Val Mcdermid - Star Struck

If Ruth had had four paws and a tail, her ears would have pricked up. Instead, she settled for leaning forward with an intent gaze. “You’ve got a copy of this?”

I shook my head. “I don’t save the digests. But I could put out a request for whoever filed the original case report to get in touch with me. I’ve managed to track down a couple of references to it, and that should be enough to get me heading in the right direction.”

Ruth got to her feet, stubbing out her cigarette in the soil of the dying Christmas cactus on the windowsill. “Do it,” she said decisively, reaching for her coat. “You did a great job there,” she added. “I shall tell Dennis he owes his freedom entirely to you. Send me a bill, will you?”

“I thought Dennis was on Legal Aid?”

“He is.”

“But the Legal Aid Board won’t pay for this,” I protested.

Ruth’s smile matched the timber-wolf coat. “No, but Dennis will. You’re running a business, not a charity. There’s favors for friends, and there’s charges for professional services. This is one he pays for.”

“But …”

“No buts. You’re no use to either of us if you can’t make this business pay. Send me a bill.”

I would have argued. But she’s bigger than me. Besides, it always takes forever to argue with a lawyer. And I had a lunch appointment.

She is idealistic, and enjoys discussion on a theoretical or philosophical level. She can be excessively generous and will go out of her way to help others. She does not always manage to meet her own high standards.

From Written in the Stars , by Dorothea Dawson

The Yang Sing was Manchester’s most famous Chinese restaurant until it burned down, and it suffered accordingly. Trying to get a table at a busy time of day or night, especially near Christmas, was about as rewarding as waiting for a night bus. What the tourists didn’t know was that just round the corner is the sister restaurant, the Little Yang Sing, where the cooking is at least as good and the decor leans more towards the clean lines of sixties retro than the traditional fish tanks and flock wallpaper of most Chinese restaurants.

Richard was already there by the time I arrived. So were a couple of bottles of Tsing Tao, a plate of salt and pepper ribs and a tidy little mound of prawn wontons. I dropped into my seat and reached for the beer. If the morning had taught me anything, it was that the only way to get through the day was going to be by topping up the alcohol level in my bloodstream at regular intervals. I didn’t have time to suffer today; I’d have my hangover when I was asleep and not before.

As I swigged beer, I checked out Richard. Even allowing for the fact that he’d had four hours more sleep than me, he had no right to look so untouched by the excesses of the night before. His hazel eyes looked sleepy behind his new rimless glasses, but then they always have that fresh-from-the-bedroom look. The light dusting of

“How was your morning?” he asked just as I got a spare rib to my lips. Typical; he always asks questions when there’s food to be fought over.

I shook my head and stripped the bone with my teeth. “Tough,” I said. “But it looks as if Dennis is going to be back on the streets for Christmas.”

“That’s one less thing for you to worry about, then. And Gloria? Has she had any more hate mail?”

“Nothing. I’ve got Donovan taking her and her daughter shopping today. I keep waiting for the phone call.”

Richard grinned. “Switch the phone off. You need both hands for what I’ve ordered.”

He wasn’t wrong. We ate our way through half a dozen dim sum and appetizers, a double helping of hot and sour soup and four main-course dishes. My capacity for food after a heavy night never ceases to astonish me. I’ll probably need a stomach transplant when I’m forty. By then, they’ll probably be able to give me one.

I picked up the last king prawn with my chopsticks then laid it regretfully back on the plate. “I can’t do it,” I said.

“Me neither,” Richard admitted. “So where are you up to with this murder?”

I brought him up to speed on my meeting with Freddie Littlewood. It felt like half a lifetime ago, but it was only the night before. “So I seem to have tracked down the source of most of the tabloid stories,” I said. “At least, the ones involving personal scandal rather than storyline revelations. But I don’t know how to use the information to clear Ross Grant without dropping Freddie in the shit. I don’t really want to do that if I can help it, because, to be

“And you’re sure he didn’t kill his mother? He’d have had the opportunity, and he freely admits to hating her.”

“I just don’t think he did it. Why should he? He was making a nice little earner out of their story selling, and he got the added bonus that it really upset her. Profitable revenge. There’s not many of us manage that.”

Richard poured himself a cup of Chinese tea and stared into it consideringly. “Maybe she’d had enough,” he said at last. “Maybe she was going to blow the whistle on the whole racket and throw herself on the mercy of her clients.”

I snorted. “She certainly wouldn’t have got much change out of them. And even supposing the cast members were prepared to forgive and forget, John Turpin would never let her back on NPTV property again. Which reminds me …” I drifted off, remembering what Cassie had told me.

“I said,” Richard commented in the tones of a man repeating himself, “who is John Turpin?”

“He’s the Administration and Production Coordinator at NPTV,” I said absently. “One of those typical telly executives. You know the kind. About as creative as a sea slug. They’re great at counting beans and cutting expenses. You must have them in journalism.”

“Editorial managers,” he said glumly.

“And he’s obsessed with uncovering the mole who’s leaking the Northerners stories. He’s even threatening to end the location caterers’ contract because he suspects one of them of being guilty.”

“Nice guy. So what is it about this Turpin that sent you off the air just now?” Richard asked.

“I was just remembering a conversation I had yesterday with Cassie Cliff.”

“Maggie Grimshaw as was?”

“The same.”

Richard smiled reminiscently. “I loved Maggie Grimshaw. The woman who put the ‘her’ in Northerners . The sex goddess of soap.” His smile slipped. “Until the truth came slithering out. So what did Cassie have to say about John Turpin?”

I told him the tale about Turpin and Tina Marshall in the Normandie. “I can’t figure it out at all,” I said.

“He might have been wining and dining her on the off-chance that she’d let something slip about her mole.”

I pulled a face. “I don’t think he’s that stupid.”

“He might be that vain,” Richard pointed out. “Never underestimate a middle-aged executive’s opinion of himself.”

I sighed. “Well, if that’s what he was after, he obviously didn’t succeed, since he’s still making a huge performance out of flushing out the mole.”

“Has he got shares in NPTV?” Richard asked.

“I think so. Northerners is up for contract renegotiation. One of the actors was talking about how much money Turpin would make if NPTV got into a bidding war between the terrestrial and the pay channels over Northerners . So I guess he must have some financial stake.”

Richard leaned back in his seat, looking pleased with himself. “That’s the answer. That’s why Turpin was cozying up to Tina Marshall. John Turpin’s the Northerners mole.” He signalled to a passing waiter that we wanted the bill.