Star Struck. Val McDermid
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I said.
‘You’re not kidding, chuck. They see you three times a week in their living room, and they think you’re a member of the family. You let on who you are and next thing you know they’re telling you all about their hernia operation and the state of their veins. It’s a nightmare.’ She shrugged out of her coat, opened her handbag and took out a packet of those long skinny brown cigarettes that look like cinnamon sticks, and a gold Dunhill lighter. She looked around, eyebrows raised.
Stifling a sigh, I got up and removed the saucer from under the Christmas cactus. I’d only bought it two days before but already the buds that had promised pretty cascades of flowers were predictably starting to litter the windowsill. Me and plants go together like North and South Korea. I tipped the water from the saucer into the bin and placed it on the table in front of Gloria. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s the best I can do.’
She smiled. ‘I used to work in a cat food factory. I’ve put my fags out in a lot worse, believe me.’
I preferred not to think about it. ‘Well, Gloria, how can I help you?’
‘I need a bodyguard.’
My eyebrows rose. ‘We don’t normally …’
‘These aren’t normal circumstances,’ she said sharply. ‘I don’t want some thick as pigshit bodybuilder trailing round after me. I want somebody with a brain, somebody that can figure out what the heck’s going on. Somebody that won’t attract attention. Half my life I spend with the bloody press snapping round my ankles and the last thing I need is stories that I’ve splashed out on a hired gun. That’s why I wanted a woman.’
‘You said, “somebody that can figure out what the heck’s going on”,’ I said, focusing on the need I probably could do something useful about. ‘What seems to be the problem?’
‘I’ve been getting threatening letters,’ she said. ‘Now, that’s nothing new. Brenda Barrowclough is not a woman who minces her words, and there are a lot of folk out there as can’t tell the difference between Northerners and the real world. You’d be too young to remember, but when I was first widowed in the series, back about fifteen years ago, I was snowed under with letters of condolence. People actually sent wreaths for the funeral, addressed to fifteen, Sebastopol Grove. The Post Office is used to it now, they just deliver direct to the studios, but back then the poor florists didn’t know what to do. We had letters from cancer charities saying donations had been made to their funds in memory of Harry – that was my screen husband’s name. Whenever characters move out, we get letters from punters wondering what the asking price is for the house. So whenever Brenda does owt controversial, I get hate mail.’
I dredged my memory for recent tabloid headlines. ‘Hasn’t there been some storyline about abortion? Sorry, I don’t get the chance to watch much TV.’
‘You’re all right, chuck. Me neither. You know Brenda’s granddaughter, Debbie?’
‘The one who’s lived with Brenda since she was about ten? After her mum got shot in the Post Office raid?’
‘You used to be a fan, then?’
‘I still watch when I can. Which was a lot more back when Debbie was ten than it is now.’
‘Well, what’s happened is that Brenda’s found out that Debbie’s had an abortion. Now, Brenda had a real down on Debbie’s boyfriend because he was black, so the audience would have expected her to support Debbie rather than have a mixed-race grandson. But Brenda’s only gone mental about the right to life and thrown Debbie out on her ear, hasn’t she? So me and Sarah Anne Kelly who plays Debbie were expecting a right slagging off.’
‘And that’s what’s happened?’
Gloria shook her head, leaving a ribbon of smoke drifting level with her mouth. ‘Sort of,’ she said, confusing me. ‘What happens is the studio goes through our post, weeding out the really nasty letters so we don’t get upset. Only, of course, you ask, don’t you? I mean, you want to know if there’s any real nutters out there looking for you.’
‘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