Dead Famous

DAY THIRTY. 9.20 a.m.

“Does Geraldine normally talk to you like that?” Trisha asked.

“She talks to everybody like that.”

“So you get used to it, then?”

“It’s not something you get used to, constable. I have an MSc in computing and media. I am not a stupid cunt.”

Trisha nodded. She had heard of Geraldine Hennessy before her House Arrest fame. Most people had. Geraldine was a celebrity in her own right. A famously bold, provocative and controversial broadcaster, Trisha ventured.

“Rubbish!” said Bob Fogarty. “She’s a TV whore masquerading as an innovator and getting away with it because she knows a few popstars and wears Vivienne Westwood. What she does is steal tacky, dumbed-down tabloid telly ideas, usually from Europe or Japan, smear them with a bit of hip, clubby, druggy style, and flog them to the middle class as post-modern irony.”

“So you don’t like her, then?”

“I loathe her, constable. People like Geraldine Hennessy have ruined television. She’s a cultural vandal. She’s a nasty, stupid, dangerous bitch.”

In the gloom Trisha could see that Fogarty’s cup was shaking in his hand. She was taken aback. “Calm down, Mr Fogarty,” she said.

“I am calm.”

“Good.”

Then Fogarty played Kelly’s confession as it had been broadcast.

“I’ll end up hating all of them.”

Seven words were all she said.