Val Mcdermid - Star Struck

Ruth stood up and enveloped herself in the fake fur. “I know Dennis will appreciate it. I think they’ll probably charge him tomorrow and bring him before the Mags on Monday. Once he’s remanded, you’ll be able to visit him and see if there’s anything he can tell you that he’d prefer me not to know. If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

We hugged, the silken fur stroking my face. “Just leave the coat,” I said. “I’ve got to go to Saddleworth.”

Ruth groaned. “It’s not the coat you’ll need, it’s a team of huskies and a sled. You’re surely not going there for pleasure, are you?”

I laughed. “They do pleasure in Saddleworth? A place where their idea of a good time is brass bands, Morris dancing and the annual Ducking of the Greenfield Trollop? I don’t think so.”

“So, strictly business,” Ruth said, adjusting her pelt so not a breath of chill air could penetrate. “No fun Saturday night with Richard, then.”

“He’s probably babysitting,” I said, more of an edge in my voice than I’d intended.

Ruth’s eyebrows rose. “The boy getting broody, is he?”

“If he is, he’s wasting his energy,” I told her firmly.

“I’d keep an eye on that, if I were you,” Ruth said ominously as she swept out.

Where would we be if it wasn’t for the love and support of our friends?

She is inclined to keep her own counsel, but can’t resist poking her nose into everybody else’s business. She’s never quite got to grips with the idea that there are times when it’s tactful to keep her advice to herself. She is a quick worker, energetic and inventive. She tends to be a chameleon, appearing all things to all people.

From Written in the Stars , by Dorothea Dawson

It’s not often I feel sorry for journalists. But I had to admit my heart went out to the handful of hacks still staking out the entrance to Gloria’s enclave. The temperature was already below zero, and the interiors of their cars were no match for a winter’s night on the edge of Saddleworth Moor. They perked up momentarily when I swung into the narrow lane, a couple of them even getting out and trotting through the freezing slush in my wake.

But I was through the gate and gone long before they caught up. I hadn’t had to use the intercom; I’d phoned Donovan just as I was approaching precisely so I wouldn’t have to run the gutter-press gauntlet. As I got out of the car, Gloria appeared in her doorway. She was wearing a high-necked, sparkling, midnight-blue evening dress that hung straight down from her bosom in an elegant fall. On her feet were glittering gold strappy sandals. She looked ready for the Oscars on a balmy California evening, not a charity auction in a Manchester hotel on the coldest night of the year. My charcoal wool crepe suit that doubles up for evening wear and impressing the hell out of clients left me feeling seriously underdressed. Gloria clearly agreed.

“You do know this is a black-tie affair?” she asked.

“I’m a minder, not a model,” I snapped, forcing her to step

“Everything under control,” he reported, thrusting his big hands into the pockets of his jeans, which made his shoulders look even more like an American footballer’s padding. “Are you going to drop me off in town, or what?”

Gloria swept past me and slipped her arm through one of Donovan’s. His eyes widened like a startled Bambi. “Kate, don’t you think it would be better if Donovan escorted me tonight? All I’m thinking is that you’ve been splashed all over the papers, and I don’t want you to have to spend your evening fending off nosy parkers.”

She didn’t want anyone stealing her limelight, more like. Besides, women like Gloria like to impress people. What better fashion accessory than a drop-dead-gorgeous toy boy like Donovan? That would take everyone’s mind off death threats and on to prurient scandal. “I thought you just said it was black tie,” I said sourly.

Gloria gazed up at Donovan. “Have you not got a dinner jacket, chuck?”

“Sorry, no.” Relief relaxed his features into a smile.

“Never mind,” Gloria said. “Harry Gershon the tailor’s on the committee for tonight’s do. I’ll give him a bell and you can tell him your measurements and he’ll bring a suit along.”

“Oh,” Donovan croaked. “But …”

Gloria gave him the hundred-watt smile. I could see sweat on his upper lip and it was nothing to do with the central heating. “We’ll have a great time, Donovan. I promise you.” Her throaty chuckle left almost nothing to the imagination.

“That might not be such a bad idea,” I said slowly, an idea beginning to form.

“But Kate,” Donovan protested, apprehension and betrayal in his voice.

“If I take Gloria’s car and shove a Brenda wig over my hair, I can act as a decoy and pull the press off. Then you’ll get a clear run into town. I’ve got some work to do digging into Dorothea’s past, so

Donovan looked like I’d just given him life with a recommendation for twenty-five years. “You mean you want me to carry on bodyguarding Gloria?” he asked desperately.

“At least, chuck,” Gloria purred, delighted to be getting her own way.

“And I’ll pick Gloria up later at the hotel and bring her back here,” I said sweetly, enjoying the irritation that flashed in her eyes as she watched her bubble burst.

Donovan grinned with relief. “That’s great. I don’t think I can do tomorrow, Kate, because I’ve got to finish an essay for Monday.”

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.