Star Struck

‘And the studio told you there was?’

‘No, chuck. It weren’t the studio. The letters I’m worried about are the ones coming to the house.’

Now I was really confused. ‘You mean, your real house? Where you actually live?’

‘Exactly. Now, I mean, it’s not a state secret, where I live. But unless you’re actually a neighbour or one of the reptiles of the press, you’d have to go to a bit of trouble to find out. The phone’s ex-directory, of course. And all the official stuff like electricity bills and the voters’ roll don’t come under Gloria Kendal. They come under my real name.’

‘Which is?’

‘Doreen Satterthwaite.’ She narrowed her eyes. I didn’t think it was because the smoke was getting into them. I struggled to keep my face straight. Then Gloria grinned. ‘Bloody awful, isn’t it? Do you wonder I chose Gloria Kendal?’

‘In your shoes, I’d have done exactly the same thing,’ I told her. I wasn’t lying. ‘So these threatening letters are coming directly to the house?’

‘Not just to my house. My daughter’s had one too. And they’re different to the usual.’ She opened her handbag again. I wondered at a life where it mattered to have suit, shoes and handbag in identical shades. I couldn’t help my mind slithering into speculation about her underwear. Did her coordination extend that far?

Gloria produced a sheet of paper. She started to pass it to me, then paused. I could have taken it from her, but it was an awkward reach, so I waited. ‘Usually, letters like this, they’re semi-literate. They’re ignorant. I mean, I might have left school when I were fifteen, but I know the difference between a dot and a comma. Most of the nutters that write me letters wouldn’t know a paragraph if they woke up next to one. They can’t spell, and they’ve got a tendency to write in green ink or felt-tip pens. Some of them, I don’t think they’re allowed sharp objects where they live,’ she added. I’ve noticed how actors and audiences often hold each other in mutual contempt. It looked like Gloria didn’t have a whole lot of respect for the people who paid for the roof over her head.

Now she passed the letter across. It was plain A4 bond, the text printed unidentifiably on a laser printer. ‘Doreen Satterthwaite, it’s time you paid for what you’ve done. You deserve to endure the same suffering you’ve been responsible for. I know where you live. I know where your daughter Sandra and her husband Keith live. I know your granddaughter Joanna goes to Gorse Mill School. I know they worship at St Andrew’s Church and have a caravan on Anglesey. I know you drive a scarlet Saab convertible. I know you, you bitch. And soon you’re going to be dead. But there’ll be no quick getaway for you. First, you’re going to suffer.’ She was right. The letter sounded disturbingly in control.

‘Any idea what the letter writer is referring to?’ I asked, not really expecting an honest answer.

Gloria shrugged. ‘Who the heck knows? I’m no plaster saint, but I can’t think of anybody I’ve done a really bad turn to. Apart from my ex, and I doubt he could manage a letter to me that didn’t include the words, “you effing bitch”. He certainly can’t manage a conversation without it. And besides, he wouldn’t threaten our Sandra or Joanna. No way.’ I took her response for genuine perplexity, then reminded myself how she made her living.

‘Have there been many of them?’

‘This is the third. Plus the one that went to Sandra. That were about the sins of the mother. To be honest, the first couple I just binned. I thought they were somebody at the wind-up.’ Suddenly, Gloria looked away. She fumbled another cigarette from the packet and this time, the hand that lit it shook.

‘Something happened to change your mind?’

‘My car tyres were slashed. All four of them. Inside the NPTV compound. And there was a note stuck under the windscreen wipers. “Next time your wardrobe? Or you?” And before you ask, I haven’t got the note. It’d been raining. It just fell to bits in my hand.’

‘That’s serious business,’ I said. ‘Are you sure you shouldn’t be talking to the police?’ I hated to lose a potential client, but it would have verged on criminal negligence not to point out that this might be one for Officer Dibble.

Gloria fiddled with her cigarette. ‘I told the management about it. And John Turpin, he’s the Administration and Production Coordinator, he persuaded me not to go to the cops.’

‘Why not? I’d have thought the management would have been desperate to make sure nothing happened to their stars.’

Gloria’s lip curled in a cynical sneer. ‘It were nowt to do with my safety and everything to do with bad publicity. Plus, who’d want to come and work at NPTV if they found out the security was so crap that somebody could walk into the company compound and get away with that? Anyway, Turpin promised me an internal inquiry, so I decided to go along with him.’

‘But now you’re here.’ It’s observational skills like this that got me where I am today.

She flashed a quick up-and-under glance at me, an appraisal that contained more than a hint of fear held under tight control. ‘You’re going to think I’m daft.’

I shook my head. ‘I don’t see you as the daft type, Gloria.’ Well, it was only a white lie. Daft enough to spend the equivalent of a week’s payroll for Brannigan & Co on a matching outfit, but probably not daft when it came to a realistic assessment of personal danger. Mind you, neither was Ronald Reagan and look what happened to him.

‘You know Dorothea Dawson?’ Gloria asked, eyeing me out of the corner of her eye.

‘“The Seer to the Stars”?’ I asked incredulously. ‘The one who does the horoscopes in TV Viewer? The one who’s always on the telly? “A horse born under the sign of Aries will win the Derby”?’ I intoned in a cheap impersonation of Dorothea Dawson’s sepulchral groan.

‘Don’t mock,’ she cautioned me, wagging a finger. ‘She’s a brilliant clairvoyant, you know. Dorothea comes into the studios once a week. She’s the personal astrologer to half the cast. She really has a gift.’

I bet she had. Gifts from all the stars of Northerners. ‘And Dorothea said something about these letters?’

‘I took this letter in with me to my last consultation with her. I asked her what she could sense from it. She does that as well as the straight clairvoyance. She’s done it for me before now, and she’s never been wrong.’ In spite of her acting skills, anxiety was surfacing in Gloria’s voice.

‘And what did she say?’

Gloria drew so hard on her cigarette that I could hear the burning tobacco crackle. As she exhaled she said, ‘She held the envelope and shivered. She said the letter meant death. Dorothea said death was in the room with us.’

2 (#u4e10d156-d23f-5259-8f0f-2c7aec8ac5d0)

SUN TRINE MOON

Creative thinking resolves difficult circumstances; she will tackle difficulties with bold resolution. The subject feels at home wherever she is, but can be blind to the real extent of problems. She will not always notice if her marriage is falling apart; she doesn’t always nip problems in the bud.

From Written in the Stars, by Dorothea Dawson

Anybody gullible enough to fall for the doom and gloom dished out by professional con merchants like astrologers certainly wasn’t going to have a problem with my expense sheets. Money for old rope, I reckoned. By Gloria’s own admission, hate mail was as much part of the routine in her line of work as travelling everywhere with stacks of postcard-sized photographs to autograph for the punters. OK, the tyre slashing was definitely more serious, but that might be unconnected to the letters, an isolated act of vindictiveness. It was only because the Seer to the Stars had thrown a wobbler that this poison pen outbreak had been blown up to life-threatening proportions. ‘Does she often sense impending death when she does predictions for people?’ I asked, trying not to snigger.

Gloria shook her head vigorously. ‘I’ve never heard of anybody else getting a prediction like that.’

‘And have you told other people in the cast about it?’

‘Nobody,’ she said. ‘It’s not the sort of thing you go on about.’

Not unless you liked being laughed at, I reckoned. On the other hand, it might mean that the death prediction was one of Dorothea Dawson’s regular routines for putting the frighteners on her clients and making them more dependent on her. Especially the older ones. Let’s face it, there can’t be that many public figures Gloria’s age who go through more than a couple of months without knowing somebody who’s died or dying. Gloria might have been catapulted into panic by her astrologer, but I couldn’t imagine it being anything more than a stunt by Dorothea Dawson. Minding Gloria sounded like a major earner with no risk attached. Just what the bank manager ordered. I said a small prayer of thanks to Dorothea Dawson and told Gloria that for her, I’d be happy to make an exception to company policy. In fact, I would take personal responsibility for her safety.

The news seemed to cheer her up. ‘Right then, we’d better be off,’ she said, stubbing out her cigarette and gathering her mac around her shoulders.

‘We’d better be off?’ I echoed.

She glanced at her watch, a chunky gold item with chips of diamond that glittered like a broken windscreen in a streetlight. ‘Depends where you live, I suppose. Only, if I’m opening a theme pub in Blackburn at eight and we’ve both got to get changed and grab a bite to eat, we’ll be cutting it a bit fine if we don’t get a move on.’

‘A theme pub in Blackburn,’ I said faintly.

‘That’s right, chuck. I’m under contract to the brewery. It’s straightforward enough. I turn up, tell a few jokes, sing a couple of songs to backing tapes, sign a couple of hundred autographs and off.’ As she spoke, she was setting her hat at a rakish angle and replacing her sunglasses. As she made for the door, I dived behind the desk and swept my palmtop computer and my moby into my shoulder bag. I only caught up with her because she’d stopped to sign a glossy colour photograph of herself disguised as Brenda Barrowclough for Shelley.

Something terrible had happened to the toughest office manager in Manchester. Imagine Cruella De Vil transformed into one of those cuddly Dalmatian puppies, only more so. It was like watching Ben Nevis grovel. ‘And could you sign one, “for Ted”?’ she begged. I wished I had closed-circuit TV cameras covering the office. A video of this would keep Shelley off my back for months.

‘No problem, there you go,’ Gloria said, signing the card with a flourish. ‘You right, Kate?’

I grabbed my coat and shrugged into it as I followed Gloria into the hall. She glanced both ways and down the stairwell before she set off. ‘The last thing I need is somebody clocking me coming out of your office,’ she said, trotting down the stairs at a fair pace. At the front door I turned right automatically, heading for my car. Gloria followed me into the private car park.

‘This sign says, “Employees of DVS Systems only. Unauthorized users will be clamped,”’ she pointed out.

‘It’s all right,’ I said in a tone that I hoped would end the conversation. I didn’t want to explain to Gloria that I’d got so fed up with the desperate state of car parking in my part of town that I’d checked out which office car parks were seldom full. I’d used the macro lens on the camera to take a photograph of a DVS Systems parking pass through somebody else’s windscreen and made myself a passable forgery. I’d been parking on their lot for six months with no trouble, but it wasn’t something I was exactly proud of. Besides, it never does to let the clients know about the little sins. It only makes them nervous.

Gloria stopped expectantly next to a very large black saloon with tinted windows. I shook my head and she pulled a rueful smile. I pointed the remote at my dark-blue Rover and it cheeped its usual greeting at me. ‘Sorry it’s not a limo,’ I said to Gloria as we piled in. ‘I need to be invisible most of the time.’ I didn’t feel the need to mention that the engine under the bonnet was very different from the unit the manufacturer had installed. I had enough horsepower under my bonnet to stage my own rodeo. If anybody was stalking Gloria, I could blow them off inside the first five miles.