The Talk Show: the gripping thriller everyone is talking about

by Harry Verity

  ‘Fact: if we didn’t do something to protect the interests of the guests, the show would have been shut down. The network was threatening to appoint someone of their own to interfere and, believe me, you would have liked that even less. I remembered Braithwaite distinctly when we’d gone to that drug rehabilitation clinic. He was so overbearing, it creeped me out. He practically bowed before me every time he entered the room.

  ‘So, when we returned to do a follow-up piece, when we were running around, going to every fucking charity and drug clinic we could find, trying to highlight how responsible we were, we went back to that clinic where I’d first seen him and there he was packing up all his belongings. He’d resigned.’ Michael mimicked quotation marks with his hands.

  ‘There were rumours he’d been caught doing drugs himself, stealing from the clinic. I didn’t know if it was true, frankly, I didn’t care. So we had a little chat and I told him, there was a job going. He’d be paid well but he’d have to do exactly as I wanted. He agreed and hey presto…’

  ‘Snakes like him are capable of anything!’

  A bell sounded and Mags knew her session with Michael was at an end. She stood up and whispered, discreetly, ‘I’ll sort this for you! You’ll be out and then it will be like old times.’

  Michael forced a smile, placed his hand into the air in farewell, and then she was gone.

  40

  Mags’ life had spiralled out of control since her contract with The Michael O’Shea Show had come to an end. She could no doubt have found another producer’s job somewhere in London but she’d struggled to cope with the imprisonment of one of her best friends and the complete breakdown of her daily routine; the show had been her life. Slowly but surely, she’d run out of money. She probably could have survived another month or two if she’d gone easier on the booze and the fags. But the end of the road was near. She’d barely made a start at packing up her flat, even though the situation was now so desperate that the bailiffs would be round as surely as the sun would rise the following morning.

  Her living room was a mess; a symptom of the chaos of her life. Her dining table was covered in dirty plates, empty cigarette cartons, unopened bills. And if she had been even slightly less observant, then Mags might have missed the unopened package hidden under it all. At the time she’d probably been too hungover to care to open it but now…

  She pushed the rubbish to one side and rushed to see what it was.

  ‘With my deepest compliments,’ read the small slip of paper in the inside cover. It was Braithwaite’s book. It was quite hard to believe that he’d sent her a complimentary copy. The arrogance of the man knew no bounds. Yet Mags was intrigued. She flicked through the solid 400 pages quickly, wondering what secrets they might contain, what clues were to be found. She knew she would read it eventually but right now she had a more immediate mission.

  In her bedroom she had at least made a start of clearing out. She’d placed her clothes into a suitcase until all that remained was a row of coat hangers and a small wooden box. She grabbed it, opened it and there it was. A silver handgun, handcrafted and engraved with her grandfather’s name. It had been a gift, left to her fifteen years previously.

  Mags knew she was a hothead, but she’d never envisaged needing a gun before. She grabbed the weapon and Braithwaite’s book and placed them into a handbag. Oh, how times had changed.

  First. Olivia Dessington-Brown. The worst of the worst. She had knowingly allowed a child murderer to walk free and then watched indifferently as a man she was supposed to care about was locked up for life, just so that she could save her own skin.

  It wasn’t hard to track her down. A glance through the gossip pages of Spice revealed photos of her latest drunken night out. Even at half past four in the morning, as she stumbled into the back of a taxi, clutching a half-bottle of champagne, she still managed to look vaguely glamorous.

  So that night, Mags headed out into the cold spring air and made her way to what was supposed to be one of London’s poshest clubs. At least that was the way it marketed itself. Everybody knew that, in reality, it was a tacky place for Z-listers, the sort that wanted to court The Lion. With no show and no O’Shea to boost her profile, Liv would need the limelight. It was her lucky night: Mags would give the hacks more than enough to write about. When she reached the door, the way was blocked.

  ‘Sorry, love,’ said the bouncer, ‘can’t let you in if you’re not on the guest list.’

  Mags shook her head.

  ‘Do I look like I’ve come to get rat-arsed?’

  Indeed, she had deliberately not dressed up. The bouncer looked confused.

  ‘I’ve come to collect a friend, get her out of trouble. She asked me to pick her up.’

  ‘Who?’

  Mags recited a celebrity she knew would probably be on the guest list but so obscure it would have seemed unlikely that Mags would have been making it up. The bouncer duly let her through.

  Inside, the club was exactly as you would expect for a weekday evening. Loud music, a DJ, a smoke machine but an empty dance floor. There were no more than thirty or so people, some crowded into the booths at the edge of the room, others by the bar, but all of them sullen and disappointed there were no photographers to capture them in their finery: red dresses, thick mascara, high heels.

  The woman Mags wanted stood out. By the bar, ordering herself a drink, she looked slaughtered already.

  ‘Oi!’ Mags shouted, heading straight for Liv. ‘I want a word with you!’

  Liv looked up slowly, both shocked at the sight of Mags and apparently bewildered by the booze. A few of the other girls, evidently bored, craned their necks to get in on the action.

  ‘Why did you lie?’ Mags asked.

  Liv looked confused. ‘I dunno what you’re talking about,’ she said, slurring her words.

  Mags grabbed hold of her hair, ready to smash her straight into the bar if she didn’t answer.

  ‘I’ll tell you what I’m fucking talking about, shall I? Michael O’Shea? You were with him that night, weren’t you? You knew he was innocent but you let him go down so you could save yourself…’

  ‘I- I-’

  ‘The truth!’

  ‘You don’t understand. Will you just listen?’ Liv’s eyes were rolling all over the place. ‘I could have been done, for murder! For murdering those kids, if I’d admitted I was there, we’d have both gone down.’

  ‘Your evidence could have gotten him off! Could have gotten you both off, if you’d have told the truth. And what about the real killer? The real killer is still on the loose, you let a child murderer walk free!’

  Liv seemed to regain her sobriety. ‘Oh please!’ she spat. ‘Don’t take the moral high ground with me, don’t pretend you cared about those kids any more than I did. You’re pathetic. I could see it and so could he. You’re only here because you’re in love with him. You think getting Michael off will win him over? If it was someone else you worked with, wrongly banged up in that prison, you wouldn’t give a flying fuck. Well, I’ve got news for you, woman… he’s taken, fucking taken! At least I knew that when I was with him, at least I didn’t follow him around like a sad, pathetic puppy.’

  Mags pulled back Liv’s head and slammed it into the bar as hard as she could.

  Liv stumbled from the bar. Her nose was bleeding and her hair was a mess.

  By now everybody in the bar was crowded around them, open-jawed. The bouncer had rushed in to restrain them from each other but there was no need. Mags was already on her way out.

  ‘Change your statement!’ she shouted. ‘Change your statement or your life won’t be worth living, fucking believe me!’

  41

  Hunting down Tiffany Roe was easy. The police had returned her notes from the show in cardboard boxes when it was all over, and there it was in black and white, the address scrawled in her own handwriting, along with a dozen others. She’d written it down on a scrap of paper and put it in her pocket. She knew there was a real cha
nce Tiffany had deleted the footage she was looking for and she knew perfectly well that even if she had it in her possession it would not change the verdict but it would give her satisfaction to know that she’d punished her for what she had done.

  Without a car, the journey was long and arduous. There was a way of getting to Graysmead in the early hours, the last train out of London and then two buses. It took her almost two hours but finally, there it was; even in darkness the two towers still dominated the skyline from miles around. There were no lights on, every single apartment was dark and none of the street lamps appeared to be working.

  But as Mags walked onwards, squinting as she struggled to make out the car park, ahead, she heard a movement which startled her and headed for cover in a nearby hedgerow, lest she should be seen. It was a car, leaving the car park. It had no headlights and seemed to be moving deliberately slowly so as not to overwork the engine and cause alarm.

  Daring to peep from behind the bush as it chugged slowly out of the car park, Mags could make out the model and registration number. She’d seen it somewhere before, she was sure of it…

  Waiting a further five minutes for it to drive off into the distance, Mags quickstepped into the tower. The front door to Deacon Court was sticky so she was able to head straight in. She made for the lift and tried not to gag at the smell of cheap weed and mould.

  Ascending floor by floor, she wondered how Tiffany might react. Would she tell her everything straight away? Or would she hold out until the final moment, would she force her to pull the trigger? Because Mags would. She knew she would do it if she had to…

  When Mags reached Tiffany’s front door it too was slightly ajar but it wasn’t that which worried her. It was the smell – and the sight – seeping through the gaps in the frame – of thick, grey smoke.

  Mags pushed open the door and instantly regretted it. Holding her breath as she went, she pulled off her jumper and wrapped it around her mouth and nose to at least give her some protection from the smoke. Then she turned on the torch app on her phone so that she could begin to see where she was going. The fire seemed to have started in the kitchen, by the oven. It was still only small but Mags could see it growing with every passing minute. She walked onwards, wondering if Tiffany was even in the apartment, perhaps she had deliberately set fire to her own flat…

  ‘Tiffany!’ Mags shouted. No response.

  She made for the bedroom, pushed open the door and there she was. Tucked up in bed, fast asleep, not a care in the world…

  Mags went over to the bed to shake her and finally, she stirred.

  ‘W…w…’ She came to. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Your flat’s on fire.’

  ‘What? Oh my God.’

  Tiffany walked straight over to her crib, to wake up Jayden, her baby and then she screamed; the cot was empty.

  ‘What have you done with him?’

  Mags had not anticipated the fire or the empty cot but she had to carry on, regardless.

  ‘With who?’

  ‘My baby!’

  ‘I don’t know about your baby. But no one is going anywhere until you hand over that footage…’

  ‘What footage? My baby boy.’

  Mags turned on the bedroom lights.

  Tiffany went to scream again but Mags continued. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. I know you have a film of Michael and Liv. You could have gotten him off the hook. Hand it over!’

  ‘I don’t have it.’

  ‘Hand it over!’ Mags said. ‘Hand it over or we’re both going to die in this inferno.’

  Mags could see Tiffany gaming the situation, she knew exactly what she was trying to do. So when she tried to make a run for it, sprinting for the door, ready to push past Mags, Mags pulled out her grandfather’s gun. Tiffany froze.

  ‘Don’t think I won’t!’ Mags said. ‘Where is it? Tell me where it is and I’ll get us out. The clock’s ticking, girl, the clock is fucking ticking!’

  ‘I have a baby. My baby boy! I need to get out and find him. Please…’

  Mags stood her ground. ‘Then tell me, tell me where the tape is. Hand it over or help me find it.’

  ‘I told you I don’t have it. He took it.’

  ‘Who? Who took it?’

  ‘Bernard Braithwaite.’

  Mags smirked. ‘You’ve been colluding with him, haven’t you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You set him up, Michael, you helped set him up! What did you do with the bodies? Did he have you do it for him?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Look, please, let me go. My baby! I need to save my baby. You said you’d get me out if I told you about the tapes.’

  ‘Let a child murderer go scot-free? Who the hell do you think I am?’

  ‘A child murderer? I didn’t have anything to do with the murder of those girls. What are you talking about? He just came round and told me if I wanted to get my revenge on him for setting me up, for humiliating me on telly instead of helping me mend things with my sis. He said if I wanted a real shot at fame I should go back on the show, pretend he was the father of the baby and that’s when I saw him, with her, kissing, so I filmed it. I thought that’s what Braithwaite meant, I thought that’s how I could get my revenge. But then he told me not to mention it and he took my phone off me…’

  Mags knew it was all over.

  She should have left the girl to burn in hell or, better still, shot the bitch. But Mags knew it wasn’t worth it, she knew she had to save her anger for one person and one person alone. Yes, Braithwaite would feel the full force of her wrath like no one ever had before.

  ‘Get me out of this place, you mad psycho!’

  Against her better judgement, Mags grabbed hold of Tiffany’s hand and dragged her out of the bedroom and into the hallway.

  In the living room the flames had engulfed everything. It was too late to stop it.

  ‘What about my boy?’ Tiffany screamed. ‘Is he safe? Where’s my boy? My little lad! I can’t leave him in here.’

  At first, Mags couldn’t work it out but then it all made sense and suddenly she knew where she’d seen that car before, why she recognised the registration plate.

  Tiffany started to cry, to scream. Wailing, Mags grabbed hold of her and dragged her out of her flat.

  On the communal landing, Mags screamed at the top of her lungs, banging on as many doors as she could.

  ‘FIRE, FIRE! OUT! OUT!’

  By the time the groggy-headed residents had come to their senses and saw the flames licking at Tiffany’s apartment door, Mags was already halfway down the stairs, on the phone to the fire brigade.

  As she left the building, storming out of the front doors, racing as far away from the building as she could, Tiffany called out in vain to all who would listen:

  ‘She tried to kill me! She’s got my boy.’

  But Mags knew better. She knew who had taken Tiffany’s baby and who was responsible for setting the fire and she was going to make him pay.

  In a lonely rundown corner of London, miles from Deacon Court, far away from the bars and the prying eyes of z-list celebrities and suspecting policemen, Mags sat silently, smoking, tears running down her cheeks.

  The truth, at last; the world had conspired against Michael O’Shea. And she was going to prove it, even if it meant being locked up for a very long time…

  42

  It was just gone half past four in the morning, light was starting to crack through the small frosted window. She knew exactly where she would find Bernard Braithwaite, it was simply a matter of waiting.

  She didn’t know if Braithwaite’s book would hold the key but she had an inkling, a knack that something in those pages would ring alarm bells. So in those hours, as she waited for the sun to rise, the book was her way forward. Because it had to be him, it couldn’t be anyone else.

  Of course, she could not read the entire biography in one evening but she knew the sections that needed
her attention. Braithwaite had not just written an account of the last few months’ events but had devoted most of his book to his early life, his hopes, his dreams. The arrogant bastard. As if anybody gave a shit about his childhood.

  Nevertheless, Mags started going through the three chapters specifically devoted to the events leading up to Michael’s trial. She scanned for any reference to Minnie, Jessica, and Tiffany. There was nothing out of the ordinary in the way Braithwaite had described Minnie’s appearance on the show. Everything was as Mags remembered and as was recounted at the trial but as the book continued, and Mags slowed down to lap up every detail, she noticed two discrepancies. They were small and to anyone else, they would have seemed completely insignificant but to her they were gold dust.

  On the day before Jessica Butler’s story was recorded, Braithwaite wrote in passing how it had been Edward who had booked Jessica Butler’s taxi but Mags had thought so much about that day, she knew that was not the case. It had been Braithwaite who had booked the taxi. She remembered him saying it. She had gone to the station to arrange the Butlers’ train tickets whilst Edward had remained in the studio, setting up the stage for Freddie Bell, the boy with the brain tumour. Braithwaite had deliberately moved himself out of the crime scene. If he admitted that he had booked the taxi then surely it made him look guilty, he would have known exactly where Jessica Butler was heading on that fateful evening.

  And what about the car that Mags had spotted leaving Deacon Court? That fire was not an accident, that much she knew.

  Finally, the man had come unstuck. Perhaps Braithwaite had meant for Mags to read his book. After all, he had sent her a copy. Perhaps he thought he’d set up Michael so well that nobody would ever believe her even if she did attempt to expose Braithwaite.

  What Braithwaite didn’t realise, what he didn’t count on, was that Mags couldn’t give a flying fuck about the law anymore. She had satisfied herself that he had done it and that was enough. He was going to pay for everything he’d done, no matter how many years she got in return. He was more than worth doing time for. She’d wafted him away for years like the fly that he was, but he’d always come back, buzzing around in the distance. It was staggering that she’d left him alone all this time. She pressed her hand against her jeans: the gun weighed down in her pocket.