives claimed their five minutes of fame by association, selling stories that shed new light on Julia’s past.
Ten days after the news had broken, Frank and Christie were sitting together in the green room over lukewarm stewed coffee, Frank still alight with Julia’s downfall. On the table in front of them, beside some empty cups, lay an open copy of the Daily News, containing an exclusive with a sharp-featured cousin of Julia’s who had materialised in Liverpool.
‘Look at what it says here.’ Frank began to read aloud from the paper. ‘“Julia Keen’s childhood of crime.” Apparently, when she was six or seven, she and her mates were sent out to wash cars but they doubled what they were told to charge and pocketed the difference. So that was where it all began. She kept that under wraps like everything else. Sorry, love,’ he apologised to Lillybet, who had come in and was attempting to retrieve the empty cups. He shifted sideways, causing a couple of newspaper pages to drift to the floor. He bent to pick them up. ‘I’m only sorry she isn’t here to face the music. Ben deserved that.’
‘I guess we’ll never know what really happened between them,’ Christie mused, watching a thin brown scum form on her coffee as she added a bit more milk. ‘Although I did get the impression that she was telling the truth at the end and she was a little bit in love with him.’
‘But she’s a consummate actress. You agreed,’ he objected.
‘I know I did, but even so, for a few moments she did seem quite genuine. And now we’ll never know. And I’ll never get the money she owed me. Thank God TV7 hadn’t paid me for Top of the Class.’
‘She’s probably on the other side of the world by now. A touch of plastic surgery – to which she’s no stranger, as we know – and she’ll go unidentified for the rest of her life. Even Gilly’s delighting in her downfall. Have you heard?’
Although Christie knew that Gilly was readying herself for an earlier than scheduled return to Good Evening Britain, she’d had no contact with her since they had crossed paths the day Libby had gone missing.
‘Didn’t you see the Sunday Planet’s photos of her holidaying en famille in La Gomera? They did her no favours – very post-baby blubber. Not a good look, let me tell you. And they even ran a story with the not-so-subtle suggestion that Derek might be putting from the rough. You know, Chris,’ he said, seeing her confused expression. ‘A friend of Dorothy? First of May?’ She was obviously none the wiser so he added, exasperated, ‘On the other bus? . . . Gay, for God’s sake, woman. Anyway, the point of all this is that she’s discovered it was Julia who tipped off the paps and sold the story, pocketing a mean seventy-five K for herself.’
So she and Ben weren’t the only ones who had been defrauded in the interests of shoring up White Management. Golden-girl Gilly must be feeling pretty sore that Julia had left her high and dry. Christie almost felt sorry for her. But when she said as much, Frank was quick to dismiss the idea. ‘Gilly, high and dry? Come off it. She’s no more high and dry than an alcoholic with a bottle of vodka. She’s going to be back here all guns blazing, if only to prove that she doesn’t need Julia any more than Julia needs her.’ He licked his finger and dabbed at something on the toe of his pristine white Converse.
‘God help us all.’ Sam flopped into one of the seats beside them. ‘I’ve just heard that we’re staging a great comeback fest for Gilly in a couple of weeks’ time. I thought your contract held you for another three months,’ he said, desperation in his voice.
‘It does, but with a get-out clause that allows for Gilly’s early return. I’ll be doing two or three days a week again until she’s back full time. But you know what? I need a new start. It’s been a great experience, but this life isn’t really for me.’ She didn’t want to admit to them how much she was looking forward to spending those extra days at home with the children and Richard, without the pressure of an evening show. Although she had agreed to stay on for several more months, Gilly had insisted – if the rumours whirling down from Jack Bradbury’s office were to be believed – that her return was imperative if the morale of the show was to be held together, not to mention the ‘media-damaged’ Christie. It didn’t take a genius to realise that this was star-speak for ‘I’m a celebrity fed up with a home full of nappies and nannies. Get me out of here!’ Well, each to her own.
‘Did you know, thanks to Derek, we’re doing a Secret Squirrel?’ Frank asked, using the code-speak for something so secret that most of the crew were kept in the dark until the very last minute. That way, nothing was likely to be leaked to the press. ‘He wants to spring some sort of surprise on the beloved mother of his children.’
Sam groaned. ‘The idea makes me sick. That woman’s got Jack Bradbury wound around her finger. Anything they want, they get. D’you know the details?’
‘Not yet. All I know is that a horse is being smuggled into the scene dock.’
‘You’re joking?’ Sam and Christie gaped at him in disbelief.
‘No. God knows what he’s planning, but no doubt it’ll be something tasteless and over the top.’
*
The Friday of Gilly’s grand return dawned at last. Christie was in the studio, but Vince had long ago warned her that she was to take a background role. In the circumstances, that was where she was more than happy to be. The show went like a dream. There was a section of filmed tributes from a host of stars, all professing how thrilled they were to have Gilly back. Then Gilly dazzled viewers with a succession of interviews, one on post-natal depression and how to avoid it. ‘Never lose sight of how important you are and what you want from life’ was the selfless summary. She had clearly found it worked for her. A fashion feature showed pictures of her modelling skin-tight kid-leather dungarees without a hint of a baby tummy. Anyone with a pair of functioning eyes would see that the photo-shopping had been extensive. Finally, she enjoyed a girly chat with the health minister about the improved NHS midwifery services – not, of course, that she’d have been seen dead using them.
Throughout the show, Christie and Sam sat shoulder to shoulder on the second sofa, admiring her brass neck. They knew that running across the bottom of the viewers’ screen was a crawl that had been removed from the studio monitors, announcing, ‘GOOD EVENING BRITAIN WILL BE SPRINGING A SURPRISE ON GILLY BEFORE THE END OF THE SHOW.’ As the end approached, they began to let out their breath. Too soon.
With only four minutes before the credits rolled, the scene-dock doors slid noisily open. Everyone turned as a masked man rode into the studio on a grey horse led by Jeremy, the gorgeous young scene hand who had once been lusted after by Frank and even, possibly, Derek. Christie hoped the public wouldn’t be too affronted by the lengthy tracking shots of Jeremy’s bum as Frank’s camera lingered where it shouldn’t – at least, not for a prime-time audience. Jeremy raised his hand to help the mystery guest from his steed. Gilly, acknowledging that this was a stunt especially to celebrate her return, was on her feet, blushing and giggling, at the same time chirruping about how happy she was to be back, how unnecessary any surprise. The horseman, resplendent in tight white jodhpurs, a frilly shirt and a wide-brimmed black velvet hat with a long white feather, leaped from his steed, helped by an equally well-dressed Jeremy, and stepped tow
ards her.
A sort of bargain-basement musketeer, thought Christie, as she watched the proceedings with astonishment. She had never seen anything like this. Neither, judging from their expressions, had anyone else in the studio.
The horseman swept the hat from his head and bowed low. As he straightened up, he handed the hat to Jeremy and whipped off his mask. The gasp that went up from the crowd could surely have been heard across the country without the aid of microphones.
‘Derek!’ Gilly extracted a lacy handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her non-existent tears. She was a past mistress at milking the audience. Then, clearing her throat, she spoke to camera: ‘And this, ladies and gentlemen, is the man who has walked by my side through the good and the bad: my wonderful husband, Derek.’
There was a smattering of applause as she moved to kiss him. But Derek, with a look that would have crushed a velociraptor, took a step back, dodging her embrace. ‘I’ve come here to say something.’ He glanced at Jeremy. Gilly was expectant, hands clasped in front of her.
‘Gilly – you’re an amazing woman, and for the past ten years, I’ve loved our crazy journey through life. However, life’s full of surprises and this is mine to you.’
Gilly was staring at him, thrilled, as she anticipated the next bit.
‘I’ve come here tonight to wish you every success in the rest of your life, but to tell you that you deserve the truth. I can’t live a lie. I’m leaving you . . . for Jeremy.’
This communal gasp exceeded the first. Christie and Sam, aware that they were still on camera, could feel each other holding back the nervous laughter that was welling up in them. Christie felt huge sympathy for Gilly. For Derek to choose to come out on camera was one thing, but to dump her in such a public way was worse than cruel.
