Val Mcdermid - Star Struck

Alexis nodded as she took notes. “She was famous for it. Claimed it came from some mystical mountain mine. Me, I reckon it came from Pilkington Glass at St Helens.” She gave me an apologetic grin. “Sorry about this but … How did you feel?”

“Sick. Can we talk about something else?”

“What, like Cliff Jackson’s marital problems?”

“He’s got marital problems?”

Alexis nodded, a grim little smile on her face. “In spades. His wife’s run off with another bloke.”

“What took her so long?”

“She probably couldn’t find the key to the handcuffs. The best bit, though, is who she’s run off with.” Alexis paused for effect. I rotated my wrist in the classic “get on with it” gesture. “His oldest lad’s in his second year at Liverpool University. His wife’s only run off with the lad’s best mate.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Would I lie to you?”

“How long have you been sitting on this?” I demanded.

“I only found out this morning. I was trying to get a comment from Jackson and he was going totally ballistic. I know one of his DCs from way back, so I cornered her and asked why Jackson was being even more of a pain than usual and she told me. So don’t expect any favors.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.” I grinned. “Couldn’t happen to a nicer bloke, though. By the way, did you get anywhere in tracking down who was the source of your story about me minding Gloria?”

Alexis savored her last mouthful of smoke and regretfully crushed the stub in the ashtray. “One of those things. Every Friday, the news credits book goes up to accounts so the payments can be processed. It doesn’t come back till Monday morning. I was too late getting to it yesterday. Sorry.”

“I’ll just have to possess my soul in patience,” I complained.

“So who was Dorothea’s last appointment with? Which member of the Northerners cast was the last person to see her alive?”

“You’ll have to ask Jackson that one.” I didn’t have much hope that I’d be able to keep Gloria’s name out of the papers, but the longer I could, the better for her. “Any chance I can pillage the library? I could use some background on Dorothea.”

“You digging into this, then?”

I shrugged. “If he’s not made an arrest overnight, the chances are Jackson’s stuck. Which means he’ll be wasting time making my

I could see from her eyes that Alexis didn’t believe a word of it, but she knew better than to try to push me in a direction I didn’t want to travel. “You’ll tell me when you’re ready,” she said. “Come on, I’ll sort you out.”

Ten minutes later, I was beginning to wish I hadn’t asked. A stack of manila files six inches deep contained the Chronicle ’s archive on Dorothea Dawson, newly returned from the news reporters who had been writing the background feature for that day’s paper. Another two ten-inch stacks contained the last year’s cuttings about Northerners .

I tore a hole in the lid on the carton of coffee I’d brought up from the canteen, took the cap off my pen and began to explore Dorothea Dawson’s past.

I’d got as far as her early TV appearances when Alexis burst in, a fresh cigarette clamped between her teeth. The librarian shouted, “Crush that ash, shit-for-brains!” Alexis ignored him and grabbed my arm, hustling me out into the corridor.

“Where’s the fire? What the hell’s going on, Alexis?”

“Your mate Dennis has just been arrested for murder.”

I understood each of the words. But together they made no sense. “They think Dennis killed Dorothea Dawson?” I asked uncomprehendingly.

“Who said anything about Dorothea?”

“Alexis, just explain in words of one syllable. Please?”

“Some villain called Pit Bull Kelly was found dead early doors in one of the underground units in the Arndale. The place was empty, but apparently it had been squatted. According to my contact, they had a tip-off that it’d been Dennis who’d been using the place, and when they checked his fingerprints with records, they found them all over the place. So they’ve arrested him.”

I still couldn’t get my head round it. Dennis was a hard man, no stranger to violence. But for a long time, he’d not lifted a hand in anger to anyone. The crimes he’d committed had all been

“Calm down, KB,” Alexis said pointlessly as I passed her.

“I don’t want to be calm,” I shouted over my shoulder. “Sometimes I get fed up with calm.” I half ran down the corridor and, too wound up to wait for the lift, started down the stairs. I could hear Alexis’s feet pounding down behind me. “He’s not a killer, Alexis,” I shouted up at her. “He loves his wife, he loves his daughter too much. He wouldn’t do this to them.”

Her footsteps stopped. I could hear her gasping for breath. “Phone me,” she managed to get out.

I didn’t bother to reply. I was too agitated. Alexis would forgive me, I knew that. Specifically, she’d forgive me when she got the inside story. At the bottom of the stairwell, I pushed open the door to the car park and got into my car. My breath was coming in deep gulps and my hands were shaking. I realized it was probably delayed shock from the night before kicking in as soon as my defenses were down. I was close to Dennis, but not that close, I told myself.

When my pulse was back within the normal range, I took my phone out and dialled the number of Ruth Hunter’s moby. If being hated by the police and the judiciary is a measure of success in criminal defense work, Ruth must be one of the best solicitors in the North West. Behind her back, they call her firm Hunter, Killer & Co. A big woman in every sense of the word, she sails into court in her bespoke tailoring like an outsize catwalk queen and rips the Crown Prosecution case to rags. If she didn’t have clients, I suspect she’d do it anyway, just for the hell of it. She drives Officer Dibble wild by turning up to cop shops in the middle of the night in her millionaire husband’s Bentley Mulsanne turbo. She can park that car in streets where my Rover would be stripped to the chassis in ten minutes and know it’ll be there unscathed when she comes

“Ruth Hunter,” the voice said briskly.

“It’s Kate. I heard about Dennis.”

“What took you so long?” she asked drily. “It’s at least three hours since they lifted him.”

“Are they charging him?”

“I can’t talk now as I’m sure you’ll appreciate.”

That meant she was in a police station, probably with a custody sergeant breathing down her neck. “When can we talk?”

“Your office, three o’clock.”

“I’ll be there. Should I go and see his wife?”

“I’d leave it for now. Maybe tomorrow. Things are a little … volatile at the moment. I’ll see you later.” The line went dead.

I could imagine. Most of the contents of the glass cupboard were probably in bits. Debbie’s never had a problem expressing her emotions and Dennis was on his final warning following the twelvemonth stretch he’d recently done. She’d told him then, one more serious nicking and she’d file for divorce. She’d probably started shredding his suits by now, unless she was saving that for when they charged him.

The clock said half past eleven. I couldn’t face sitting in the Chronicle library for another three hours, and I didn’t want to kick my heels at home. It’s ironic. I spend half my life complaining that I never have time to do my washing or ironing, then when I get a couple of hours to myself, I’m too wound up to do anything constructive. I needed to find something that would make me feel like I was being effective. Then I remembered Cassandra Cliff. Cassie had once been one of the household names among the stars of Northerners . Then some creepy hack had left no stone unturned to find the slug who revealed that years before she’d been cast as Maggie Grimshaw, the bitch goddess gossip queen of Northerners , Cassie had been Kevin.