Star Struck

by Val McDermid

  Tucker sucked his lower lip in between his teeth. “You make a good case. But O’Brien’s wife has given him false alibis before, and he did have a strong reason for falling out with the dead man.”

  “You will be running full forensic checks on the doorjamb, won’t you, Inspector?” Ruth said ominously.

  “I’m not sure that’s justified,” Tucker said cautiously. “Besides, the crime scene has been released.”

  “Because if you don’t,” Ruth continued as if he hadn’t spoken, “I will. I’ll be getting my own expert witness down there this afternoon. And when he finds fragments of skin and maybe even a bit of blood with Patrick Kelly’s DNA all over that doorjamb at precisely the height where his jaw would have hit it, Mr. O’Brien will be suing you for false imprisonment. Won’t that be fun?”

  “A lovely Christmas present for the Chief Constable,” I added. I was starting to get the hang of threatening the police. I could see why Ruth got such a buzz out of her job.

  Tucker sighed then chewed his lower lip some more. “I will get someone to take a look at the door,” he eventually said. “And I will also have a word with the pathologist.” He stood up, his long body unfolding to its unnerving height. “It’s been an interesting experience, Ms. Brannigan. I’m sure we’ll meet again.”

  Ruth extracted a promise that he’d call her as soon as he had any information, and I shepherded him out.

  “Tell me, what set you off on this train of thought?” Ruth demanded the moment the door closed.

  “I wish I could say it was some brilliant intuitive leap. But it wasn’t. I’m on the Internet mailing list of a forensic pathology newsgroup,” I said, feeling slightly sheepish. “Mostly I’m too busy to do much more than skim it, but every now and again, some bizarre detail sticks in my mind. I read about a similar case and I remembered it because the reporting pathologist described it as, ‘Man’s best friend and worst enemy.’”

  If Ruth had had four paws and a tail, her ears would have pricked up. Instead, she settled for leaning forward with an intent gaze. “You’ve got a copy of this?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t save the digests. But I could put out a request for whoever filed the original case report to get in touch with me. I’ve managed to track down a couple of references to it, and that should be enough to get me heading in the right direction.”

  Ruth got to her feet, stubbing out her cigarette in the soil of the dying Christmas cactus on the windowsill. “Do it,” she said decisively, reaching for her coat. “You did a great job there,” she added. “I shall tell Dennis he owes his freedom entirely to you. Send me a bill, will you?”

  “I thought Dennis was on Legal Aid?”

  “He is.”

  “But the Legal Aid Board won’t pay for this,” I protested.

  Ruth’s smile matched the timber-wolf coat. “No, but Dennis will. You’re running a business, not a charity. There’s favors for friends, and there’s charges for professional services. This is one he pays for.”

  “But …”

  “No buts. You’re no use to either of us if you can’t make this business pay. Send me a bill.”

  I would have argued. But she’s bigger than me. Besides, it always takes forever to argue with a lawyer. And I had a lunch appointment.

  Chapter 20

  JUPITER TRINES NEPTUNE

  She is idealistic, and enjoys discussion on a theoretical or philosophical level. She can be excessively generous and will go out of her way to help others. She does not always manage to meet her own high standards.

  From Written in the Stars, by Dorothea Dawson

  The Yang Sing was Manchester’s most famous Chinese restaurant until it burned down, and it suffered accordingly. Trying to get a table at a busy time of day or night, especially near Christmas, was about as rewarding as waiting for a night bus. What the tourists didn’t know was that just round the corner is the sister restaurant, the Little Yang Sing, where the cooking is at least as good and the decor leans more towards the clean lines of sixties retro than the traditional fish tanks and flock wallpaper of most Chinese restaurants.

  Richard was already there by the time I arrived. So were a couple of bottles of Tsing Tao, a plate of salt and pepper ribs and a tidy little mound of prawn wontons. I dropped into my seat and reached for the beer. If the morning had taught me anything, it was that the only way to get through the day was going to be by topping up the alcohol level in my bloodstream at regular intervals. I didn’t have time to suffer today; I’d have my hangover when I was asleep and not before.

  As I swigged beer, I checked out Richard. Even allowing for the fact that he’d had four hours more sleep than me, he had no right to look so untouched by the excesses of the night before. His hazel eyes looked sleepy behind his new rimless glasses, but then they always have that fresh-from-the-bedroom look. The light dusting of

  “How was your morning?” he asked just as I got a spare rib to my lips. Typical; he always asks questions when there’s food to be fought over.

  I shook my head and stripped the bone with my teeth. “Tough,” I said. “But it looks as if Dennis is going to be back on the streets for Christmas.”

  “That’s one less thing for you to worry about, then. And Gloria? Has she had any more hate mail?”

  “Nothing. I’ve got Donovan taking her and her daughter shopping today. I keep waiting for the phone call.”

  Richard grinned. “Switch the phone off. You need both hands for what I’ve ordered.”

  He wasn’t wrong. We ate our way through half a dozen dim sum and appetizers, a double helping of hot and sour soup and four main-course dishes. My capacity for food after a heavy night never ceases to astonish me. I’ll probably need a stomach transplant when I’m forty. By then, they’ll probably be able to give me one.

  I picked up the last king prawn with my chopsticks then laid it regretfully back on the plate. “I can’t do it,” I said.

  “Me neither,” Richard admitted. “So where are you up to with this murder?”

  I brought him up to speed on my meeting with Freddie Littlewood. It felt like half a lifetime ago, but it was only the night before. “So I seem to have tracked down the source of most of the tabloid stories,” I said. “At least, the ones involving personal scandal rather than storyline revelations. But I don’t know how to use the information to clear Ross Grant without dropping Freddie in the shit. I don’t really want to do that if I can help it, because, to be

  “And you’re sure he didn’t kill his mother? He’d have had the opportunity, and he freely admits to hating her.”

  “I just don’t think he did it. Why should he? He was making a nice little earner out of their story selling, and he got the added bonus that it really upset her. Profitable revenge. There’s not many of us manage that.”

  Richard poured himself a cup of Chinese tea and stared into it consideringly. “Maybe she’d had enough,” he said at last. “Maybe she was going to blow the whistle on the whole racket and throw herself on the mercy of her clients.”

  I snorted. “She certainly wouldn’t have got much change out of them. And even supposing the cast members were prepared to forgive and forget, John Turpin would never let her back on NPTV property again. Which reminds me …” I drifted off, remembering what Cassie had told me.

  “I said,” Richard commented in the tones of a man repeating himself, “who is John Turpin?”

  “He’s the Administration and Production Coordinator at NPTV,” I said absently. “One of those typical telly executives. You know the kind. About as creative as a sea slug. They’re great at counting beans and cutting expenses. You must have them in journalism.”

  “Editorial managers,” he said glumly.

  “And he’s obsessed with uncovering the mole who’s leaking the Northerners stories. He’s even threatening to end the location caterers’ contract because he suspects one of them of being guilty.”

  “Nice guy. So what is it about this Turpin that sent you off
the air just now?” Richard asked.

  “I was just remembering a conversation I had yesterday with Cassie Cliff.”

  “Maggie Grimshaw as was?”

  “The same.”

  Richard smiled reminiscently. “I loved Maggie Grimshaw. The woman who put the ‘her’ in Northerners. The sex goddess of soap.” His smile slipped. “Until the truth came slithering out. So what did Cassie have to say about John Turpin?”

  I told him the tale about Turpin and Tina Marshall in the Normandie. “I can’t figure it out at all,” I said.

  “He might have been wining and dining her on the off-chance that she’d let something slip about her mole.”

  I pulled a face. “I don’t think he’s that stupid.”

  “He might be that vain,” Richard pointed out. “Never underestimate a middle-aged executive’s opinion of himself.”

  I sighed. “Well, if that’s what he was after, he obviously didn’t succeed, since he’s still making a huge performance out of flushing out the mole.”

  “Has he got shares in NPTV?” Richard asked.

  “I think so. Northerners is up for contract renegotiation. One of the actors was talking about how much money Turpin would make if NPTV got into a bidding war between the terrestrial and the pay channels over Northerners. So I guess he must have some financial stake.”

  Richard leaned back in his seat, looking pleased with himself. “That’s the answer. That’s why Turpin was cozying up to Tina Marshall. John Turpin’s the Northerners mole.” He signalled to a passing waiter that we wanted the bill.

  Sometimes I wonder how someone who never listens makes such a good living as a journalist. “Richard, pay attention. I already told you who the mole is. Freddie Littlewood was using Dorothea to dig the dirt then he was dishing it.”

  “I was paying attention,” he said patiently. “Freddie was pulling skeletons out of cupboards, courtesy of Dorothea’s privileged information. What you didn’t tell me was who’s been selling out the storylines. From what you say, Turpin must have access to them.”

  “But why? What does he gain by it?”

  Richard shook his head in wonderment. “I can’t believe you’re being so slow about this, Brannigan,” he said. “You’re normally so quick off the mark where money’s concerned. It’s viewing figures, isn’t it? The more notorious Northerners becomes, the more people watch. The more people watch, the higher the value of the show when it comes to negotiating any satellite or cable deal because there are people who will shell out hundreds of pounds for Northerners.”

  “I know that,” I protested. “But it’s different with storylines that get leaked before transmission. That makes people turn off.”

  The waiter dumped the bill on the table between us. Automatically, we both reached for our wallets. “Says who?” Richard demanded as his plastic followed mine on to the plate.

  “Says the actors. When the punters know what happens next, they don’t mind missing it. And they get hooked on something else so they drop out altogether.”

  The waiter removed the bill and the credit cards. “Two receipts, please,” we chorused. He nodded. He’d served us enough times to know the routine of two self-employed people who liked to eat together. “That’s bollocks, you know,” Richard said. “That might be what Turpin’s telling them, but it’s bollocks. If you leak upcoming storylines, what happens is you get a buzz going. First one paper breaks the story, then all the rest follow it up, then the TV magazines pick it up and run with it and before you know it, everybody’s buzzing. Don’t you remember the whole ‘Who shot JR?’ thing back in the eighties? Or the furor over Deirdre Barlow and Mike Baldwin’s affair on Coronation Street? The whole nation was watching. I bet Turpin got the idea when Freddie’s exclusives started hitting the headlines and the viewing figures rose along with them.”

  “He wouldn’t dare,” I breathed.

  “Where’s the risk? He’s in charge of hunting for the source of the Northerners stories. Turpin knows there’s a real mole as well as himself, so if he does uncover anything, he can pin all the guilt on the other one. There’s no way Tina Marshall is going to expose him, because he’s the goose that lays the golden eggs. She’s probably not even paying him much.”

  I leaned across the table and thrust my hand through his thick butterscotch hair, pulling his head towards mine. I parted my lips and planted a warm kiss on his mouth. I could still taste lemon and ginger and garlic as I ran my tongue lightly between his teeth. I drew back for breath and said softly, “Now I remember why I put up with you.”

  The waiter cleared his throat. I released Richard’s head and we sheepishly signed our credit card slips. Richard reached across the table and covered my hand with his. “We’ve got some unfinished business from last night,” he said, his voice husky.

  I ran my other thumbnail down the edge of his hand and reveled in the shiver that ran through him. “Your place or mine?”

  Just before we slipped under my duvet, I made a quick call to Gizmo, asking him to arrange for some background checks into the exact extent of John Turpin’s financial involvement with NPTV. Then I switched the phone off.

  Sometime afterwards, I was teetering on the edge of sleep, my face buried in the musky warmth of Richard’s chest, when his voice swirled through my mind like a drift of snow. “I’ll tell you one thing, Brannigan. If a few juicy stories can push up the ratings, just think what murder must have done.”

  Suddenly, I was wide awake.

  Sandra McGovern, née Satterthwaite, had inherited her mother’s flair for ostentation. The house where she lived with her husband Keith and their daughter Joanna had definite delusions of grandeur. Set just off Bury New Road in the smarter part of Prestwich, it looked like the one person at the party who’d been told it was fancy dress. The rest of the street consisted of plain but substantial redbrick detached houses built sometime in the 1960s. Chateau McGovern had gone for the Greek-temple makeover. The portico was supported by half a dozen ionic columns and topped with a few statues of goddesses in various stages of undress. Bas reliefs had been stuck on to the brick at regular intervals and a stucco frieze of Greek key design ran along the frontage just below the first-floor windows.

  They might just have got away with it on a sunny summer day. But the McGoverns clearly took Christmas seriously. The whole house was festooned with fairy lights flashing on and off with migraine-inducing intensity. Among the Greek goddesses, Santa Claus sat in a sled behind four cavorting reindeer, all in life-size inflatable plastic. A Christmas tree had been sawn vertically in two, and each half fixed to the wall on either side of the front door, both

  There was a long silence. I was steeling myself to ring again when I saw a figure looming through the frosted glass. Then Donovan opened the door. But it was Donovan as I’d never seen him before, swathed in a plum silk kimono that reached just below his knees. A fine sheen of sweat covered his face and he looked extremely embarrassed. “Bah, humbug,” I muttered. He seemed baffled, but what else could I expect from an engineering student?

  “Hiya, Kate,” he said.

  I pointed to his outfit. “I hope this isn’t what it looks like,” I said drily.

  He rolled his eyes heavenwards. “You’re as bad as my mother. Give me some credit. Come on in, let me get this door shut. We’re through the back,” he added, leading the way down the hall. “You think the outside is over the top, wait till you see this.”

  I waded after him through shag pile deep enough to conceal a few troops of Boy Scouts. I tried not to look too closely at the impressionistic flower paintings on the walls. At the end of the hall was a solid wooden door. Donovan opened it, then stood back to let me pass.

  I walked from winter to tropical summer. Hot, green and steamy as a Hollywood rainforest, the triple-glazed extension must have occupied the same square footage as the house. Ferns and palms pushed against the glass and spilled over in cascades that overhung brick paths. Growing lamps blazed light and warmth everywhere. The ai
r smelt of a curious mixture of humus and chlorine. Sweat popping out on my face like a rash, I followed the path through the dense undergrowth, rounded a curve and found myself facing a vast swimming pool, its shape the free form of a real pond.

  “Hiya, chuck,” Gloria screeched, raucous as an Amazonian parrot.

  She was stretched out on a cushion on a wooden sunbed, wearing nothing but a swimsuit. Beside her, a younger version reclined on one elbow like a Roman diner, a champagne glass beaded with condensation hanging loosely from her fingers. Gloria beckoned

  We nodded to each other and I told a few lies about the house and swimming pool. Sandra looked pleased and Gloria proud, which was the point of the exercise. Donovan reappeared carrying a fourth lounger which he placed a little away from our grouping. Self-consciously, he peeled off the robe, revealing baggy blue trunks, and perched on the edge of the seat, his body gleaming like a Rodin bronze. “No problems today?”

  Gloria stretched voluptuously. For a woman who was fast approaching the downhill side of sixty, she was in terrific shape. It was amazing, given what I’d seen of her lifestyle. “Not a one, chuck. Nowt but pleasure all the way. We went to Oldham police station and I spoke to a lovely young inspector who couldn’t see what all the fuss last night had been about. Any road, young Don’s in the clear now, so we don’t have to worry about that. And then we went shopping for Christmas presents for Joanna. We had to get a robe and some trunks for Don and all, because our Keith’s a tiddler next to him. We’ve not seen a journalist all day, and there’s nobody more pleased than me about that. What about you? Any news?”

  “I wanted to ask you about something,” I said, side-stepping the question. “You remember when I came to fetch you from Dorothea’s van the night she was killed? Well, I was busy wrestling with the umbrella and keeping an eye out in case anybody jumped us, so I wasn’t really paying attention to individuals. Besides, I don’t really know anybody at NPTV, so even if I had noticed who was around, it wouldn’t mean anything to me. But you …”