Val Mcdermid - Star Struck

Sometimes I wonder how someone who never listens makes such a good living as a journalist. “Richard, pay attention. I already told you who the mole is. Freddie Littlewood was using Dorothea to dig the dirt then he was dishing it.”

“I was paying attention,” he said patiently. “Freddie was pulling skeletons out of cupboards, courtesy of Dorothea’s privileged information. What you didn’t tell me was who’s been selling out the storylines. From what you say, Turpin must have access to them.”

“But why? What does he gain by it?”

Richard shook his head in wonderment. “I can’t believe you’re being so slow about this, Brannigan,” he said. “You’re normally so quick off the mark where money’s concerned. It’s viewing figures, isn’t it? The more notorious Northerners becomes, the more people watch. The more people watch, the higher the value of the show when it comes to negotiating any satellite or cable deal because there are people who will shell out hundreds of pounds for Northerners .”

“I know that,” I protested. “But it’s different with storylines that get leaked before transmission. That makes people turn off.”

The waiter dumped the bill on the table between us. Automatically, we both reached for our wallets. “Says who?” Richard demanded as his plastic followed mine on to the plate.

“Says the actors. When the punters know what happens next, they don’t mind missing it. And they get hooked on something else so they drop out altogether.”

The waiter removed the bill and the credit cards. “Two receipts, please,” we chorused. He nodded. He’d served us enough times to know the routine of two self-employed people who liked to eat together. “That’s bollocks, you know,” Richard said. “That might be what Turpin’s telling them, but it’s bollocks. If you leak upcoming storylines, what happens is you get a buzz going. First one paper breaks the story, then all the rest follow it up, then the TV magazines pick it up and run with it and before you know it, everybody’s buzzing. Don’t you remember the whole ‘Who shot JR?’ thing back in the eighties? Or the furor over Deirdre Barlow and Mike Baldwin’s affair on Coronation Street ? The whole nation was watching. I bet Turpin got the idea when Freddie’s exclusives started hitting the headlines and the viewing figures rose along with them.”

“He wouldn’t dare,” I breathed.

“Where’s the risk? He’s in charge of hunting for the source of the Northerners stories. Turpin knows there’s a real mole as well as himself, so if he does uncover anything, he can pin all the guilt on the other one. There’s no way Tina Marshall is going to expose him, because he’s the goose that lays the golden eggs. She’s probably not even paying him much.”

I leaned across the table and thrust my hand through his thick butterscotch hair, pulling his head towards mine. I parted my lips and planted a warm kiss on his mouth. I could still taste lemon and ginger and garlic as I ran my tongue lightly between his teeth. I drew back for breath and said softly, “Now I remember why I put up with you.”

The waiter cleared his throat. I released Richard’s head and we sheepishly signed our credit card slips. Richard reached across the table and covered my hand with his. “We’ve got some unfinished business from last night,” he said, his voice husky.

I ran my other thumbnail down the edge of his hand and reveled in the shiver that ran through him. “Your place or mine?”

Just before we slipped under my duvet, I made a quick call to Gizmo, asking him to arrange for some background checks into the exact extent of John Turpin’s financial involvement with NPTV. Then I switched the phone off.

Sometime afterwards, I was teetering on the edge of sleep, my face buried in the musky warmth of Richard’s chest, when his voice swirled through my mind like a drift of snow. “I’ll tell you one thing, Brannigan. If a few juicy stories can push up the ratings, just think what murder must have done.”

Suddenly, I was wide awake.

Sandra McGovern, née Satterthwaite, had inherited her mother’s flair for ostentation. The house where she lived with her husband Keith and their daughter Joanna had definite delusions of grandeur. Set just off Bury New Road in the smarter part of Prestwich, it looked like the one person at the party who’d been told it was fancy dress. The rest of the street consisted of plain but substantial redbrick detached houses built sometime in the 1960s. Chateau McGovern had gone for the Greek-temple makeover. The portico was supported by half a dozen ionic columns and topped with a few statues of goddesses in various stages of undress. Bas reliefs had been stuck on to the brick at regular intervals and a stucco frieze of Greek key design ran along the frontage just below the first-floor windows.

They might just have got away with it on a sunny summer day. But the McGoverns clearly took Christmas seriously. The whole house was festooned with fairy lights flashing on and off with migraine-inducing intensity. Among the Greek goddesses, Santa Claus sat in a sled behind four cavorting reindeer, all in life-size inflatable plastic. A Christmas tree had been sawn vertically in two, and each half fixed to the wall on either side of the front door, both

There was a long silence. I was steeling myself to ring again when I saw a figure looming through the frosted glass. Then Donovan opened the door. But it was Donovan as I’d never seen him before, swathed in a plum silk kimono that reached just below his knees. A fine sheen of sweat covered his face and he looked extremely embarrassed. “Bah, humbug,” I muttered. He seemed baffled, but what else could I expect from an engineering student?

“Hiya, Kate,” he said.

I pointed to his outfit. “I hope this isn’t what it looks like,” I said drily.

He rolled his eyes heavenwards. “You’re as bad as my mother. Give me some credit. Come on in, let me get this door shut. We’re through the back,” he added, leading the way down the hall. “You think the outside is over the top, wait till you see this.”

I waded after him through shag pile deep enough to conceal a few troops of Boy Scouts. I tried not to look too closely at the impressionistic flower paintings on the walls. At the end of the hall was a solid wooden door. Donovan opened it, then stood back to let me pass.

I walked from winter to tropical summer. Hot, green and steamy as a Hollywood rainforest, the triple-glazed extension must have occupied the same square footage as the house. Ferns and palms pushed against the glass and spilled over in cascades that overhung brick paths. Growing lamps blazed light and warmth everywhere. The air smelt of a curious mixture of humus and chlorine. Sweat popping out on my face like a rash, I followed the path through the dense undergrowth, rounded a curve and found myself facing a vast swimming pool, its shape the free form of a real pond.

“Hiya, chuck,” Gloria screeched, raucous as an Amazonian parrot.

She was stretched out on a cushion on a wooden sunbed, wearing nothing but a swimsuit. Beside her, a younger version reclined on one elbow like a Roman diner, a champagne glass beaded with condensation hanging loosely from her fingers. Gloria beckoned

We nodded to each other and I told a few lies about the house and swimming pool. Sandra looked pleased and Gloria proud, which was the point of the exercise. Donovan reappeared carrying a fourth lounger which he placed a little away from our grouping. Self-consciously, he peeled off the robe, revealing baggy blue trunks, and perched on the edge of the seat, his body gleaming like a Rodin bronze. “No problems today?”

Gloria stretched voluptuously. For a woman who was fast approaching the downhill side of sixty, she was in terrific shape. It was amazing, given what I’d seen of her lifestyle. “Not a one, chuck. Nowt but pleasure all the way. We went to Oldham police station and I spoke to a lovely young inspector who couldn’t see what all the fuss last night had been about. Any road, young Don’s in the clear now, so we don’t have to worry about that. And then we went shopping for Christmas presents for Joanna. We had to get a robe and some trunks for Don and all, because our Keith’s a tiddler next to him. We’ve not seen a journalist all day, and there’s nobody more pleased than me about that. What about you? Any news?”