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 then 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?”