Sheppard shut the bathroom door as though it might contain the horror within. But no, it was too late. He looked up to see it had infected the whole room—everyone a little paler and a little less alive.
Constance was sitting on the desk chair, silently clutching the Bible like her life depended on it, Headphones was still under the desk, Alan and Ryan were standing by the window talking in hushed breaths—Mandy was the only one to look at him as he came back into the room, waiting for him to come out.
“You saw him?”
Someone in here killed Simon Winter. Someone in here with him.
“Yes,” Sheppard said, his voice catching. “I saw him.”
Was Winter killed in the bathtub—surely he had to be with all the blood? But there hadn’t looked like any scuffle. Did that mean the killer had been standing in the bathtub too? That didn’t make any sense. The blood was dry—how long did that mean it had been there? Was Winter killed before or after Sheppard was taken? He couldn’t do much without a timeline—something to measure everything against.
Someone laughed—a breezy chuckling. Sheppard and Mandy looked around to see Constance spinning around in the desk chair and laughing.
“Shut up,” Sheppard said.
Everyone could hear everything in the room. Sheppard could pick out what Alan and Ryan were saying. They were talking about the logistics of breaking the window, and what that would actually do for an escape attempt. No secrets. The room was an amphitheater—you could hear every single word uttered from every corner.
“Mandy,” Sheppard lowered his voice as much as possible while taking Mandy aside, although he knew everyone could still hear. “Do you know anything about that woman?”
“Her?” Mandy said. “The crazy one?”
“Yeah.” He didn’t expect much but Mandy nodded. “Well...yeah,” she said, in a tone as though it were obvious, “she’s pretty famous. I mean, not like you famous, but still... You’ve never seen Rain on Elmore Street?”
A twinge of familiarity but nothing concrete.
“It’s a musical on the West End. The Lyceum, I think. That’s Constance Ahearn—she’s the lead.”
Vague recollection of passing the theater, the grand awnings, the sign lit up in the darkness while people queued around the block. Rain on Elmore Street.
Constance’s laughing punctuated the memory. Sheppard guessed her acting was the flamboyant kind.
“I need you to go and try to keep her quiet.”
Mandy frowned. “I suppose...”
“Please. I need to think.”
Mandy gave a curt nod. She went over to Constance and put an arm around her. She whispered something into Constance’s ear. The woman stopped laughing, got up and followed Mandy around to the right side of the bed. They sat down, with their backs to everyone else. Mandy was good at this.
“You saw the body?”
Sheppard jumped at Ryan’s voice. Ryan and Alan had turned their attention to him. “Yes. I had to see it—him. I had to see him.”
You’re not telling them. Why are you not telling them? Is it for them, or is it for you?
What would it accomplish—other than more needless speculation that would get in the way of actually escaping? “It looks like he died of a knife wound. Well, two knife wounds—in his gut.”
Ryan looked at him. “Who is he?”
And there it was. The choice—two paths, two possibilities. “I don’t know,” Sheppard said. God, help me. “I—I’m still working out what to do here.”
“But I might know the guy,” Ryan said.
And Sheppard raised an eyebrow, as Alan clapped a hand on Ryan’s shoulder.
As if he was summoned by the scent of unjustness, Alan cut in between Ryan and Sheppard. “Wait, son. Usually my opinions cost seven hundred an hour but this one’s a freebie. Don’t talk. Or do talk—I’m not your father. We are in a highly volatile situation, and anything uttered in this room is suspect. I’m sure Mr. Sheppard knows that that means anything said here will not stand up in a court of law.”
“I just want to help,” Ryan said.
“Get that window open, that’s what would help.”
“How would that help?” Sheppard said.
“We need to get a message to the outside world. If we break the window, maybe someone’ll see it. Call the police.”
“Forty-four stories up, no one in the building across from us, and someone’ll see it?” Sheppard said.
Alan snorted. “Better than anything you’re doing. What are you doing anyway?”
“I... I’m working things out.” Sheppard hoped that sounded a little less pathetic to Alan.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Alan said, smiling. “You see, I know people like you. I see them every single day. Difference is they’re usually handcuffed in a box instead of on a bed.” Wrists stinging to punctuate this. “Everyone’s a liar—to the world, to other people, to themselves. But you put yourself up on a TV screen and spread your own lies out into the world, just to make it a little more insufferable. You’re the definition of a joke, Mr. Sheppard. And your big detective act is not going to fly here. You can’t even save yourself. Why the hell would you be able to save anyone else? And maybe, as that clock runs down, you should remember that. Remember that you are the reason we’re here.”
He could suddenly feel every inch of his skin, slick and sticky. Obviously worse than he thought. Drowning in sweat. What he wouldn’t give for a drink right now—even half a pill. It felt as if the strength was pouring out of him. “I have to try,” he said, his voice weak, and hitching.
Suddenly he felt a buzzing in his head, in his cheeks—weak, tired. He needed to sit down. He needed water.
“I know,” Alan said, shimmering in front of him, and pulled Sheppard close to whisper in his ear, “and watching you bumbling around this room searching for answers like an idiot will be the last bit of enjoyment I get from this sad mess of an existence.”
Alan released him. He rocked back on his legs. They felt impossibly thin, not enough to hold him up.
Faces turned to look at him.
And then the floor came up to say hello.
16
Before...
He stared at himself in the mirror. There was something about viewing himself like this, with his stage makeup on looking almost impossibly young—the wrinkles papered over, the potholes under the eyes filled in. Looking like a cartoon version of himself. But under studio lights, he would look perfect. The immaculate man.
Not the tired, bored man he usually was. “Why are you here, Douglas?”
Douglas sat in the far corner of the room, reading the pamphlet all the audience members got before the show. The rule book. He threw it aside. “What, I can’t visit my favorite client?”
Sheppard smiled. Couldn’t help it. “Mmhmm.” A kind of cut to the chase.
“Look,” Douglas said, jumping up and pacing in the mirror, “I just wanted to make sure you were okay after our last conversation.”
“I feel fine.”
“Good, good—that’s great.” A thumbs-up reflected to him. “Because you were kind of saying some crazy stuff.”
“I’m not going to quit, Douglas. If that’s what you want to hear.”
“I want to hear that you’re happy,” Douglas said. “You don’t look happy.”
“I’m fine.”
The door opened behind him. The assistant stuck her head around it. “Three minutes, Mr. Sheppard.”
He nodded and she left.
Sheppard stood up, fiddling with his cufflinks. Douglas stepped forward, and gripped him by the shoulders.
“You’ve really got something here, Morgan. You’ve built something for yourself.”
Sheppard smiled. “I know.” Reached into his suit and brought out his hip flask. He took a swig.<
br />
“That’s my boy.” Douglas beamed. “How’s your shoulder? You taking the medication?”
“Yes, boss,” Sheppard said.
“Knock ’em dead out there.”
Sheppard nodded, laughed and left the room.
Walking through the back corridors of a TV studio was a lot like walking through the trenches. He walked the narrow line. People stopped when they saw him, wished him good luck. He smiled back at them. But he was thinking.
He’d got drunk. Told Douglas he wanted out. Douglas called it cold feet. He’d only been doing this six months. The show was a hit. But it was too much. It wasn’t what he had thought it would be. It was too...too something. Too raw?
He’d fallen on the stairs going out of the club. Where all their business meetings took place. Slammed his shoulder something terrible. Douglas recommended a doctor. Who recommended the pills.
He took the little capsule out of his pocket and popped two out. He took them. Made the pain go away. Maybe a little too well.
He made his way around the back of the stage. It was dark. But he saw the assistant with a headset on, holding up a hand. Behind her, the light. She smiled at him, her fingers counting down from four.
Four.
Three. He felt the booze and the pills kick in, helping his mouth form that trademark grin. Already felt like he’d done this forever. And forever would.
Two. And that was okay, wasn’t it? One.
He skipped out onto the stage. The light drowning out anything past the set. An audience of rabid fans back there, silent. Just wanting to see him do their favorite dance. And who was he to deny them?
“Camera one,” he heard the director say, in his earpiece. He turned his gaze to the camera on a crane contraption, sweeping overhead. “Today on Resident Detective: Is international pop sensation Maria Bonnevart sneaking around with Red Lions’ lead singer, Matt Harkfold, while being pregnant with FastWatch’s Chris Michael’s child? I’ll be reviewing the evidence later in the show. Also, we head over to the Real Crime Board to see how police in South London are reacting to the latest spree of robberies where perpetrators only seem interested in nicking industrial radiators. Let’s hope the trail hasn’t gone cold on that one.” Pause for laughter. Plenty. Christ. “But first, in our Real Life segment, we meet Sarah who has reason to believe her husband, Sean, of five years, has been seeing their babysitter behind her back. Let’s see if I can shed some light on the situation. I’m Morgan Sheppard. This is Resident Detective.” Applause. The kind you can only describe as rapturous.
Sheppard stepped aside as a TV screen lowered from the ceiling and the title sequence started to play, and then was followed by a short VT about Sarah and Sean. This was only for the live audience of course. For people at home, the video was spliced with the live footage in the control room upstairs. Sheppard didn’t pay attention to the video. He had seen it all before—his producer made him watch every VT before the show.
It was hard not to see these things as all the same. A wife, a husband, sexual intercourse—sometimes not with the right person. His team did some rooting around and told him whether the guy was guilty or not.
At least, that was the deal. But what had prompted that drunken desire to get the hell out? Sheppard had found that nine times out of ten, what his team told him was guesswork. Fifty-fifty.
They didn’t do lie detectors like other shows did because Sheppard’s reputation meant he “didn’t need them.”
Was Sean guilty? The cue cards in Sheppard’s hands said yes.
Is Sean really guilty?
The VT ended and the TV rose up to the ceiling. Giving way to a row of chairs that the production crew put on during the VT. Silence.
Well...
He looked out to the crowd. Invisible shapes in the darkness.
Choose what you become.
“Sheppard,” the director said. “Snap out of it.”
“Well let’s...” Sheppard said. “Okay. Let’s welcome Sarah onto the stage. Everybody give her a big hand.” He raised a hand as a woman walked out onto the stage.
Applause.
“Jesus Christ, Sheppard. You want to give me a heart attack?” In his ear.
The woman sat down in the center seat. As she was told, probably. Young, pale and sad. Not made for the limelight. A girl who worked in the behind-the-scenes of the world. She gave a small wave to the audience.
Sheppard sat next to her as the applause died down. “Now, Sarah, how are you?” Sheppard said. Conversing with her, projecting pretty much everywhere but. “I’m okay,” Sarah said. Voice small and timid.
“Now, Sarah, you contacted me—” the show “—and told me about this, and I’ve—” the team “—been out investigating this for some time now. It seems like a bad situation.” War is bad, death is bad—this is busywork. “Could you maybe just tell the audience your story in your own words?”
Sarah started talking, basically repeating the entire story that had just been told on the VT. Repetition was a key part of the show—didn’t want anyone getting lost, and that way the team didn’t have to think up too much content.
“...and that’s when I confronted him about the text messages...” The text messages already. He needed to slow her down.
“Unbelievable,” Sheppard said. “So you found text messages on his phone from this babysitter and confronted him about it?”
“Uh...yes,” Sarah said. Like she’d just said that. Because she’d just said that.
“And what did these text messages actually say?” Talking slowly.
Sarah put her head in her hands, muffling the microphone clipped onto the collar of her top.
“I know it’s hard, Sarah. But I’m here for you. All these guys are here for you, aren’t you?”
The audience gave out something that sounded like a sympathetic whoop prompted by the guy holding up the sign at the side of the stage. This had all been rehearsed in the preshow. Now the crowd was eager. Chomping at the bit.
Sarah looked up at Sheppard again, her eyes streaming. “They were organizing meetups. At hotels, at bars, everywhere... Holiday Inns, Premier Inns, you know the cheapest places.”
Crap. Did she really have to say the names? “Lock it down, Sheppard,” the director said, “we can’t have anyone on our ass.”
“Cheap hotels in the center of London,” Sheppard said. Companies didn’t like to be referenced on the show. Negative connotations. Say the name of a place, and people will associate it with affairs. “Now was there anything about Sean and this girl’s relationship in these texts?”
Sarah looked at the audience. “He said that she was the love of his life.” A collective gasp. “He said that he loved her like he’d never loved anyone before and one day they would run away together and take the child too.”
Another gasp. Parrots echoing each other. His adoring public. Was this really what he wanted? But the little boy he once was spoke up. Are you kidding? This is what you’ve always wanted. This is what we’ve been working for all along.
Sheppard looked at Sarah. A real woman. With real problems. He thought he had the solutions. Not a team of white-collared idiots backstage. Him.
Sarah looked at him. Really looked at him. Are you the person you say you are?
“SHEPPARD!” the director shouted, making Sheppard jump. “Jesus fu—”
“Well...um...” Sheppard stumbled, looking from Sarah to the crowd, “he sounds like a complete idiot, but let’s not take my word for it. Shall we bring him out, ladies and gentlemen?” The audience cheered with the severity of a lynching mob.
Sheppard stood up and strode out to the edge of the stage, turning his back on the young man, who was walking out from behind the right side. The audience booed ferociously, and he waited until they’d calmed down to spin around on the heels of his shiny pointed shoes.
Se
an looked like a lost puppy in the middle of the A1. He sat down slowly, as though the seat may be booby-trapped. He wore a grubby white T-shirt and ripped jeans. Probably dressed by the production team. He had a snake tattoo peeking out of his V-neck and licking up his neck. He looked as though he should be intimidating, but all pretense of that had gone from his face. He was clean-shaven, but had missed patches. He seemed rather jittery. Not drug jittery, but a sleepless night jittery. But was this just nerves or was Sean really guilty?
He’s guilty. They said so, didn’t they?
Mouth open. On autopilot. “Sean, welcome to the show.” Pause but no applause. This audience had already forged their conclusion. “Sean, you’ve been hearing the accusations from backstage, what do you have to say for yourself?”
“They’re not true,” Sean said. Thick Manchester accent. Eyes flitting—Sheppard, audience, Sheppard, audience. “I would never cheat on Sarah. We have a baby together.” He wrenched himself around to look at his girlfriend. “I love you. I love you, Sarah. I thought you knew that.”
“I don’t know anything,” Sarah said. “I’m stupid for believing you.”
You know where this is going... Morgan said in his mind. It’s your favorite bit. And don’t lie and say it’s not. It was time to ramp it up. This was what they wanted.
This was what he wanted.
“Sean, mate, what about these texts on your phone? Sarah found these texts, I’ve seen these texts.” Enunciating every point. “You going to call her a liar, Sean? Are you going to call me a liar?”
Sean shuffled. “No.”
“So you’re going to explain it away? I suppose those texts were for your mother, right?”
Laughs. Sheppard looked down at his cue card.
GUILTY.
This is what I’ve always wanted. The hundreds of people in the audience, invisible beyond the lights, and then the hundreds of thousands beyond the camera lens.
“Those texts were for Sarah,” Sean said, not making any sense. Maybe he actually was guilty? Fifty-fifty, right? DO IT.
Guess Who Page 6
