Dead Famous

“She will never get that in her mouth!” a constable was saying.

“It can’t be real!” shrieked one of the girls. “It must be digitally enhanced.”

Now Coleridge realized what sort of video they were watching, and was about to begin the process of disciplining the lot of them when Hooper pressed the freeze-frame button and turned to his boss.

“Ah, sir,” he said. “Sorry about the noise, but we’re all a bit pleased with ourselves this morning. I think we know where Kelly had met David before.”

On the screen a young woman was frozen in the act of performing oral sex on a man who appeared to have been crossed with a donkey. The woman was most definitely not Kelly.

“That’s not Kelly,” said Coleridge testily, “and I don’t see David either. What’s your point?”

“Look behind the main lady, sir. Look at the two girls reaching round to feel her knock- breasts, the one on the right, she’s partially obscured by the man’s dick- penis, but it’s Kelly all right.”

“Good heavens,” said Coleridge. “So it is.”

“She said that she’d been a movie extra, sir. Now we know what sort of movie she was an extra in. No wonder she didn’t rate it very highly. This film is Kelly’s ‘Far Corgi In Heaven’, by the way.”

“Curious title.”

“Not when you know that what she actually said was Fuck Orgy Eleven.”

“Oh, I see. Well, I never… And the owner of that… um, appendage… Is that David?”

“No, sir, that’s just one of the numerous disassociated penises that the movie features. This is David.” And Hooper fast-forwarded a little to reveal the entrance of the star of the film: an outrageous bisexual figure in a long purple wig and high-camp make-up, pink lips, glittery eye shadow and a fur and feather posing pouch, which he was in the process of removing.

“David, sir,” said Hooper, “or Boris Pecker as he is known in the Fuck Orgy series. He also appears at times under the names of Olivia Newton Dong, Ivor Whopper and half of a mock Scottish gay- porn comedy double act known as Ben Doon and Phil McCavity.”

“Good heavens.”

“I talked to his agent this morning. He tried to hold out on me at first, but in the end he didn’t fancy getting nicked for obstructing the police in their inquiries. Our David has a secret double life as a porn star. Apparently he’s much in demand.”

“So that’s how he manages to live so fat despite apparently not working.”

“Yes, sir, the high-and-mighty serious actor who would never take on extra work and believes it is better to be unemployed than prostitute your talent.”

“What a nasty little hypocrite our friend is.”

“Exactly. Remember the hard time he gave Kelly that day about getting a different dream because she’d already compromised any hope she had of being an actress?”

“I do indeed.”

“Well, look at him.”

The tape played on and David, or Boris Pecker, barely recognizable in his outrageous make-up, walked among the writhing copulating bodies. He was stark naked save for the purple fright wig and a pink bow on his penis.

“My name is Lord Shag!” he said. “Bow before the power of my awesome schlong!” At which point all the naked extras stopped cavorting about and prostrated themselves before him.

“I’m amazed that none of the papers has picked up on this,” Coleridge remarked.

“Well, look at him, sir. All the make-up, the wig, the high-camp act. Would you have recognized him if you didn’t know?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“And nor would anyone else. Unless of course they recognized some absolutely clear distinguishing feature. Watch Kelly.”

Kelly was very close to David, lying at his feet, her eyes barely two inches from his left ankle.

“To be or not to be, sir,” said Hooper smiling.

DAY THIRTY-EIGHT. 10.15 a.m.

While Hooper and Coleridge contemplated David’s starring role in Far Corgi in Heaven, Trisha had once more made the trip out to the Peeping Tom complex in order to speak to Bob Fogarty.

“This business about Kelly and Hamish in the shag shack,” she had said to him on the phone before setting off. “The day after it happened, Kelly went to the confession box, but we’ve only got the edited version of it here. Do you think you still have the original?”

“Nothing is ever actually wiped from a hard disk,” Fogarty told her, delighted to be able to talk about computers. “Unless it’s specifically recorded over, it just hangs around in the digital shadows for ever. Pressing delete or putting it in the trash simply hides it. If you know how to look you can get most things back on a computer. That’s how porno people get caught.”

“Well, try to dig up Kelly’s confession from day nineteen for me, then. I’ll bring you a bar of chocolate.”

Fogarty had found the footage Trisha wanted and now they were sitting watching it together.

“It’s seven fifteen on day nineteen,” said Andy the narrator, “and Kelly comes to the confession box because she is worried about the events of the previous night.”

“Hullo, Tom.”

“Hullo, Kelly,” said Sam, the soothing voice of Peeping Tom.

“Um, I just wanted to ask you about the party last night and… um… when I went off to the um… the little hut with Hamish.”

“Yes, Kelly,” said Peeping Tom.

“Well, I was a bit drunk, you see… Well, actually I was very drunk, and what I wanted to ask was… Did anything happen? I mean, I know nothing did, I’m sure nothing did, and I love Hamish, he’s great, but, well… I can’t really remember and, well, I just wanted to know.”

“Why don’t you ask Hamish, Kelly?”

“Well, he was drunk too and… Well, it’s a bit embarrassing, isn’t it? Saying to some boy ‘Did we do anything last night?’”

“Peeping Tom reminds you of the rules, Kelly, that no outside influences or information are allowed to housemates. This includes retrospective discussion of an individual’s behaviour. Peeping Tom expects you to know what you did.”

“I do know what I did, I just want to know what…”

Kelly stopped. She sat in silence for a moment, her eyes seeming to plead with the camera.

Trisha looked hard at Kelly. What had she been about to say? Could it have been “what he did”?

“Please, Peeping Tom, I’m not asking for detail, all I’m asking is whether anything happened in the hut.”

There was a pause. “Peeping Tom will get back to you on this, Kelly.”

“What!” Kelly gasped. “Just tell me! Surely you don’t have to think about it! I mean, you were watching. Did anything happen?”

Kelly’s voice was shaking. “Is this a gag? Are you having a laugh? Like when someone crashes out at a party and wakes up with their head shaved and toothpaste smeared all over them? Come on, I can take a joke. Did I make a fool of myself? Did anyone make a fool of me?”

“I myself was not on duty last night, Kelly. We must consult with the relevant editors. You can wait in the box if you wish.”

And so Kelly sat and waited.

Trisha and Fogarty watched her waiting.

“She doesn’t look very comfortable, does she?” Fogarty observed. “She thinks that she got drunk and did the naughty, naughty. She didn’t, of course. You’ve seen the footage. Very boring.”

Finally the voice of Peeping Tom returned. “Peeping Tom has spoken to the editor concerned, Kelly, and we