Val Mcdermid - Star Struck

“Oh, I’m sure. You see, the reason I noticed her in the first place was her companion. She was dining with John Turpin.” Cassie mistook my silence for incredulity rather than stupefaction. “I wouldn’t make any mistake about Turpin,” she added. “He’s the bastard who gave me the bullet, after all. So seeing him wining and dining some woman in the kind of sophisticated restaurant where he’s not likely to run into Northerners regulars was a bit like a red rag to a bull. I paid attention to the woman he was with. When she turned up this afternoon on my doorstep, I knew her right away.”

“Turpin?” I said, puzzled. The man had no possible motive for leaking stories about Northerners to the press, least of all to the woman who had plastered scandal after scandal over the nation’s tabloids. I pushed myself up into a sitting position, trying not to drop the phone.

“Turpin. And Tina Marshall,” Cassie confirmed.

“Unless … he was trying to get her to reveal her source?” I wondered.

“It didn’t look like a confrontation,” Cassie said. “It was far too relaxed for that. It didn’t have the feel of a lovers’ tryst, either. More businesslike than that. But friendly, familiar.”

“You got all this from a quick glimpse on the way to the loo?” I asked doubtfully.

“Oh no,” Cassie said hastily. “Turpin had been sitting with his back to me, but once I realized it was him, I kept half an eye on their table.” She gave a rueful laugh. “Much to the annoyance of my companion. He wasn’t very pleased that I was so interested in another man, even though I explained who Turpin was.”

“Did Turpin see you?” I asked.

“I don’t think so. He was far too absorbed in his conversation.”

“I’m surprised Tina Marshall didn’t clock you. Women check out other women, and you must have been familiar to her,” I pointed out.

“I look very different from my Maggie Grimshaw days,” Cassie said. “Nobody stops me in the street any more. Thank God. And like I said, the Normandie isn’t the sort of place you’d expect the Northerners cast to be eating. It’s not owned by a footballer or a rock star,” she added cynically. “So, do you think there’s something going on between them?”

I groaned. “I don’t know, Cassie. Nothing makes sense to me.”

“It’s very odd, though.”

I was about to tell her exactly how odd I thought it was when my doorbell rang. Not the tentative, well-mannered ring of a charity collector, but the insistent, demanding, lean-on-the-bell ring that only a close friend or someone who’d never met me would risk. “I don’t believe it,” I moaned. “Cassie, I’m going to have to go.” I stood up. It must have sounded like a whale surfacing at the other end of the phone.

“Are you OK?” she asked anxiously.

“Somebody at the door. Sorry. I’ll call you when any of this makes sense. Thanks for letting me know.” As I talked, the phone tucked awkwardly between dripping jaw and wet shoulder, I was wrapping a bath sheet round me. I switched off the phone and drizzled my way down the hall.

I yanked the door open to find Gizmo on the doorstep. “Hiya,”

“What is wrong with the telephone, Gizmo?” I demanded. Remarkably restrained in the circumstances, I thought.

He shrugged. “I was on my way home from the office. You know, going home to sort out Dennis’s little problem? And I thought you’d like to see what I found out about Dorothea’s mysterious past.”

I shivered as a blast of wintry air made it past him. There goes snug, I thought. “Inside,” I said, stepping back to let him pass. I followed him into the living room. “This had better be good, Giz. I’d only just got in the bath.”

“Smells nice,” he said, sounding surprised to have noticed.

“It was,” I ground out.

“Any chance of a beer?” Spoken like a man who thinks “considerate” is a prefix for “done.”

“Why not?” I muttered. On the way, I collected my own glass and topped it up with the Polish lemon pepper vodka. I grabbed the first bottle that came to hand and relished the look of pained disgust that flashed across Gizmo’s face when his taste buds made contact with chilli beer — ice-cold liquid with the breathtaking burn of the vengeful vindaloo that curry shops serve up to Saturdaynight drunks. “You were saying?” I asked sweetly, enjoying the sudden flush on his skin and the beads of sweat that popped out across his upper lip.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” he gasped. “What in the name of God was that?”

“I didn’t know you’d been brought up Catholic,” I said. That should discourage him from the space-invading that was threatening to become a habit. “It’s a beer, like you asked for. Now, what did you want to tell me about?”

He fished inside his vast parka and produced a clear plastic wallet. Wordlessly, he handed it over. I took the few sheets of paper out of the sleeve and worked my way through them. By the time I reached the end, I knew when Dorothea had been born and who her parents were, when she’d married Harry Thompson and when they’d been divorced. I knew the date of Harry’s death, and I

Most importantly, I knew who the mystery baby was. And I had more than the shadow of a notion why the relationship might have led to murder.

I opened my mouth to try out my idea on Gizmo. Of course, the phone rang. “I don’t believe this,” I exploded, grabbing the handset and hitting the “talk” button. “Hello?” I barked.

“It’s me,” the familiar voice said. “I’m in Oldham police station. I’ve been arrested.”

She concentrates best on matters she’s emotionally involved with. She expresses herself fluently and clearly and has a quick grasp of what is being said, easily picking up facts and drawing apt conclusions. Shrewd and intuitive, she sometimes lacks a sense of direction, shooting off in different directions at the same time. She has a good memory and is naturally inquisitive.

From Written in the Stars , by Dorothea Dawson

The desk sergeant at Oldham police station was obviously having about as good an evening as I was. His waiting area was clogged with hacks who’d heard there had been an arrest involving Gloria Kendal. Somewhere inside the station, the three photographers and two reporters were being treated as witnesses. Somewhere else, my part-time process-server and bodyguard was under arrest for breach of the peace and assault. Berserk student batters mob-handed team of journos. Yeah, right.

I pushed my way through the representatives of Her Majesty’s gutter press, waving an ineffectual hand against the cigarette smoke and wondering if force of numbers was the only reason why they were allowed to ignore the “no smoking” notices that everybody else was told to obey. “You’re holding an employee of mine,” I said to the sergeant, trying to keep my voice down. “His solicitor is on her way. I wonder if I might have a word with the arresting officer?”

“And you are?”

“Kate Brannigan.” I pushed a business card across the counter. “Donovan Carmichael works for me. I think we can clear all this up

He picked up the card as if it contained a communicable disease. “I don’t think so,” he said dismissively. “We’re very busy tonight.”

“I was hoping to reduce the burden of work on your officers,” I said, still managing sweetness. “I’m sure there has been some misunderstanding. I don’t know about you, Sergeant, but I hate paperwork. And just thinking about the amount of paperwork that a racism case against GMP would generate gives me a headache. All I want to do is chat to the arresting officer, explain one or two elements of the background that might show the evening’s events in a different light. I really don’t want to spend the next two years running up legal bills that your Chief Constable will end up paying.” I could feel the smile rotting my molars. For some reason, the desk sergeant wasn’t smiling.