The Talk Show: the gripping thriller everyone is talking about

by Harry Verity

  ‘But, Michael, the emotion in this case is running high. I just think this entire situation is never going to be settled until we try to understand why Tiffany lied in the first place.’

  The audience clapped, half-heartedly, but Michael wasn’t going to allow this be resolved just yet.

  ‘Might as well milk the cow for all it’s got,’ Mags whispered to Edward in the gallery, quietly as she could, hoping the inspector didn’t overhear her.

  ‘This is one-sided,’ Michael explained, incredulous, ‘this is not about her, it is about me and all the other men that Tiffany has damaged with her lies.’

  ‘Yeah!’ some of the audience members chanted and then the inevitable happened. Tiffany walked off. Liv ran after her and the cameras followed her backstage.

  ‘Look, Michael’s just trying to get at the truth. Isn’t that the reason you came here today? Walking away now, it’s only going to make things worse. Think about that little kid of yours, he deserves to know who his father is. And whoever that person is, we’re going to need to arrange contact centres and all sorts to try to make this work.’

  Tiffany didn’t reply but they were close to convincing her.

  ‘Come on,’ Liv said, grabbing hold of Tiffany’s hand, and they headed back out to the main studio again for round two.

  Edward pulled off his headset.

  It was definitely time for a coffee. Maybe Violet would come with him. And sure enough about a minute later he heard footsteps on the gallery stairs. But it wasn’t Violet.

  ‘I would like to observe the aftercare programme,’ clipped the inspector. ‘Where can I find Doctor Braithwaite?’ Edward was deliberately vague, directing her to Michael or Liv, who would no doubt be better at handling the inspector than Braithwaite.

  Several moments later Violet made her entry.

  ‘Where have you left Tiffany?’ Edward asked as the inspector stalked off.

  ‘Tiffany insisted on going to see Michael and Liv for autographs and advice.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I told her to go and find him in his dressing room and then to wait in the corridor so I could give her train tickets to get home.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Edward said, turning into the staff dining room. They queued up to get their coffee. Edward had decided he quite fancied a lemon muffin as well. The staff dining room was mediocre compared to one of the coffee shops on The Strand but that was all he had time for. As Edward got closer to the front he realised something was up. More and more people seemed to be gathering around the widescreen television. As he reached the front of the queue Edward could see why.

  ‘BODY FOUND IN O’SHEA SHOW DISAPPEARANCE CASE’ ran the strapline below the reporter who was stood in the woodland of what looked like a vast country park, amongst the pouring rain. Edward’s stomach turned over. He no longer wanted a muffin or a coffee. The knowledge that Jessica or indeed Minnie had met their end in what would inevitably be gruesome and painful circumstances and had been left to rot in some random country park, miles from where they lived, made him sick. But as the report continued, the photos that popped up onto the screen were not those of either girl but of a small man, smiling, wearing a baseball cap. Edward left the queue so he could see what was being said.

  ‘…a taxi driver for seven of his twenty-nine years, Mr Mallaky was described by his boss as reliable, enthusiastic and loved by all his customers. But in recent weeks he was the main suspect in the disappearance of Jessica Butler, a seventeen-year-old sixth-form student suffering from an eating disorder whom he had taxied to Cornwall after her appearance on The Michael O’Shea Show. There was also speculation that he could have been behind the disappearance of another girl who appeared on the show. But all that was put to rest this morning when police confirmed they had discovered a body at a country park, later positively confirmed as that of Thomas Mallaky.’

  Edward felt relief but not for long. For it was shortly followed by guilt. Guilt that he’d ever suspected Mallaky in the first place but also guilt at his own relief that it was Mallaky’s mangled body that had been found rotting amongst the woodland, rather than that of the two girls.

  ‘So tell us what this means for the investigation?’ the reporter asked a top criminologist who had joined him.

  ‘Firstly, this will obviously become a murder investigation: the wounds to Mallaky’s body could not have been self-inflicted. It is clear that whoever took Jessica Butler wanted to remove the taxi driver as he got in the way of his abduction plans, there can be no doubt about that. Incidentally, the police force investigating Minnie Jenkins – the other missing girl – have made a statement. Minnie, if you remember, also appeared on The Michael O’Shea Show but the search was called off when she phoned home claiming to have run away of her own volition.

  ‘Police are now treating this call as suspicious and have revealed that it was made from Cornwall as well. This means that it is highly likely that these murders are related and that the perpetrator is deliberately seeking out victims from The Michael O’Shea Show. And if we are to assume that is the case then I should think the police will be considering whether there was any inside involvement since the person who kidnapped Jessica Butler and, perhaps, Minnie Jenkins as well, almost certainly had access and control over their whereabouts on those evenings.’

  Even the correspondent seemed stunned.

  ‘So what are you saying? That someone who works on The Michael O’Shea Show is responsible for murder and – at the very least – abduction, possibly even three murders?’

  ‘Let’s not speculate too much but I think it is at least a strong possibility that that is the case. I would be surprised if we didn’t see police attention turn to the channel.’

  There were gasps and shocks from the whole room. Violet had her hand over her mouth. This was too much.

  ‘Someone needs to speak to Michael and Mags,’ Edward said, thinking pragmatically, though why he was volunteering to tell the great Michael O’Shea that his empire was collapsing all around him he did not know. Nevertheless, he made his way back past the gallery steps and the green room and to a small brown door: Michael’s dressing room.

  Edward knocked but there was little point, the door was already half ajar and he wasn’t in any mood to wait for a response… but as his eyes came into focus he knew there was no escaping the scene that stood before him: there was Michael O’Shea, only he wasn’t alone, his hands were placed firmly around Tiffany’s neck. The game was up.

  23

  ‘Get out!’ Michael screamed. He released his grip on Tiffany so suddenly that she almost fell to the floor. She gasped for breath and scrambled towards the door as fast as she could, slamming it behind her.

  ‘It was you?’ Edward said. ‘All along it was you…’

  Michael lunged for Edward and before he could react he had pinned him up against the wall.

  ‘Listen to me very carefully, buddy, all right? Breathe a word of this to anyone, and that goes for your girlfriend too, believe me your life won’t be worth living.’

  Bravery was a virtue quite lost on Edward Lewis in this present moment. He had always imagined that if he happened across a robbery, a murder or indeed an assault on a vulnerable girl that he would intervene and rush to save the day. But all Edward could do was babble.

  Michael leant in closer, grabbing hold of Edward’s cheeks, pinching them together, his heavy panting breath warm and wet on Edward’s neck.

  ‘I’m a well-connected guy, I can have you fitted up…’ Michael panted, he was salivating over every syllable, ‘really… wouldn’t… take… much.’

  Michael let go of his cheeks and Edward gasped for breath, almost delirious. Michael straightened himself up; it was as if nothing had happened. Edward almost thought he was going to apologise. Instead, he walked out of the dressing room and left Edward alone and dazed.

  In the staff dining room, Edward stood still once again. All around him people were talking, chatting about the criminologist’s revelations. O
utside, the press had gathered and even from the back of the room, away from the long windows, Edward could see helicopters flying around the building. Everyone was contemplating the same thing and yet Edward had the answer. The terrible burden of the truth weighed him down, divorced him from reality, left him mute.

  He looked around for Violet and made a half-hearted attempt to find her. But in the end he was glad not to see her, lest he blurted everything out. The canteen fell silent as Michael waltzed in, accompanied by Mags. He was calm, relaxed. Meanwhile, Mags looked like her life had fallen apart.

  ‘It’s a mad world out there, folks. They say someone on this show was responsible for the murder of that taxi driver and probably those two girls. Personally, I don’t believe it. I don’t know what the future of the show is at this point. All I know is we can expect the police to be everywhere. It’s going to be a busy day tomorrow, so I suggest we all go home, get some rest and think about what we’re going to do next…’ and as he finished, Michael O’Shea’s eyes seemed to linger on Edward.

  Rest? Edward thought, how would he ever sleep again?

  24

  The scene in front of the People Network studios the following morning was more frenetic than Edward had ever seen it. All eyes were on the dozen or so uniformed policemen who were walking in and out of the front entrance carrying out sealed boxes.

  Inside, the atmosphere was tense. The police had raided the offices at dawn. According to the receptionist in the entrance lobby, when she had arrived that morning, it was to the sight of a police sergeant sitting in her chair. He had informed her that nobody would be allowed down to the basement.

  Her authority all but gone, she had taken up a plastic chair in the middle of the atrium with the hundreds of other staff who worked in the building. Nobody here was under arrest, the police sergeant informed Edward, but it was advisable to stay here and wait to answer some questions.

  The veiled threat was obvious. Anyone leaving the building before they had been questioned would be viewed with intense suspicion. Edward had little choice but to sit down and wait his turn.

  Michael was nowhere to be seen. Of course, he would have been interviewed first, no star guest was going to be forced to slum it out down here, that was a given. But the more he looked around, the more he realised how alone he was. There was no Mags, no Liv and – once more – no Violet. The only other members of staff that Edward recognised were the few techies and Braithwaite who seemed engrossed in an audiobook.

  Where was Violet? Why wasn’t she here? Had she already finished with her interview?

  Edward was overcome with nerves. His legs felt like they were going to crumple. He was glad of the chair, however, impractical and rickety as it was.

  ‘They say they’re going through people in alphabetical order,’ the receptionist explained.

  ‘And where are we up to?’

  ‘They’ll get to L soon enough,’ she said. ‘Not worried, are you? Paul on fifth has friends in the newsroom, he says he thinks the person responsible for all of this specifically sought out this show to carry out this crime. That means they’re looking for someone who has worked here less than six months…’

  It was too much. Edward leapt off his chair and ran all the way through the atrium and to the bathroom at the back of the room, not even bothering to read the signs above him to determine which bathroom was which. In the cubicle he vomited with more vigour than he ever had done before; it was as if he was expelling all of the anxiety, all of the stress, the panic into this one toilet bowl. It was an exorcism.

  It was not until he felt completely cleansed, exonerated, that he arose from his purgatory, and gasped for breath. But he was no longer alone. There beside him as he leant against the open cubicle door catching his breath was Violet; he had walked into the girls’ bathroom.

  ‘Worried about your interview?’ she said. ‘That you’ll get found out?’

  It was the first time Edward had seen Violet exhibit any real emotion.

  ‘How could you ever live with yourself?’

  ‘Live with myself… get found out… Violet…’

  He came to his senses and noticed the white powder still sneered around her nose. ‘You’re high,’ he said. ‘You don’t know what you’re…’

  ‘Don’t patronise me.’

  Edward couldn’t believe what was happening, he felt the world spinning and he turned his head towards the bowl again. This time he had nothing left to give.

  He knew he had to be brave.

  ‘It’s not me. It’s him… I went to his dressing room but when I opened the door, Michael had his hands around Tiffany’s neck. He said he was going to fit me up if I told anyone. What are we going to do?’

  Violet said nothing for several moments.

  Edward trembled. ‘Violet… you have to believe me.’

  ‘Are you sure? He definitely had his hands on her neck?’

  ‘It is possible they were play fighting, I guess…’

  Violet arched her eyebrows.

  ‘His face was red,’ Edward continued. ‘I’ve never seen anyone that angry. Oh, Violet.’ He buried his head into her shoulders, but she didn’t react. ‘What are we going to do? I can’t go on pretending, knowing what I know… I need to tell the police.’

  ‘Not sure that’s the best idea.’

  ‘Why not?’ Edward let go of her. ‘We need to tell them what we saw so they can arrest him, bring him in for questioning. They’re looking for someone who worked on the show, and Tiffany… she might be in danger.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Violet, ‘you tell them. I’ll see you tonight in the usual spot.’

  ‘If I’m not still giving an interview to the police, maybe they’ll need more help with their enquiries.’

  ‘What can you tell me about the murder of Thomas Mallaky and the disappearance of Jessica Butler and Minnie Jenkins?’ the officer asked. Edward was in a room on the highest floor of the building – a boardroom – overlooking the city. You could see the skyline for miles into the distance and the Thames glistened in the sunlight. Behind a large table with enough space to fit at least thirty people there was a buffet counter with a big spread. Tea, coffee, cakes, sandwiches and all manner of other snacks, not that Edward was offered any of it.

  ‘Shortly after I heard the news that the taxi driver had been murdered, I walked in on Michael O’Shea with his hands around one of the girls on the show today. I believe he could be behind the other disappearances and the murder of the taxi driver…’ It came out quite matter-of-factly. There was no emotion in his tenor.

  ‘That’s a serious allegation you’re making there. What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Edward Lewis.’

  ‘And your role at this network…’

  The officers weren’t asking a question. They had a file and a clipboard of every person they hoped to see that day.

  ‘You’re picking up on one small thing, Edward, and drawing a whole host of conclusions that could turn out to be false. Michael O’Shea a murderer, after all the work he’s done for charity? I’ve noted your information down. Now…’

  ‘What?’ Edward was incredulous. ‘Is that it? What will happen next?’

  ‘I’ll pass on your complaint,’ the man said, ‘and if it’s deemed serious enough, someone will investigate. Now… where were you on the night Mr Mallaky was found dead?’

  Edward was reduced to a stunned silence.

  ‘Can you answer my question, please, Mr Lewis, where were you on the night of the murder? I need you to give me as much information as possible.’

  And so Edward was forced to account for all of his movements and to submit to a forensic investigation about his personal life, his opinions on other colleagues who worked at People… the questioning was relentless. He didn’t get the impression the officers were asking any more of him than they had done of his colleagues, but he still felt violated. And whilst one officer asked the questions, the more junior of the two made extensive notes. At the end
of the final question, the officer got up and thanked him for his time. It felt more like a job interview than anything else.

  As Edward closed the door behind him, he crumpled to the floor, tears streaming down his exhausted face.

  25

  When Michael O’Shea was finally able to sneak away from the studios to buy some lunch, donning heavily rimmed sunglasses and a thick winter coat so as not to be recognised, he knew he was in trouble. Not because anybody had spotted him – he had borrowed Mags’ rundown blue Vauxhall and his disguise seemed to have worked – or even because one day earlier the police had raided the studios of his beloved show, poured scorn over his reputation and accused someone associated with his show of murder.

  He was in trouble because of the fridge, metres in front of him. He was by the checkouts in a petrol garage on the edge of the city where he had come to grab a sandwich and there, in all its glory, stood a specially discounted display. Freshly stocked with all manner of alcoholic beverages, it seemed to eye him up, basking in the late autumnal sunlight, pleading with him to seek refuge in one of its many refreshing cans. He could barely contain himself. The stress of the past day or so had taken its toll on him, he longed, ached for a drink and it took all of his willpower to resist.

  ‘That will be £4.87, please.’

  ‘What?’

  Michael hadn’t even noticed that the cashier had processed his shopping. He was within breathing distance of the fridge.

  ‘£4.87. Card or cash?’

  Michael handed over a fiver, collected the change, then went back to Mags’ car. Even though the show had been effectively cancelled for the foreseeable future, Michael had been in meetings all day with top executives from the channel. This was no longer an ordinary crisis that could be quelled in time, it was a firestorm that threatened to destroy the entire channel, not that anyone of those grey suited pricks could see that. They were too busy following protocol, briefing everyone; if anything would kill the channel it would be bureaucracy.