Star Struck (26 page)

“If so, how did he escape? There’s no way out through the front without being filmed by security cameras and breaking through a metal grille,” I pointed out.

Tucker shrugged. “O’Brien’s a professional burglar. If he put his mind to it, I’m sure he could find a way out that neither of us would come up with in a month of Sundays.”

“That’s not an argument that will carry much weight with a jury in the absence of any evidence to the contrary,” Ruth chipped in drily. Tucker’s eyebrows descended and his eyes darkened.

“What I want to show you,” I interrupted before the goodwill melted, “is an alternative hypothesis that answers all the problems this case presents. It should be relatively easy to make the forensic tests that will demonstrate if I’m right or wrong. But for now, all I want the pair of you to do is to watch.”

I tapped a couple of keys and the screen saver dissolved. The

“Two of his brothers confirmed that the dog was always jumping up at Pit Bull. It’s still not much more than a pup. It’s full of energy,” I said, forestalling any protest from Tucker when he saw where this was heading.

“It’s impressive,” was all he said.

We watched Kelly and the dog arrive at the door to Dennis’s squat. He reached out a hand for the doorknob and clumsily turned it. Expecting it to be locked, he stumbled as it opened under his hand. As Kelly lurched forward, the dog yanked on its leash, jerking Kelly off balance and spinning him half around so that the vulnerable angle under his jaw cracked into the doorjamb, accompanied by a thud courtesy of Gizmo.

The screen went black momentarily. Then the point of view shifted. We were inside the shop, behind the door. Again, we saw Kelly topple into the doorjamb, the dog skittering back from his master. The leash dropped from Kelly’s fingers and the dog scampered back into the service corridor as Kelly collapsed sideways to the floor, the weight of his body slamming the door shut as he fell. The final scene dissolved into the starkness of the crime-scene photograph that had been the starting point for the whole process.

I heard Tucker’s breath leak from him, the first sign that he’d been taking seriously what he saw. “I suppose I’d be wasting my time if I asked you where exactly your source material came from?”

I nodded. “I’m afraid so. All I will say is that it wasn’t the obvious route,” I added in an attempt to give Della’s contact a little protection.

“I take it I can expect the immediate release of my client, in the light of this?” Ruth said, leaning back expansively and lighting a cigarette. Noël Coward would have loved her.

Tucker shook his head. “A very convincing performance, Ms. Brannigan, but you know as well as I do that it doesn’t change anything.”

“It should, because it explains everything a damn sight better than any hypothesis you’ve been able to come up with,” I said. “The door was unlocked because Dennis didn’t want to be responsible for the landlord having to cause any damage getting into the premises. Dennis’s alibi holds water. It also explains why the dog didn’t get into a fight with the killer, because there was no killer. I know it’s bad for your clear-up statistics, but this wasn’t a murder, it was the purest of accidents.”

Tucker sucked his lower lip in between his teeth. “You make a good case. But O’Brien’s wife has given him false alibis before, and he did have a strong reason for falling out with the dead man.”

“You will be running full forensic checks on the doorjamb, won’t you, Inspector?” Ruth said ominously.

“I’m not sure that’s justified,” Tucker said cautiously. “Besides, the crime scene has been released.”

“Because if you don’t,” Ruth continued as if he hadn’t spoken, “I will. I’ll be getting my own expert witness down there this afternoon. And when he finds fragments of skin and maybe even a bit of blood with Patrick Kelly’s DNA all over that doorjamb at precisely the height where his jaw would have hit it, Mr. O’Brien will be suing you for false imprisonment. Won’t that be fun?”

“A lovely Christmas present for the Chief Constable,” I added. I was starting to get the hang of threatening the police. I could see why Ruth got such a buzz out of her job.

Tucker sighed then chewed his lower lip some more. “I will get someone to take a look at the door,” he eventually said. “And I will also have a word with the pathologist.” He stood up, his long body unfolding to its unnerving height. “It’s been an interesting experience, Ms. Brannigan. I’m sure we’ll meet again.”

Ruth extracted a promise that he’d call her as soon as he had any information, and I shepherded him out.

“Tell me, what set you off on this train of thought?” Ruth demanded the moment the door closed.

“I wish I could say it was some brilliant intuitive leap. But it wasn’t. I’m on the Internet mailing list of a forensic pathology newsgroup,” I said, feeling slightly sheepish. “Mostly I’m too busy to do much more than skim it, but every now and again, some bizarre detail sticks in my mind. I read about a similar case and I remembered it because the reporting pathologist described it as, ‘Man’s best friend and worst enemy.’”

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.

JUPITER TRINES NEPTUNE
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.

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.”