Star Struck

by Val McDermid

  Ten minutes later, her companion left and I picked up my beer and threaded my way across the room. “You look good,” I said, meaning it. Her copper hair had started to show a few silver strands, but somehow it only made it look richer. Her skin was still glowing from the month she’d just spent in Australia; the old shadows under her eyes hadn’t reasserted themselves yet. A Cambridge-educated economist, Della had one of the most devious financial minds I’d ever encountered. Way too smart for the Serious Fraud Office, she’d carved out her own niche in the north, unrivaled when it came to unravelling the sordid chicanery of the sharks in sharp suits.

  “You look knackered,” she said. “Have some chorizo. I just ordered more prawns and the aubergine with grilled cheese.”

  My mouth watered and I remembered how long it had been since breakfast. As I made uncouth sandwiches with French bread and the meltingly rich sausage, I filled Della in on my day. She winced at the encounter between Turpin and Jackson. “I wouldn’t like to be Linda Shaw this afternoon,” she said. She pushed a large manila envelope towards me as I finished the last of the chorizo. “One set of crime-scene photographs. I’ve had a quick look myself, and I didn’t see anything to excite me. But then, murder has never interested me much.”

  I didn’t bother opening them. There would be a better time and place soon. Besides, food was due any minute, and I didn’t want to lose my appetite. “Thanks.”

  Della smiled. “I said it might tie in with a long firm fraud I was working on, but I didn’t want to go public on it yet, hence the unofficial request. I don’t think he believed me, but I don’t think he much cared. So, no big deal.”

  “I owe you,” I said. I meant it; but what I owed Della was nothing compared to the debt Dennis would face if my hunch worked out. I couldn’t wait to see his face when I told him he was in hock to a DCI.

  Chapter 16

  SUN CONJUNCTION WITH URANUS

  She has an independent, progressive and original mind, backed with a strong and forceful personality. Individuality is important to her and she thrives on breaking patterns. She can be a breath of fresh air or a devastating tornado. In the 5th house, friends will be important in helping her to secure success.

  From Written in the Stars, by Dorothea Dawson

  The gods had finally started to smile on me, I decided when I arrived at the office to find Shelley temporarily absent from her desk. Before she could emerge from the loo, I slipped into my old office where I found Gizmo hunched over one of the computers. I recognized the program he was running, a basic template for a computer-controlled security system for a mediumsized building split into a mix of large and small rooms. It looked like one of the privately owned stately homes whose owners had turned to us after we’d scored a spectacular success in closing down a ring of specialist art thieves. It was a case that I didn’t like thinking about, for all sorts of reasons, so I was more than happy to have Gizmo around to take care of that end of the business.

  He grunted what I interpreted as a greeting. “I’ve been thinking, Giz,” I said. “I know you probably think I’m being paranoid, but if you’re going ahead with a meeting with the cyberbabe …” I caught his warning look and hurriedly corrected myself. “I mean Jan, sorry. If you’re going to arrange a meeting with her, you should have somebody to cover your back. Just in case she turns out to be a nutter. Or the whole thing is some terrible set-up.”

  He did that thing with his mouth that people use to indicate you might just have something. “I guess,” he said. “It’d have to be

  “How about me?”

  “You don’t mind?”

  I sat down and made meaningful eye contact. “Gizmo, you need someone who can suss this woman out at a hundred yards. Your anorak friends would be about as much use as a cardboard barbecue. Besides, this is self-interest. The last thing I need right now is the human equivalent of the Pakistani Brain Virus eating up my computer genius. Just check the date and time with me, and I’m all yours.”

  “Sound,” he said, his eyes already straying back to the screen.

  “There is, of course, a price to pay,” I said.

  He closed his eyes and raised his face towards the ceiling. “Suckered,” he said.

  I spread out the contents of the envelope Della had given me and explained what I wanted. “It’s a freebie,” I said. “For Dennis. Can do?”

  He scratched his chin. “It won’t be easy,” he said. “I’ll have to take it home with me. I don’t have the software loaded here. But yeah, it should be doable. When do you need it for?”

  “The sooner the better. The longer it takes you, the longer Dennis is going to be behind bars.”

  He shuffled the photographs together, giving each one a glance as he fed them back into the envelope. “I’m still working on the Dorothea information,” he said. “I farmed one end of it out to a lad I know who’s shit hot on adoption records. But there are some more avenues I can pursue myself. Which is the priority—this stuff or the Dorothea material?”

  I had to think about it. All my instincts said that I should be pulling out all the stops to help Dennis. But whoever killed Dorothea might have other victims in mind so the sooner I got to the bottom of that can of worms, the better. Besides, I was being paid for finding out who had murdered the astrologer. If there had been only me to consider, the decision would have been easy. But being the boss isn’t all about strutting your stuff in jackboots, especially with wages day approaching on horseback. “Dorothea,” I said reluctantly.

  Gizmo had the look kids get when they’re told they can’t play with the new bike until Christmas morning. “OK,” he said. “By the way, I think Shell wants a word.”

  I bet she did. Short of abseiling out of the window, I didn’t see how I was going to be able to avoid letting her have several. I took a deep breath and walked into the outer office. Shelley was sitting behind her desk. It looked as if she was balancing the check book, a maneuver I find slightly more daunting than walking the high wire. “Hi, Shelley,” I said breezily. “I’m glad you’re back. I wanted to tell you Donovan will be doing an overnight, so you won’t have to bother cooking for him tonight.”

  If glares had been wishes, the genie would have been on overtime that day. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about my son,” Shelley informed me.

  The words alone might not have seemed menacing, but the tone put them on a par with, “Has the prisoner a last request?” Ever since she had her hair cut in a Grace Jones flat top, I’ve been expecting her to batter me. Sometimes when I’m alone, I practice responses to the verbal challenges I know she’s storing up to use against me. It doesn’t help.

  I smiled and said brightly, “Don’s settling in really well, isn’t he? You must be well proud of him.”

  Her eyes darkened. I waited for the bolts of black lightning. “I was proud of his A level results. I was proud when he made the North West schools basketball team. I was proud when he was accepted at Manchester University. But proud is not the word for how I feel when I find out my son’s been arrested twice in the space of a week.”

  “Ah. That.” I tried edging towards the door, but noticed in time that she’d picked up the paperknife.

  “Yes, that. Kate, I’ve been against this right from the start, but I gave in because Donovan wanted so badly not to be dependent on me and not to get deep into debt like most of his student friends. And because you promised me you wouldn’t expose him to danger. And what happens? My son, who has managed to avoid any confrontation with the police in spite of being black and looking like he can take care of himself, gets arrested twice.” She banged her

  “You can’t hold me responsible for police racism,” I tried.

  “Suddenly it’s a secret that the police are racist?” Shelley said sarcastically. “I can hold you responsible for putting him in places where he’s exposed to that racism.”

  “We’re working on a way to deal with that,” I said, trying for conciliation. “And the work he’s doing tonight
couldn’t be less risky. He’s protecting Gloria Kendal against a nonexistent stalker.”

  Shelley snorted. “And you don’t think that’s dangerous? I’ve seen Gloria Kendal, remember?”

  Time for a different approach. “Gimme a break here, Shelley. People pay money in encounter groups for the sort of experience Don’s getting here. He’s not complaining, and he’s making good money. You’ve done a great job with him. He’s solid as a rock. He can handle himself, he knows how to take responsibility, and it’s all because he’s your son. You should believe in him. And it’s about time you let him go. He’s a man now. A lot of lads his age are fathers. He’s got more sense, and it’s down to the way you’ve brought him up.”

  Shelley looked astounded. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d stood up to her like that either. We faced off for a good thirty seconds that felt more like minutes. “His name’s Donovan,” she said finally. “Not Don.”

  I nodded apologetically. “I’m going home now,” I said. “I need to have a bath and a think. I’ve done some background checks for Toronto and San Juan, I’ll e-mail you the billing details.” I made for the door. On my way out, I turned back and said, “Shelley—thanks.”

  She shook her head and returned to the check book. We hadn’t actually built a bridge, but the piers were just about in place.

  I got home to two messages on the answering machine. Richard had called to tell me he’d be home around nine with a Chinese takeaway, which was more warning than I usually get from him. I’d

  The second message was from Cassie, asking me to call her when I could. She sounded concerned but not panicky, so I fixed myself a drink and ran a hot bath that filled the air with the heady perfume of ylang-ylang and neroli essential oils. I was determined to make the most of a night in with Richard. I slid into the soothing water and reached for the phone. Cassie picked up on the second ring.

  “Thanks for getting back to me, Kate,” she said.

  I could feel the water soothing me already. “No problem. How can I help?”

  “Well …” She paused. “It could be something and nothing. Just a coincidence. But I thought you might be interested.”

  “Fire away,” I said. “I’m always interested in coincidence.”

  “I’ve just had a reporter round. A freelance that does a lot for the national tabloids. She was waving the check book, trying to get me to dish the dirt on Dorothea and the Northerners cast. Scraping the bottom of the barrel, I thought, but I suppose everybody who’s still on the show has closed ranks. They’ll have been warned, reminded that their contracts forbid them to talk to the press without the agreement of NPTV. So the hacks have to dredge through their contacts books to see if they can find anybody who might talk.”

  “And because you sold your story at the time, they think you might be tempted to spill some more beans?”

  “Exactly. But I said everything I was ever going to say back then. And that’s what I told this reporter. The thing is, though, I recognized her name. Tina Marshall. It’s her by-line that’s been on most of the really big Northerners scandal stories. She’s obviously somebody that has a direct relationship with the mole.”

  “That’s certainly worth knowing,” I said, trying to sound interested. I couldn’t figure out why Cassie felt the need to phone me

  “But that’s not all I recognized,” Cassie continued. “I recognized her face, too. A couple of months back, a friend of mine took me to dinner at the Normandie. Do you know it?”

  I knew the name. Alexis and Chris always went there for their anniversary dinners. Alexis claimed it was one of the best restaurants in the region, but I wasn’t likely to be able to verify that for myself as long as I stayed with a man who believes if it hasn’t come from a wok it can’t be food. “Not personally,” I sighed.

  “Well, it’s not cheap, that’s for sure. Anyway, when I went to the loo, I noticed this woman. I didn’t know then that she was Tina Marshall, of course.”

  I was skeptical. A quick glance in a restaurant a couple of months previously wasn’t the sort of identification I’d want to base anything on. “Are you sure?” I asked. The fragrant warmth had clearly activated my politeness circuit.

  “Oh, I’m sure. You see, the reason I noticed her in the first place was her companion. She was dining with John Turpin.” Cassie mistook my silence for incredulity rather than stupefaction. “I wouldn’t make any mistake about Turpin,” she added. “He’s the bastard who gave me the bullet, after all. So seeing him wining and dining some woman in the kind of sophisticated restaurant where he’s not likely to run into Northerners regulars was a bit like a red rag to a bull. I paid attention to the woman he was with. When she turned up this afternoon on my doorstep, I knew her right away.”

  “Turpin?” I said, puzzled. The man had no possible motive for leaking stories about Northerners to the press, least of all to the woman who had plastered scandal after scandal over the nation’s tabloids. I pushed myself up into a sitting position, trying not to drop the phone.

  “Turpin. And Tina Marshall,” Cassie confirmed.

  “Unless … he was trying to get her to reveal her source?” I wondered.

  “It didn’t look like a confrontation,” Cassie said. “It was far too relaxed for that. It didn’t have the feel of a lovers’ tryst, either. More businesslike than that. But friendly, familiar.”

  “You got all this from a quick glimpse on the way to the loo?” I asked doubtfully.

  “Oh no,” Cassie said hastily. “Turpin had been sitting with his back to me, but once I realized it was him, I kept half an eye on their table.” She gave a rueful laugh. “Much to the annoyance of my companion. He wasn’t very pleased that I was so interested in another man, even though I explained who Turpin was.”

  “Did Turpin see you?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so. He was far too absorbed in his conversation.”

  “I’m surprised Tina Marshall didn’t clock you. Women check out other women, and you must have been familiar to her,” I pointed out.

  “I look very different from my Maggie Grimshaw days,” Cassie said. “Nobody stops me in the street any more. Thank God. And like I said, the Normandie isn’t the sort of place you’d expect the Northerners cast to be eating. It’s not owned by a footballer or a rock star,” she added cynically. “So, do you think there’s something going on between them?”

  I groaned. “I don’t know, Cassie. Nothing makes sense to me.”

  “It’s very odd, though.”

  I was about to tell her exactly how odd I thought it was when my doorbell rang. Not the tentative, well-mannered ring of a charity collector, but the insistent, demanding, lean-on-the-bell ring that only a close friend or someone who’d never met me would risk. “I don’t believe it,” I moaned. “Cassie, I’m going to have to go.” I stood up. It must have sounded like a whale surfacing at the other end of the phone.

  “Are you OK?” she asked anxiously.

  “Somebody at the door. Sorry. I’ll call you when any of this makes sense. Thanks for letting me know.” As I talked, the phone tucked awkwardly between dripping jaw and wet shoulder, I was wrapping a bath sheet round me. I switched off the phone and drizzled my way down the hall.

  I yanked the door open to find Gizmo on the doorstep. “Hiya,”

  “What is wrong with the telephone, Gizmo?” I demanded. Remarkably restrained in the circumstances, I thought.

  He shrugged. “I was on my way home from the office. You know, going home to sort out Dennis’s little problem? And I thought you’d like to see what I found out about Dorothea’s mysterious past.”

  I shivered as a blast of wintry air made it past him. There goes snug, I thought. “Inside,” I said, stepping back to let him pass. I followed him into the living room. “This had better be good, Giz. I’d only just got in the bath.”

  “Smells nice,” he said, sounding surprised to have noticed.

  “It was,” I ground out.

  “Any chance
of a beer?” Spoken like a man who thinks “considerate” is a prefix for “done.”

  “Why not?” I muttered. On the way, I collected my own glass and topped it up with the Polish lemon pepper vodka. I grabbed the first bottle that came to hand and relished the look of pained disgust that flashed across Gizmo’s face when his taste buds made contact with chilli beer—ice-cold liquid with the breathtaking burn of the vengeful vindaloo that curry shops serve up to Saturdaynight drunks. “You were saying?” I asked sweetly, enjoying the sudden flush on his skin and the beads of sweat that popped out across his upper lip.

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” he gasped. “What in the name of God was that?”

  “I didn’t know you’d been brought up Catholic,” I said. That should discourage him from the space-invading that was threatening to become a habit. “It’s a beer, like you asked for. Now, what did you want to tell me about?”

  He fished inside his vast parka and produced a clear plastic wallet. Wordlessly, he handed it over. I took the few sheets of paper out of the sleeve and worked my way through them. By the time I reached the end, I knew when Dorothea had been born and who her parents were, when she’d married Harry Thompson and when they’d been divorced. I knew the date of Harry’s death, and I

  Most importantly, I knew who the mystery baby was. And I had more than the shadow of a notion why the relationship might have led to murder.

  I opened my mouth to try out my idea on Gizmo. Of course, the phone rang. “I don’t believe this,” I exploded, grabbing the handset and hitting the “talk” button. “Hello?” I barked.

  “It’s me,” the familiar voice said. “I’m in Oldham police station. I’ve been arrested.”