Dead famous (20 page)

DAY TWENTY-NINE. 8.10 p.m.

T
he line of numbers at the bottom of the screen of the incident room television showed that it was 11.44. 11.44 and twenty-one seconds, twenty-two seconds, twenty-three seconds. Coleridge still found it difficult to watch, even after numerous viewings. He had heard that the whole sequence was already available on the Internet and had been downloaded many tens of thousands of times. As long as he lived Coleridge did not believe he would understand how a single race of beings could include both Jesus Christ and the sort of people who would download a video of a young woman being murdered. He rather supposed that had been the Messiah’s point, but that didn’t make it any easier to understand or accept. He, Hooper and Trish watched as, while Kelly sat naked and unsuspecting on the toilet, at the other end of the house, in the boys’ bedroom, the plastic flaps of the sweatbox moved. There was a sort of flurry of activity as a hidden figure swiftly gathered up one of the sheets that Peeping Tom had allowed for lavatory trips, spread it out to cover the entrance and on leaving the box enveloped his or her self in it. Try as they might, and using the best image-enhancement technology available, the police had been unable to gain any information whatsoever from that blurred bluish image. For a moment a hand was visible, but it was not possible to even tell if it was male or female, or even to say whether it wore a ring. Then, carefully, covered from head to toe in the sheet, the hunched figure made its way out of the boys’ bedroom and into the glaring tube lighting of the living area. From there it went to the kitchen units, where it provided the police with another tantalizing glimpse of hand as it reached into one of the kitchen drawers and took out the largest kitchen knife available, a beautiful Sabatier. Then, as the murmuring and giggling that emanated from inside the sweatbox continued gently to waft into the microphones, the cloaked figure crossed the rest of the living room, went into the utility area and approached the toilet door.

DAY TWENTY-SEVEN. 11.44 p.m.

W
ho the fuck is that, then?’ Said Geraldine, watching the sheeted figure emerge from the boys’ bedroom.

‘Don’t know,’ said Pru and Fogarty together.

‘Someone’s having a laugh,’ opined Fogarty.

‘Going to scare Kelly.’ Now the figure crossed to the kitchen units and picked up the knife from the kitchen drawer.

‘That I do not like,’ said Geraldine. That is not funny.’ The figure was making its way towards the toilet now.

‘They’re all far too pissed for this type of nonsense,’ said Geraldine.

‘We need to make an announcement. Tell whichever silly cunt is in that sheet to stop fucking around and put that fucking knife back in the drawer before he gets us censored by the bleeding Standards Commission. Sam’s not here. You do it, Pru, quick, bang the intercom on.’ But there was no time. The figure in the sheet suddenly threw open the toilet door and swept inside. Kelly must have seen her killer’s face, but she was the only person who did. Every housemate knew the location of all the cameras intimately and whoever burst into that toilet knew that the only camera covering him was the one above the door. As he entered, he raised the sheet high above his head with both hands, one of which also held the knife. Kelly must have looked up in surprise, but it was not possible to see her expression in that final moment because the sheet was billowing above and behind the killer, cutting them both off from the view of the camera. Now, as Geraldine and her editing team watched, the sheet seemed to fall downwards onto Kelly. This, it was to transpire, was the first plunge of the knife. The one that skewered Kelly’s neck. In the monitoring box they still thought it was a wind-up. They had no reason to think anything else.

‘What is that cunt doing?’ Geraldine said, as the billowing sheet raised itself up again before plunging down once more.

DAY TWENTY-NINE. 8.30 p.m.

I
think he had been planning on making only one blow,’ said Coleridge.

‘After all, he couldn’t afford to get any blood on him.’

‘Tough call, that, if you happen to be knifing somebody.’

‘Just one huge blow, straight into the brain. Instant death.’

‘And no geyser of blood.’

‘Exactly, but the girl must have moved her head and he hit the neck.’

‘Fortunately for him not the jugular.’

‘No, not the jugular. He got away without getting marked, just.’

‘One lucky bastard.’ Coleridge was forced to agree: the killer had indeed been one lucky bastard.

‘I still say it would take a man to deliver a blow like that, and a strong one,’ Hooper continued.

‘It doesn’t. We proved that,’ said Trisha with a touch of impatience. She herself had spent an unpleasant afternoon at a local butcher’s shop plunging knives into pigs’ skulls.

‘I know that a woman could have done it, but at what risk?’ Hooper insisted.

‘If the knife had got stuck in the bone of the skull, for instance — that happened with the pigs, Trish, half the times you tried it. What’s more, the force required is huge, and there’s no guard on a kitchen knife. You were wearing gloves, but your hand slipped occasionally. What if hers had done? She’d have cut off her own fingers. Kelly would have grabbed the sheet. It would have been all up. The chances of a woman pulling off a blow like that are quite small.’

‘Except for Sally,’ Coleridge said. Big, beefy Sally. The Internet’s murderer of choice.

‘Why on earth would Sally murder Kelly?’ Said Trish, a little too quickly.

‘Why would any of them?’ Coleridge answered.

‘The only thing we can say for sure is that any one of them could have done it. The killer was right-handed and so are all of the remaining housemates. However, I concede that it is more probable that one of the stronger ones did it. Probably a man.’ They all turned back to the screen. The figure had thrown open the door at 11.44 and twenty-nine seconds. The first blow had fallen two and a half seconds later, the next and final one two seconds after that. The killer had been inside the lavatory for considerably less than ten seconds in all.

‘If it wasn’t all so damned clinical,’ Coleridge observed, ‘I would have said that the attack was frenzied.’ The tape played on. The killer had clearly taken two sheets from the pile when he left the sweatbox, for now as he raised himself up from making the second blow he threw one over his victim. The other one continued to cover him as he left the toilet.

‘And you talked to the cameraman on duty, constable?’ Coleridge enquired.

‘Yes, I did, sir,’ Trish replied, ‘at length. His name is Larry Carlisle. He saw the figure in the sheet enter the lavatory and moments later he saw the figure emerge.’ Trisha gathered up her case notes and quoted from the transcript of her interview with the cameraman…

‘I saw the figure follow the victim into the toilet at approximately twenty to midnight. He re-emerged shortly thereafter and headed back across the living area towards the boys’ bedroom. I did not cover him with my camera as I had been instructed to continue to watch the toilet for Kelly in order to obtain more good nude footage. I remained there, watching the door, until the alarm was raised. I recall thinking that she was having a long time in the loo. I had only twenty minutes to go until my shift finished and I was beginning to think I’d have to leave her for the next bloke. Anyway, about four or five minutes after the figure in the sheet emerged, they all rushed down from the monitoring bunker, and you know the rest.’ ‘ ‘Four or five minutes?’ Said Coleridge when Trisha had finished reading.

‘That’s what he said.’

‘According to the people in the box and the time codes it was no more than two.’

‘I suppose if you’re just standing staring at a door it would be easy to misjudge a period of time.’

‘How long did he say elapsed between Kelly emerging from the bedroom and the killer following her?’

‘He said two, but gets that wrong as well, because it was around five.’ Coleridge got out the big red ledger in which he kept his notes for the case and wrote down Carlisle’s name and the discrepancies the man had made in his timings. Coleridge wrote in longhand, and it always seemed to take him about a week to complete a sentence.

DAY TWENTY-EIGHT. 7.00 p.m.

G
eraldine’s witness statement had arrived at the point of the murder. She told the same story as all the others.

‘I saw the bloke in the sheet come out of the sweatbox, cross the living area, go into the toilet and kill Kelly.’

‘How long would you say Kelly had been on the toilet before the killer emerged?’ Coleridge asked.

‘About four or five minutes, I think.’

‘Did you actually see the murder?’

‘Well, not actually, obviously, the sheet was in the way. We just saw the sheet billow up and down twice and wondered what was up. Then the bloke buggered off sharpish back to the sweatbox, leaving Kelly covered in his spare sheet.’

‘You saw the sheeted figure return to the sweatbox and go inside it?’

‘Yes,we all did.’

‘What happened then?’ Coleridge asked.

‘We sat and watched. Kelly was still on the bog but covered in this sheet.’

‘You didn’t think that was strange?’

‘Well, of course we thought it was fucking strange, but the whole thing’s fucking strange, isn’t it? We didn’t know what was happening. As far as we knew there’d been a bit of malarkey with the sheets, that was all. I mean, come on, inspector, we weren’t expecting a murder, were we? I think we sort of presumed she’d fallen asleep. They were all completely pissed. It would have been strange if things hadn’t been strange.’ Then what?’

‘Well, we saw the puddle, didn’t we?’

‘How long would that have been after the figure in the sheet had left the toilet?’

‘I don’t know. Five minutes, max.’

‘Yes, that’s what the operator in the camera run said.’

‘Does it matter?’

‘The editor and his assistants thought it was more like two.’

‘Maybe it was, I don’t know, it seemed like five minutes. Time drags a bit when you’re sitting staring at a bird on a bog covered in a sheet. What’s it say on the video time code?’

‘Two minutes and eight seconds.’

‘Well, you know, then. What are you asking me for?’

‘So then you saw the puddle?’

‘Yeah, suddenly we could see a wet sort of dark shiny glow spreading out from around the toilet.’

‘Blood?’

‘Well, we know that now, don’t we?’

‘It must have occurred to you then.’

‘Well, of course it did, but it just seemed so impossible.’

‘The sheet was already sodden with it. Why didn’t you see that?’

‘As you know, the sheet was dark blue. The stain didn’t show up on the night camera. All the sheets in the house are dark colours. Our psychologist reckons it’s more conducive to people having sex on them.’

‘So what then?’

‘Well, I’m embarrassed to say, inspector, that I screamed.’

DAY TWENTY-SEVEN. 10.00 p.m.

T
hey had been inside the sweatbox for a few minutes now, waiting for their eyes to get used to the darkness. It was useless trying to see anything, however. The blackness was complete.

‘Let’s play truth or dare,’ Moon’s voice called out of the darkness.

‘Dare?’ Said Dervla.

‘Jesus, what more of a dare could we think of than this? We’ve already had to strip naked, for heaven’s sake.’

‘I can think of a few things,’ Gazzer grunted.

‘Well, keep them to yourself, Gaz,’ Dervla replied, managing to make her voice sound almost prim, which was some achievement considering the situation they were all in.

‘Because I’m not shaggin’ any of yez.’ Dervla’s voice and intonation were getting closer to Dublin with every syllable she spoke. She always took refuge in the comfort and protection of the tough, highly credible accent of her childhood when she felt vulnerable.

‘Jesus, me mother’d kill me, so she would.’

‘All right, then,’ Moon conceded.

‘Let’s just play truth, then. Somebody ask a question.’ Now another voice rang out of the darkness, a voice that was jarring and bitter.

‘What would be the fucking point of asking you to tell the truth, Moon?’ It was Sally’s voice, and it struck a disturbing note. Its hard, nasty edge cut through the drunken badinage.

‘Hey, Sally,’ Moon replied, angry and defensive.

‘I were having a fookin’ laugh, all right. Get over it, why don’t you?’

‘What’s that, then?’ Garry asked.

‘What’s been going on with you birds?’

‘Ask Sally,’ said Moon.

‘She’s the one who can’t take a joke.’ But Sally remained silent. And would not get over it either. She had no intention of getting over it, ever. Moon had done a despicable thing. She had hijacked the terrible suffering of the abused and the mentally disturbed to score cheap points. One day Sally intended to make Moon aware of the offence that she had caused.

‘Oh, fook it, then,’ Moon continued, ‘and took you, Sally.’ There was a movement in the box. Somebody was leaving.

‘Who’s that?’ Hamish asked.

‘Who’s got out?’ Said Jazz. Sally was already outside the box.

‘I’m going for a slash,’ she said.

‘Well, make sure you come back,’ said Jazz.

‘We all have to do this or we all fail.’

‘I know,’ Sally assured him. In the monitoring box they watched as Sally came out of the boys’ bedroom and crossed the living area to the toilet. Sally had not bothered to take up a sheet to cover herself, but Geraldine was less than thrilled.

‘Well, not bad, I suppose, but she’s hardly one of the lookers,’ she moaned.

‘And, anyway, we’ve seen her bloody great kajungas hundreds of times. What we need is Kelly or Dervo to give us a full frontal.’ Geraldine stared wearily at the screen.

‘And I do wish she’d get that bikini line done. I mean, look at it. It’s just not necessary. I’ve known lesbians with beautifully styled fur burgers.’ Bob Fogarty reached for a comforting pound or two of chocolate. While Sally was away Moon resumed her theme.

‘Come on, are we having a truth game or what? Let’s have a juicy question.’ And of course Garry asked the inevitable one.

‘All right. We all have to say who we’d shag in the house if we had to do it or die.’

‘Dervla,’ said Jazz, and as he said it he realized that he had responded rather embarrassingly quickly. He was rewarded with a chorus of ‘Whoos’.

‘Jazz fancies Dervo. Jazz fancies Dervo,’ Kelly chanted drunkenly.

‘Well, I’m very flattered. Jazz,’ said Dervla, ‘but as I said I’m not after looking for any nookie, so I’m not.’

‘But if you were, Dervs,’ Garry said, pressing his point.

‘Who would it be?’

‘You have to answer,’ said Moon.

‘We all have to answer.’

‘Oh, all right, then,’ Dervla replied.

‘Jazz, I suppose, but only because he’s been a gentleman and named me.’ The too, I’ll have him after you’ve finished with him,’ said Moon, ‘cos I reckon you’re dead fookin’ lush. Jazz. I can say it in here because it’s dark and I’m pissed and you can’t see me going red, but at the end of the day I’d bang your fookin’ brains out if I had a chance, so fair play to ya ‘cos I think you’re brilliant.’

‘Bang his brains out? That’d take all of ten seconds!’ Shouted Garry.

‘You’re just jealous, Gazzer,’ Jazz shouted back, ‘because it’s two nil to me! Two nil! Two nil! Two nil.’ Jazz had turned his score into a chant. Sally returned from the toilet. There was much groaning and giggling as she squeezed her way in among the naked bodies.

‘I’ll tell you one thing. Jazz,’ she said.

‘Listening to you and Gazzer I’m glad I’m a lesbian.’

‘Yes, you’d better watch it, Jazz,’ Dervla added.

‘I’m thinking about changing my vote.’

‘Well, I’ll have Hamish, then,’ Kelly shouted.

‘Because he’s a doctor and you’ve got to respect that, haven’t you?’ Actually Kelly fancied Jazz, like all the other girls except Sally, but she nominated Hamish because she wanted to be nice to him. She had been feeling guilty about the strange half-formed suspicion that she had harboured after their drunken night together and in particular about the fact that she had spoken to Peeping Tom about the matter. Not in so many words, of course, but she had gone to the confession box to ask whether anything had happened, which was a pretty clear indication of what she was thinking. That had been really bad of her. It must have looked to everyone like she was worried that Hamish had attempted to take advantage of her drunken state. Kelly knew that was a pretty major thing to imply about anybody, particularly a doctor, and particularly since she had by now definitely decided in her mind that nothing untoward had occurred in Copulation Cabin that night. Kelly wanted to make amends, and she reckoned by naming him as her preferred partner she was making clear that she harboured no further suspicions. Hamish was thrilled. He had noted Kelly’s unscheduled trip to the confession box and had been horribly disturbed by it. Now, however, he knew that he was safe. Kelly had named him as her partner of choice, and if she had been harbouring any suspicions about his character or conduct she would scarcely have done that, would she? ‘Besides which,’ Kelly continued, ‘doctors have such sensitive hands, and a girl does love a gentle touch.’ Garry and Jazz cheered drunkenly. Hamish gulped at the hot salty air.

‘Sensitive hands’?…

‘gentle touchy Was it a coincidence? Did she know? Had she been conscious all along and enjoying his…his explorations, his…digital penetration? It was possible surely, after all Kelly was quite a wild one. Hamish smiled broadly, a big happy smile which nobody could see. It was all going to be all right, maybe even better than all right. Maybe he might even get another chance at her.

‘Cheers, Kelly!’ Hamish shouted out.

‘I’m deeply flattered and most certainly reciprocate the nomination.’

‘And I shall join you, my son,’ Garry shouted.

‘No offence to the other girls,but it’s got to be Kelly, ain’t it? I mean just for the knockers alone.’

‘Forget it, Garry,’ Hamish replied.

‘Personally I’m not into threesomes.’

‘Listen to these two!’ Kelly shrieked.

‘I’m being fought over, girls. I think it’s dead romantic.’ Which, considering she was sitting naked in a communal sweatbox, showed how drunk Kelly had become.

‘What about you, then. Sally?’ Jazz asked.

‘Who’d you have if you had to have someone?’

‘I’d have Dervla, thank you very much,’ Sally replied quietly.

‘I think we’d make a lovely couple at the next Pride Festival.’

‘Well, I’m delighted and flattered,’ said Dervla from somewhere in the darkness.

‘I think that’s a terribly sweet thing to say. Sally, and if I batted for your team I should take you up on the offer without further ado.’

‘All right!’ shouted Garry.

‘Can I watch?’

‘So you’ve got two nominations then, Dervo,’ said Jazz.

‘Impressive score, girl. Equal to the Jazz meister.’

‘Do lezzo votes count, then?’ Asked Garry.

‘I mean, I’m not being homo whatsit or nothing, but I’d have thought they’d be in a different category, wouldn’t they?’

‘What absolute rubbish, Garry,’ snapped Dervla, ‘and you are being homo whatsit.’

‘No way,’ Garry defended himself.

‘I’m a big supporter of lesbian love. I could watch it all day. In fact I’ve got some excellent videos if anyone’s interested, for when we all get out.’ This comment put Kelly in mind of David and her little secret bit of knowledge about him. So Garry collected porn. She wondered whether he had any of the Fuck Orgy series.

‘Who do you nominate, then, David?’ She asked. To have sex with, out of our little group?’ David replied, his voice being heard in the pitch-black sweatbox for the first time.

‘Why, who else but myself? For me sex is nothing without love and commitment, and you all know that I love no one on this earth so much as I love moi.’ They all laughed, as David had hoped they would. He was perfectly well aware that he must have been coming across to the public as extremely vain. He always came across as extremely vain, and the reason for this was because he was extremely vain. But the funny thing about David’s vanity was that it was both his most irritating and his most charming feature. There was something almost endearing or at least comical about how much David loved himself, and as people got to know him they began to see the fun in it. David hoped that this would work for him in the house. All his life he had progressed from being the one people simply hated, through being the one people loved to hate, until eventually ending up being a person people hated themselves for loving. It was a complex equation, but it was pretty much how things worked socially for David, and he thought he might have a similar relationship with the public. He imagined that his little joke about sex with himself (should it be broadcast) would do much to improve his standing with the voting public. David was an acquired taste, and he believed that once the penny dropped with people that he knew how vain he was, they would start to like him more.

‘Not bad, not bad,’ said Geraldine crouching over the monitoring controls.

‘At least they’re talking about sex. Got some lovely stuff to broadcast there. I loved David’s wanking joke. He’s really coming into his own. Might put a few quid on him to make the final three. Wouldn’t that be a surprise?’

‘I hope they continue to speak up,’ the sound editor said.

‘Don’t forget they aren’t wearing their radio mikes. We’re relying on the ones dropping from the ceiling.’

‘I know that, but what could we do? You can’t fit bloody battery packs onto naked people. They’d get in the way. Besides, what would you hang the mikes off?’

‘All right, come on, then,’ said Moon.

‘Another truth question. Who’s got one, then? Here, I’ve got one. Has anybody ever paid for sex?’

‘Fahkin’ hell. Moon,’ Gazzer laughed.

‘I’ve paid for it the next day all right, when I told the girlfriend I’d just knocked off her sister or her best mate or whatever.’

‘No, I mean paid money for gratification. Been with a tart or summat.’ The reason Moon was asking became clear with her next comment.

‘All right, then. Who’s ever been paid for sex, because I know I fookin’

‘ave.’ This revelation definitely caused a flurry of interest.

‘I’m not proud of it or anything, but at the end of the day I needed the money, right. I were doing arts and social studies at Preston uni, when it was the poly, and I hadn’t got the fees, and I were fooked if I was going to stand behind a bar all night making the same money I could get in twenty minutes lying on my back.’ Everyone was enjoying themselves except Sally. She hated Moon so much, her endless boasting and storytelling. So what if she’d been a prostitute? Who cared? Besides, Sally didn’t believe it. She didn’t believe anything that Moon said any more, and she never ever would again.

‘I’ve been in a porn movie,’ Kelly said.

‘Does that count as being paid for sex?’ Silent in the darkness, David tensed. Where was she going with this? ‘Well, it depends if you’ve actually done it for the camera or not,’ Garry said.

‘I’ve got this film, it’s called LA 100 and all it is, right, you’ll never believe this, but it’s true. All it is is this bird shagging a hundred blokes in a row. Can you believe that! I couldn’t till I saw it. One after the other. In you go, my son, wallop, thank you very much, lovely jubbly, we like that! Next!’

‘I don’t believe it,’ said Dervla.

‘You couldn’t shag a hundred times, it would be impossible.’

‘No, no, honest. It was all kosher, they had authentic adjudicators with clipboards and everything. This bird really did do the ton. And at the end of the day, fair play to her, I say.’

‘Yeah, well, I never actually had sex in the movie I did,’ Kelly conceded.

‘I wouldn’t do that. You can forget it, they’re all such sleazy bastards, those porn actors. You wouldn’t risk it. I was just an extra, you know, a pair of knockers in the background. I had to kiss this other girl’s nipples, but that was it and we just had a laugh about it, but there was plenty of them actually at it, let me tell you, and it was disgusting: shagging and sucking and slobbering and all. The star took it both ways at the same time. I could not believe it, both ways, bonking and being bonked. I mean, come on.’

‘Not easy rhythmically, I would imagine,’ Jazz opined.

‘I should think you’d need a metronome, or there could be a nasty pileup.’

‘You wouldn’t know whether you was coming or going!’ Garry roared, and they all roared with him. Except David. Where is she going with this? He was thinking, his fists clenched with tension. Where is she going with this? ‘He was called Boris Pecker, and he just stood there poking away at these girls in front of him while he got poked at by these blokes from behind him. Unbelievable, it was.’ David was already sweating profusely, but if it were possible he actually began to sweat a little more. Was she about to reveal all? Was this common, ignorant cow going to give him away? David longed to reach out into the darkness and shut that big fat mouth up before it could say any more. He longed to gag it, to ram it shut, to silence it for good. It was obvious to David that Kelly was directing her remarks at him, and it was a bitter blow. He had almost begun to relax about that whispered moment of recognition that they had shared together in the hot tub. It had shocked him deeply at the time, but as the days wore on and she did not mention it again he had started to imagine that perhaps he had heard her wrong, or at the very least that his secret was safe with her. And now…Now she was teasing him, no, taunting him, with her knowledge of his secret, the secret that could destroy his dreams for ever. Because there was only one thing in David’s life that really mattered to him and that was his acting. All he had ever wanted, all he ever would want, was to be an actor, a celebrated actor, of course, a star. At one time in his life, just after he had left RADA, it had almost seemed as if this dream might come true. He had won prizes, got some decent first jobs, and his talent was spoken of highly amongst influential casting agents. But somehow it hadn’t lasted. While others in his graduation class had found their way to the National Theatre, the RSC, and even Hollywood, his flame had sputtered and dimmed. But David still believed from the depths of his soul that he had a fighting chance. He was a good actor, his was surely a talent too rare to go unnoticed for ever. What was more, he was handsome, achingly handsome. All he needed was a break, and that was why he had applied to join House Arrest. He knew, of course, that it was a pretty desperate final gambit, but he was a pretty desperate man, a completely desperate man, in fact. After House Arrest David would be a telly name. He simply could not believe that this would not get him somewhere, a nice little Shakespearean lead at the Glasgow Citizen’s, or perhaps the West Yorkshire Playhouse…And then, if the notices were good, a short London transfer would follow…And then…Then he would be back on track! Back on track to catch up with all the bastards from his year who were doing so much better than he was. Back on track to be able to open the arts pages of the newspapers once more without having to curse every single fucking profile of some bastard ten years younger than him who had just redefined the art of playing Shakespeare in a promenade production in a garden shed on the Isle of Dogs. But none of this would ever happen if people knew that David Dalgleish, actor, artist, man who took no job unworthy of his talent, was in fact none other than Boris Pecker! Olivia Newton Dong! Ivor Biggun! Then he would be a laughing stock.