Kyle was nervous. He licked his lips and flexed his swollen jaw, looking hesitantly at whoever was holding the camera. At an unseen signal he nodded and began. ‘My name is Kyle Kennedy. I’m eighteen years old and come from Derby. I want to say goodbye. .’ For a moment, emotion paralysed his vocal cords. He cleared his throat and looked back up into the lens. ‘I want to tell my mum goodbye and that I love her. Dad, I’m sorry I wasn’t the son you wanted. I didn’t choose this path. If I had, I would have chosen to be gay in a more understanding place.’
He gathered himself before continuing. ‘I’d like to say goodbye to Jake.’ Again he paused and looked away. ‘The tenton truck is here, Jake, and I’m standing in the middle of the road. Goodbye, Morrissey. I love you.’ He prepared to stand up but relaxed back on to the chair and, almost as an after-thought, added, ‘Time to die.’ He reached for his own glass. . then downed the contents.
Brook’s heart began to beat faster as Adele Watson appeared on the screen. The scene was shot in the same format as the others, fifteen minutes later than Kyle. Adele Watson sat confidently on the chair and gazed mockingly into the camera. Her dark eyes reached across cyberspace and burned into Brook’s. He could see from her manner that she meant business, her thin smile almost scornful in its superiority. She wasn’t to be cowed and wouldn’t shrink from the path she’d chosen — Adele was totally in control.
‘Hello, faceless voyeurs. I hope you’re all enjoying the show. I’m Adele Watson and I’ve existed for eighteen excruciating years in a little backwater of Hades called Derby. Don’t worry, it’s not long to the money shot — what you’ve all been waiting for. But first I need to ask a favour. I need all you good people to take a moment after you’ve witnessed our humble sacrifice and think about what we’re about to do because it’s not selfish. We do this for you. We go willingly for the chance to speak to you, to show you that the world is fucked and we want no part of it.
‘Look around, citizens. What do you see? Does it make you happy? Everywhere your eye falls, man is gorging himself on the planet. The animals, the oceans, the soil, the weak, the poor, the downtrodden — shit, even the air particles we breathe are being fucked over so a few members of a sad and lonely and unhappy elite can feed on what’s left of our ailing world. If this elite were aliens, we’d organise, we’d resist and we’d fight with our dying breaths. But whilst our world is being raped, we do nothing. We scuttle around doing their bidding, making their lives richer and the planet poorer. And do we protest? No. Do we rise up? No. Instead, we struggle blindly on and hope they’ll leave us alone or if we’re really good boys and girls, let us join their club.
‘And the membership card? Money. You remember that stuff. Course you do. You’ve all had some, you’ve all wanted more, so you can buy stuff you don’t need and which won’t make you happy. But that doesn’t stop you. Obviously you haven’t bought enough stuff. Must try harder. That nagging doubt where your soul used to be has to be driven out. Work more, eat more, buy more. The pursuit of happiness depends on it.’
Adele smiled into the camera. ‘Our gluttony knows no bounds. But will it mean we can live forever? No. Our corporeal existence will end and our memory will be held in the minds of those who come after us. How do you want to be remembered, friend? As a heartless rich bastard who climbed over others to reach the sunlight — or as a doer of good works? Be forgotten in hate or revered in love? Decide now. Make a stand before it’s too late. You have the power. Goodbye parents, goodbye world. Remember me as one who cared. Time to die.’ She threw the contents of her glass into her mouth without breaking her gaze to camera.
The screen blackened and Brook blew out his cheeks. There was silence in the crowded room.
‘No Rusty,’ muttered Brook.
‘Rusty?’ said Charlton. ‘But he’s the fox in the henhouse. You said so yourself.’
‘He is,’ replied Brook. ‘But he can’t be certain we know that. Why isn’t he keeping up the pretence that he’s a victim too?’
Cooper went to hit the lights but before he reached the switch another piece of footage began.
It was night. Becky Blake was framed in the light of her bedroom window, naked. The camera was lowered to point towards the ground. There were branches of tree in the frame. A second later the ground hurtled towards the camera and the assembled officers heard a muffled expulsion of air. The camera helpfully panned back up to the tree from which the cameraman had just jumped.
‘That must be the tree outside Becky Blake’s house,’ said Noble.
Brook looked at the time display. ‘It’s the night of Becky’s naked dance — the night before the party.’
An excited voice boomed from the speakers. ‘Body Double
A few seconds later, another piece of film and the screen erupted into noisy life; the detectives covered their ears to the cacophony. The picture seemed to be rolling at speed between a hard pavement and the night sky as though the camera was being bounced along the ground. For a split second Brook fancied he also saw a bike-wheel in shot. He winced as the soundtrack gave way to a mixture of screaming and loud banging as the camera came to a halt. The time display showed ten minutes had elapsed since Rusty had filmed himself jumping from the tree.
‘What the devil?’ muttered Charlton. ‘What is this?’
The camera was on the ground. A few yards away, Rusty Thomson lay face down on the pavement, a hand clutching at his neck. A moment later Rusty looked up and reached his bloodstained hand to the lens before his breath gave out and he sank back to the ground. He lay still as the camcorder continued to record.
Brook stared at Rusty, his eyes narrowing. ‘I know it’s dark, but. .’
‘What?’ asked Charlton.
Brook stared a moment longer then looked back at Charlton and shook his head. ‘Nothing.’
The screen changed to black until the caption
‘Did we just see our prime suspect murdered?’ he asked. Nobody answered for a moment. Charlton turned, as usual, towards Brook for an injection of expertise. ‘Inspector?’
Brook roused himself to answer. ‘If so, he died the night before the party.’
‘That would explain why he didn’t have a monologue,’ said Cooper.
‘And why Jake didn’t see Rusty at the party,’ added Noble.
‘Then who the hell filmed the other three students? And who the hell was at the river with Wilson Woodrow?’
‘It must have been Kyle,’ said Morton.
‘Jake saw Kyle doing the filming at the party.’ Noble nodded.
‘What about Rifkind?’ ventured Charlton.
‘That wasn’t Rifkind at the river or on the bridge,’ said Brook.
‘But you can’t be sure,’ argued Charlton. ‘It’s impossible to tell.’
Brook didn’t answer but remained deep in thought. ‘Yvette identified Rusty from the bridge.’
‘Then maybe that last piece was a fake,’ said Cooper. ‘Make us think Rusty’s dead and take the heat off him.’
‘Did that look faked to you?’ asked Morton, nodding at the screen.
Cooper shrugged. ‘Not really.’
‘Which means Rusty was killed on Thursday night,’ began Noble.
‘Are we sure he died?’ said Charlton.
‘What we see and what we seem is but a dream,’ intoned Brook to no one in particular. Everyone turned to him. ‘Dave, play that last bit back again — in slow motion.’
Cooper moved his hand back over the mouse and restarted the film in slow motion. The lights went off and detectives could clearly see the blurred film of night sky and ground, either side of indeterminate shots of vegetation and distant streetlights.
‘Stop,’ commanded Brook. He stood and walked towards the screen. The bicycle-wheel he’d seen before was clearer now. Next to it was a leg dressed in a bright blue tracksuit with red and yellow chevrons and bright white chunky training shoes.
‘Len Poole,’ said Noble. ‘He killed Rusty.’
Brook nodded without taking his eyes from the leg. ‘When we asked Mrs Kennedy if Kyle had a bicycle, Poole said he’d been out on it, remember?’
‘So Poole killed Rusty Thomson,’ said Charlton uncertainly.
