Authors: Alison Kervin
'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.'
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.
'We go to the centre of Richmond now, where Sylvia Gilbert is waiting to give us the latest on this incredibly story,' says the man on the radio. 'Sylv, have you got anything new for us?'
'Well, Mike,' says the reporter, almost breathless with excitement. 'We haven't had it officially confirmed, but we believe the police do have a main suspect. The excitement raging now is over who it could be. I went out into Richmond High Street earlier today to talk to some locals to see what they think, then I went into the local betting shop here to see what the odds were for the different characters in this very unusual murder mystery. First, let's see what the locals thought . . .
'I reckon it was Rock James – he looks like real trouble.'
'I think it was Rufus George. I think he tried it on with her and she said no, so he stabbed her.'
'I reckon it was a woman. I think Elody went off with one of the husbands and the wife killed her.'
'So, that's the view of the locals here. Interestingly, when we rang William Hill Bookmakers on Richmond High Street, they said that as far as their odds were concerned, there were just three names in the frame for the murder. One is Kelly Monsoon, Elody's friend, and the girl who is going out with Rufus George. Then there's Henry Alderson, Rufus George's driver, and the last person known to have seen her alive. He's believed to have become increasingly annoyed that he was being asked to drive Elody around as well as act as chauffeur to Rufus and his girlfriend. Finally, there's Dr Isabella Bronks- Harrison who has had a long-term feud with the fashionista and is known to thoroughly dislike her.'
How do they know all this stuff?
When security calls to say there are two men waiting at the gate, I know straight away who it is. I knew they'd want to talk to me again because I was rubbish the first time. I'd just heard about the murder and couldn't think straight.
'Take them to the sitting room,' I say to David, wanting to stay in the warmth of the snug for ever.
'Are you OK?' he asks, looking at me with concern in those clear eyes of his. He may be old and craggy but his eyes remain as bright and alert as ever.
'Yes,' I say, wiping away my tears. 'If you show them in, I'll be there right away.'
I walk quietly to the sitting room, and peer through a gap in the door. The men are in there, ruddy-cheeked and looking even more stern than they did last time, if that's possible. The smaller of the two men wipes a tear from his eye. I'd like to think it's because he feels bad about interrupting me again, but I know it's got more to do with the cold stinging his eyes and nose as he walked from the car to the house.
David offers them seats and warm drinks, but when I walk into the room I notice that neither of them is sitting. They stand in their heavy overcoats, both of them with their hands behind their backs, Prince Charles style, looking round the room. When I walk in, they walk up to me. The smaller of the men looks straight into my eyes.
'You know how serious this is, don't you?' he asks.
'Yes,' I reply.
'You must be aware that we have talked to lots of people about the evening that Elody was murdered. Is there anything you told us in your statement that you would like to change, now you've had time to think about what happened on the day of Elody's murder?'
'No,' I say, feeling myself trembling inside.
'It's our belief that you lied to us, Kelly,' says the detective. 'Do you realise how serious that is?'
'Yes.'
'We do not think that you were in your friends' flat at the time of the murder. We think you went to Richmond and murdered Elody Elloissie after arguing with her publicly earlier in the day, and fighting with her on the gravel outside.'
Shit. Who told them that? It must have been Henry or Pamela. Or the carpenter. Shit, no. Please tell me they don't know anything about the carpenter.
'I didn't kill her,' I say. 'I didn't.'
The bigger of the two men steps forward.
'Kelly Monsoon, I am arresting you for the murder of Elody Elloissie. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say maybe given in evidence. Is that clear?'
'Breaking news . . .'
'OK, thanks, Bob. You come back to us as we've just had confirmation from the police that they have arrested someone in connection with the murder yesterday of Elody Elloissie. A police statement issued just minutes ago says they have arrested a 28-year-old female who has been taken to Richmond station for questioning.
'That woman is believed to be Kelly Monsoon, the girlfriend of Hollywood film star Rufus George, and a close friend of Elloissie. I repeat, we believe that Kelly Monsoon, girlfriend of Rufus George has been arrested and taken to Richmond police station to answer questions in connection with the brutal murder yesterday of glamorous fashion designer Elody Elloissie. More on that breaking news story as soon as we have it.'
The dull grey skies hang over us; rain pours down, pelting onto the car as it makes its short journey from Richmond Hill to Richmond police station, bumper to bumper all the way. Flashes burst through the sky as eager photographers try to capture pictures of me: the world-famous murder suspect cowering behind blacked-out windows. Much of the town centre area has been cordoned off since the discovery of Elody's body. No one's allowed through until forensic examinations have been conducted across every inch of the place. It means that traffic is backed up and stationary all the way. Even with the police outriders, it's taking for ever to drive down the hill to the station.
It's silent in the car; the men attempt no small talk, and I'm too thrown and confused by developments to attempt to talk to them. I'm almost light-headed. I don't feel like screaming and shouting and banging my hands against the window like you imagine you'd feel in this situation; I just feel shocked and confused. Genuinely dizzy and amazed at the way things have developed. The small guy drives on through the rain while I sit in the back with Detective Barnes. He has his legs apart and his hands on his knees; confident and happy that he's getting another crime wrapped up. I'm sitting, cowering in the corner, as foetal-like as it's possible to get in the back of a police car. I'm leaning into the door with my eyes closed, hoping, every time I open them, that this horrible nightmare has ended and I'm back in bed with Rufus, planning our wedding . . . a wedding that I now fear will never happen.
God, this is awful. It's unbelievably awful. I can see the dancing, flickering lights from the police motorbikes refracting in the raindrops falling all around us. It seems like there's so much noise and excitement out there. It contrasts staggeringly with the silence and heaviness in the car.
When we left the house they had to throw a coat over my head to protect me from the flashbulbs and the intrusive lenses trained on me at every turn. I felt like a serial killer or Jeffrey Archer or someone.
'OK,' Detective Barnes had said, throwing the blanket over me. 'This photograph is the most wanted in the world, by anyone, right now. Let's make sure they don't get it, shall we?' He smiled at me then: a drop of tenderness in an ocean of pain and humiliation.
I'm at the centre of a worldwide storm but like everyone who's ever been at the centre of a worldwide storm before me, it's really nothing. There are police outriders, paparazzi chasing us, and non-stop communication on the radio with the custody sergeant but the truth is that I'm just a girl in a car driving through Richmond in the pouring rain with two men beside me. The two men think I murdered someone. I'm telling them I didn't. All the rest of it is just noise.
I'm sitting directly behind the passenger seat. As soon as I was instructed to sit here, I knew why. Oh yes – turns out those nights watching true crime programmes with the girls in the flat late at night weren't a waste of time after all. Who'd have guessed? I happen to know from my extensive viewing that they never sit violent criminals behind the driver in case the person bashes the driver over the head and tries to escape. That's me. I'm the violent criminal. I've been arrested for murder.
Shit. I'm under arrest. They think I'm a murderer. What about Mum and Dad? Great-Aunt Maude? Oh God, she'll wet herself when she finds out. No, really, she will literally wet herself. I hope they're not being pestered by the press. Though the likelihood that they're not being pestered is so tiny that it's not worth considering.
'I'm worried about my mum and dad,' I say to Detective Barnes next to me, and I really hope he doesn't say, 'Well you should have thought of that before committing murder, shouldn't you?' because if he does I might have to whack him which will clearly not do my case any good at all.
'We're keeping the press away from them,' he says.
'Thank you,' I say, and I look at him properly for the first time. The blue eyes aren't quite as steely any more; it's almost like he feels sorry for me. I put my head back against the window, close my eyes and try to stop my heart pounding up into the back of my throat. It's going to be OK; it's going to be OK. David promised to get hold of Rufus immediately and send him straight to Richmond police station with his legal team. It's going to be OK.
The windscreen wipers move quickly as the rain lashes down more heavily. It's dark and dismal in every way possible. The car eases towards the sealed-off area of the high street; the police cordon is lifted by a jovial, pink-cheeked policeman resplendent in his hat and fluorescent waterproof jacket. I feel a sudden pang of fear on seeing the uniformed man. Is that why I'm so relatively calm? Because the men who arrested me were in civilian clothes and thus looked less threatening? It reminds me quite suddenly of having to go into hospital as a young child and being terrified of the doctors. 'This is Dr Bartlett,' Mum said (see, I still remember his name) and I winced in fear and loathing.
When it came to the operation, though, the man conducting it was called simply Mike Harcourt. 'Mr Harcourt' the nurses called him and everything was OK then. Devoid of fancy titles he seemed less threatening; stripped of the symbolism of oppression, people seem less oppressive.
The car swings into the back of the police station, through throngs of photographers being held back by dozens of uniformed officers. I feel scared then. Yep, for all my philosophising I now feel terrified out of my mind.
'Thanks, Bob, yes – we can confirm that Kelly Monsoon left her home on Richmond Hill in an unmarked police car, heading for Richmond police station around ten minutes ago. She was accompanied by two detectives, and uniformed officers surrounded the entrance to the police station to make sure no photographers could get near. The car had previously foiled the photographers' attempts to get close by picking up Kelly inside the large security gates outside the mansion she shares with movie star Rufus George. There were blacked-out windows on the car and it went through the cordoned-off area, past the Royal Institute of Fashion, scene of the murder for which Monsoon, girlfriend of Rufus George, now finds herself arrested. Back to you, Bob.'
'Thanks, Jennie. But can we confirm; do we know for sure that it is Kelly Monsoon in the car? Have police confirmed that they have arrested her?'
'Well, Bob, no. Police have said simply that it was a 28-year-old woman. We know that a car used by detectives was at Rufus George's fabulous Richmond mansion earlier today, and we know that car headed straight for Richmond police station, going through police cordons on the way. All the rumours here indicate that it is Kelly who's being driven to the station as we speak.'
'Well, what next, then, for the girl who had everything? Kelly Monsoon seemed to be living the dream when she met hunky film star Rufus George and was swept off to a world of money and fame. Today though, her dream lies in tatters as she stands accused of brutal murder. I'm joined by former Detective Chief Superintendent Mike Dover. Morning to you, sir. Could you tell us a little bit about what Kelly will be going through, and what awaits her when she gets to the police station?'
'Of course. Good afternoon, Bob. Well, when she gets to the police station, the first thing that will happen will be fingerprints, photographs and DNA samples will be taken, then there'll be a full body search. It's unusual for someone who's committed a murder not to have some marks on their body. In particular, they'll check her hands, looking for hilt wounds. If the victim was stabbed, as has been widely reported, then it's likely the perpetrator of the crime would have cut him or herself between the thumb and index finger – the area we call 'the hilt' during the attack. Unless, of course . . .'
'Sorry, I'll have to stop you there, former Detective Chief Superintendent, because we're now going back over to Jennie in Richmond where I believe the car containing Miss Monsoon has arrived at Richmond police station. Is that right, Jennie?'
'Yes, Bob. That's right. The car, which we believe contains Kelly Monsoon, has now arrived at Richmond police station. Back to you, Bob.'
'Thanks, Jennie. Well, amazing breaking news there, brought to you live as it happens, twenty-four hours a day, here on Sky. So, former Detective Chief Superintendent, anything else you can tell us about what the future holds for Kelly?'
'Well, she'll be interviewed in detail and will be asked to run through everything she's said previously. The initial interviews are likely to be conducted by specialist police interviewing unit Tier Three. She'll be videoed, and then she's likely to be put in a cell overnight and interviewed again in the morning when police will challenge her on aspects on the story that they do not believe.'
'So, you're saying that Kelly Monsoon's story is not believed? Has she been deliberately lying to police?'
'We don't know that, Bob, but clearly they have reason to be suspicious or they wouldn't have arrested her. It's my view that they'll tackle these issues once she's spent a night in the cell.'
'And will she be locked up with other murderers?'
'She'll be in her own cell, at the police station. They may well transfer her to Scotland Yard in the morning. Can I just remind viewers that Kelly is not a "murderer". She's innocent until proven guilty.'
'Yeah, yeah. Will there be rats in the cell?'
'Er . . . no.'
'Are we becoming too soft on criminals? After all, this woman has committed a serious offence.'
'We don't know that yet, Bob, she's innocent until proven guilty.'
'We'll be back, after these adverts.'
A shock wave of exhaustion and displacement hits me like a thunderclap. What am I doing here? How has this happened?
'Let's just run through the whole day again shall we?' asks the policeman. 'Everything you say is being taped and videoed.'
Arriving at the cells was the most terrifying experience of my life. We drove through a large, dark-blue, prison-like gate of metal bars, and into a small courtyard where I was taken out of the car and led into the building.
'This is the custody suite, and this is the custody officer,' they said, introducing me to a small, round blonde woman who took my details and said she needed to take fingerprints, a photo and DNA samples. Next, they strip-searched me. The lady who did it was very gentle and respectful but a strip-search is a strip-search. It was humiliating, embarrassing and horrid.
The lawyers came and kept demanding to know what evidence the police have. They asked whether the police have a warrant for my arrest and talked about 'pace' and my rights, and all these other things I've only ever heard about on the news. They wanted know whether the police found any marks on me. The only mark I have is a bruise on my right thigh. Since I got that in a fight with Elody, that hasn't helped my case too much.
The worst thing about all this is that Rufus isn't here. He hasn't called or made contact at all.
'Will Rufus come?' I kept asking.
'No,' they kept saying.
I know I've let him down, and I know I've embarrassed him, but surely he can see that I need him now more than I've ever needed anyone in my life before.
'Your parents are desperately worried about you,' my solicitor told me. She meant well. She wanted to remind me that there are lots of people out there who care about me deeply, but all her kind words did was ram another stab of guilt straight into my heart.
'Why have they arrested me?' I asked. 'I mean – I know they've arrested me because they think I killed Elody, but why do they think that?'
'They think you lied to them, Kelly. The police check and double-check every statement made and if you tell them things that later turn out not to be true, it does alert all their suspicions. They want to talk to you about your alibi for the time of the murder, what happened between you and Elody on the day of the murder, and some things that they allege you said to other people, about wanting to kill Elody.'
Now, I'm in a heavily lit interview room with fluorescent lighting that could brighten Wembley. The room's completely plain, and decorated in a cream colour. There's nothing here to distract me or provoke me. I guess that's the point of it.
I tell the police everything I can remember. Rufus isn't here, so I tell them all about the carpenter and I explain that I didn't want to mention what I did in front of my boyfriend, in case he got really cross. They shake their heads as if I'm the most stupid person ever to walk the earth . . . which I guess I might be, all things considered.
'This is a different story to the one you told us yesterday,' says Detective Inspector Barnes.
The lawyer in the room with me is called Sue Lawrence and apparently she's the best criminal lawyer in the world. She's also gorgeous. I don't think the detectives could quite believe their luck when she walked in. She sat down and crossed her legs over and I thought poor Detective Barnes might go tumbling off his chair. It's not so much that her skirt's short as her legs are incredibly long, slim, and shapely. I'm so glad she's on my side.
'I'd like a word with my client, please,' she says, with a batting of her eyelashes and a smile playing on her glossy lips.