Val Mcdermid - Star Struck

In the teeth of the hurricane of publicity, NPTV pointed out that they had an equal opportunities policy that protected transsexuals and that Cassie’s job was safe with them. They were using “safe” with that particular meaning Margaret Thatcher inaugurated when

She didn’t run weeping into the wilderness. She sold the inside story of life on Northerners to the highest bidder, and there were no holds barred. Cassie never featured in any of the show’s regular anniversary celebrations, but I suspected that didn’t keep her awake at night. She’d chosen not to be bitter and instead of frittering away the money she made from her exposé, she set up a shop, magazine and social organization for transvestites and transsexuals.

Cassie had been a key source for Alexis for years, and we’d met following the death of a transvestite lawyer I’d been investigating. I’d met her a couple of times since then, most recently at Alexis and Chris’s housewarming party. I knew she still kept in touch with a couple of people from Northerners . She might well know things Gloria didn’t. More to the point, she might well tell me things Gloria wouldn’t.

Energized by the thought of action, I started the car and headed for Oldham. Cassie’s shop, Trances, was in one of those weary side streets just off the main town center where some businesses survive against all the odds and the rest sink without trace, simply failing to raise the metal shutters one morning with no advance warning. There was little traffic and fewer pedestrians that afternoon; the wet snow that was melting away in Manchester was making half-hearted attempts at lying in Oldham, and ripples of slush were spreading across the pavements under the lash of a bitter wind. Anyone with any sense was sitting in front of the fire watching a black-and-white Bette Davis movie.

The interior of Trances never seemed to change. There were racks of dresses in large sizes, big hair on wig stands, open shelves of shoes so big I could have got both feet in one without a struggle, racks of garish magazines that no one was ever going to read on the tram. The key giveaway that this was the land of the truly different was the display case of foam and silicone prostheses — breasts, hips, buttocks. The assistant serving behind the counter took one look at me and I could see her

“Have you an appointment?”

I shook my head. “I was passing.”

“Are you a journalist? Because if you are, you’re wasting your time. She’s got nothing to say to anybody about Northerners ,” she said, her Adam’s apple bobbing uncontrollably.

“I’m not a journalist,” I said. “I know Cassie. Can you tell her Kate Brannigan’s here?”

She looked doubtful, but picked up the phone anyway. “Cassandra? There’s someone here called Kate Brannigan who wants to see you.” There was a pause, then she said, “Fine. I’ll send her up.” The smile she gave me as she replaced the receiver was apologetic. “I’m sorry. The phone hasn’t stopped ringing all day. It’s always the same when there’s some big Northerners story. If it’s not that, it’s Channel Four researchers doing documentaries about TSs and TVs.”

I nodded and made for the door at the back of the shop that I knew led to Cassie’s office and, beyond that, to her private domain. Cassie was waiting for me at the top of the stairs, immaculate as ever in a superbly tailored cream suit over a hyacinth-blue silk T-shirt. I’d never seen her in anything other than fabulous clothes. Her ash-blonde hair was cut in a spiky urchin style, her make-up subtle. From below, her jawline was so taut I had to suspect the surgeon’s knife. If I earned my living from looking as convincing as Cassie, even I’d have submitted to plastic surgery. “Kate,” she greeted me. “You’ve survived, then.”

I followed her down the hallway and into her office, a symphony in limed wood and gray leather. She’d replaced the dusty-pink fabric of the curtains and cushions with midnight-blue and upgraded the computer systems since I’d last been there. She’d obviously tapped a significantly profitable niche in the market. “Survived?” I echoed.

Cassie sat on one of the low sofas and crossed legs that could still give any of her former colleagues a run for their money. “I saw the story in the Chronicle . My idea of hell would be running interference for Gloria Kendal,” she said.

“Why do you say that?” I sat down opposite her.

“Unless she’s changed dramatically, she’s got a schedule that makes being Prime Minister look like a part-time job, she’s about as docile as a Doberman and she thinks if she’s hired you, she’s bought you.”

I grinned. “Sounds about right.”

“At least you’re not a bloke, so you’re relatively safe,” Cassie added archly.

I hoped Donovan was. “I expect you can guess why I’m here?”

“It’s got to be Dorothea. Except that I can’t think why you’d be investigating her murder when it’s Gloria you’ve been working for.”

I pulled a face. “It’s possible that the person who killed Dorothea is the same one who is threatening Gloria. I’m just nosing around to see what I can dig up.”

Cassie smiled, shaking her head slightly. “You’ll never make an actress until you stop pulling your earlobe when you’re stretching the truth.”

My mouth fell open. I’d never realized what my giveaway body language was, but now Cassie had pointed that out, I became instantly self-conscious. “I can’t believe you spotted that,” I complained.

She shrugged. “My business depends on being able to spot deception. I’ve got good at it. It’s all right, Kate, I don’t need to know the real reason you’re interested in who killed Dorothea. I’m happy to tell you whatever I know. I liked Dorothea. She was a worker, like me.”

“How did the connection with Northerners begin?”

Cassie frowned in concentration. “I’ve got a feeling it was Edna Mercer who first discovered her. You remember Edna? Ma Pickersgill?”

“She’s dead now, isn’t she?”

Cassie’s smile was sardonic. “Ma Pickersgill died of a heart attack when her house was burgled five years ago. Edna’s still alive, though you’ll never see her at an NPTV function.”

“She left under a cloud?”

“Alzheimer’s. Towards the end, it was touch and go whether she’d stay lucid long enough for them to get her made up and on

“You surprise me,” I said. “I’d have thought your feet were too firmly planted on the ground to care what’s written in the stars.”

Cassie smiled wryly. “Dorothea was very good. Whether you believed in it or not when you went in to see her, by the time you came out you were convinced she’d got something. After that first visit, we were all eating out of her hand. So it became a regular thing. The word spread through the cast, and soon she was coming more or less every week.”

“What kind of stuff did she tell you?”

“She’d cast your horoscope, and she’d kick off every session by explaining some little thing in your chart. That was one of the clever things about the way she operated — you had to keep going to see her if you wanted her insight into every element of your personal horoscope. Then she’d talk about the current relationships between the planets and how they might affect you.

“She did phenomenal research, you know. She knew everything there was to know about everybody she had dealings with. Dorothea made a habit of gathering every snippet, no matter how insignificant it seemed. You know how these things go — Edna would say something in passing about Rita’s son, then three months later Dorothea would say something to Rita about her son, knowing full well that Rita knows she’s never mentioned the boy to Dorothea. It all contributed to the myth of omniscience.”