Val Mcdermid - Star Struck

“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.”