Val Mcdermid - Star Struck

By the time five rolled around, I was beginning to think that I should start charging boredom money the way that some people charge danger money. I was convinced by now that whoever was writing threatening letters to Gloria was getting satisfaction from knowing they’d frightened her enough to hire me. Given the number of opportunities to cause her serious harm, even with me in tow, it was significant that we’d not even had so much as a near miss in the car. I’d accompany her on her weekend personal appearances, then I intended to call it a day.

Her face restored to street levels of make-up and Brenda’s outfit back in wardrobe where it belonged, Gloria was ready for her session with Dorothea. “Walk me across to the van, chuck,” she said. “I’ll see Dorothea on my own, but if you come over about five

An unrelenting sleet was falling as we joined the dozens of people scurrying across the car park, desperately seeking shelter. I’d helped myself to one of the umbrellas in an equipment skip by the entrance to the outdoor set, and I wrestled with the gusty wind to keep it over Gloria’s head. At the caravan, I knocked. I heard Dorothea tell Gloria to come in. She disappeared inside and I closed the umbrella and sprinted for Gloria’s car, parked only a few spaces away. Waiting for her there, I could at least listen to the radio.

I closed my eyes and leaned back in the seat, the day’s news washing over me. The traffic reporter warned about drifting snow on trans-Pennine routes. “Great,” I muttered, wondering how bad the road to Saddleworth would be. If the weather was going to close in, it might be worth suggesting to Gloria that she spend the night in my spare room to save myself the double journey over snowy moorland roads.

Almost before I knew it, the twenty-five minutes were up. I abandoned the condensation-fogged car and legged it for Dorothea’s camper. I knocked on the door of the van and Gloria called, “Just coming, chuck.” The door opened, the warm light from inside spilling on to the tarmac and revealing the waterlogging that was creeping up the sides of my brown ankle boots. “I’ll send her right back,” Gloria said over her shoulder as she emerged, closing the door behind her.

I did my trick with the umbrella and escorted Gloria back to her dressing room. The production area already felt deserted. Nobody on Northerners loved their job so much they wanted to hang around after the end of filming on a Friday. I was slightly concerned about leaving Gloria vulnerable in her dressing room. Both Rita and Dorothea knew about my appointment with the astrologer, and either could have mentioned it unthinkingly to a third party. Given the speed rumor moved at in NPTV, the cleaners and secretaries all probably knew Gloria would be alone in a virtually empty building from six o’clock.

“I want you to lock the door behind me, OK?” I told her. “And

Gloria grinned. “All right, boss. Whatever you say.”

I waited outside the door until I heard the Yale lock snap into place behind me. Then I hurried out of the building and ran back across the car park to Dorothea’s van. There was no answer to my knock, but I knew she was expecting me to return. Besides, it wasn’t the kind of night where you hang around in freezing sleet waiting for someone else to stop playing power games. I opened the door and stepped into the dimly lit interior.

Dorothea Dawson lay sprawled across her chenille tablecloth, one side of her head strangely misshapen and dark with spilled blood. A few feet away, her crystal ball glowed in the lamplight at the end of a flecked trail of scarlet clotting the deep pile of the champagne-colored carpet.

I backed away momentarily, dragging my eyes from the compelling horror before me. I stared wildly around, checking there was no one else in the confined space. Then the thought hit me with the force of a kick to the stomach that Dorothea might still be alive. For a long moment I didn’t know if I could bring myself to touch her.

But I knew that if she died because I’d been squeamish the guilt would far outweigh the revulsion I felt now. I tried to swallow whatever it was that was preventing me from breathing and inched forward, carefully avoiding the track the crystal ball had left. I stretched my hand towards Dorothea’s outflung arm and grasped her wrist. Her skin was the same temperature as mine, which made it all the more horrible that I couldn’t find a pulse.

I backed away, appalled. I’d been right to warn Gloria to take care. There was a killer out there.

I’d been catastrophically wrong about the target, though.

She has a high opinion of herself and is not always diplomatic enough to hide it. She can be too bold and belligerent in pursuit of what she knows to be right. But this opposition provides great energy, allowing her to be enterprising and independent. Her speed and competitiveness often take the wind out of the sails of authority figures.

From Written in the Stars , by Dorothea Dawson

I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t think I could bear to stay in that confined space with Dorothea’s corpse, but I couldn’t just walk away leaving the camper van unsecured. Besides, I couldn’t stand guard outside because I’d be soaked to the skin in minutes. It seemed important to me that I shouldn’t face the police looking like a drowned rat.

The compromise I found was to move down to the cab. The passenger seat was designed so that it could either face out through the windscreen or swing round to act as an extra chair in the living section of the van. Luckily for my peace of mind, it was currently configured to face forwards.

I scrambled through the gap between the seats, surprised to find myself gasping for air as if I’d been running. I gripped the armrests and forced myself to breathe evenly. I wanted to make sure I didn’t sound like an emergency operator’s idea of a murderer. I concentrated on the tracks of the melting sleet slithering down the windscreen that blurred the floodlights around the car park and tried to forget the image branded on my mind’s eye. Only when my breathing had returned to normal did I take out my phone and dial 999. Once I was connected to the police control room, I said, “My name is Kate Brannigan and I am a

The woman on the end of the phone had obviously assimilated her training well. With no apparent indication that this was any more extraordinary an occurrence than a burglary in progress, she calmly said, “Where are you calling from?”

“My mobile. I’m in the car park of the Northerners compound. It’s just off Alan Turing Way, near the velodrome.”

“And can you tell me what appears to have happened?”

“I’m in a camper van. It belongs to Dorothea Dawson. The astrologer? I’d arranged a meeting with her. I walked in and found her lying dead. It looks like someone’s caved her head in with her crystal ball. I tried to find a pulse, but there’s nothing.” I could hear my voice cracking and swallowed hard.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes. I’m in the camper van. You can’t miss it. It’s a big dark blue Mercedes. Down the far end, away from the entrance. Most of the cars have gone now; there’s just a few down this end of the car park.” I was gabbling, I knew, but I couldn’t stop myself.

“We’ll have some officers with you very soon. Please don’t touch anything. Can you give me your number, please?”

I rattled off the number automatically. “We will be with you very shortly,” she concluded reassuringly. I wasn’t comforted. This was an opportunist killing. Normally, there would be people in the car park, chatting and gossiping on their way to their cars, pausing and taking notice. But tonight, the weather meant everyone had their heads down, rushing for shelter and paying no attention to anything except the quickest route to their wheels.