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.”

Coleridge nodded and the technician continued.

“I think they must have been sharing this one, or else they all slept together, because there’s strong evidence of four different male individuals on it, one of whom is particularly well represented. There are also traces of a fifth man. I presume that the prominent DNA represents the four boys left in the house and the fifth is Woggle. Let’s face it, he’d leave a pretty strong trail, wouldn’t he? Of course, I can’t be sure without samples from them all to compare it with.”

“All of them? On that one sheet?”

“So it would seem.”

DAY THIRTY-THREE. 11.00 a.m.

“It’s eleven o’clock on day thirty-three,” said Andy the narrator, “and the housemates have been summoned to the confession box in order to give a sample of their DNA. The police request is voluntary but none of the housemates refuse.”

“Charming,” Dervla observed drily. “Today’s task is to attempt to eliminate yourself from a murder investigation.”

Gazzer seemed disappointed. “I thought I was going to have to have one off the wrist and give ’em a splash of bollock champagne,” he said, “but they only wanted a scrape of skin.”

DAY THIRTY-FOUR. 8.00 p.m.

Layla stumbled away from the church, her eyes half blinded with tears. The priest had asked her what had made her feel the need of a faith that she had rejected when she was fifteen.

“Father, I have a death on my conscience.”

“What death? Who has died?”

“A girl, a beautiful girl, an innocent I despised. I hated her, Father. And now she’s dead and I ought to be released. But it’s worse, she’s everywhere, and they’re calling her a saint.”

“I don’t understand. Who was this girl? Who’s calling her a saint?”

“Everyone. Just because she’s dead they print her picture and say she was a lovely girl and innocent and that she wouldn’t hurt a fly. Well, she hurt me, Father! She hurt me! And now she’s dead and she should be gone, but she isn’t! She’s still here. She’s still everywhere, a star!”

The priest looked hard at Layla through the grille. He had never watched House Arrest, but he did occasionally see a newspaper.

“Hang on a minute,” he said. “I know you, don’t I? You’re…”

Layla ran. Even in church she could not escape the shame of her poisonous notoriety as a nonentity. There was no sanctuary from her anti-fame. The fact that she was a failure, the first person to be thrown out of that house. And Kelly had nominated her and then kissed her in front of millions. The whole nation had seen Layla accept Kelly’s sympathy. And now Kelly was dead and Layla did not feel any better at all.