Dead Famous

Moon then went into a lengthy ramble about herself and what a mad-for-it gangster she was, a straight-talker who just said what she felt like and at the end of the day people would have to take her as they found her. Finally, she got to the apology.

“What I’m saying is, I don’t want people to think it was cruel and the like, especially ’cos I could hear her sobbing afterwards and all that, and I expect the public could too. Even though if you ask me it was a bit of an over-reaction… but what I’m saying is, if Sally’s been abused or whatever and has got, you know, mental health stuff going on or whatever, then fair play to her, right, because at the end of the day I wouldn’t like it myself if I thought someone was taking the piss out of me for being a nutter, particularly if I actually was a nutter, like Sally seems to be, although I’m not saying she is, if you know what I’m saying? So that’s all I’m saying, right. If you know what I’m saying.”

All of this was news to Coleridge. Geraldine had never broadcast the original discussion that had taken place in the girls’ bedroom; nor had she broadcast Moon’s apology in the confession box.

“Sally has ‘mental health’ stuff going on?” Coleridge asked.

“It seems so,” said Trish, ejecting the Moon confession tape.

“I talked to Fogarty the Editor, and he told me that Sally pretty much said as much one night when the girls were chatting. They never broadcast it but Geri the Gaoler kept the tape for possible future use. That’s why we didn’t see it in our first trawl, it was still hidden on the edit suite hard disk. Fogarty sent it over. This is it.”

And so Coleridge, Hooper and Trish listened in on the conversation that had taken place in the girls’ room on the eighth night when Moon had lied about her past and Sally had shown herself so sensitive about the subject of mental health. For all three of them watching, one phrase stood out above all the others. Something that Sally had said as she sat there in the dark, her voice shaking with emotion.

“… when once in a blue moon something happens, like some poor schizo who never should have been returned to the community gets stuck inside their own dark box and sticks a knife in someone’s head or whatever, suddenly every mild depressive in the country is a murderer.”

Trisha had marked down the time code of the comment and now they rewound the tape and listened to it again.

“Sticks a knife in someone’s head.”

“Sticks a knife in someone’s head.”

With the knowledge of hindsight, it was certainly an unfortunate choice of words.

“Coincidence, do you think?” Coleridge said.

“Probably. I mean, if Sally was the murderer, how would she have known nearly four weeks beforehand how she was going to do it? We’ve already established that the murder was an improvisation.”

“We haven’t established anything of the sort, constable,” Coleridge snapped. “We have supposed such a thing because it seems difficult to see how it could have been planned. However, if someone in the house had an attraction for knives, if one of them was mentally predisposed towards stabbing, then we might suppose that this would make the murder method less a matter of chance and more one of inevitability.”

There was silence in the incident room for a moment before Coleridge added, “And Sally is a very, very strong woman.”

“So Sally’s the killer, then?” Trisha said with a hint of exasperation. “That’s an awfully big supposition to make from one little comment.”

“I am not supposing anything, constable. I’m ruminating.”

Ruminating? Did he speak like that for a joke? Who ruminated? People thought, they considered, they might even occasionally ponder, but nobody had ruminated for fifty years.

“Sally chose to use a phrase that exactly describes the murder. She said ‘stick a knife in someone’s head’. We have to consider the implications of that.”

“Well, how about considering this, sir…” Trisha fought down the feeling she had in her stomach that she might be being defensive on Sally’s behalf out of some absurd sisterly and sexual solidarity. She truly believed that she would as happily convict a lesbian as any other person… On the other hand she did rather resent the fact that people were so eager to suspect Sally.

“She’s very strong,” they kept saying. “Very very strong.”

It wasn’t Sally’s fault that she was strong and muscular. Trisha herself would have loved to have been that strong. Although perhaps not quite as muscular.

“Go on, Patricia,” said Coleridge.

“Well, I was just wondering whether perhaps Moon wanted us to be reminded of what Sally had said. Perhaps she said all that stuff in the confession box because she wanted us to ruminate along the lines that you are ruminating along, sir.”

Coleridge raised a thoughtful eyebrow. “That is also a possibility,” he conceded, “and one upon which we must certainly ru- which we must certainly bear in mind.”

They turned their attention back to the screen.

DAY EIGHTEEN. 8.15 p.m.

Moon walked out of the confession box, having made her little speech about Sally, and announced her intention of getting immediately “shitfaced”.

“I’m going to go large,” she said, pulling the ring on a can of Special Brew. “I’m mad for it. I’m going to get shitfaced and rat-arsed!”

“Funny that, isn’t it?” Jazz said. “How we choose to describe having a good night.”

“You what?” said Moon.

“Funny way of describing a party, Moon,” he said.

“You what, Jazz?”

Jazz, ever watchful for opportunities whereby he could work on his patter and continue what he saw as his ongoing public audition for a career in comedy, had spotted what he thought was a fruitful opening. “Well, the English language is the most extensive in the world, but that’s the best you can do to describe having a good time. Tonight I’m going to have such a good time that it will be as if my face was covered in shit! My mood will resemble that of a rat’s arse! What’s all that about, then?”

“Eh?” said Moon.

Dervla tried to be supportive. “Very amusing, Jazz,” she said, opening a bottle of wine. “I’d laugh but I’m not yet sufficiently shitfaced.” And she smiled, hugging herself as if she had a special secret.

“Kelly 1. Dervla 2.” The secret hand had written in the condensation. “Hang in there, Gorgeous. XXX.”

The recipient of this little love note grinned broadly through the toothpaste foam.

So now she had risen to second place in the affections of the public. Not bad at all after only two and a half weeks. Only Kelly was ahead of her and Dervla felt far better equipped to stay the course than she believed Kelly was. After all, it was going to be a long, long game for those who survived, and Dervla was confident in her reserves of inner strength. Kelly, she felt, was not so well equipped for the struggle. She was too open, too sweet, too vulnerable, not so mentally attuned to stay the distance. Dervla felt that all she had to do was hang on. If she could just survive the process, she would win the game.

That was all she had to do.

Survive.

Jazz broke in on Dervla’s reverie. “So’re you going to get shitfaced too, then, Dervo?” he said, throwing a friendly arm around her. “Can I join you?”

“I’d be delighted, kind sir,” she replied.

Jazz’s smooth, beautiful, scented face smelt sweet close to hers, his arm was strong.

“I never heard you swear before, Dervs,” he laughed. “You’re loosening up, my darling.”