Dead Famous

DAY TWENTY-TWO. 6.10 p.m.

“Such a shame there was no eviction last night,” the young woman was saying. “The last one was terrific, although I was sorry to see Layla go. I mean I know she was pretty pretentious, but I respected the integrity of her vegetarianism.”

“Darling she was a poseur, a complete act, I hated her,” said the man, a rather fey individual of about thirty.

Chief Inspector Coleridge had been listening to them chat for about five minutes, and did not have the faintest idea who or what they were talking about. They seemed to be discussing a group of people that they knew well, friends perhaps, and yet they appeared to hold them in something approaching complete contempt.

“What do you think about Layla going, then?” said the man, whose name was Glyn, turning finally to Coleridge.

“I’m afraid I don’t know her,” Coleridge answered. “Is she a friend of yours?”

“My God,” said Glyn. “You mean you don’t know who Layla is? You don’t watch House Arrest?”

“Guilty on both counts,” said Coleridge, attempting a little joke. He knew that they knew he was a policeman.

“You simply do not know what you’re missing,” said Glyn.

“And long may that remain the case,” Coleridge replied.

It was an audition evening at Coleridge’s local amateur dramatic society. Coleridge had been a member of the society for over twenty-five years and had attended thirty-three such evenings previous to this one, but he had never yet been offered a lead. The nearest he had got was Colonel Pickering in My Fair Lady, and that was only because the first choice had moved to Basingstoke and the second choice got adult chicken pox. The next production of the society was to be Macbeth, and Coleridge really and truly wanted to play the killer king.

Macbeth was his favourite play of all time, full of passion and murder and revenge, but one glance at Glyn’s patronizing, supercilious expression told Coleridge he has as much chance of playing Macbeth as he had of presenting Britain’s next entry for the Eurovision song contest. He would be lucky to score a Macduff.

“Yes, I am intending a very young production,” Glyn drawled. “One that will bring young people back into the theatre. Have you seen Baz Luhrman’s Romeo and Juliet?”

Coleridge had not.

“That is my inspiration. I want a contemporary, sexy Macbeth. Don’t you agree?”

Well, of course Coleridge did not agree. Glyn’s production would run for three nights at the village hall and would play principally to an audience that wanted armour and swords and big black cloaks.

“Shall I read, then?” he asked “I’ve prepared a speech.”

“Heavens, no!” Glyn said. “This isn’t the audition, it’s a prelim chat. A chance for you to influence me, give me your feedback.”

There was a long pause while Coleridge tried to think of something to say. The table that divided him from Glyn and Val was a chasm. “So when is the actual audition?” he finally said.

“This time next week.”

“Right, well, I’ll come back then, shall I?”

“Do,” said Glyn.