Star Struck (16 page)

And I am Marie of Romania, I thought to myself. “No problem. I’ll handle it. OK?” I asked Gloria.

“You’re the boss,” she pouted. “I’ll get you my spare Brenda wig.” She disentangled her arm from Donovan, gave him a little pat on his iron-hard gluteus maximus and sashayed out of the room.

Donovan moved to my side and stooped close to my ear. “I thought you were going to make me spend another night here,” he whispered. I thought only the prospect of his mother’s anger had the power to make him that twitchy.

“You survived last night intact, didn’t you?” I asked sweetly.

He straightened up and scowled. “Only just,” he muttered. “What’s the polite way to tell somebody ten years older than your mum to take her hand off your thigh?”

“You obviously found one,” I said drily.

“I went to the toilet a lot,” he said bitterly. “And the spare bedroom’s got a bloody big chest of drawers that fits nicely behind the door. It took me all my time to get it shifted, and it’s just as well I did because I swear I woke up to the sound of the door handle turning.”

I stifled a snort of laughter. “Sorry, Don,” I giggled. “I know it’s not funny. What happened?”

“I did snoring. Loudly. Eventually she went away. She must think I’m a pretty crap bodyguard if I can sleep through that.”

I grinned. “Somehow I don’t think it’s the guarding capabilities of your body that she’s interested in. Don’t worry, I’ll come and rescue you in good time tonight.”

We shut up and moved apart as we heard Gloria’s approach. She came in twirling a rigid platinum-blonde beehive on the end of her finger. “There you go, chuck. One Brenda Barrowclough barnet.” She tossed it in my direction. Donovan stretched out a long arm and intercepted it, then handed it ceremoniously to me.

“Let’s see what you look like,” he said, a mischievous grin lighting up his eyes.

I pulled the wig over my head. It wasn’t a bad fit, and in the poor light of the streetlamps I reckoned it would be good enough to fool anyone expecting Gloria. Five minutes later and I was proving myself right, always a feeling I enjoy. At the end of the narrow lane leading to Gloria’s, I slowed to turn on to the main road. To either side, headlights snapped on and engines coughed into life. “Gotcha,” I said under my breath as I led the cavalcade down the road towards Oldham. As far as I could see, they were all nailed to my tail. I was just grateful there were no tunnels between Saddleworth and Manchester. And that it was too cold for riding motorbikes.

I drove to the office, not particularly wanting to invite the rat pack back to my own doorstep. I managed to find a parking space that wasn’t illegal enough to earn a ticket on a Saturday night, aware of the four press cars hovering nearby, trying to find nonexistent spaces where they could abandon ship and follow “Gloria.” I got out of the car, pulled the wig off and ran my hand through my hair. I wiggled my fingers at the hacks and walked round the corner to my office. Nobody followed me. Like private eyes, journos always know when they’ve just been had over by an expert. One humiliation was enough for one evening.

The office was dark and empty, Gizmo having finally remembered he had a home to go to. I brewed myself a cappuccino and stretched out on the clients’ sofa to skim the authorized version of Dorothea’s life. The two hundred and fifty pages of largish print left a lot of scope for the imagination. The rosy glow of a happy Lancashire childhood in a poor but honest family, followed by an adolescence troubled only by the upheavals surrounding the discovery of her psychic powers and the difficulties of coming to terms with a “gift” that set her apart from her contemporaries.

She had married at twenty to a man eight years older than her, referred to only as Harry. The marriage lasted less than a chapter. If Dorothea’s cursory dismissal was anything to go by, the real thing hadn’t endured much longer. Because she’d needed to support herself, she’d started charging for astrological consultations. By the time Edna Mercer had stumbled across her, she’d graduated from her front room to her own booth on a seaside pier.

Northerners
had changed everything. Within months of becoming the personal astrologer to a handful of cast members, she was the most sought-after stargazer in the country. A year after Edna Mercer had plucked her from relative obscurity, she had a monthly slot on daytime TV, syndicated weekly newspaper columns and pre-recorded local radio horoscopes. Now, a few years after her book had appeared, she had been edged from pole position among astrologers by the high-profile appearances of Mystic Meg on the national lottery broadcasts, but Dorothea Dawson was still Seer to the Stars in the public’s mind. The amazing thing, the one fact that had kept her going through the tough times, was the certain knowledge that once she reached a particular point in her astrological cycle, she would be a star herself. And the moon is made of green cheese.

Bored by the book’s relentless tabloid prose and frustrated by its deliberate superficiality, I gave up on it after an hour or so. I knew that compared to the police, my chances of uncovering Dorothea’s killer were slim. They had forensic evidence and teams of trained officers who could question everybody who’d ever crossed the threshold of the NPTV compound. All I had going for me was the chance that my informal networks could produce information that was denied to the police. Cassie had been some help, but I needed a lot more.

There was one source that I suspected wouldn’t occur to Cliff Jackson if he thought from now till next Christmas. Even if it did, a private operator like me was always going to get a far better response from the anarchic community of the Internet than a copper ever would. Even the straightest suit turns into a bit of a rebel when he—or she—ventures into cyberspace.

Reluctantly abandoning the comfort of the sofa, I slouched in

I switched off the computer and checked the time. Way too early to pick up Gloria. There was no chance of Richard being home on a Saturday night, at least not before
Match of the Day
. But I knew someone who would be.

As I parked outside the O’Briens’ house, a couple of pairs of curtains in the deeply suburban close twitched open, shards of light sparking on their frosted lawns like glitter on Christmas cards. Even thick middle managers know that nobody as small as me gets into the police, so the pale stripes of curtain gaps soon disappeared. Debbie answered the door with a defiant glower that turned her beauty into a threat. “Oh, it’s you,” she said. “I thought it was the Old Bill come back for another run through the laundry basket. Bastards. Come on in.”

It was hardly a gracious invitation, but I don’t suppose I’d have been any better behaved in the circumstances. I followed her into the immaculate and characterless kitchen. I’d been right about the glasses. The cabinet was empty. I didn’t think that was because Debbie was secretly having a party in the next room. “Want a drink?” she asked.

When I started working in Manchester, the first time someone had asked me that I’d said, “No thanks, I’m driving.” He’d given me a very strange look. It took me about six months and a lot of thirsty

The silence grew thick between us while Debbie brewed up, the hiss as boiling water exploded coffee granules perfectly audible. She’s never quite sure what to make of me. Being a woman whose IQ is around the same as her continental shoe size, she can’t quite make herself believe that any woman would prefer to go out to work to support herself from choice. She also finds it hard to get her head round the notion that any heterosexual woman could spend serious time with her husband without having designs on his body. Every now and again Dennis or I or their teenage daughter Christie convinces her that our relationship is purely platonic. Then she forgets what platonic means and we have to start all over again. Sometimes I think it would just be easier if I told her I was a lesbian.

On second thoughts, perhaps not.

“Ruth says you’re going to help him,” Debbie said flatly as she plonked the mug in front of me.

“I’ll do what I can. But I’m not sure what I can usefully do. It’s not like I can track down missing alibi witnesses or anything.”

Debbie bristled. “That’s because he was here with me all night.”

“You’re sure he didn’t pop out for a packet of fags or anything?” I asked.

Debbie glared at me. “Whose side are you on? You sound like the bloody bizzies. Look, he didn’t pop out for a packet of fags because I buy his fags at the supermarket, right?” She swung away from me and yanked open one of the tall kitchen units. The cupboard contained an unbroached carton of Dennis’s brand and a half-full wrap of hers. “Even Dennis can’t smoke two hundred fags a night.”

“I’m just checking, Debbie,” I said calmly. “I’m on Dennis’s side. I only asked because if he did bob out for ten minutes, you can bet the dibble are going to find out and use that to make you look like a liar.”

She lit a cigarette, then gripped her right elbow with her left hand in a classic defensive gesture. “Look, I know I gave him a moody alibi one time. But you’ve got to when it’s your man. And

I held my hands up in a placatory gesture. “I believe you. The problem I’ve got is that I’m not up to speed with who hates who among the Cheetham Hill villains. Until I can speak to Dennis, I haven’t a clue whose doors I should be kicking in.”

Debbie sighed a long ribbon of smoke. “No point in asking me. I’ve always kept my nose out. There is one thing, though,” she added, frowning as she thought. The absence of permanent lines on her forehead demonstrated what a rare event I was witnessing.

“What’s that?” I had little hope of a result, but my mother brought me up to be polite.

“The dog. I can’t understand how come the dog was in the corridor and Pit Bull Kelly was in the shop.”

“Pit Bull must have been attacked as he walked in the door.”

“So how did whoever killed him get out past the dog? That’s a killer dog, that. It wouldn’t let Pit Bull’s killer walk. It’d rip his throat out.”

She had a point. I sipped my coffee and thought about it. “A bit of a puzzle, that,” I said.

“Plus,” she added with a triumphant air, “if Pit Bull went down the shop to front up Dennis, he’d never have moved an inch without the dog. If Dennis had been in the shop, it would have been the dog that went through the door first, not that gutless wonder Pit Bull. Plus, if Dennis had still been using the shop, his night watchman would have been inside.”

“Of course,” I breathed.

“So the dog being in the corridor proves Dennis wasn’t there.”

Somehow, I thought a jury might need a bit more convincing than the dog that didn’t rip a throat out in the night. But at least it gave me somewhere to start.

Traditionally, the serious players in Manchester’s drug wars have been the black gangs of Moss Side and the white gangs of Cheetham Hill. The Cheetham Hill lads have been around longer, their criminal roots deep in the cracks between the paving stones

The Kellys were one of the oldest families, and most of them stuck to the old ways. Protection rackets and schneid sports gear, long firm frauds and small-time thieving, that was the Kellys’ style. The team of brothers had always had contempt for the drug lords, which was about the only good thing you could say for them.

I had to endure three boozers where I drank beer straight from the bottle because I wasn’t prepared to risk the glasses before I found a pair of grieving Kelly brothers. The Dog and Brewer was the kind of dump where your feet stick to the carpet and the fag ash forms a paste on the bottom of ashtrays that nobody has bothered to dry after rinsing them under the tap. Most of the punters had the blurred jawlines and bleary eyes of people who have smoked and drunk so much for so long change seems pointless. The women wore clothes that might have flattered them fifteen years before but now insulted them even more than the flabby men in ill-fitting casual clothes who were buying them drinks. Tom Jones was rejoicing loudly that again he’d touch the green, green grass of home.

I brazened out the eyes on me and bought a bottle of Carlsberg. “Any of the Kelly boys in?” I asked the barman, my fingers resting lightly on the fiver on the bar.

He looked at the money and gave me the once-over. I obviously didn’t look like a cop, for he jerked his head towards two shaggyhaired men in padded flannel work shirts at the far end of the bar. Before I could turn back, the fiver was gone. One good thing about lowlife dives is that the information comes cheap.

I picked up my bottle and pushed through the crowd until I was standing next to the two men. Their blue eyes were bloodshot, their stubbled cheeks scarlet with the stout and whisky they were pouring down their throats. “I’m sorry for your loss, gentlemen,”
Evening Chronicle
buy you a drink?”

The taller of the two managed a half-hearted leer. “I’ll let you buy me a drink any time, darling.”

I signalled the barman and blew a tenner on drink. “Hell of a shock,” I said, raising my bottle to clink against their glasses.

“I told him he was a dickhead, going up against Dennis O’Brien. Hard bastard, that one,” the smaller brother slurred.

“I heard the dog was supposed to be good protection,” I said. “Bit of a handful, I heard. They say he gave the Old Bill a hard time.”

The taller one grinned. “Thank fuck for that. I’m Paul, by the way, and this is Little Joe.”

I shook the outstretched paw. “I’m Kate. How come Patrick went to see O’Brien on his own? If the guy’s so tough?”

Little Joe snorted. “Because he was a big girl’s blouse. He was always trying to prove he was a hard man, our Patrick, but he was about as hard as Angel Delight. He was complaining that Dennis O’Brien had muscled in on his racket, and we all got so fucked off with listening we told him to go and sort O’Brien out if he was so pissed off.”

“And he’d had enough to drink to think he was man enough to take on that South Manchester scumbag.” Paul shook his head. “He was an eejit, Patrick.”

“Especially when he had a drink in him.” Little Joe shook his head too.

“And a draw,” Paul concluded.

“So he’d been drinking and smoking dope before he went off to the Arndale to front up O’Brien?” I asked.