Star Struck Read online

  “Wrong address,” Gizmo said gloomily. Given the way the day had been running, he was probably right.

  “Is this Brannigan and Co?” the flowers asked. For such an exotic arrangement, they had a remarkably prosaic Manchester accent.

  “That’s right,” I said. “I’m Brannigan.” I stepped forward expectantly.

  “They’re not for you, love,” the voice said, half a face appearing round the edge of the blooms. “You got someone here called Gizmo?”

  Chapter 5

  JUPITER IN CANCER IN THE 3RD HOUSE

  Jupiter is exalted in Cancer. She has a philosophical outlook, enjoying speculative thinking. She is good humored and generous, with strong protective instincts. Her intuition and imagination are powerful tools that she could develop profitably. She has a good business sense and communicates well in that sphere. She probably writes very thorough reports.

  From Written in the Stars, by Dorothea Dawson

  It was hard to keep my mind on Gloria’s monologue on the way in to the studios the next morning. The conundrum of Gizmo’s mysterious bouquet was much more interesting than her analysis of the next month’s storylines for Northerners. When the delivery man had announced who the flowers were for, Shelley and I had rounded on Gizmo. Scarlet and stammering, he’d refused to reveal anything. Shelley, who’s always been quick on her feet, helped herself to the card attached to the bouquet and ripped open the envelope.

  All it said was, “www gets real.” I know. I was looking over her shoulder. The delivery man had placed the flowers on Shelley’s desk and legged it. He’d clearly seen enough blood shed over bouquets to hang around. “So who have you been chatting up on the Internet?” I demanded. “Who’s the cyberbabe?”

  “Cyberbabe?” Shelley echoed.

  I pointed to the card. “www. The worldwide web. The Internet. It’s from someone he’s met websurfing. Well, not actually met, as such. Exchanged e-mail with.”

  “Safer than body fluids,” Shelley commented drily. “So who’s the cyberbabe, Gizmo?”

  Gizmo shook his head. “It’s a joke,” he said with the tentative air

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so. I’ve never met a techie yet who’d spend money on flowers while there was still software on the planet.”

  “Honest, Kate, it’s a wind-up,” he said desperately.

  “Some expensive wind-up,” Shelley commented. “Did one of your mates win the lottery, then?”

  “There is no babe, OK? Leave it, eh?” he said, this time sounding genuinely upset.

  So we’d left it, sensitive girls that we are. Gizmo retreated back to his hi-tech hermitage and Shelley shrugged. “No use looking at me, Kate. He’s not going to fall for the, ‘You can talk to me, I’m a woman, I understand these things,’ routine. It’s down to you.”

  “Men never cry on my shoulder,” I protested.

  “No, but you’re the only one around here who knows enough about computers to find who he’s been talking to.”

  I shook my head. “No chance. If Gizmo’s got a cybersecret, it’ll be locked away somewhere I won’t be able to find it. We’ll just have to do this the hard way. First thing tomorrow, you better get on to the florist.”

  Call me a sad bastard, but as I was driving Gloria to the studios, I was busy working out how we could discover Gizmo’s secret admirer if she’d been clever enough to cover her tracks on the flower delivery. So I almost missed it when Gloria asked me a question that needed more than a grunt in response. “So you don’t mind coming along tonight?”

  “No, that’s fine,” I said, not quite certain what I’d agreed to.

  “I’m really buggering up your social life, chuck,” she continued. “If you’ve got a fella you want to bring along, you’re welcome, you know.”

  I must have shown how unlikely a prospect that was, since Gloria chuckled. “He’s a rock journalist,” I said.

  She roared with laughter. “Better not bring him anywhere I’m singing, then,” she spluttered. “I’m too old to be insulted.”

  By the time we reached the studios, the sky had clouded over

  “Problems?”

  “We’re supposed to be filming outside this morning. When it’s raining like this, they’ll hang on to see if it clears up and fill the time with the indoor scenes scheduled for this afternoon. I’m not in any of them, so not only do I lose an afternoon off but I get a morning hanging around waiting for the weather to change.” She rummaged in the bulging satchel that contained her scripts and pulled out a crumpled schedule. “Let’s see … Could be worse. Teddy and Clive are in the same boat. D’you play bridge, Kate?”

  “Badly. I haven’t played against humans since I was a student, and these days the computer usually gives me a coating.”

  “You can’t be worse than Rita Hardwick,” she said firmly. “That’s settled then.”

  “Two spades,” I said tentatively. My partner, Clive Doran (Billy Knowles, the crooked bookmaker with an eye for his female employees), nodded approval.

  “Pass,” said Gloria.

  “Three hearts.”

  “Doubled,” announced Teddy Edwards, Gloria’s screen husband, the feckless Arthur Barrowclough, cowboy builder and failed gambler. I hoped he had as much luck with cards in real life as he did on screen. What Gloria had omitted to mention in the car was that we were playing for 10p a point. I suppose she figured she was paying me so much she needed to win some of it back.

  I looked at my hand. “Redoubled,” I said boldly. Clive raised one eyebrow. My bid passed round the table, and we started playing. I soon realized that the other three were so used to each other’s game that they only needed a small proportion of their brains to choose the next card. The bridge game was just an excuse to gossip in the relative privacy of Gloria’s dressing room.

  “Seen the Sun this morning?” Clive asked, casually tossing a card down.

  “It’d be hard to miss it,” Gloria pointed out. “I don’t know about where you live, but every newsagent we passed on the way in had

  “They’re bloody idle, them hacks,” Teddy grumbled, sweeping a trick from the table that I’d thought my ace of diamonds was bound to win.

  Clive sucked his breath in over his teeth. “How d’you mean?”

  “It couldn’t have taken much digging out. It’s not like it’s a state secret, Gary being a homo. He’s always going on about lads he’s pulled on a night out in the gay village.” Teddy sighed. “I remember when it were just the red light district round Canal Street. Back in them days, if you fancied a bit, at least you could be sure it was a woman under the frock.”

  “And it’s not as if he’s messing about with kids,” Gloria continued, taking the next trick. “Nice lead, Teddy. I mean, Gary always goes for fellas his own age.”

  “There’s been a lot of heavy stories about Northerners lately,” I said. I might be playing dummy in this hand, but that didn’t mean I had to take the job literally.

  “You’re not kidding,” Clive said with feeling, sweeping his thin hair back from his narrow forehead in a familiar gesture. “You get used to living in a goldfish bowl, but lately it’s been ridiculous. We’re all behaving like Sunday-school teachers.”

  “Aye, but you can be as good as gold for all the benefit you’ll get if the skeletons are already in the cupboard,” said Gloria. “Seventeen years since Tony Peverell got nicked for waving his willy at a couple of lasses. He must have thought that were dead and buried long since. Then up it pops on the front of the News of the World. And his wife a churchwarden.” She shook her head. I remembered the story.

  “He quit the program, didn’t he?” I asked, making a note of our winning score and gathering the cards to me so I could shuffle while Gloria dealt the next hand with the other pack.

  “Did he fall or was he pushed?” Clive intoned. It would have sounded sinister from someone who didn’t have a snub nose and a dimple in his chin and a manner only marginally less camp than

  “What do you me
an?” I asked now.

  “John Turpin’s what he means,” Gloria said. “I told you about Turpin, didn’t I? The management’s hatchet man. Administration and Production Coordinator, they call him. Scumbag, we call him. Just a typical bloody TV executive who’s never made a program all his born days but thinks he knows better than everybody else what makes good telly.”

  “Turpin’s in charge of cast contracts,” Clive explained, sorting his cards. “So he’s the one who’s technically responsible when there’s a leak to the press. He’s been running around like all Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse rolled into one for the last six months. He threatens, he rants, he rages, but still the stories keep leaking out. One diamond.”

  “Pass. It drives him demented,” Teddy said with a smug little smile that revealed rodent teeth.

  “One heart?” I tried, wondering what message that was sending to my partner. When he’d asked what system of bidding I preferred, I’d had to smile weakly and say, “Psychic?” He hadn’t looked impressed.

  “It’s not the scandals that really push his blood pressure through the ceiling. It’s the storyline leaks.” Gloria lit a cigarette, eyeing Teddy speculatively. “Two clubs. Remember when the Sunday Mirror got hold of that tale about Colette’s charity?”

  “Colette Darvall?” I asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “I must have missed that one,” I said.

  “Two diamonds,” Clive said firmly. “Off the planet that month, were you? When her daughter was diagnosed with MS, Colette met up with all these other people who had kids in the same boat. So she let them use her as a sort of figurehead for a charity. She worked her socks off for them. She was always doing PAs for free, giving them stuff to raffle, donating interview fees and all sorts. Then it turns out one of the organizers has been ripping the

  “Oops,” I said.

  “By heck, you private eyes know how to swear, don’t you?” Teddy said acidly. “I don’t think ‘oops’ was quite what Colette was saying. But Turpin was all right about that. He stuck one of the press officers on her doorstep night and day for a week and told her not to worry about her job.”

  “That’s because having a fling with somebody else’s husband is sexy in PR terms, whereas flashing at schoolgirls is just sleazy,” Clive said. “Have you taken a vow of silence, Teddy? Or are you going to bid?”

  “Oh God,” Teddy groaned. “Who dealt this dross? I’m going to have to pass. Sorry, Glo.”

  “Pass,” I echoed.

  “And I make it three in a row. It’s all yours, Clive.” Gloria leaned back in her chair and blew a plume of smoke towards the ceiling. “God, I love it when Rita’s not here to whinge about me smoking.”

  “Better not let Turpin catch you,” Clive said.

  “He sounds a real prize, this Turpin,” I said. “I met him yesterday and he was nice as ninepence to me. Told me nothing, mind you, but did it charmingly.”

  “Smooth-talking bastard. He did the square root of bugger-all about sorting out my security. Bloody chocolate teapot,” Gloria said dismissively. “At least this latest furor about the future of the show has stopped him going on about finding out who’s leaking the storylines to the press.”

  “The future of the show? They’re surely not going to axe Northerners?” It was a more radical suggestion than abolishing the monarchy, and one that would have had a lot more people rioting in the streets. For some reason, the public forgave the sins of the cast of their favorite soap far more readily than those of the House of Windsor, even though they paid both lots of wages, one via their taxes, the other via the hidden tax of advertising.

  “Don’t be daft,” Gloria said. “Of course they’re not going to axe Northerners. That’d be like chocolate voting for Easter. No, what they’re on about is moving us to a satellite or cable channel.”

  I stared blankly at her, the cards forgotten. “But that would mean losing all your viewers. There’s only two people and a dog watch cable.”

  “And the dog’s a guide dog,” Teddy chipped in gloomily.

  “The theory is that if Northerners defects to one of the pay-to-view channels, the viewers will follow,” Clive said. “The men in suits think our following is so addicted that they’d rather shell out for a satellite dish than lose their three times weekly fix of an everyday story of northern folk.”

  “Hardly everyday,” I muttered. “You show me anywhere in Manchester where nobody stays out of work for more than a fortnight and where the corner shop, the fast-food outlet and the local newsagent are still run by white Anglo-Saxons.”

  “We’re not a bloody documentary,” Teddy said. He’d clearly heard similar complaints before. His irritation didn’t upset me unduly, since it resulted in him throwing away the rest of the hand with one hasty lead.

  “No, we’re a fantasy,” Clive said cheerfully, sweeping up the next trick and laying down his cards. “I think the rest are ours. What we’re providing, Kate, is contemporary nostalgia. We’re harking back to a past that never existed, but we’re translating it into contemporary terms. People feel alienated and lonely in the city and we create the illusion that they’re part of a community. A community where all the girls are pretty, all the lads have lovely shoulders and any woman over thirty-five is veneered with a kind of folk wisdom.”

  I was beginning to understand why Clive hid behind the camp manner. Underneath it all there lay a sharper mind than most of his fellow cast members ever exhibited. He was just as self-absorbed as they were, but at least he’d given some thought to how he earned his considerable living. I bet that made him really popular in a green room populated by egos who were each convinced they were the sole reason for the show’s success. “So you reckon the tug of fantasy is so strong that the millions who tune in three times

  “We don’t, chuck,” Gloria said, lighting a fresh cigarette while Clive dealt the cards. “But the management do.”

  “That’s hardly surprising,” Teddy said. “They’re the ones who are going to make a bomb whatever happens.”

  “How come?” I asked.

  “The contract NPTV has with the ITV network is due for renegotiation. The network knows NPTV have been talking to satellite and cable companies with a view to them buying first rights in Northerners for the next three years. So the network knows that the price is going to have to go up. There’s going to be a bidding war. And the only winners are going to be the management at NPTV, with their pocketfuls of share options. If they’re wrong and the viewers don’t follow the program in droves, it doesn’t matter to them, because they’ll already have their hot sticky hands on the cash,” Clive explained.

  “So Turpin needs to plug the storyline leak,” Gloria said, examining her cards.

  “I’m not sure I follow you. Surely any publicity is good publicity?”

  “Not when it involves letting the public know in advance what’s going to happen,” Teddy said, raising his eyes to the heavens as if I was stupid. I didn’t react. After all, I wasn’t the one who was currently fourteen quid out of pocket.

  Clive took pity on my puzzlement. “If people know the big storylines in advance, a lot of them think it won’t be the end of the world if they miss a few eps, because they know what they’ll be missing. Once they get out of the habit of watching every ep religiously, their viewing habits drift.”

  “They find other programs on at the same time that they get to like. They don’t bother setting the video to watch us because they think they already know what’s going to happen. Or they just go down the pub. Before you know it, they’ve lost touch with the program,” Gloria continued. “One heart.”

  “Especially now we’re three times a week. You dip out for two, three weeks and when you come back, you don’t know some of the faces. I’m going to pass this time.”

  Teddy tugged at his shirt collar, a mannerism either he’d borrowed from Arthur Barrowclough or the character had borrowed from him. “Two hearts. And every time the viewing figures drop, John Turpin sees
his share of the profits going down.”

  “And we get to watch his blood pressure going up,” Gloria said. “Three hearts,” she added, noting my shake of the head.

  “I’d have thought he’d be on to a loser, trying to find out who’s behind it. It’s too good an earner for the mole to give it up, and no journalist on the receiving end of a series of exclusives like that is going to expose a source,” I said.

  “It won’t be for want of trying,” Gloria said. “He’s even got every script coded so that any photocopied pages can be traced back. I hope whoever it is really is making a killing, because they’re not going to earn another shilling off NPTV if they’re caught.”

  “You’ll never work in this town again,” Teddy drawled in a surprisingly convincing American accent. I was so accustomed to him behaving in character I’d almost forgotten he was an actor.

  “And speaking of making a killing, Gloria, any more news from your stalker?”

  Gloria scowled. “By heck, Clive, you know how to put a girl off her game. No, I’ve heard nowt since I took Kate on. I’m hoping we’ve frightened him off.”

  “How do you know it’s a he?” Clive said.

  “Believe me, Clive, I know.”

  We played out the hand in silence for a moment. In bridge as in life, I’ve always been better at defense than attack. Clive also seemed to relish the taste of blood and we left Gloria and Teddy three tricks short of their contract. My client raised her eyebrows and lit another cigarette. “She lied so beautifully, Teddy. I really believed her when she said she was crap at this.”

  “Don’t tell Turpin,” Teddy said sharply. “He’ll hire her out from under you.”

  “My dears, for all we know, he’s done that already,” Clive said archly.

  I should be so lucky, I thought as they all stared at me. I’m not proud about whose money I take. Maybe I should engineer another encounter with Turpin the hatchet man and kill two birds with one

  I nodded. “Fair enough. Whose deal is it?”