Too Gorgeous to Kill

By Gary Fishlock

It’s 1989 ...

As the decade that gave the world leg warmers, the Rubik’s Cube and Dynasty draws to a close, a cold-blooded killer is stalking the cast of Australia’s most popular TV soap opera, Accountants. But murder is proving to be a ratings winner for the prime time soapie. Crime might not pay, but it sure sells.

But why are the crosshairs fixed firmly on the show’s cute young heartthrob, Toby Bardia? Is it Envy? Jealousy? Hatred? Or something else that’s truly twist-ed? Trashy TV was never so deadly.

“... It’s Agatha Christie meets Neighbours ...”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Mar 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9781922542458

Gary Fishlock

Gary Fishlock was born in Newcastle, NSW, Australia, the eldest of three siblings. He went to university in Wagga Wagga where he studied theatre performance. He has been an actor, a journalist, a ballroom dance instructor, a cafe proprietor, a Tupperware salesman and a magazine editor. Too Gorgeous to Kill is his first published novel. It originally appeared as a 26-part weekly serial in 2001 in SX News, a magazine for the glbtq community. Gary has a son and daughter and lives in Sydney.

Book preview

1.

An ad that stopped traffic

Exactly when did it start? When was that moment in time?

It’s a question that could be asked of almost any situation, let alone the biggest case of my career. And a murder case, especially one of this magnitude, has so many moving parts. It’s almost impossible to separate them and figure out which one dates back the furthest.

Maybe it started when I first joined the Service as a raw, eighteen-year-old recruit.

Or did it start on that dark, terrible morning on Bondi Beach when, at the age of forty-one, I stared into the eyes of a disturbed and desperate young man who was a threat to public safety and to himself? A young man who would shortly be dead.

Probably neither. Because as far as the media and public were concerned, it began with the now infamous Beddybize satin sheets commercial. No-one knew it at the time, but there was more to that seemingly innocent (and not very subtle) advertising gimmick than first met the eye.

So that was the point in time. The day the ad first appeared on buses, taxis and billboards all over the city … That was when it started …

from the private case notes of

 Detective Sergeant Kathryn Sway

 of the New South Wales Police

*****

It was an ad that stopped traffic. Literally.

Trudie Asher tapped her fingernails on the steering wheel. She stared through her windscreen at the naked man stretched out larger than life above the busy street. The cause of her damaged front bumper.

Luckily it wasn’t a proper accident. Just an aggressive bump. Thanks to the sluggish peak hour traffic, she’d only been coasting along, not much faster than the sweaty joggers pounding the footpaths.

But then that damn billboard had caught her eye. Again. That athletic male figure stretched out on his stomach among those dark red satin sheets, as if just waking up from a long, luxurious sleep. Head turned away from the camera, perky backside sticking up like two perfectly-shaped scoops of ice cream. Dazzling, other-worldly beams of light shimmered across his skin, making the sheets glow a deep ruby. Come to Beddybize with me, the poster said. Even after all these weeks, the image was still pretty hard to ignore.

And so she’d rear-ended the car in front of her.

She wasn’t the first. The ad had already caused other minor accidents in its five-week life. But that momentary lapse of attention was going to cost her three hundred dollars! Plus she’d be late for work. God would be on the warpath. He’d asked her to come in early for a mysterious special meeting.

She gunned the engine. And the biggest irony? She’d already seen that bloody photo hundreds of times, all through that stupid guessing competition. When it was leaked that the faceless Adonis in the ad wasn’t just some random model but actually a high profile Aussie celebrity, the public just couldn’t resist. In the guessing frenzy that followed, no shape, size or flavour of high octane male celebrity went unturned – football players, rap singers, TV weathermen, sports commentators, movie actors, game show hosts and even the shadow Minister for Regional Development. Any one of them could have been ‘the Beddybize Man’.

The fevered guessing raged for six days. On the seventh day, Luxmore Home Textiles, creators of the Beddybize line, finally announced who the unknown hunk was – to a profound sense of anti-climax … twenty-one-year-old ‘actor’ Toby Bardia, who played mumbling office boy, Danny Crabb, in the flagging TV soapie Accountants.

Describing the show’s token piece of beefcake as a high profile Aussie celebrity was stretching the truth to its breaking point. And Accountants itself wasn’t much better. After a triumphant premiere eighteen months earlier, even picking up a couple of Logies in the process, the show’s fortunes (and audiences) had been on a steep decline ever since. The viewing public had realised they weren’t all that interested in the lives and passions of the staff of a small chartered accountants firm in the suburbs.

But after the Beddybize Man’s identity was revealed, the ratings for Accountants started to rise from the dead. A fortnight later they were soaring. And a fortnight after that, Accountants had achieved the impossible – it had knocked Tradies’ Wives into second place and officially become Australia’s most popular TV show.

And Trudie Asher, as principal staff writer for the city’s most popular TV magazine, had dutifully recorded it all, keeping the dream alive for those thousands of people out there who loved all this vacuous shit. Ok, so maybe her snarky attitude was partly because of her own evaporated dreams of one day being a TV actress herself. But it was still all vacuous shit.

She flipped on her indicator and waited for a break in the traffic, her jaw hard and tight. She gazed again up at The Beddybize Man. She could still remember the smug, oily talent agent’s face as he smirked across his desk and told her she’d never make it as an actress because she wasn’t hot enough. Even after all these years it could still hurt.

*****

It’s bloody genius, sweetheart! said Godfrey Ryan, editor-in-chief of Tube Talk Weekly. "‘From Dud to Stud’ … It’s your best headline yet!"

He looked across at Trudie.

Thanks, she said.

God picked up the magazine with his hairy, bony fingers. "‘Toby Bardia’s meteoric rise to stardom is the stuff of dreams. The handsome twenty-one-year-old actor plays office gofer Danny Crabb in Network Twelve’s back-from-the-brink-of-death soap Accountants. He’s been rapidly becoming T.V’s favourite Boy Next Door, ever since he appeared au naturel in the luminous Beddybize sheets commercial.’"

Godfrey Ryan chortled as if they were his words. It’s gold, baby. The French part is brilliant. People won’t know what it means, but they’ll love it anyway! It gives the whole story a … you know, touch of class.

Mmm, said Trudie.

"And how about Accountants? I’ve never seen such an amazing jump in a show’s popularity. Not once. Not in eighteen years in the business. And after flatlining for months. Tradies’ Wives and Cop Out and Neighbourhood Watch have been taking up all the oxygen. People had just lost interest in a show about a bunch of paper shufflers. But its numbers now are just phenomenal. The phoenix has risen from the ratings ashes."

Mmm, said Trudie.

"And you should see some of the storylines that’re coming up. There’s gonna be a siege with a big double episode cliffhanger. Some client who’s pissed off with his tax return is going to hold everyone up with a sawn-off shotgun. A major character’s going to be killed off. Viewers will go nuts."

God leaned back in his chair, chortling again. "You wanna know the best part? Brace yourself … there’s even going to be a wedding. A real one. Before the year is out. Toby Bardia and … whatshername … you know, the blonde bit who looks like Princess Di. She plays the receptionist. He snapped his fingers. Minty Everton! Toby’s marrying Minty! It’s going to be huge. The celebrity event of the year. It’s a great opportunity for us, Trude. And we’re going to ride this wave for as long as we can."

Mmm, said Trudie.

And all because of Toby Bardia and that damned stupid sheets commercial. Who’d’ve thunk that kid could ever be such hot property? It’s come out of fucking nowhere.

Trudie sighed. Yeah, well it’s amazing what a perky backside can do.

God raised his eyebrows. What’s this I hear? Cynicism? From my best, most experienced writer of quality froth and bubble?

Trudie grunted. It was all so ironic. To be flatlining like this at thirty. Seven years ago it had seemed that a career in journalism would be able to take the place of her never-to-be career as an actress. She remembered the energy and enthusiasm she’d felt when she’d first joined the Tube Talk staff. Landing that gig as junior staff writer for the city’s most popular weekly television rag, especially with no formal training as a journo, had felt like the first rung on the ladder to soaring success.

But all that optimism and energy had drained away by now. How nice it’d be to recapture even a fraction of it. Sure, she was climbing the ladder. But she had a sneaking suspicion that it was leaning against the wrong wall.

Maybe it’s time we tried a different approach, she said.

God eyed her warily. How do you mean?

Well, maybe we could mix some hard-hitting, serious stuff in with the froth and bubble?

"Tube Talk doesn’t do hard-hitting or serious. You know that."

Exactly. We’ve never tried. But I’m sure there’s an audience out there for it.

"Maybe, but that’s not our audience, sweetheart. Our audience wants … froth and bubble."

"But why can’t we give them both? Then we’d really corner the market."

Godfrey Ryan smirked. "Babe, how many times do I have to tell you? We’ve already cornered the market. We’re the only TV mag in this city with any real cred. He leaned across the desk, thrusting his face into hers. His five o’clock shadow looked like burnt toast. She could smell the hair oil keeping the stray wisps of hair pasted to his skull. She didn’t know what was worse about her boss’s comb-over – the sight of it, or the smell of it. I’ve had Harvey Hayden himself on the phone. How many other TV mags have the Executive Producer of a major TV network calling them personally? He wants a very tailored, targeted publicity strategy and he’s paying us a shitload of money for it. At least one Accountants-related article every week in the lead-up to this wedding. Cover stories, all of them. And there’s lots of angles to choose from. We discussed them in detail. For a start, we can run an article on the character who’s killed in the siege. Or rather, the actor. You know – ‘Where to from here?’ – that kind of thing. And how ‘bout this? – Toby and Minty are releasing a single."

"A single?"

You bet. He jiggled a press release in front of Trudie. Big splashy launch at Westfield next month. It’s gonna be huge. ‘You’re the Light in My Fridge’.

Uh, pardon?

That’s the name of the song – ‘You’re the Light in My Fridge’. It’s a, you know … He consulted the press release. … lush, romantic ballad.

But can they actually sing?

God shrugged. "Doesn’t matter. People will buy it anyway. And of course, there’s Toby Bardia himself. This kid’s going to be a huge celebrity before the year is out. Hayden wants an up close and intimate story on him. You know – ‘In Bed with the Beddybize Man’ that kind of thing. He’s even giving us exclusive access to the Accountants set while they’re filming. No-one has ever been given that before."

"That’s because no-one has ever cared about Accountants before."

Well they certainly care now. God looked her squarely in the eye. "I’m assigning all the Accountants stuff specially to you, Trudie."

All of it? But what about Anna? Or Bevan?

He shook his head. Bevan’s too wet behind the ears. Even Anna wouldn’t be up to this. It’s way too important to put in the hands of a less experienced writer. It has to be you, Trude. You’re my best man.

She sighed again. I’m not so sure of that. Not any more.

Trust me, you’re at the top of your game.

Everything I write is starting to feel like the same article over and over and over again.

He chuckled. "Trust me, you won’t be feeling that way with this Accountants stuff. You’ll be right at the centre of the action. Right on the pulse. Where the heat is. Look, I’ve already been speaking to young Bardia’s agent. He’s lined up your first interview. Here’s the address. God scribbled something on a memo pad, tore it off and handed it to Trudie. It’ll be one-on-one, babe. Do you have any idea what a coup that is? He leaned back in his chair and smirked at her again. You should be thanking me. I mean, why else did you become a writer?"

Because I have freckles, frizzy red hair and wear glasses.

Godfrey Ryan bellowed with laughter. "Atta girl! That’s the spirit. Believe me you’ll be thanking me. Do you know how many girl journos would give their right arm to be in your position right now? An intimate portrait of Toby Bardia, for Christ’s sake! He’s hot to trot. A real heartthrob."

She smiled. Aren’t they all?

2.

Digging for dirt

Trudie pushed the doorbell of the stately, white Woollahra mansion and listened to the chiming echoing inside.

Then the yapping started. It made a rapid approach to the front door, accompanied by a frantic clattering of claws against a tiled floor. Then a clawing sound on the inside of the door, the sharp staccato yapping continuing throughout. Trudie grit her teeth. She couldn’t stand high-strung little dogs. Maybe she could accidentally step on it.

She waited. Someone was approaching the front door with a brisk high-heeled clicking. Now-Now, that’s enough, she heard a woman’s voice saying in raspy matronly tones.

The door swung open. A teacup Pomeranian shot out and started gnawing and tugging on the bottom of Trudie’s slacks. She tried to shake the animal off. She noticed its legs were encased in four woollen knitted sheaths.

Now-Now, that’s enough! said the fifty-something woman standing at the door. She was wearing high heels with a purple leotard and holding a tall glass of red liquid with a celery stalk in it. A damp towel was draped around her neck.

She gave a fluting giggle. I don’t normally answer the door dressed like this, but my maid Zetta is out and I’m in the middle of my morning huffy puffy. At least I slipped on my slingbacks for you so I’m not a complete savage, haha.

The skin of her face, flushed from exercise, was stretched trampoline tight, making her look pleasantly surprised at everything she saw. Her bottle blonde hair was piled high into a stiff and elaborate sculpture on top of her head.

Trudie held out her hand. "I’m Trudie Asher from Tube Talk Weekly. I’m here for the interview with Toby Bardia."

Ah my little Cuddle-Pooch. Everyone wants a piece of him these days. But who can blame them, I suppose? Do come in.

Dragging the dog behind her, Trudie stepped into a cavernous hallway that her entire studio apartment would’ve fit into with room to spare. The woman closed the door. "That will do, Now-Now! She bent down and scooped up the animal with her free hand. I’m sorry about Now-Now, she said, holding the snarling bundle aloft as if for Trudie to bestow a kiss on it. He gets very excited around visitors, don’t you Now-Now?"

On closer inspection it looked more like an angry feather duster than a dog. Trudie gave her a limp smile. It’s quite all right.

The woman indicated the woollen sheaths. My latest creations. Leg warmers for dogs. It seemed like such a hole in the market. I couldn’t believe no-one had thought of it before. Now-Now is road-testing the prototypes. She giggled. "Anyway, I’m Lady Amanda Hallstead. She tucked the dog under her glass-holding arm and held out her hand. She had one of those limp, dead fish handshakes popular with old ladies, but usually not with women in their fifties. Then again, maybe she wasn’t in her fifties after all? Maybe she was eighty-five?

So Toby’s your … er … son?

"Well, he’s my protege, I suppose. Another fluting giggle. I plucked him out of the monotony of the hospitality industry. And installed him in the lap of privilege. But I suppose I am the important female figure in his life."

Besides Minty, of course.

Of course. Lady Hallstead took a sip from her glass while Now-Now continued to wriggle under her arm and snarl at Trudie. "Now where is he, I wonder? You’ve got your tape recorder with you. I think he was in the kitchen a few minutes ago. Toby?" She wandered down the hall and merged with the decor.

Trudie inspected the bottom of her slacks for damage but luckily there didn’t seem to be any. Maybe Now-Now was just all bark.

She stood there, collecting her thoughts. Then she gazed around the hallway. What an enormous house this was! How the other half live! Although – she frowned to herself. Those phoney Greek columns. The ceramic cheetah in the corner with its teeth bared. That salmon pink settee trimmed with faux gold. And, undoubtedly the hallway’s centrepiece, the enormous framed print of a woman in a big dress with puffy sleeves, all frills and petticoats, swinging on a tree swing with a constipated look on her face. Trudie smiled. When the wealthy failed at interior design, they did it on a spectacular scale. It was an oddly satisfying thought.

Someone was standing in an open doorway nearby, watching her. A tall man in his thirties with glasses and very neatly-combed dark hair. He was wearing a white polo shirt with the top button done up and shapeless brown slacks. He was eating from a bowl of cereal. Oh sorry, he said. I heard the doorbell and Now-Now going berserk. I thought you might’ve been my golfing buddy.

Trudie smiled. I’m just a lowly TV journalist, I’m afraid.

He stepped forward, holding out his hand. Rick Hallstead. Lowly architect.

"Trudie Asher. From Tube Talk. I’m interviewing Toby."

Ah, my ever-popular but irritating younger brother, said Rick Hallstead with a smirk. And all this time we had no idea we were sharing the house with such greatness.

Toby Bardia’s your brother?

Rick Hallstead smiled. Well, not biologically. I don’t think he’s got much of a family at all, to be honest. My stepmum took him under her wing a couple of years ago. Like an adopted puppy. He gave another smirk. I don’t know who’s more annoying, Toby or Now-Now!

Toby’s annoying?

Well, he has been lately. Been an insufferable brat sometimes. Probably because of all the attention. It goes to his head. He’s so young. But I think that’s what mum likes most about him. Someone else to fuss over.

As if on cue, Lady Hallstead tottered back. She was still holding her drink but Now-Now had been dispensed with somewhere along the way. Oh, Rick. I’m just looking for Toby. She touched Trudie lightly on the shoulder. This is Tracy from the TV magazine. She’s here to interview Toby.

Yes, we’re a few steps ahead of you, Mum, said Rick.

Lady Hallstead looked at Trudie. He’s probably in his room. I’ll show you.

Trudie followed Lady Hallstead’s lycra-clad backside and pile of yellow hair up the stairs and and around a corner to a door bearing a small plaque with the words ‘This is Toby’s Room’ and a picture of a naked man towelling himself dry.

Lady Hallstead rapped on the door with her heavily bejewelled knuckles. Toby dear, the lady from the TV magazine is here. Without waiting for a reply she pushed the door open. Trudie hesitated, then walked into the bedroom of the Beddybize pin-up boy, soap star and Most Popular Young Male on Australian Television.

*****

She stood there for a moment looking around. Lady Hallstead had already pulled the door closed behind her and tottered away.

For a moment Trudie wondered if she’d been shown into the right room. The turntables, computer terminals and synthesiser equipment that dominated one wall made it seem more like a recording studio. There was a queen-sized bed in the centre of the room, its sheets twisted and rumpled, as if in deliberate contrast to the pristine satin perfection of the sheets in the Beddybize photo. A large framed copy of the photo itself was hanging on the wall – mute testament to what must be a bloody enormous ego. But where was Toby?

Then a flicker of movement in the mirror next to her caught her eye. She found herself staring at the image reflected from over her shoulder. It was Toby Bardia. Standing in the ensuite doorway across the room, dripping wet and clutching a towel around his otherwise naked body.

As she stared at the apparition, two thoughts fired in Trudie’s mind. One: the hunky young man who’s just stepped out of the shower is a real cliche. Two: when the man is as gorgeous as this, cliches don’t matter.

She swung around and faced him.

Oh sorry, I thought you were coming after lunch. His voice sounded more nasally than it did on television. He seemed little more than a kid, really, and looked younger than his twenty-one years. There was something ungainly and puppy dog-like about him that was disarming.

He was also more good looking in person than she’d expected. Those sparkling brown eyes and the lock of dark hair that tumbled across his forehead and those full lips and perfect teeth were very effective. Not to mention his muscular body. He’s the real deal, totally and completely gorgeous, Trudie thought.

Oh. Sorry. I can wait downstairs while you get dressed.

Nah, just give me a sec. He disappeared. There was a spraying sound then he emerged, knotting a dark blue bathrobe around his waist. It was loose enough to reveal a sleek triangle of chest. Are you sure you don’t want to get properly dressed? Trudie asked.

Nah, I don’t mind doing it like this.

I’d also like to get some photos of you working out. Your agent told me you’ve got your own gym here.

Yeah, but today’s a non-training day. Come back tomorrow for shots of me training. They’ll look better if I’m working out for real, not just posing coz I’ll be, you know, really vascular and pumped.

Instantly Trudie imagined a more vascular and pumped version of that body. She found herself agreeing to a second visit tomorrow.

He threw himself onto the bed. The spicy aftershave he’d just drenched himself in made him smell like a teenager. Trudie wondered if he was one of those ‘hunks’ whose ability to string words together diminished in direct proportion to how gorgeous he was.

But as soon as she’d started her tape recorder, the boy found his tongue. Maybe it was nerves, but he almost wouldn’t shut up.

On the subject of how the Beddybize sheets ad had been received …

"It’s been totally amazing! I never thought something like this would happen to me. It’s kinda, you know, totally changed my life. Suddenly everyone wants me. Me! And guess what … they’re gonna do another ad. The Beddybize people, I mean. Luxmore. For TV. And it’s gonna be major! They’re gonna spend hundreds of thousands! The most expensive TV commercial in Australian history, they’re saying."

Wow.

"I’m lying on some Beddybize sheets again, see? Only this’ll be live action. I drift off to sleep and dream that I’m on a tropical island. Swimming in lagoons and just walking through this amazing paradise. Then there’s this clearing