Star Struck (15 page)

“You never found out?”

“I never found out. There were so few people who knew, you see, and I trusted them all with my life. I always thought someone from the Amsterdam clinic where I had my surgery must have been

I got to my feet. “Was Ross Grant doing the outside catering when you were on the show?”

“Ross? Big cuddly Scotsman? Wife with eyes like a hawk? Yeah, he took over the contract about a year before I was demolished. Wait a minute … You’re not suggesting Ross is the mole?”

“I’m not, but Turpin seems determined to give it a whirl.”

Cassie laughed scornfully. “Ross hasn’t got the malice to do it or the brains to cover his tracks.”

“What about his wife?”

“Why should she? Why risk the goose that lays the golden eggs?”

“Greed?”

Cassie looked skeptical. “I can’t see her going in for that kind of short-term thinking.”

“Not even if she thought they were going to lose the contract? That way she kills two birds with one stone. She gets her revenge on Turpin for dumping them and she earns a nice little nest egg to cushion the blow while they look for other work.”

“They already have other work,” Cassie objected. “Or they used to, at any rate.
Northerners
is their most regular source of income, but they do cater for other people’s location shoots. So it wouldn’t be the end of the world if they did lose the contract. And if she was discovered, it would mean the end of their business altogether. I just don’t see it.”

As I walked back to my car, I pondered what Cassie had said. For it to be worth the mole’s while, he or she had to be indifferent to the outcome of being found out. That meant it was either someone sufficiently skilled to overcome the stigma of being known in the TV business as the
Northerners
mole, or someone who was prepared to risk their career to vent their venom against the program or its makers.

However I cut it, it didn’t sound like a cast member to me.

I was back in my office by three. I wasn’t alone; Gizmo was in the computer room in weekend uniform of jeans, Converse baseball

As soon as I had five minutes that I didn’t need for sleeping, I was going to have to do some digging.

Ruth walked through the door with ten seconds to spare. She’s the only person I know who’s even more punctual than me. One of the mysteries of the universe for both of us is how we ended up hitched to men who think if you get to the cinema in time to see the British Board of Film Censors certificate, you’re far too early. If I could change one thing about Richard, that’s what it would be.

She pulled me into her arms and gave me the kind of hug that always makes me feel five years old. It was exaggerated today because she was swathed in a vast silver-gray fake fur that felt like the best fluffy toy a child ever held. “You look like the Snow Queen,” I said, disentangling myself and giving her an admiring look from the perfectly pleated blonde hair to the soft leather boots that clung to her well-shaped calves.

“I was aiming for the scary-monster effect,” she said, shrugging out of her fur and dropping into a chair.

“Did it work?”

She pulled a face. “Dennis is still in custody, so it rather looks as if I failed.”

“What’s the score?” I asked, switching on the cappuccino machine that was one of the few permanent reminders of my former business partner Bill Mortensen.

Ruth shook her head wearily. “It’s really not looking good for him. Especially with a record that includes burglary, robbery and GBH.”

“GBH? I didn’t know about that.”

“He was twenty-two and he’d just come out of the Paras after a tour in Northern Ireland where his best friend was shot by a sniper in front of his eyes. Post-traumatic shock hadn’t been invented

I passed her a cup of frothy coffee and perched with my own on the corner of the desk. “What exactly happened?”

Ruth filled me in succinctly. Patrick “Pit Bull” Kelly was one of a gang of eight brothers from the unappetizing redbrick terraces of Cheetham Hill in North Manchester. They were all small-time criminals, good only at getting caught. Pit Bull had been running a shop-squat scam like Dennis, but since he lacked Dennis’s nerve or imagination, he’d steered clear of the city center and worked his own familiar turf with its restricted numbers of punters, none of whom had much cash to spare. When he’d heard about Dennis’s operation, he’d decided he wanted a slice so last night he’d told two of his brothers he was going into town to “take that scumbag O’Brien’s shop off him.”

The next anyone had seen of Pit Bull Kelly had been early that morning. The manager of the cut-price butcher’s shop next door to Dennis’s squat got more than he’d bargained for when he went to open up. He’d opened the door to the service corridor that ran behind the six-unit section. Facing him was a brindle-and-white pit bull terrier, the bulges of muscle making the hair on its shoulders and ribs stand out like a bristly halo. Its teeth were bared in a rictus that would have made Jaws look friendly, but instead of growling, it was whimpering. The poor bloke froze in his tracks, but the dog showed no signs of attacking him. Instead, it had backed up to Dennis’s back door and started howling. According to Ruth, the witness claimed it sounded like the hound from hell.

He didn’t know what to do, so he shut the door and called the mall security. Grateful for something more interesting than teenage troublemakers, two uniformed guards had arrived within minutes. They had the local beat bobby in tow, less than thrilled at having his illicit tea break with the security men broken up. When

The bobby decided they should take a look inside. The door obviously wasn’t locked, but there was something heavy behind it. A bit of brute force got the door far enough open for the copper to stick his head inside and check out the obstruction. Which happened to be the corpse of Pit Bull Kelly.

How he’d died was far from obvious. There was no blood, no visible wound. But the bobby was sensible enough to realize that somebody who looked as dodgy as Pit Bull Kelly probably hadn’t dropped down dead with a heart attack. He’d radioed for back-up. By mid-morning, the fingerprint team had matched Dennis’s prints with the ones all over the curiously empty shop. And the pathologist had given them the tentative information that he thought Pit Bull Kelly had died from a sub-arachnoid hemorrhage.

“What’s a sub-arachnoid hemorrhage?” I asked, my first interruption. Ordinarily I’m not that restrained, but, unusually in lawyers, Ruth actually tells a story with all the pertinent details in place.

Ruth tilted her head sharply to one side and pressed her fingers under the angle of her jaw. “Just behind the jawbone here, there’s a very vulnerable blood vessel. Rupture that and you’re brain-dead in seconds. Normally it’s protected by the jaw. And by the way we instinctively duck our heads when any threat approaches. It’s almost impossible to hit accidentally, but it could be caused by, for example, a stiff-fingered karate blow to the neck.”

“And Dennis was a Para,” I said hollowly.

“Dennis was indeed a Para. He says he never learned any karate in the service, but we both know what a bugger it is to try proving a negative.”

“So the police are saying that Dennis was there, Dennis had good reason to get into a ruck with Pit Bull Kelly, so Dennis must have murdered him then emptied his stock out of the shop to cover his tracks?”

Ruth nodded. “That’s about the size of it. That, or Dennis caught Pit Bull Kelly in the act of stealing all his stock.”

“What’s Dennis’s version?”

“Perfectly plausible, as you’d expect. According to him, the landlord turned up yesterday with a couple of heavies who were even bigger than Keith. He gave Dennis twenty-four hours to get out or suffer the consequences. Dennis thought this was a not unreasonable proposition, so he spent yesterday evening with Keith and a couple of the lads, loading the stock into a van. Keith and the others went off with the van around half past nine, and Dennis went home, where he spent the rest of the evening watching a video with Debbie. They then went to bed, together, and woke up, again together, at around eight this morning.”

“That’s his alibi? The blonde with no brain?”

“The blonde with no brain who has previously been caught out giving him false alibis,” Ruth said drily.

“Wasn’t Christie home?” I asked. Dennis’s daughter obviously couldn’t testify that he’d been in bed all night, but at least she’d have been a more credible witness to his TV viewing.

“She stayed overnight with a friend.” Ruth carefully placed her empty cup on the side table. “I won’t deny it’s looking bad, Kate.”

I nodded. “I’ll do what I can.”

Ruth stood up and enveloped herself in the fake fur. “I know Dennis will appreciate it. I think they’ll probably charge him tomorrow and bring him before the Mags on Monday. Once he’s remanded, you’ll be able to visit him and see if there’s anything he can tell you that he’d prefer me not to know. If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

We hugged, the silken fur stroking my face. “Just leave the coat,” I said. “I’ve got to go to Saddleworth.”

Ruth groaned. “It’s not the coat you’ll need, it’s a team of huskies and a sled. You’re surely not going there for pleasure, are you?”

I laughed. “They do pleasure in Saddleworth? A place where their idea of a good time is brass bands, Morris dancing and the annual Ducking of the Greenfield Trollop? I don’t think so.”

“So, strictly business,” Ruth said, adjusting her pelt so not a breath of chill air could penetrate. “No fun Saturday night with Richard, then.”

“He’s probably babysitting,” I said, more of an edge in my voice than I’d intended.

Ruth’s eyebrows rose. “The boy getting broody, is he?”

“If he is, he’s wasting his energy,” I told her firmly.

“I’d keep an eye on that, if I were you,” Ruth said ominously as she swept out.

Where would we be if it wasn’t for the love and support of our friends?

MERCURY SQUARES THE ASCENDANT
She is inclined to keep her own counsel, but can’t resist poking her nose into everybody else’s business. She’s never quite got to grips with the idea that there are times when it’s tactful to keep her advice to herself. She is a quick worker, energetic and inventive. She tends to be a chameleon, appearing all things to all people.
From
Written in the Stars
, by Dorothea Dawson

It’s not often I feel sorry for journalists. But I had to admit my heart went out to the handful of hacks still staking out the entrance to Gloria’s enclave. The temperature was already below zero, and the interiors of their cars were no match for a winter’s night on the edge of Saddleworth Moor. They perked up momentarily when I swung into the narrow lane, a couple of them even getting out and trotting through the freezing slush in my wake.

But I was through the gate and gone long before they caught up. I hadn’t had to use the intercom; I’d phoned Donovan just as I was approaching precisely so I wouldn’t have to run the gutter-press gauntlet. As I got out of the car, Gloria appeared in her doorway. She was wearing a high-necked, sparkling, midnight-blue evening dress that hung straight down from her bosom in an elegant fall. On her feet were glittering gold strappy sandals. She looked ready for the Oscars on a balmy California evening, not a charity auction in a Manchester hotel on the coldest night of the year. My charcoal wool crepe suit that doubles up for evening wear and impressing the hell out of clients left me feeling seriously underdressed. Gloria clearly agreed.

“You do know this is a black-tie affair?” she asked.

“I’m a minder, not a model,” I snapped, forcing her to step

“Everything under control,” he reported, thrusting his big hands into the pockets of his jeans, which made his shoulders look even more like an American footballer’s padding. “Are you going to drop me off in town, or what?”

Gloria swept past me and slipped her arm through one of Donovan’s. His eyes widened like a startled Bambi. “Kate, don’t you think it would be better if Donovan escorted me tonight? All I’m thinking is that you’ve been splashed all over the papers, and I don’t want you to have to spend your evening fending off nosy parkers.”

She didn’t want anyone stealing her limelight, more like. Besides, women like Gloria like to impress people. What better fashion accessory than a drop-dead-gorgeous toy boy like Donovan? That would take everyone’s mind off death threats and on to prurient scandal. “I thought you just said it was black tie,” I said sourly.

Gloria gazed up at Donovan. “Have you not got a dinner jacket, chuck?”

“Sorry, no.” Relief relaxed his features into a smile.

“Never mind,” Gloria said. “Harry Gershon the tailor’s on the committee for tonight’s do. I’ll give him a bell and you can tell him your measurements and he’ll bring a suit along.”

“Oh,” Donovan croaked. “But …”

Gloria gave him the hundred-watt smile. I could see sweat on his upper lip and it was nothing to do with the central heating. “We’ll have a great time, Donovan. I promise you.” Her throaty chuckle left almost nothing to the imagination.

“That might not be such a bad idea,” I said slowly, an idea beginning to form.

“But Kate,” Donovan protested, apprehension and betrayal in his voice.

“If I take Gloria’s car and shove a Brenda wig over my hair, I can act as a decoy and pull the press off. Then you’ll get a clear run into town. I’ve got some work to do digging into Dorothea’s past, so

Donovan looked like I’d just given him life with a recommendation for twenty-five years. “You mean you want me to carry on bodyguarding Gloria?” he asked desperately.

“At least, chuck,” Gloria purred, delighted to be getting her own way.

“And I’ll pick Gloria up later at the hotel and bring her back here,” I said sweetly, enjoying the irritation that flashed in her eyes as she watched her bubble burst.

Donovan grinned with relief. “That’s great. I don’t think I can do tomorrow, Kate, because I’ve got to finish an essay for Monday.”