Dead Famous

DAY FIFTY-THREE. 6.00 p.m.

Over the next few days the police did everything they could to gain some information from the note that had been found in the predictions envelope. They re-entered the house and took samples of everybody’s handwriting, both right and left. They fingerprinted the kitchen cupboard. They pored for hours over the surviving footage from week one when the predictions had been written.

“Nothing. We’ve learnt nothing at all,” said Hooper.

“I didn’t expect that we would,” Coleridge replied.

“Oh well, that’s a comfort, sir,” said Hooper as testily as he dared. “I just don’t see how it could have happened.”

“And there,” said Coleridge, “is the best clue you’re going to get. For it seems to me that it couldn’t have happened.”

Trisha had been on the phone. Now she put the receiver down with a gloomy face. “Bad news, I’m afraid, sir. The boss wants you.”

“It is always a pleasure to see the chief constable,” Coleridge said. “It makes me feel so much better about retiring.”