Dead Famous

compilation. She wasn’t having hoity-toity little scrubbers like them holding back on the flesh. What did they think they were on telly for?

The atmosphere in the bedroom was sombre. On previous nights the girls had laughed and giggled as they got into their beds, but on this occasion there was silence. Moon’s revelations had rocked them all. Not just because it had been such a sad and shocking tale, but also because her distress would so obviously appeal to the public’s sympathy and give her the edge when eviction time came. It was very strange to have to remember all the time that every conversation was a conversation between rivals who were competing against each other for the affection of the public.

Then Moon spoke. “Oh, by the way, girls,” she said. “All that stuff I just told you. That were rubbish, by the way. Sorry.”

There was another moment’s silence.

“What!” Layla, who rarely shouted, was furious.

“Don’t worry about it, love,” Moon said in a calm, matter-of-fact voice. “I were ’aving a laugh. Take me mind off me septic nipple.”

“You said you’d been abused!”

“Well, everybody says they’ve been abused these days, don’t they?” Moon replied. “Blimey, if you look at the posters them charities put out, apparently every fookin’ kid in the country’s getting touched up on a more or less continual basis.”

“What’s your game, Moon?” said Dervla with barely controlled fury.

“Told you. Just thought I’d have a laugh,” Moon said. “Plus, I thought our Sally was getting a bit too serious, hopping into Kelly a bit strong about fookin’ loonies, that’s all.”

“You rotten bitch,” said Layla.

“You cow,” said Kelly.

“That was a pretty low trick, Moon,” said Dervla. “I don’t think sexual abuse is a very funny subject.”

“Well, it passed the time, didn’t it?” Moon said. “’Night.”

There was another long pause. Finally Kelly broke the silence. “So were you telling the truth about your breast implants, then?” she asked.

“Oh, yeah, couldn’t do without me kajungas, could I? I reckon they help me with me balance when I’m on the trapeze.”

As peace once more descended upon the room, Dervla thought she heard Sally sob.

DAY THIRTY-THREE. 5.10 p.m.

It had been six days since the murder, and Sergeant Hooper and his team continued with the huge task of trawling through the vast archive of unseen Peeping Tom footage. Searching diligently for any hint of an incident that might have turned somebody’s mind to murder. It was gruelling work even for Hooper, who was a big House Arrest fan, fitting their audience profile and advertiser expectations perfectly. Hooper was the opposite of Coleridge, a very modern copper, a hip, mad-for-it, bigged-up, twenty-first-century boy with baggy trousers, trainers, an earstud and a titanium Apple Mac Powerbook. Hooper and his mates never missed any of the various reality TV shows, but even he was being ground down by the task he now faced. Fortunately not all seven hundred and twenty hours a day of camera activity were available to the police, the vast bulk of it having been discarded on a daily basis by the Peeping Tom editors. But there were still hundreds of hours left, and watching it was like watching paint dry. Worse, at least paint did eventually dry. This lot seemed to stay wet for ever.

Hamish picking his nose again… Jazz scratching his bum.

The girls doing their yoga, again.

Garry doing more press-ups.

Garry doing chin-ups on the doorframes.

Garry running on the spot…

Hooper was beginning to despise the people in the house, and he did not want to. Quite apart from the fact that he did not think it would help him in his detection work, in a way these were his people. They had similar interests and ambitions, a similar honest conviction that they had a right to be happy. Hooper did not want to start thinking like Coleridge. What was that man like? Always banging on about the housemates having no sense of “duty” or “service” or “community”. As if wanting to have it large made you an enemy of society.

Nonetheless, they were seriously beginning to wear him down. It was just that they never did anything, and, more irritatingly, they never thought anything. That most defining of all human characteristics, the capacity for abstract thought, was pressed solely into the service of… of… Nothing.

Hooper cursed inwardly. He was even beginning to think like Coleridge.

And of clues to a murder there were none.

Until Trisha spotted something.

Not much, but something.

“Have a look at this, sergeant,” she said. “Arsey little moment between Kelly the slapper and David the ponce.”

“Arsey, constable? Slapper? Ponce?” Hooper replied, in Coleridge’s schoolmasterly tone, and they both smiled grimly at the thought of the linguistic strictures under which they were obliged to work.

It was only a minor incident, just a whisper of a possibility, but then the police had long since given up any hope of happening upon the obvious.

“We are looking for a catalyst,” Hooper explained to the assembled officers. “In chemistry, sometimes the tiniest element, if added to other compounds, can cause the most explosive results. That’s what we’re looking for: a tiny psychological catalyst.”

It had sounded good when Coleridge had said it to Hooper, and it sounded even better when Hooper showed off with it to his constables. Coleridge might have the lines, but Hooper felt that he knew how to deliver them.

The potential catalyst that Trisha had found was tiny indeed. It had not even been interesting enough for Peeping Tom to broadcast it, but Trisha found it interesting, and so did Hooper.

DAY NINE. 12.20 p.m.

Kelly, Jazz and David were in the hot tub together. As usual, David was talking.

“It’s interesting what you said yesterday about wanting to be an actress, Kelly. Because actually everybody in here is acting. You know that, don’t you? This house is a stage and all the men and women merely players.”

“Not true,” Jazz replied, with his customary abundance of self-confidence. “I’m being my true self, guy. What you see is what you get, because everything I got is too good to hide.”

“Oh, what nonsense. Nobody is ever truly themself.”

“And how do you know that, Mr Clever Arse Mind Games?”

“Because we don’t completely know ourselves.”

“That’s rubbish, that is.”

“Well, admit it, Jason.”

“Jazz.”

“Whatever. Haven’t you ever surprised yourself, spotted some new and different personal angle that you’ve never seen before?”

“Well, I once squatted over a mirror. That was a bit of a shock, I can tell you,” said Jazz, and Kelly laughed loudly, a big, brash, irritating laugh.