by Val McDermid
“I’ll just have to possess my soul in patience,” I complained.
“So who was Dorothea’s last appointment with? Which member of the Northerners cast was the last person to see her alive?”
“You’ll have to ask Jackson that one.” I didn’t have much hope that I’d be able to keep Gloria’s name out of the papers, but the longer I could, the better for her. “Any chance I can pillage the library? I could use some background on Dorothea.”
“You digging into this, then?”
I shrugged. “If he’s not made an arrest overnight, the chances are Jackson’s stuck. Which means he’ll be wasting time making my
I could see from her eyes that Alexis didn’t believe a word of it, but she knew better than to try to push me in a direction I didn’t want to travel. “You’ll tell me when you’re ready,” she said. “Come on, I’ll sort you out.”
Ten minutes later, I was beginning to wish I hadn’t asked. A stack of manila files six inches deep contained the Chronicle’s archive on Dorothea Dawson, newly returned from the news reporters who had been writing the background feature for that day’s paper. Another two ten-inch stacks contained the last year’s cuttings about Northerners.
I tore a hole in the lid on the carton of coffee I’d brought up from the canteen, took the cap off my pen and began to explore Dorothea Dawson’s past.
I’d got as far as her early TV appearances when Alexis burst in, a fresh cigarette clamped between her teeth. The librarian shouted, “Crush that ash, shit-for-brains!” Alexis ignored him and grabbed my arm, hustling me out into the corridor.
“Where’s the fire? What the hell’s going on, Alexis?”
“Your mate Dennis has just been arrested for murder.”
I understood each of the words. But together they made no sense. “They think Dennis killed Dorothea Dawson?” I asked uncomprehendingly.
“Who said anything about Dorothea?”
“Alexis, just explain in words of one syllable. Please?”
“Some villain called Pit Bull Kelly was found dead early doors in one of the underground units in the Arndale. The place was empty, but apparently it had been squatted. According to my contact, they had a tip-off that it’d been Dennis who’d been using the place, and when they checked his fingerprints with records, they found them all over the place. So they’ve arrested him.”
I still couldn’t get my head round it. Dennis was a hard man, no stranger to violence. But for a long time, he’d not lifted a hand in anger to anyone. The crimes he’d committed had all been
“Calm down, KB,” Alexis said pointlessly as I passed her.
“I don’t want to be calm,” I shouted over my shoulder. “Sometimes I get fed up with calm.” I half ran down the corridor and, too wound up to wait for the lift, started down the stairs. I could hear Alexis’s feet pounding down behind me. “He’s not a killer, Alexis,” I shouted up at her. “He loves his wife, he loves his daughter too much. He wouldn’t do this to them.”
Her footsteps stopped. I could hear her gasping for breath. “Phone me,” she managed to get out.
I didn’t bother to reply. I was too agitated. Alexis would forgive me, I knew that. Specifically, she’d forgive me when she got the inside story. At the bottom of the stairwell, I pushed open the door to the car park and got into my car. My breath was coming in deep gulps and my hands were shaking. I realized it was probably delayed shock from the night before kicking in as soon as my defenses were down. I was close to Dennis, but not that close, I told myself.
When my pulse was back within the normal range, I took my phone out and dialled the number of Ruth Hunter’s moby. If being hated by the police and the judiciary is a measure of success in criminal defense work, Ruth must be one of the best solicitors in the North West. Behind her back, they call her firm Hunter, Killer & Co. A big woman in every sense of the word, she sails into court in her bespoke tailoring like an outsize catwalk queen and rips the Crown Prosecution case to rags. If she didn’t have clients, I suspect she’d do it anyway, just for the hell of it. She drives Officer Dibble wild by turning up to cop shops in the middle of the night in her millionaire husband’s Bentley Mulsanne turbo. She can park that car in streets where my Rover would be stripped to the chassis in ten minutes and know it’ll be there unscathed when she comes
“Ruth Hunter,” the voice said briskly.
“It’s Kate. I heard about Dennis.”
“What took you so long?” she asked drily. “It’s at least three hours since they lifted him.”
“Are they charging him?”
“I can’t talk now as I’m sure you’ll appreciate.”
That meant she was in a police station, probably with a custody sergeant breathing down her neck. “When can we talk?”
“Your office, three o’clock.”
“I’ll be there. Should I go and see his wife?”
“I’d leave it for now. Maybe tomorrow. Things are a little … volatile at the moment. I’ll see you later.” The line went dead.
I could imagine. Most of the contents of the glass cupboard were probably in bits. Debbie’s never had a problem expressing her emotions and Dennis was on his final warning following the twelvemonth stretch he’d recently done. She’d told him then, one more serious nicking and she’d file for divorce. She’d probably started shredding his suits by now, unless she was saving that for when they charged him.
The clock said half past eleven. I couldn’t face sitting in the Chronicle library for another three hours, and I didn’t want to kick my heels at home. It’s ironic. I spend half my life complaining that I never have time to do my washing or ironing, then when I get a couple of hours to myself, I’m too wound up to do anything constructive. I needed to find something that would make me feel like I was being effective. Then I remembered Cassandra Cliff. Cassie had once been one of the household names among the stars of Northerners. Then some creepy hack had left no stone unturned to find the slug who revealed that years before she’d been cast as Maggie Grimshaw, the bitch goddess gossip queen of Northerners, Cassie had been Kevin.
In the teeth of the hurricane of publicity, NPTV pointed out that they had an equal opportunities policy that protected transsexuals and that Cassie’s job was safe with them. They were using “safe” with that particular meaning Margaret Thatcher inaugurated when
She didn’t run weeping into the wilderness. She sold the inside story of life on Northerners to the highest bidder, and there were no holds barred. Cassie never featured in any of the show’s regular anniversary celebrations, but I suspected that didn’t keep her awake at night. She’d chosen not to be bitter and instead of frittering away the money she made from her exposé, she set up a shop, magazine and social organization for transvestites and transsexuals.
Cassie had been a key source for Alexis for years, and we’d met following the death of a transvestite lawyer I’d been investigating. I’d met her a couple of times since then, most recently at Alexis and Chris’s housewarming party. I knew she still kept in touch with a couple of people from Northerners. She might well know things Gloria didn’t. More to the point, she might well tell me things Gloria wouldn’t.
Energized by the thought of action, I started the car and headed for Oldham. Cassie’s shop, Trances, was in one of those weary side streets just off the main town center where some businesses survive against all the odds and the rest sink without trace, simply failing to raise the metal shutters one morning with no advance warning. There was little traffic and fewer pedestrians that afternoon; the wet snow that was melting away in Manchester was making half-hearted attempts at lying in Oldham, and ripples of slush were spreading across the pavements under the lash of a bitter wind. Anyone with any sense was sitting in front of the fire watching a black-and-white Bette Davis movie.
The interior of Trances never seemed to change. There were racks of dresses in large sizes, big hair on wig stands, open shelves of shoes so big I could have got both feet in one without a struggl
e, racks of garish magazines that no one was ever going to read on the tram. The key giveaway that this was the land of the truly different was the display case of foam and silicone prostheses—breasts, hips, buttocks. The assistant serving behind the counter took one look at me and I could see her
“Have you an appointment?”
I shook my head. “I was passing.”
“Are you a journalist? Because if you are, you’re wasting your time. She’s got nothing to say to anybody about Northerners,” she said, her Adam’s apple bobbing uncontrollably.
“I’m not a journalist,” I said. “I know Cassie. Can you tell her Kate Brannigan’s here?”
She looked doubtful, but picked up the phone anyway. “Cassandra? There’s someone here called Kate Brannigan who wants to see you.” There was a pause, then she said, “Fine. I’ll send her up.” The smile she gave me as she replaced the receiver was apologetic. “I’m sorry. The phone hasn’t stopped ringing all day. It’s always the same when there’s some big Northerners story. If it’s not that, it’s Channel Four researchers doing documentaries about TSs and TVs.”
I nodded and made for the door at the back of the shop that I knew led to Cassie’s office and, beyond that, to her private domain. Cassie was waiting for me at the top of the stairs, immaculate as ever in a superbly tailored cream suit over a hyacinth-blue silk T-shirt. I’d never seen her in anything other than fabulous clothes. Her ash-blonde hair was cut in a spiky urchin style, her make-up subtle. From below, her jawline was so taut I had to suspect the surgeon’s knife. If I earned my living from looking as convincing as Cassie, even I’d have submitted to plastic surgery. “Kate,” she greeted me. “You’ve survived, then.”
I followed her down the hallway and into her office, a symphony in limed wood and gray leather. She’d replaced the dusty-pink fabric of the curtains and cushions with midnight-blue and upgraded the computer systems since I’d last been there. She’d obviously tapped a significantly profitable niche in the market. “Survived?” I echoed.
Cassie sat on one of the low sofas and crossed legs that could still give any of her former colleagues a run for their money. “I saw the story in the Chronicle. My idea of hell would be running interference for Gloria Kendal,” she said.
“Why do you say that?” I sat down opposite her.
“Unless she’s changed dramatically, she’s got a schedule that makes being Prime Minister look like a part-time job, she’s about as docile as a Doberman and she thinks if she’s hired you, she’s bought you.”
I grinned. “Sounds about right.”
“At least you’re not a bloke, so you’re relatively safe,” Cassie added archly.
I hoped Donovan was. “I expect you can guess why I’m here?”
“It’s got to be Dorothea. Except that I can’t think why you’d be investigating her murder when it’s Gloria you’ve been working for.”
I pulled a face. “It’s possible that the person who killed Dorothea is the same one who is threatening Gloria. I’m just nosing around to see what I can dig up.”
Cassie smiled, shaking her head slightly. “You’ll never make an actress until you stop pulling your earlobe when you’re stretching the truth.”
My mouth fell open. I’d never realized what my giveaway body language was, but now Cassie had pointed that out, I became instantly self-conscious. “I can’t believe you spotted that,” I complained.
She shrugged. “My business depends on being able to spot deception. I’ve got good at it. It’s all right, Kate, I don’t need to know the real reason you’re interested in who killed Dorothea. I’m happy to tell you whatever I know. I liked Dorothea. She was a worker, like me.”
“How did the connection with Northerners begin?”
Cassie frowned in concentration. “I’ve got a feeling it was Edna Mercer who first discovered her. You remember Edna? Ma Pickersgill?”
“She’s dead now, isn’t she?”
Cassie’s smile was sardonic. “Ma Pickersgill died of a heart attack when her house was burgled five years ago. Edna’s still alive, though you’ll never see her at an NPTV function.”
“She left under a cloud?”
“Alzheimer’s. Towards the end, it was touch and go whether she’d stay lucid long enough for them to get her made up and on
“You surprise me,” I said. “I’d have thought your feet were too firmly planted on the ground to care what’s written in the stars.”
Cassie smiled wryly. “Dorothea was very good. Whether you believed in it or not when you went in to see her, by the time you came out you were convinced she’d got something. After that first visit, we were all eating out of her hand. So it became a regular thing. The word spread through the cast, and soon she was coming more or less every week.”
“What kind of stuff did she tell you?”
“She’d cast your horoscope, and she’d kick off every session by explaining some little thing in your chart. That was one of the clever things about the way she operated—you had to keep going to see her if you wanted her insight into every element of your personal horoscope. Then she’d talk about the current relationships between the planets and how they might affect you.
“She did phenomenal research, you know. She knew everything there was to know about everybody she had dealings with. Dorothea made a habit of gathering every snippet, no matter how insignificant it seemed. You know how these things go—Edna would say something in passing about Rita’s son, then three months later Dorothea would say something to Rita about her son, knowing full well that Rita knows she’s never mentioned the boy to Dorothea. It all contributed to the myth of omniscience.”
“Making a virtue out of being a know-all. That is clever,” I acknowledged. “So was that it?”
Cassie shook her head. “She’d finish off by asking if there was anything bothering you that you wanted guidance with. You’d tell her and she’d gaze into her crystal ball and give you advice. She didn’t go in for the riddle of the Sphinx stuff—she’d say things like, ‘You’re never going to have emotional support from your husband
“More therapy than prediction, then?”
“A mixture of both. And actors are very gullible people.” Her smile reminded me that she’d once been an actor, and not just on the screen.
“So why would anyone have it in for her?” I asked.
“I haven’t a clue. I hadn’t heard that anybody had fallen out with her. She could be irritating when she was trying to impress you with how mystical and spiritual she was, but that’s no reason to kill somebody.”
Changing tack, I said, “What about Gloria? Has anybody from Northerners got it in for her?”
Cassie chuckled, a warm, throaty sound. “How long have you got? The only surprising thing about Gloria is that she’s still alive.”
Chapter 11
MOON SQUARES MIDHEAVEN
She can feel insecure socially because she tends to find herself in conflict with conventional norms. She will construct a world of her own where she can be herself, but will maintain the pretense of being tough and self-sufficient to the outside world. She does not express emotion readily, but nevertheless will often choose a caring or self-sacrificing role in life.
From Written in the Stars, by Dorothea Dawson
It was the first time anybody had even hinted that Gloria wasn’t the most popular girl in the school. I leaned forward and said as calmly as I could manage, “And there was me thinking everybody loved Gloria.”
“They do. That’s why she provokes thoughts of murder on a regular basis. Or at least, she always used to. It drives you insane to be around somebody who’s always kind, always generous, always doing charity work, always making time for the fans. There are people in the cast of Northerners who have a permanent inferiority complex thanks to Gloria.” Cassie’s voice was light, but there was an edge of something harder in her eyes.
“But like you just said, that’s no reason to kill somebody.”
Cassie raised her
perfectly shaped eyebrows. “No? Well, you have more experience in these matters than I do. I tell you what people would kill for, though, and that’s their roles in Northerners. Gloria’s hot right now. The public adore her, and the management knows it. Granted, nobody’s bigger than the show, but when actors are riding the crest of the wave, they do get a certain amount of input into the storylines. If somebody in the cast knew Gloria was suggesting a storyline that would see them written out, that’d be a
I sighed. “No. But one way or another, Dorothea’s death has rebounded quite nastily on Gloria’s life. She was the one who was in the room when Dorothea talked about the presence of death. She never said anything similar to anyone else, as far as I’ve been able to find out.”
Cassie suddenly jumped to her feet. “Stay there a minute,” she said, crossing to a door in the far wall. “I’ll be right back.”
The minute stretched into two, then five. The more I thought about what she’d suggested, the more uneasy I became. I pulled out my phone and rang Gloria’s number. “Hiya, chuck,” she greeted me.
“Everything OK?” I asked.
“Grand as owt. We’re watching a Bette Davis video and having a lovely time.”
All right for some. “Can I speak to Donovan?” I waited while she summoned him. He came on the line almost immediately. “Don? How’s things?”
“Nothing except endless phone calls from the papers. Gloria just tells them she’s too devastated to talk and puts the phone down. It’s a class act.” He sounded both admiring and cautious.
“I’ve got something to do in town, but I’ll be over in a couple of hours to relieve you. Is that OK?”
“Great.” I wasn’t imagining the relief in his voice. Considering they’ve grown up in the inner city, Shelley’s kids have led remarkably sheltered lives. There was no way Donovan had the sophistication to deal with a demanding woman like Gloria indefinitely. If I didn’t rescue him before nightfall, his mother almost certainly would, and then we’d have another corpse on our hands. And I’m still too young to die.
