DAY TWENTY-EIGHT. 7.00 p.m.
Geraldine’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
“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.
They 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 fook 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
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.”
