Val Mcdermid - Star Struck

He shuffled the photographs together, giving each one a glance as he fed them back into the envelope. “I’m still working on the Dorothea information,” he said. “I farmed one end of it out to a lad I know who’s shit hot on adoption records. But there are some more avenues I can pursue myself. Which is the priority — this stuff or the Dorothea material?”

I had to think about it. All my instincts said that I should be pulling out all the stops to help Dennis. But whoever killed Dorothea might have other victims in mind so the sooner I got to the bottom of that can of worms, the better. Besides, I was being paid for finding out who had murdered the astrologer. If there had been only me to consider, the decision would have been easy. But being the boss isn’t all about strutting your stuff in jackboots, especially with wages day approaching on horseback. “Dorothea,” I said reluctantly.

Gizmo had the look kids get when they’re told they can’t play with the new bike until Christmas morning. “OK,” he said. “By the way, I think Shell wants a word.”

I bet she did. Short of abseiling out of the window, I didn’t see how I was going to be able to avoid letting her have several. I took a deep breath and walked into the outer office. Shelley was sitting behind her desk. It looked as if she was balancing the check book, a maneuver I find slightly more daunting than walking the high wire. “Hi, Shelley,” I said breezily. “I’m glad you’re back. I wanted to tell you Donovan will be doing an overnight, so you won’t have to bother cooking for him tonight.”

If glares had been wishes, the genie would have been on overtime that day. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about my son,” Shelley informed me.

The words alone might not have seemed menacing, but the tone put them on a par with, “Has the prisoner a last request?” Ever since she had her hair cut in a Grace Jones flat top, I’ve been expecting her to batter me. Sometimes when I’m alone, I practice responses to the verbal challenges I know she’s storing up to use against me. It doesn’t help.

I smiled and said brightly, “Don’s settling in really well, isn’t he? You must be well proud of him.”

Her eyes darkened. I waited for the bolts of black lightning. “I was proud of his A level results. I was proud when he made the North West schools basketball team. I was proud when he was accepted at Manchester University. But proud is not the word for how I feel when I find out my son’s been arrested twice in the space of a week.”

“Ah. That.” I tried edging towards the door, but noticed in time that she’d picked up the paperknife.

“Yes, that. Kate, I’ve been against this right from the start, but I gave in because Donovan wanted so badly not to be dependent on me and not to get deep into debt like most of his student friends. And because you promised me you wouldn’t expose him to danger. And what happens? My son, who has managed to avoid any confrontation with the police in spite of being black and looking like he can take care of himself, gets arrested twice.” She banged her

“You can’t hold me responsible for police racism,” I tried.

“Suddenly it’s a secret that the police are racist?” Shelley said sarcastically. “I can hold you responsible for putting him in places where he’s exposed to that racism.”

“We’re working on a way to deal with that,” I said, trying for conciliation. “And the work he’s doing tonight couldn’t be less risky. He’s protecting Gloria Kendal against a nonexistent stalker.”

Shelley snorted. “And you don’t think that’s dangerous? I’ve seen Gloria Kendal, remember?”

Time for a different approach. “Gimme a break here, Shelley. People pay money in encounter groups for the sort of experience Don’s getting here. He’s not complaining, and he’s making good money. You’ve done a great job with him. He’s solid as a rock. He can handle himself, he knows how to take responsibility, and it’s all because he’s your son. You should believe in him. And it’s about time you let him go. He’s a man now. A lot of lads his age are fathers. He’s got more sense, and it’s down to the way you’ve brought him up.”

Shelley looked astounded. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d stood up to her like that either. We faced off for a good thirty seconds that felt more like minutes. “His name’s Donovan,” she said finally. “Not Don.”

I nodded apologetically. “I’m going home now,” I said. “I need to have a bath and a think. I’ve done some background checks for Toronto and San Juan, I’ll e-mail you the billing details.” I made for the door. On my way out, I turned back and said, “Shelley — thanks.”

She shook her head and returned to the check book. We hadn’t actually built a bridge, but the piers were just about in place.

I got home to two messages on the answering machine. Richard had called to tell me he’d be home around nine with a Chinese takeaway, which was more warning than I usually get from him. I’d

The second message was from Cassie, asking me to call her when I could. She sounded concerned but not panicky, so I fixed myself a drink and ran a hot bath that filled the air with the heady perfume of ylang-ylang and neroli essential oils. I was determined to make the most of a night in with Richard. I slid into the soothing water and reached for the phone. Cassie picked up on the second ring.

“Thanks for getting back to me, Kate,” she said.

I could feel the water soothing me already. “No problem. How can I help?”

“Well …” She paused. “It could be something and nothing. Just a coincidence. But I thought you might be interested.”

“Fire away,” I said. “I’m always interested in coincidence.”

“I’ve just had a reporter round. A freelance that does a lot for the national tabloids. She was waving the check book, trying to get me to dish the dirt on Dorothea and the Northerners cast. Scraping the bottom of the barrel, I thought, but I suppose everybody who’s still on the show has closed ranks. They’ll have been warned, reminded that their contracts forbid them to talk to the press without the agreement of NPTV. So the hacks have to dredge through their contacts books to see if they can find anybody who might talk.”

“And because you sold your story at the time, they think you might be tempted to spill some more beans?”

“Exactly. But I said everything I was ever going to say back then. And that’s what I told this reporter. The thing is, though, I recognized her name. Tina Marshall. It’s her by-line that’s been on most of the really big Northerners scandal stories. She’s obviously somebody that has a direct relationship with the mole.”

“That’s certainly worth knowing,” I said, trying to sound interested. I couldn’t figure out why Cassie felt the need to phone me

“But that’s not all I recognized,” Cassie continued. “I recognized her face, too. A couple of months back, a friend of mine took me to dinner at the Normandie. Do you know it?”

I knew the name. Alexis and Chris always went there for their anniversary dinners. Alexis claimed it was one of the best restaurants in the region, but I wasn’t likely to be able to verify that for myself as long as I stayed with a man who believes if it hasn’t come from a wok it can’t be food. “Not personally,” I sighed.

“Well, it’s not cheap, that’s for sure. Anyway, when I went to the loo, I noticed this woman. I didn’t know then that she was Tina Marshall, of course.”

I was skeptical. A quick glance in a restaurant a couple of months previously wasn’t the sort of identification I’d want to base anything on. “Are you sure?” I asked. The fragrant warmth had clearly activated my politeness circuit.