The Talk Show: the gripping thriller everyone is talking about

by Harry Verity

  Dribs and drabs of light drifted through the toilet window as the sun rose over a new day. She knew it was nearly time to head out into the world.

  She had to be careful. The police might be on the lookout for her, though, if Liv and Tiffany knew what was good for them they would have batted any officers away and refused to bring charges.

  Mags climbed on top of the toilet shelf and out of the broken window through which she had clambered in and walked. No one disturbed Mags as the early hours of the morning turned slowly into the rush hour. She hopped on the nearest bus and sat stewing as it pulled into the capital.

  By now Braithwaite would be in the studio. Of course, it may prove tricky to get into the building. But she was prepared for that. No more people were going to stand in the way of the truth.

  When the clock struck half nine exactly she made her move and cleared out, hurrying through the crowds with her head bowed low so that no one could catch a second glance at her. When she finally arrived at the People building, she managed to get through the main gate with a crowd of workers making their way in from the Tubes. The guard barely glanced twice at her revoked security pass.

  In the vast atrium, Mags bypassed the reception desk and headed straight to the basement stairs. The basement was unusually quiet. The studios were often more subdued on days when they weren’t recording, it was perfectly normal, but there would always be someone from upstairs wandering the corridors, bringing dictates from above or packages for Michael, not that anyone took any notice. But today was different. There was silence even as Mags climbed the stairs to the gallery.

  The room where she’d spent so much of her life, tearing her hair out, lambasting the ignorance and incompetence of guests and researchers in equal measure, now so tidy and ordered, but empty nonetheless. She scrambled back down the gallery stairs and headed for the offices. Michael’s old dressing room, newly kitted out with a desk and a large bookcase, was now Braithwaite’s office. It was locked. Mags could see inside. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  Then she heard footsteps. Somebody was heading her way. She wondered what she should do. What if it was Braithwaite? Should she hide? Strike unexpectedly? No, she wanted an admission, confirmation, realisation that he’d lost everything before the light left his sorry, pathetic, droopy little eyes.

  The footsteps grew louder as the silhouette in the distance came into focus. It was Mr Griffiths. Though she’d been considered a senior member of staff by Michael, she had only met the director on a handful of occasions. Indeed, he clearly hadn’t got the memo about Mags’ point-blank refusal to work with that weasel Braithwaite and he did not seem at all surprised at her presence at her former place of work.

  ‘Ah Marguerite, isn’t it?’

  Prick, using her full name.

  ‘I’m glad I’ve caught you. You do know there’s an important meeting upstairs for all staff.’

  ‘A meeting?’

  ‘Yes, to discuss a way forward for the show. You did get the email? You’d better head upstairs straight away. You haven’t seen Bernard Braithwaite, have you? Or any members of the production team for that matter?’

  Mags popped her head into Violet and Edward’s office. The lights had been turned off but the door was not locked, it was actually slightly ajar and Violet’s distinctive pink clutch bag was still parked under the desk.

  ‘They’ve not come in this morning,’ Mags said, pretending she knew what the director was talking about.

  ‘Not come into work? That’s a very serious matter, a very serious matter indeed. The meeting was quite clearly scheduled. I am an incredibly busy man, as I am sure you can understand. I don’t have time to deal with this. There are a million and one different programmes I am responsible for, just because you used to top the ratings figures, that does not give you licence to go around–’

  ‘SHUT UP!’ Mags screamed, suddenly realising she didn’t have to listen to him anymore. ‘Violet didn’t go home last night!’

  ‘How dare you talk to me like that… didn’t go home last night? You just told me they haven’t shown up for work today.’

  Mags flung open Edward and Violet’s office door and pulled out Violet’s handbag.

  ‘Nonsense. In fact, that’s proof she is in the building right at this moment.’

  ‘Ugh. Can’t you see? Braithwaite, he’s got them, he’ll have them somewhere, he’s probably killed them already.’

  The director backed slowly away. ‘Killed them? What are you talking about?’

  ‘Braithwaite killed those girls, framed Michael and now he’s going to kill Edward and Violet too.’

  The director put out his hands. ‘Come on. We were all shocked about what came out at Michael’s trial but to go around accusing another member of staff… that’s at best extremely unprofessional, at worst a serious slander on – until today anyway – one of this channel’s key stars.’

  Mags was just as confused as she was exacerbated. ‘Until today?’

  ‘My meeting, which you and your colleagues have done such a good job of boycotting – which hasn’t helped your cause in the slightest, by the way – was to tell you all that we have decided not to renew production of the show for the forthcoming series. It would seem that we made the appropriate decision anyway given the spectacle I’ve just witnessed–’

  ‘I’ve had enough of this.’

  ‘What?’

  It was time.

  Mags caught her breath. ‘We’re going to search the entire building!’ she screamed. ‘We’re going to find Bernard Braithwaite and then I’m going to kill that bastard.’

  ‘Have you lost your mind?’

  Mags fell silent as she debated where to start looking, studying the corridor she was standing in. Of course, how could no one have noticed? The perfect hiding place. Detectives had spent months trawling the countryside, raking over miles of ground, knocking on doors but all this time they had somehow missed the one place that no one had thought to check…

  Mags sprinted down the corridor and to the underpass to the garages. Griffiths ran after her.

  If she remembered rightly, the detectives had only searched areas of the building belonging to Michael. And Braithwaite was no fool, he would have cleaned up, properly.

  The garages, only used by people on the O’Shea Show, separated from the rest of the building by the underpass, were the perfect place to commit a murder. Braithwaite could slip in and out of the studio with no one raising an eyebrow with whatever or whoever in tow and, what was more, nobody would think to suspect the studios as the actual scene of the crime. Minnie had been snatched outside her home and Jessica Butler, miles away in Cornwall, why would anyone even consider that the killer might have returned to the middle of a busy city with CCTV everywhere? And how easy would it have been to have abducted Edward and Violet if they were working late one night? Drug them up, slip something in their tea and then drag them along this empty corridor when – predictably – no one would be around to see. It was all starting to make sense.

  Mags rushed to the end of the underpass. There were four doors in front of her, each requiring a key code to get in, each one leading to a different garage.

  ‘Which one is Braithwaite’s?’ Mags asked.

  ‘If you break into the garage of another member of staff then I’ll have no choice but to ring security and have you arrested…’

  Mags ignored Griffiths and pulled out the gun from her pocket. She brandished it with so little regard, so little fanfare, that at first Griffiths didn’t notice it, until the first bullet flew straight into the keypad, sending sparks flying.

  ‘I’m calling security. A gun, an employee of mine carrying a gun.’

  ‘Oh, believe me, if that bastard’s behind this door, you’ll be needing more than security, you’ll need the police!’

  ‘The police. Oh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you? I don’t care what vendetta you have, you are not going to ruin this company with any more scandal. I rather think you and your collea
gues have done enough damage…’

  She ignored him and kicked at the doors; they came right open.

  Nothing. An empty garage.

  Griffiths was on the phone but it didn’t matter. Whoever he was calling, they didn’t stand any chance of getting to the studios before she’d booted down every door.

  Another door: this time, though, not quite an empty garage. She recognised the car inside: it was Violet Dearnley’s. She hadn’t left the building since the previous evening. That much was becoming clear, which meant she may well be behind one of the next two doors.

  She pulled the trigger this time with a slight hesitation, knowing the power of it. Once again the door gave way and she took in the surroundings.

  ‘My God…’ Mags whispered. For once in her life, she was lost for words…

  43

  He was in a garage, that much was clear. As his eyes accustomed to the light he recognised the man in front of him: it was Braithwaite. But not the Braithwaite Edward had once known. He was no longer behaving in that timid manner. He was brazen, confident and his voice seemed to have modulated by an entire octave, he had lost even any hint of the stutter that had been the source of such ridicule for so long.

  ‘Oh dear. I- I- r- really am so-sorry,’ he started, apparently mocking himself. ‘You’d never believe I was rejected from drama school, would you?’ Braithwaite could see the confused look in Edward’s eyes.

  He couldn’t move. There was nothing he could do. With his arms and legs tied up with duct tape and cable wire, he could only watch helplessly, his eyes slowly coming to terms with what was in front of him. First Violet. Her eyes were tightly closed. But even strung up against the wall, not a hair had fallen out of place. She was not the only one though. Edward was almost sick when he saw them. It couldn’t be, it simply couldn’t be. There, chained up on the opposite wall, were two young girls who should have been dead: Minnie Jenkins and Jessica Butler looked skeletal, broken.

  Edward could say nothing, do nothing. He was not only aghast at what he saw but confused about how to feel. Should he have been relieved? Happy that the two girls, who he’d virtually forgotten about, were still alive after all? They were barely conscious, heavily drugged up on something. There was a cabinet in the corner of the room, full of needles and test tubes.

  Edward shuddered at the sight of them. No, he wasn’t glad these girls were alive at all. He wished they were dead so they’d never have to wake up and face the pain and the reality of what had happened to them in this garage. What Bernard Braithwaite had done to them looked far worse than death. Ending it all now would surely be the greatest act of mercy he could afford the girls.

  Sat between the two walls was a car, Braithwaite’s blue Honda Civic. There was space enough to see roughly what was going on, though not in great detail.

  Braithwaite licked his lips and dimmed the lights even further as if he was about to tell a particularly spooky ghost story, only this was not a work of fiction.

  ‘I think it’s time I offered you an explanation,’ he said.

  Edward struggled to contain himself, wrestling against the duct tape which covered his mouth, even though he knew it would do no good.

  ‘No one has missed these kids,’ he said, pointing at Minnie and Jessica. ‘People pretend to miss them, journalists pretend they matter, filing the odd story about them, but no one really cares if they live or die, least of all you and your pretty little girl over there.’ He pointed to Violet. ‘These girls, like most their age, wanted their fifteen minutes of fame and our fickle friend Mr O’Shea was more than happy to oblige, wrecking their lives, pretending he was better than them. I haven’t done anything wrong. I am no child murderer, Edward. What do you take me for? You know me better than that…’

  Edward struggled and Braithwaite laughed.

  ‘Everyone thinks they’re dead!’ Braithwaite was jubilant, he didn’t seem to be able to help himself, he clasped his hands together with glee. ‘Everyone thinks he killed them. The great untouchable and I framed him. Finally, he’s rotting away where he belongs: the filthy hypocrite. You see, he stood there on that stage, every day, pretending he was a paragon of virtue, moralising and shredding his guests to bits, mocking them, humiliating them in front of tens of millions of people, pretending he was better than all of them, whilst all the time he was playing away; couldn’t keep his hands off Liv, could he? He had to have her, his wife and goodness knows how many other people.

  ‘And such was his arrogance, Edward, that he thought no one had noticed. He thought he’d gotten away with it, persuading the channel to employ his very own bitch as a co-host just so that it was easier to sleep with her. I knew something fishy was going on even before she started working on the show. He spends so much time watching other people lie you’d think he’d know how to get away with it. But nothing escapes me…’

  He glanced in Violet’s direction for a brief second. ‘I followed them one night, I know all about the tricks he plays to try to throw journalists off the trail and it really wasn’t long before I saw his little hideaway, the garage, the different car… it was too good an opportunity to miss. Yes, I planned the whole thing. I kidnapped the girls! I set up the great Michael O’Shea. I shot the fucking sheriff!

  ‘Minnie was the easiest. Her mother was so drunk she probably wouldn’t have noticed even if I’d walked straight into the house and taken her there and then. I knew what was going on. You didn’t need a PhD in psychology to have predicted what would happen that night when Michael allowed Minnie to go back home with her weak mother and her cheating, drug-addicted boyfriend. You see Michael pretended to care but as soon as the cameras were turned off, he couldn’t care less. She ran for it, and I was there in my car, waiting to pick her up. It was dark, the streetlights were off, she didn’t suspect a thing until it was too late.

  ‘And then there was Jessica Butler. First, I made sure that our good friend Mr O’Shea didn’t have an alibi… or at least one that his mistress would be willing to share with the world, making certain they were both heading for his garage that night, and then I put my foot down for Cornwall in a second-hand car I’d bought specially for the occasion. I knew the clinic was in the middle of nowhere. Nothing for miles around, deliberately so, no running away from that place, that’s for sure. And definitely no way you’d be able to get your hands on any booze or drugs. Then the show really got interesting. The vultures circled; baying for blood, and it wasn’t long before the media tried to paint the taxi driver as the murderer.

  ‘And yes, before you ask, I did kill him. But so what? He deserved what he got. I did a bit of background on him. He was no saint. A child from an affair he’d conveniently forgotten about, a weed addiction and debt up to his eyeballs. He was scum like the rest of them. It was probably for the best. And then there was the icing on the cake: Tiffany Roe. A stroke of genius brought about once again by the great man himself. If he’d shown some tact instead of humiliating those twins like he always does, those deluded girls might never have spilled their secrets. But he was so determined to screw up their lives, he was so ready for round two even if it pushed them over the edge.

  ‘So I paid the poor girls a visit. I told her that if she just went on the show one last time, if she played along with my little scheme, she could get what she wanted, a television career of her own. In fact, you know I think of everyone who will miss me, it will be those Lion journalists who will shed the most tears. Yes,’ he laughed at himself, ‘I’ve been feeding them stories ever since you started working at the show, Edward. All those anonymous sources at the show and it was I who advised Tiffany to go to the press claiming Michael was the father of her baby. I wanted her to do a DNA test. Yes…’

  Edward was starting to make sense of it now and Braithwaite could see it.

  ‘The great Michael O’Shea set up, condemned by one of his own DNA tests, who would have thought it? Yes, I switched the swab he thought I was sending off to the laboratory to confirm that he was not Tiff
any Roe’s biological father and kept it back for my own, perhaps slightly more nefarious purposes! But not even I could have anticipated what happened next, not in my wildest dreams.

  ‘Tiffany stumbled across Michael and Liv kissing and filmed it on her phone. They didn’t see her but she wasn’t stupid. Later she headed for Michael’s dressing room and threatened him with exposing their affair unless she was paid, handsomely. I was amazed. Who knew the underclass could be so entrepreneurial? Michael was not quite as amused by the situation. He snapped, told her she would get nothing and placed his hands around her neck. Who knows what might have happened next if you hadn’t barged in, Edward? Who knows…

  ‘A few sacrifices had to be made, of course; I had no choice but to cut off Minnie’s thumb and cover it in Michael’s DNA, and Jessica Butler’s cardigan, such a shame we had to ruin it with Minnie’s blood… Tiffany, though, well I’m afraid she had to go. The video she had of Michael and Liv could have wrecked Michael’s conviction. I retrieved it, of course, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. Don’t worry though. No children were harmed in the making of this show!’ Braithwaite laughed and his eyes drifted in the direction of the car that was taking up most of the space in the garage. Edward followed his gaze and through the window, he could see a baby, strapped in, fast asleep. It didn’t take long for Edward to work it out: he’d rescued Jayden, Tiffany’s baby, from whatever fate was in store for his mother.

  ‘My only regret about the whole scenario at the time,’ Braithwaite continued, ‘was that you weren’t put away as well, that I had to bring that police investigation to an end. One phone call, that was all it took, one anonymous phone call and Michael was in the frame. Strange how people are so willing to act on the advice of a complete stranger but they ignore the allegations of a distressed researcher, a consummate media professional with no obvious axe to grind. And, who knew then that just as I was packing up, tying up loose ends and preparing to leave the country with my three little babies, that you’d walk straight into my arms, that I’d score a hat trick. Everyone who works in the media industry deserves to die. You ruin people’s lives for a living so now I’m returning the favour.’