Dead famous

by Ben Elton

  ‘Lots of nice little lines,’ Glyn had said.

  ‘Juicy little cameos.’ Oh, how Coleridge would have loved to play the bloody, guilty king, but of course it was not to be. He had never been given a lead. Coleridge’s mind strayed back in time to the first production that had stirred him as a boy: the Guinness Macbeth. How Coleridge had gasped when Banquo’s ghost had appeared at the feast, shocking the guilty king into virtually giving the game away. They had done it quite brilliantly: Coleridge had been nearly as shocked as Macbeth was. These days, of course, the ghost would probably be on video screens or represented by a fax machine. Coleridge had already heard Glyn remark that his ghosts were going to be virtual, but way back then people weren’t embarrassed by a bit of honest theatre. They liked to see the blood.

  ‘Never shake your gory locks at me,’ Coleridge murmured under his breath. And it was then that it occurred to him that what was required to trap his murderer was a bit of honest theatre. Coleridge resolved that, if he could not find any genuine proof, natural justice required that he make his own. It was a desperate idea, he could see that, and there was scarcely time to put it into action. But it offered a chance, a small chance. A chance to avenge poor, silly Kelly. The following morning Coleridge spoke to Hooper and Trisha.

  ‘Banquo’s ghost,’ he said.

  ‘He pointed a finger, all right?’

  ‘Eh?’ Said Hooper. Trisha knew who Banquo’s ghost was. She had studied English literature at A-level, and had actually done three months’ teacher training before deciding that if she was going to spend her live dealing with juvenile delinquents she would rather do it with full powers of arrest.

  ‘What’s Banquo’s ghost got to do with anything, sir?’ She asked. But Coleridge would say no more and instead gave her a shopping list.

  ‘Kindly go and make these purchases,’ he said. Trisha scanned the list.

  ‘Wigs, sir?’

  ‘Yes, of the description that I’ve noted. I imagine the best thing would be to look up a theatrical costume dresser in Yellow Pages. I doubt that the civilians in Procurements will view my requests with much favour, so for the time being I shall have to finance them myself. Can you be trusted with a blank cheque?’

  DAY SIXTY-THREE. 6.30 p.m.

  If Woggle’s calculations were correct, he was directly under the house. He had the location right, he had the time right and he had the heavy canvas bag that he had been dragging along behind him in the latter stages of his tunnelling. Woggle knew, as he crouched in the blackness of his tunnel, that a few feet above him the three remaining housemates, whoever they were, would be preparing for the final eviction. Well, he’d give them and Peeping Tom a send-off they would not forget.

  DAY SIXTY-THREE. 9.30 p.m.

  And so it came to the end game. The killer’s last chance to kill, and Coleridge’s last chance to catch the killer before the whole edifice of House Arrest was broken up and scattered. Every instinct he possessed informed Coleridge that if he did not make an arrest that evening the killer would escape him for ever. Yet how could he make an arrest? He had no evidence. Not yet, anyway. Coleridge was not the only one feeling frustrated. The viewing public felt the same way; the final eviction show was almost over and so far nothing much had happened. The largest television audience ever assembled were watching what was proving to be the biggest non-event in the history of broadcasting. It was not as if Peeping Tom had not put in the effort. All the ingredients were in place for a television spectacular. There were fireworks, weaving searchlights, rock bands, three separate cherry pickers for three separate trips across the moat. The world’s press was there, the baying crowds were there. Chloe the presenter’s wonderful breasts were there, almost entirely on display as they struggled to burst free from the confines of her pink leather bra. Perhaps most intriguingly of all, five out of the six previous evictees were also there. All of the suspects had returned to the scene of the crime. In fact the ex-housemates were obliged to come back for the final party under the terms of their contracts, but they would probably have come anyway. The lure of fame remained as strong as ever, and with the exception of Woggle, who had jumped bail, Peeping Tom had assembled them all. Even Layla had made the effort and spruced herself up, as had David, Hamish, Sally (who got a huge cheer when she entered, walking slowly but on the way to recovery), and Moon. After the opening credit music, played live on this special occasion by the month’s number-one boy band, who performed on an airship floating overhead, the cameras cut live to the last three people in the house. The sense of expectation in the audience was huge. They had been assured by the mystery killer that one of the three people that they could see on the huge screen was going to die. But it didn’t happen. The bands played, people cheered, Kelly’s old school choir sang John Lennon’s ‘Imagine’ in her honour, and one by one the final three were voted out of the house, but nobody was killed at all. First came Garry.

  ‘Yeah, all right! Fair play! Big it up! Respect!’ Then Dervla. I’m just glad it’s over and I’m not dead.’ And finally Jazz.

  ‘Wicked.’ Jazz had been the favourite to win ever since his dramatic intervention to save Sally’s life in the confession box. Dervla’s kickboxing attack on Garry had closed the gap considerably, but it could not make up for the fact that people knew she had been cheating, and so Jazz emerged a clear and popular winner. Garry was nowhere, having been losing ground all week. And that was it. They were all out of the house, safe and sound, and no matter how much the viewing public might wish it, it seemed unlikely that any of the three finalists, grinning with happy relief and holding onto their cheques, was going to leap on to one of the others and murder them. The whole thing was rapidly coming to a close. A deeply sugary tribute to Kelly in words and music had been played, giving the impression that she had been a sort of cross between Mother Teresa and Princess Diana. Elton John had provided the music which further increased this impression. And now Chloe was doing her wind-up speech, making appropriate comments about how awesome and wicked it all was, and trying not to look too disappointed that nothing more exciting had happened. Inspector Coleridge stood beside Geraldine in the studio. He was trying to look indulgent and relaxed, but he kept looking over his shoulder to glance at the big door at the back of the studio. He was waiting for Hooper and Patricia to appear, but so far there had been no sign of them. He knew that if they did not come in the next few moments and provide him with the proof he needed, the killer would escape.

  ‘Well, you were right,’ said Geraldine grudgingly.

  ‘Nobody did get killed. You know, I really thought the bastard might pull it off. I suppose it was stupid, but he did do such an extraordinary job the first time round. Either way, it makes no difference to me. The show was pre-sold.’ She looked at her watch.

  ‘Fifty-three minutes so far, that’s a hundred and six million dollars. Very nice, very nice indeed.’ Geraldine addressed Bob Fogarty in the control box via her intercom: ‘Bob, give Bimbo Chloe a message to wind it up as slow as she dares, words of one syllable, please. When she’s finished, replay the Kelly tribute and then stick on the long credits, every second is money.’ Coleridge looked at the door once more: still no sign of his colleagues. It was all about to slip away from him. He knew that somehow he must delay the end of the show. Banquo’s ghost would only work on air. There had to be a feast. Macbeth’s confusion would mean nothing if it happened in private.

  ‘Hold on a minute, Ms Hennessy,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I think I can earn you a few more million dollars.’ Geraldine knew a sincere tone of voice when she heard one.

  ‘Keep the cameras rolling!’ She barked into her intercom, ‘and tell my driver to wait. What’s on your mind, inspector?’

  ‘I’m going to catch the Peeping Tom killer for you.’

  ‘Fuck me.’ Even Geraldine was surprised when Inspector Stanley Spencer Coleridge asked if it would be possible for him to be given a mike. A hand-held microphone was quickly thrust into his hand, and th
en to everyone’s complete surprise Coleridge stepped up onto the stage and joined Chloe. All over the world and in every language under the sun, the same question was asked: ‘Who the hell is that old guy?’

  ‘Please forgive me, Chloe…I’m afraid I don’t know your surname,’ Coleridge said, ‘and I hope that the public will forgive me also if I trespass for a moment on their time.’

  Chloe stared about her wildly, wondering where the security men were, seeing as a senior citizen appeared to be making a stage invasion.

  ‘Run with it, Chloe,’ the floor manager whispered at her through her earpiece.

  ‘Geraldine says he’s kosher.’

  ‘Oh, right. Wicked,’ said Chloe in an unconvinced voice. Everybody stared at Coleridge. He had never felt such a fool, but he was desperate. There was still no sign of Hooper and Patricia. He knew that he would have to stall. He looked out at the sea of expectant, slightly hostile faces. He tried not to think of the hundreds of millions more that he could not see but who he knew were watching. He fought down his fear.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Chief Inspector Stanley Coleridge of the East Sussex Police, and I am here to arrest the murderer of Kelly Simpson, spinster of the parish of Stoke Newington, London Town.’ He had no idea where the ‘spinster’ bit had come from except that he knew he must spin it out, spin it out at all costs. He had absolutely no idea how long he would have to stall. Once the sensation caused by his opening remark had died down, Coleridge turned and addressed the eight ex-housemates, who had been assembled by Chloe on the podium. The eight people whose faces he had stared at for so long. The suspects.

  ‘This has not been an easy case. Everyone in the world has had a theory, and motives there have been aplenty. A fact that has caused my officers and myself some considerable confusion over the last few weeks. But the identity of this cruel killer, that despicable individual who saw fit to plunge a knife into the skull of a beautiful, innocent young girl, has remained a mystery.’ Something rather strange was happening to Coleridge. He could feel it deep in the pit of his stomach. It was a new sensation for him, but not an unpleasant one. Could it be that he was enjoying himself! Perhaps not quite that. The tension was too great and the possibility of failure too immediate for enjoyment, but he certainly felt…Exhilarated. If he had had a moment to think, he might have reflected that circumstance had granted him that thing which he most craved and which his local amateur dramatic society had so long denied him: an audience and a leading role.

  ‘So,’ said Coleridge, addressing the camera with the red light on top, presuming correctly that this was the live one.

  ‘Who killed Kelly Simpson? Well, in view of the wealth of suspicion that has been visited upon various innocents, I think it fair to begin by clearing up who definitely did not kill Kelly Simpson.’

  ‘This bloke’s a natural,’ Geraldine whispered to the floor manager. She was deeply impressed with this new side of Coleridge’s character, and well she might have been, for every minute that he spoke was earning her an extra two million dollars. Spin it out. Spin it out, Coleridge thought to himself, a sentiment which Geraldine would have applauded wholeheartedly.

  ‘Sally!’ Coleridge said, turning dramatically to face the eight suspects.

  ‘You were the victim of a terrible coincidence. Your poor mother’s suffering, which you had hoped would remain a private matter, has become public knowledge. You have anguished over your fears that the curse that blighted your mother’s life might also have blighted yours. You’ve tortured yourself with the question Did I Kill Kelly? Was your true personality revealed in the darkness of that black box?’ Sally did not answer. Her eyes were far away. She was thinking of her mother sitting in the terrible little room where she had sat for most of the last twenty years.

  ‘Let me assure you. Sally, that never for one moment did I imagine that the killer was you. You had not the ghost of a motive save family history, and the coincidence of that history repeating itself in so exact a manner is so unlikely as to be virtually impossible. Many families have some mental disorder in their line…Why, the producer of this very show could say as much, couldn’t you, Ms Hennessy?’

  ‘Eh?’ Said Geraldine. She was enjoying Coleridge’s performance hugely, but had not expected to be drawn into it.

  ‘I gather from interviews my officers have held with your staff that on the two occasions when both Sally and Moon spoke about life inside mental hospitals you remarked quite clearly that it was not like that at all. You in fact explained clearly what it was like. I can only presume that you yourself have some experience?’ Coleridge glanced once more at the studio door. No sign. Spin it out.

  ‘Well, as it happens you’re right.’ Geraldine spoke into the boom mike, which had hastily descended above her head, the studio crew having reacted according to their instincts.

  ‘My mum was a bit of a fruitcake herself, Sally, and my dad, as it happens, so believe me, I sympathize with the outrageous prejudice you have had to put up with.’

  ‘A sentiment that does you great credit,’ Coleridge said.

  ‘Particularly since medical opinion informs me that when both a person’s parents suffer serious mental instability, their offspring has a thirty-six per cent chance of inheriting their challenges.’ Geraldine did not much like having her family’s linen so publicly washed, but at two million dollars a minute she felt she could put up with it. Coleridge turned once more to the suspects.

  ‘So, Sally, I hope that you can learn from this terrible experience that you need not fear the burden of your past. You did not kill Kelly Simpson, but you were very nearly killed yourself, as I intend to show.’ This comment was greeted with gasps from the audience, which Coleridge did his best to milk.

  ‘Now, what about the rest of you? Did Moon kill Kelly? Well, did you. Moon? You’re a wicked liar, we know that from the tapes. The public never saw you make up a history of abuse in order to score cheap points against Sally, but I did, and it occurred to me that a woman who could invent such grotesque and insensitive deceits might lie about pretty much anything, even murder.’ The cameras turned on Moon.

  ‘Extreme close up!’ Shouted Bob Fogarty from the control box. Moon was sweating.

  ‘Now just a fookin’…’

  ‘Please, if we could try to moderate our language,’ Coleridge chided.

  ‘We are on live television, after all. Don’t upset yourself, Moon. If there were as many murderers as there are liars in this world we should all be dead by now. You did not kill Kelly.’

  ‘Well, I know that,’ said Moon.

  ‘Nobody has really known anything during this investigation, Moon. Heavens, even Layla has come under suspicion.’ The cameras swung to face a shocked Layla.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh yes, such was the apparent impossibility of the murder that at times it seemed possible to imagine that you had wafted in through an airvent on that grim night. After all, everybody saw Kelly nominate you in that first week and then hug and kiss you goodbye. That must have hurt a proud woman like you.’

  ‘It did,’ said Layla, ‘and I’m ashamed to say that, when I heard about the murder, for a moment I was glad Kelly died. Isn’t that terrible? I’ve sought counselling now though, which is helping a lot.’

  ‘Good for you,’ said Coleridge.

  ‘For let us be quite clear: there is no circumstance or situation in our world today that cannot benefit from counselling. You were simply being selfish, Layla, that was all, but I’m sure that somewhere you can find somebody to tell you that you had a right to be.’ Coleridge was being deeply sarcastic, but the crowd did not get it and applauded him, assuming, as did Layla, that Coleridge’s comment was a love-filled Oprah moment of support.

  ‘Layla was long gone by the time Kelly died,’ Coleridge continued, ‘but Garry wasn’t, were you, Gazzer? So how about you? Did you kill Kelly? You certainly wanted to kill her. After the whole country saw her teach you a few home truths about the responsibilities of
fatherhood there was no doubt you had a motive. Wounded pride has been a cause for murder many times in the past, but on the whole I suspect that you don’t care quite enough about anything to take the sort of risk this killer took. But what about you, Hamish? Only you know what passed between Kelly and yourself the night you reeled drunkenly together into that little cabin. Perhaps Kelly had a story to tell, but, if she did, fortunately for you we’ll never hear it. Did you wish her silenced as you sat together in that awful sweatbox? Did you reach out a hand to stop her mouth?’ Hamish did not answer, but just glared at Coleridge fiercely, biting his lip.