March 17th 2004. A New Cross housing estate. Residents are shocked as the usual hushed tranquility is destroyed by the noise of shouting policemen and splintering wood.
People from the surrounding area leave their homes one by one to stand in the street, eyes downcast and caps in hand, as the pitiful mortal remains of one Francine LaBrice are removed. Removed from the squalid hovel in which they have lain undiscovered, unremarked and unrefrigerated for the previous few weeks. Removed from the kitchen lino, the bathroom tiles, the bedroom chipped white furniture and the living room swirly turquoise and yellow carpet. “Shit!” a local peasant is heard to mutter.
And yet, in 2002, Francine, or “Our Franki”, had the world at her feet. Her manager Doc Thompson made sure that showbiz columns delighted in reporting her every move and eccentricity - like the time she demanded rhinestone bootees for her collection of pet stick insects, or the time she was seen in Stringfellows dancing clumsily with a 6 ft grandfather clock (“You should see the size of his dong darling!”). So what went wrong? The recent discovery of a diary, written in the last 6 months of her life, may provide the answers…
The diary starts reasonably enough:
“August 14th: The only reason I’m bothering with this is because I know it is my duty. Doc says future generations are going to want to know EVERYTHING about me. Well, let me say here and now, even though I love you all, you’ve no idea how much it wearies me to have to explain myself to people like you…”
Several weeks pass by, in which the only subject matter seems to be a small uneven patch on one of her toenails. November 11th is typical:
“November 11th: I tried the lavender gel that Yvette recommended today, no joy…how am I going to appear at the L’Oreal Music Awards like this? I’ll be a laughing stock.”
By December though, it’s obvious there’s something wrong:
"December 12th: “Went to get some more money off Doc yesterday but he seemed preoccupied. He didn’t twitch even when I showed him my new shoulder angle. Honestly, it took me hours to work out. What I do is hold my left shoulder slightly higher than the right and turn about 2.75 degrees towards the camera. How could he not notice? I‘m beginning to think he might be a bit insensitive actually, darling.”
And matters went from bad to worse:
“December 27th: Still waiting for my present from Doc. Yvette gave me a very nice thermostat ,each number on the dial is displayed in diamonds and the whole thing is ringed with pearls, it’s very tasteful. I was a teeny bit upset though, because she said in her card that she could no longer be associated with me due to ‘incipient fame quotient differences‘, whatever that means. Still, at least my toenail is looking better, and that’s the main thing. I‘ll call her next week and we can go out to celebrate.”
It was at about this time that Doc Thompson was going all out to promote the new alternative rock band “Quirke!”. Francine seemed oblivious to this:
“December 29th: Went round to Doc’s house, merely to be laughed at in the hallway by a collection of young men I can only describe as ‘rough’. They were all wearing camouflage trousers and one of them had extremely untidy eyebrows. At least their hair was expertly done though…”
“December 31st, New Years Eve: I’m going to wear my gold mesh dress - the one which shows everything apart from my nipples, with the fake nipples on the front. I’ve been plucking hairs for hours. It does sting a bit - now I understand all that guff about suffering for your art.”
But:
“January 1st, New Years Day: Well, darlings, what a fiasco! Deliberately picked a fight with Misty-Fit, and even though she tore my dress quite provocatively there was NO mention of it in any paper that counts (although I believe the Lewisham Advertiser ran something). The boy with the bad eyebrows from Quirke! was there, he kept trying to say something or other to me, but honestly I had better things to do.”
The next few entries show an increasing bewilderment on Franki's part:
“January 7th: It appears I am no longer famous. I don’t get it. Yvette is being very understanding though. She’s said she’ll carry on as my friend for three weeks and if I’m still not famous, that’s it. She also has some good tips for staying famous: there’s the 'Lennon' the 'John Leslie' and the 'Dando'. They all sound a bit difficult. But I might mention them to Doc.”
“January 20th: Finally got to talk to Doc, he seemed very cold. I mentioned Yvette’s ideas and he said 'get a stalker honey and come back to me, maybe I can work it in somehow, I ain’t paying though'. I had a look in the phonebook and the cheapest one was £10 an hour. There’s no chance! I need at least that for eyelash maintenance..”
“January 25th: Had a strange phone call today, the eyebrow boy from Quirke! rang me up and muttered incoherently at me for at least 15 minutes. Honestly, darling, if you want to sleep with me all you need to do is ask, it’s not difficult”
Then, on the 31st of January,she has an idea!
“January 31st: I’ve had an idea! The whole thing about stalkers is no one knows who they are … What if I was to STALK MYSELF? Doc need never know…”
And so, the next day...
“Day 1 of stalking. It does make me giggle a bit! I hung around outside my house for over two hours, but there was no sign of me. Oh well, better luck tomorrow, darlings!”
“Day 3 of stalking. I waited outside until I was sure I wasn’t in, then broke the window with a crowbar. Quirke! boy or Barry as he’s admitted his name is after much blushing, was standing outside too, but he wouldn’t come in for a cup of tea. Anyway, sweeties, I got in and headed straight for my underwear drawer. I managed to snaffle 3 pairs of pants, one of which I’m wearing now!”
“February 4th: Well, I think the stalking’s going ok so far, but it’s early days yet. “
“Day 4 of stalking. This is such fun! I phoned up my landline from my mobile, but I didn’t leave a message, just put it down again as soon as the ansaphone came on. “
Unfortunately several pages are torn out here, but the diary continues on the 12th of February:
“February 12th:I’m getting a bit worried. Barry says I’m just being paranoid, which is sweet of him - maybe I WILL actually sleep with him. He’ll have to lose the acne first though, you know what I’m saying? Thing is, I get this feeling I’m being watched. And not in a normal, wholesome sense like with paparazzi!”
“Day 14 of stalking. Franki is asking for it, the cold bitch. I’m going to leave her a Valentine present she won’t forget.”
“February 14th: Came home tonight, and after pushing past Barry, who was still waiting on my doorstep, I got into the front room, only to find some weirdo had pooed on my living room carpet. Well that’s just not nice. Barry offered to clean it up for me, but honestly I’d rather forget about the whole thing. He’s been using the apricot facial scrub like I told him, and I have to say darlings, he‘s starting to look rather appealing. I might seduce him next week - it‘s not like I‘ve got anything else planned.”
Later that day:
“I’m getting the locks changed though. Better safe than sorry.”
“Day 20 of stalking. She’s changed the bloody locks! Does she think that’s going to keep me out? The cow needs teaching a lesson…”
On 20th February Francine LaBrice disappeared. The last known sighting of her was at around 4.30 when she entered her local ironmongers and purchased a small hacksaw, a coil of rope and a value pack of sandpaper (it was on special offer). The New Cross shopkeeper later described her as “untidy and wild-eyed and she kept muttering to herself. I mean, just like any other customer really.”
So what happened? And why did it take so long for the police to be called in? Windypops tracked down a series of notes, in what appears to be Franki’s writing, hand-delivered to various people between the dates of 21st and 28th of February, usually in the small hours of the morning.
The first note was found on Doc Thompson’s desk at 9.00 am on the 21st. “I didn’t think much about it at the time,” explains the balding impresario. “If only I’d paid more attention! We all tried our best of course…”
The second note appeared backstage at a Quirke concert on the 23rd. No sooner had they reached the dressing room after finishing a gruelling 20 minute set, than Barry Gibson noticed a note blu-tacked to his mirror. “I recognised Franki’s writing immediately,” he says sadly. “I was really worried so I went round to her house. I knew someone was in because I could hear snuffling, but no one would answer the door.”
Yvette Cellini, Franki’s best friend, refused to be interviewed by Windypops as she is currently on a month long yogic-tanning break. She did, however, instruct her personal assistant, Kenneth, to forward this note to us:
We asked Kenneth why Yvette had ignored the note, but he just shrugged his shoulders and said “Ms Cellini is a very busy woman.”
Meanwhile Doc Thompson had received several more letters, including this one:
“I was frantic by now,” reveals Barry Gibson, “but Doc wouldn’t let me go to the police. He was trying to promote us as a gay band, even though we were all straight, and he didn’t want it to leak out that one of us had …Sorry,” he looks bashful, “nearly had a girlfriend.” A single tear trickles down his still acne-ridden face. “I got up the courage to report it in the end, but it was too late by then.”
The final note (and an accompanying photograph) was received by Doc on the morning of the 28th.
Later on that day, Barry, who happened to be in the neighbourhood, reported hearing “weird rasping and whimpering noises” through her letterbox. “Then there was just silence,” he added, “so after a few hours I went home.”
Eventually, on the morning of 19th March 2005 - over a year after her death - the police coroner made a statement. The cause of death was described as “extreme exfoliation”. In her final makeover, she had virtually sanded herself down to the bone.