Val Mcdermid - Star Struck

I tried not to show that more bells were ringing and lights flashing inside my head than on the average pinball machine. The address was unfamiliar, but I had no trouble recognizing the name. Northerners scandals. Alexis had done me a favor, but in the process she’d given me a headache.

I found a pen and notepad in my bag and got Alexis to write down Freddie’s address. “You’re sure this is the mole?” I asked.

“This is the person who got paid for the story about you bodyguarding Gloria,” she said cautiously. “More likely than not, that’s your mole. I finally got my hands on the credits book this morning, and that didn’t take me a whole lot further forward. What it is, you see, sometimes we need to make irregular payments to regular sources who need to be protected. So then we use code names. The very fact that this Littlewood person has a code name means he or she has done this before.”

“So how did you get from the code name to the identity?” I asked. It wasn’t important, but I’m a sucker for other people’s methods. I’m not such an old dog that I can’t learn new tricks.

Alexis winked. “There’s this cute little baby dyke in accounts. She thinks being a reporter is seriously the business. She thinks my new haircut is really cool.”

I groaned. Forget the new tricks. “And does she also know you’re happily married?”

“Let the girl have her dreams. Besides, it made her day to tell me that The Mask is F. Littlewood. Whoever he or she is?”

I shook my head. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

“Oh, I will, believe me. This isn’t soft news any more. It’s crime, and that’s my business. If the newsdesk won’t share, I’ll just have to help myself.” Alexis cupped her hands round a cigarette and lit it. She breathed a smoky sigh of satisfaction. “God, I love the first cigarette of the day. If you need more leverage, by the way, we’ve paid F. Littlewood five times in the last year. I checked out the back numbers and they were all Northerners stories. I’d bet it’s the same mole selling the stories to the nationals, because all the ones we’ve

“Just be grateful I’ve not shopped you. Thanks, Alexis.”

“No problem.” She was already on the move. “Hang in there, KB. Jackson’s so busy getting his knickers in a twist about his missus that he’s not got a fucking clue who to arrest. So there’s plenty of room for glory.”

I watched her trudge through the snow, the ultimate bulldog when it came to stories. Which reminded me that I had to see a woman about a dog. I checked my watch. Chances were that Ruth would be in court. I decided to call her mobile and leave a message with the answering service. “Ruth, it’s Kate,” I said. “Can you check for me if Dennis shows any signs of having been in a ruck with Pit Bull’s pit bull? Or if the pit bull shows any signs of having been in a ruck with person or persons unknown? I’m ashamed to say it was Debbie’s idea rather than mine, but it’s worth pursuing.”

The second call was to Detective Chief Inspector Della Prentice of the Regional Crime Squad’s fraud task force. She should have been Detective Superintendent by now, but a sting I’d set up with her had gone according to someone else’s script and Della was still scraping the egg off her face. I knew she didn’t blame me, but if anything, that made it worse. Sometimes I looked round the table on our girls’ nights out and wondered how Alexis, Ruth, Della and two or three of the others put up with the fact that one way or another I’d exploited each and every one of them and managed to drop most of them in the shit along the way. Must be my natural charm.

I tracked her down in a building society office in Blackpool. She sounded genuinely pleased to hear me, but then she was working her way through a balance sheet at the time. “I doubt you’re having a more pleasant time than I am,” she said. “I see from the papers that you and Cliff Jackson are too close for comfort again.”

“Being on the same land mass as Jackson is too close for comfort. Especially at the moment. Did you hear about his wife?”

“Even in Blackpool,” she said drily.

“You should rescue that Linda Shaw from his clutches. She’s got the makings of a good copper, but he gives her the shit work every time and sooner or later she’s going to get bored with that.”

“We’ll see. My sources tell me that my promotion’s likely to come through soon,” Della said. It sounded like a nonsequitur, but I figured she was trying to tell me that she was slated for a senior post in the Greater Manchester force. And that Linda might not be Jackson’s gofer much longer.

“I can’t tell you how relieved that makes me feel. I’m buying the champagne that night.”

“I know,” Della said without bitterness. “So what’s the favor?”

“Does there have to be a favor?” I asked, wounded.

“In working hours, yes. You never ring up for a gossip between nine and five.”

“You know about Dennis?”

“What about Dennis? I’ve been stuck in Blackpool since Thursday. I’m praying the snow keeps off so I can get home tonight. What’s Dennis done this time?”

“For once, it’s what he’s not done.” I gave her a brief rundown. “I’ve got a hunch that’s so far off the wall I’m not even prepared to tell you what it is,” I said.

“What is it you need?”

“A look at the scene-of-crime photos. I don’t know any of the team working the case, otherwise I’d ask. The boss cop’s a DI Tucker.”

“I know Tucker’s bagman. He did a stint with me at fraud before he was made up to sergeant. I expect I can persuade him he owes me one. I’ll try and sort something out this evening, provided I can get back to Manchester,” she promised. I grovelled, she took the piss, we said goodbye.

I automatically scanned the car park, clocking Alexis over by the chuck wagon. She was leaning on the counter, steam rising from the cup of coffee in her hand, deep in conversation with Ross and a couple of the younger cast members who had braved the Chronicle .

I drifted back across the churned-up slush to where Ted and Gloria were rounding some bushes and walking into shot, their body language shouting “argument” at the top of its voice. At the same moment, I heard a commotion behind me. I swung round to see Cliff Jackson loudly lecturing a PA that he was a police officer and this was a public car park and she was in no position to tell him where to stand.

The director’s head swung round. “Jesus Christ!” she yelled. “And cut. Who the fuck do you think you are?” she demanded.

“Detective Chief Inspector Jackson of Greater Manchester Police. I’m here to interview Ms. Gloria Kendal.”

“Are you blind? She’s working.”

Nothing was calculated to make Jackson’s hackles rise faster than anyone who thought the law didn’t apply to them. “You can’t seriously imagine that your television program takes precedence over a murder investigation? I need to talk to Ms. Kendal, so, if you don’t mind, you’ll just have to rearrange your filming schedule to accommodate that.”

Gloria and Ted had reached us by now. “Accommodate what?” she demanded crossly. She was clearly not thrilled with the prospect of shooting the snow scene again.

“As I’ve just explained to your director here, I’d be obliged if you would accompany me to the police station for a further interview,” Jackson barked. He clearly wasn’t star struck like Linda Shaw.

Gloria gave me a panic-stricken look. “I don’t want to,” she protested.

Time for my tuppenceworth. “You don’t have to. Not unless he’s arresting you. If you want him to interview you here, that’s your right.”