DAY THIRTY. 10.30 a.m.
Some commentators had predicted that such unprecedented international interest in House Arrest could not be sustained, but they were wrong. Night after night viewers watched while the seven housemate suspects attempted to coexist in an atmosphere of shock, grief and deep, deep suspicion of each other.
Peeping Tom had announced that, until the police made an arrest, the game would continue as if nothing had happened. Nominations would take place as usual and the inmates would be given a task to learn and perform together in order to earn their weekly shopping budget. In the week following the murder, the task they were given was to present a synchronized water ballet in the swimming pool.
Geraldine had pinched the idea from the Australian version of the show, but in this new context it could not have been more perfect. Geraldine had also been acutely aware of the problem of maintaining the high level of excitement generated by the murder episode and its aftermath, and the idea of subjecting the seven housemates to a water ballet was hailed by many critics as a stroke of genius. The sight of these tired, nervous, desperate people, one of whom was a murderer, all rehearsing classical dance moves together while wearing high-cut Speedo swimwear, ensured that viewing figures for House Arrest went up. The sound of Mantovani’s most soothing string selections wafting through the house lent an even more sinister and surreal note to the exercises and the bickering.
“You’re supposed to raise your right fookin’ leg, Gazzer!” Moon shouted as Garry attempted to execute a movement known as the Swan.
“Well, I’ve done my fahkin’ groin in, haven’t I? I’m not a fahkin’ contortionist.”
“Point your toes, girl,” Jazz admonished Sally. “It says we’ll be judged on elegance and fucking grace.”
“I’m a bouncer, Jazz, I don’t do fucking grace.”
Even an innocent comment like this caused many a worried look between the housemates and much discussion on the outside. Sally had only been replying to Jazz, but to be reminded that she had more than a casual acquaintance with violence… Well, it did make you think.
Sometimes they confronted the ever-present agenda head on.
“This fahkin’ swimming suit’s riding right up my bum,” said Gazzer. “If I could get hold of the bloke whose idea this was I’d stick a fahkin’ knife in his head!” It was meant to be a joke, a dark and courageous joke, but nobody laughed when it was replayed ad nauseam in the House Arrest trailers, and Gazzer briefly climbed a notch or two in the “whodunit” polls of the popular press.
DAY THIRTY-ONE. 11.20 a.m.
Coleridge was taking a break from reviewing the Peeping Tom archive when the pathologist’s report came in.
“Well, the flecks of vomit on the toilet seat were Kelly’s,” he remarked.
“Yuck,” said Trisha.
“Yuck indeed,” Coleridge agreed. “And, yucker still, there were traces of bile in her neck and in the back of her mouth. They think she’d been gagging. There’s no doubt about it: when Kelly left that sweatbox she must have been extremely upset.”
“Poor girl. What a way to spend your last few minutes, trying not to puke up all over people in a tiny plastic tent. God, she must have been drunk.”
“She was. The report says eight times over the limit.”
“That’s pretty seriously arsehole – legless. No wonder she was having trouble keeping it down.”
“The report also says that her tongue was bruised.”
“Bruised… You mean bitten?”
“No, bruised, reminiscent of someone forcing a thumb into her mouth.”
“Ugh… So somebody wanted to shut her up?”
“That would seem the obvious interpretation.”
“Perhaps that’s why she was gagging, because someone had their thumb in her mouth. No wonder she wanted to get out of that sweatbox in such a hurry.”
“Yes, although if someone in that box had put a hand into Kelly’s mouth sufficiently hard to bruise her tongue, you’d think that someone would have heard her complain, wouldn’t you?”
DAY THIRTY-TWO. 7.30 p.m.
As the week went on the group began to get the hang of the ballet, and footage of them performing “The Flight of the Swan” in unison, first out of the pool and then in it, became the most expensive four-minute item of video tape in the history of television.
Besides the ballet, there was of course the simple drama of the inmates’ coexistence in the house for the viewing public to pore over and enjoy. Each of the inmates was forever looking at the others, eyeing them as potential murderers… as actual murderers. Every glance took on a sinister significance, sly, sideways looks, long piercing stares, hastily averted gazes. When properly edited, every twitch of every facial muscle on every housemate could be made to look like either a confession or an accusation of murder.
And then there were the knives. Flush with money, Geraldine now maintained six cameramen in the camera run corridors at all times, ten at mealtimes. And the sole brief of most of these camera operators was to watch out for knives. Every time a housemate picked one up, to spread some butter, chop a carrot, carve a slice of meat, the cameras were there. Zooming in as the fingers closed around the hilt, catching the bright flash as the overhead strip-lighting bounced off the blade.
The Peeping Tom psychologist stopped trawling the footage for flirtatious body language and started searching for the murderous variety. He was soon joined by a criminologist and an ex-chief constable, and together they discussed at length which of the seven suspects looked most at ease with a knife in their hand.
DAY THIRTY-TWO. 11.00 p.m.
The evenings were the worst times for the housemates. It was then, with nothing much to do, that they had time to think about their situation. When they spoke about it to each other, which was not often, they agreed that the worst aspect of it all was the not knowing. The rules of the game had not changed – they were allowed no contact with the outside world – and since their brief bewildering day in the eye of the storm they had heard and seen absolutely nothing.
The sound of madness had been abruptly and completely turned off. It was as if a door had been slammed, which of course it had. Collectively and alone they longed for information. What was happening?
Even Dervla with her secret source of information was in the dark. She had wondered whether her message-writer would stop after the murder, but he hadn’t.
“‘They all think you’re beautiful, and so do I.”
“‘You look tired. Don’t worry. I love you.”
One day Dervla risked mentioning the murder, pretending that she was talking to herself in the mirror. “Oh, God,” she said to her reflection. “Who could have done this thing?”
The mirror did not tell her much. “Police don’t know,” it said. “Police are fools.”
DAY THIRTY-THREE. 9.00 a.m.
The forensic technician brought the report on the sheet that had shrouded the killer to Coleridge personally.
“Glad of the opportunity of a break from the lab,” he said. “We don’t get out much and it’s not often that anything involving celebrities comes our way. I don’t suppose there’s any way you could blag me a trip behind the scenes, is there? Just next time you’re going. I’d love to see how they do it.”
“No, there isn’t,” Coleridge replied shortly. “Please tell me about the sheet.”
“Absolute mess. Tons of conflicting DNA. Dead skin, bit of saliva, other stuff. You know sheets.”