“Thanks for getting back to me, Kate,” she said.
I could feel the water soothing me already. “No problem. How can I help?”
“Well …” She paused. “It could be something and nothing. Just a coincidence. But I thought you might be interested.”
“Fire away,” I said. “I’m always interested in coincidence.”
“I’ve just had a reporter round. A freelance that does a lot for the national tabloids. She was waving the check book, trying to get me to dish the dirt on Dorothea and the Northerners cast. Scraping the bottom of the barrel, I thought, but I suppose everybody who’s still on the show has closed ranks. They’ll have been warned, reminded that their contracts forbid them to talk to the press without the agreement of NPTV. So the hacks have to dredge through their contacts books to see if they can find anybody who might talk.”
“And because you sold your story at the time, they think you might be tempted to spill some more beans?”
“Exactly. But I said everything I was ever going to say back then. And that’s what I told this reporter. The thing is, though, I recognized her name. Tina Marshall. It’s her by-line that’s been on most of the really big Northerners scandal stories. She’s obviously somebody that has a direct relationship with the mole.”
“That’s certainly worth knowing,” I said, trying to sound interested. I couldn’t figure out why Cassie felt the need to phone me
“But that’s not all I recognized,” Cassie continued. “I recognized her face, too. A couple of months back, a friend of mine took me to dinner at the Normandie. Do you know it?”
I knew the name. Alexis and Chris always went there for their anniversary dinners. Alexis claimed it was one of the best restaurants in the region, but I wasn’t likely to be able to verify that for myself as long as I stayed with a man who believes if it hasn’t come from a wok it can’t be food. “Not personally,” I sighed.
“Well, it’s not cheap, that’s for sure. Anyway, when I went to the loo, I noticed this woman. I didn’t know then that she was Tina Marshall, of course.”
I was skeptical. A quick glance in a restaurant a couple of months previously wasn’t the sort of identification I’d want to base anything on. “Are you sure?” I asked. The fragrant warmth had clearly activated my politeness circuit.
“Oh, I’m sure. You see, the reason I noticed her in the first place was her companion. She was dining with John Turpin.” Cassie mistook my silence for incredulity rather than stupefaction. “I wouldn’t make any mistake about Turpin,” she added. “He’s the bastard who gave me the bullet, after all. So seeing him wining and dining some woman in the kind of sophisticated restaurant where he’s not likely to run into Northerners regulars was a bit like a red rag to a bull. I paid attention to the woman he was with. When she turned up this afternoon on my doorstep, I knew her right away.”
“Turpin?” I said, puzzled. The man had no possible motive for leaking stories about Northerners to the press, least of all to the woman who had plastered scandal after scandal over the nation’s tabloids. I pushed myself up into a sitting position, trying not to drop the phone.
“Turpin. And Tina Marshall,” Cassie confirmed.
“Unless … he was trying to get her to reveal her source?” I wondered.
“It didn’t look like a confrontation,” Cassie said. “It was far too relaxed for that. It didn’t have the feel of a lovers’ tryst, either. More businesslike than that. But friendly, familiar.”
“You got all this from a quick glimpse on the way to the loo?” I asked doubtfully.
“Oh no,” Cassie said hastily. “Turpin had been sitting with his back to me, but once I realized it was him, I kept half an eye on their table.” She gave a rueful laugh. “Much to the annoyance of my companion. He wasn’t very pleased that I was so interested in another man, even though I explained who Turpin was.”
“Did Turpin see you?” I asked.
“I don’t think so. He was far too absorbed in his conversation.”
“I’m surprised Tina Marshall didn’t clock you. Women check out other women, and you must have been familiar to her,” I pointed out.
“I look very different from my Maggie Grimshaw days,” Cassie said. “Nobody stops me in the street any more. Thank God. And like I said, the Normandie isn’t the sort of place you’d expect the Northerners cast to be eating. It’s not owned by a footballer or a rock star,” she added cynically. “So, do you think there’s something going on between them?”
I groaned. “I don’t know, Cassie. Nothing makes sense to me.”
“It’s very odd, though.”
I was about to tell her exactly how odd I thought it was when my doorbell rang. Not the tentative, well-mannered ring of a charity collector, but the insistent, demanding, lean-on-the-bell ring that only a close friend or someone who’d never met me would risk. “I don’t believe it,” I moaned. “Cassie, I’m going to have to go.” I stood up. It must have sounded like a whale surfacing at the other end of the phone.
“Are you OK?” she asked anxiously.
“Somebody at the door. Sorry. I’ll call you when any of this makes sense. Thanks for letting me know.” As I talked, the phone tucked awkwardly between dripping jaw and wet shoulder, I was wrapping a bath sheet round me. I switched off the phone and drizzled my way down the hall.
I yanked the door open to find Gizmo on the doorstep. “Hiya,”
“What is wrong with the telephone, Gizmo?” I demanded. Remarkably restrained in the circumstances, I thought.
He shrugged. “I was on my way home from the office. You know, going home to sort out Dennis’s little problem? And I thought you’d like to see what I found out about Dorothea’s mysterious past.”
I shivered as a blast of wintry air made it past him. There goes snug, I thought. “Inside,” I said, stepping back to let him pass. I followed him into the living room. “This had better be good, Giz. I’d only just got in the bath.”
“Smells nice,” he said, sounding surprised to have noticed.
“It was,” I ground out.
“Any chance of a beer?” Spoken like a man who thinks “considerate” is a prefix for “done.”
“Why not?” I muttered. On the way, I collected my own glass and topped it up with the Polish lemon pepper vodka. I grabbed the first bottle that came to hand and relished the look of pained disgust that flashed across Gizmo’s face when his taste buds made contact with chilli beer — ice-cold liquid with the breathtaking burn of the vengeful vindaloo that curry shops serve up to Saturdaynight drunks. “You were saying?” I asked sweetly, enjoying the sudden flush on his skin and the beads of sweat that popped out across his upper lip.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” he gasped. “What in the name of God was that?”
“I didn’t know you’d been brought up Catholic,” I said. That should discourage him from the space-invading that was threatening to become a habit. “It’s a beer, like you asked for. Now, what did you want to tell me about?”
He fished inside his vast parka and produced a clear plastic wallet. Wordlessly, he handed it over. I took the few sheets of paper out of the sleeve and worked my way through them. By the time I reached the end, I knew when Dorothea had been born and who her parents were, when she’d married Harry Thompson and when they’d been divorced. I knew the date of Harry’s death, and I
Most importantly, I knew who the mystery baby was. And I had more than the shadow of a notion why the relationship might have led to murder.
I opened my mouth to try out my idea on Gizmo. Of course, the phone rang. “I don’t believe this,” I exploded, grabbing the handset and hitting the “talk” button. “Hello?” I barked.