by Unknown
Praise for Mandasue Heller
High praise for Mandasue Heller’s brilliant novels:
‘Sexy and slick.’
Look
‘Powerful writing.’
Scotland on Sunday
‘A cracking page-turner.’
Manchester Evening News
‘Alarming . . . beguiling . . . exhilarating.’
Scotsman
‘A glamorous nightclub hides a seedy underworld that Heller knows only too well.’
Daily Express
‘Crammed with gangsters and glamour girls, this is a sassy take on the usual crime thriller.’
Woman
‘Mandasue has played a real blinder with this fantastic novel.’
Martina Cole on Forget Me Not
Also by Mandasue Heller
The Front
Forget Me Not
Tainted Lives
The Game
The Charmer
The Club
First published in Great Britain in 2007 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette Livre company
Copyright © Mandasue Heller 2007
The right of Mandasue Heller to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
Epub ISBN 978 1 848 94304 9
Book ISBN 978 0 340 89952 6
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
A Division of Hodder Headline
338 Euston Road
London NWI 3BH
www.hodder.co.uk
For my wonderful children, Michael, Andrew, and Azzura. And my precious granddaughters, Marissa and Lariah.
Acknowledgements
As ever, my sincerest love and gratitude go to my family: Wingrove Ward – my partner in life and music (the album’s sounding great, babe; can’t wait to hear it when it’s finished!); my lovely mum, Jean Heller;my sister,Ava;Amber & Kyro, Martin, Jade, and Reece;Auntie Doreen, Pete, Lorna, Cliff, Chris & Glen; Natalie, Dan, & Toni.
Not forgetting Uncle Michael, Aunt Paulette, and the rest of our new-found Heller family, USA. And the Wards: Mavis & Joseph, Valerie, Jascinth, Donna (& Ronnie), and their respective children.
Heartfelt thanks to Betty & Ronnie Schwartz, Martina Cole, Norman Fairweather, Wayne Brookes, Faye Webber, Sarj Duggal, and the rest of our friends past & present, for being so supportive. And a big hello to the authors we were lucky enough to meet or reacquaint ourselves with on the roadshow – you were all fantastic!
As are all the Hodder guys; not least my delightfully quirky editor, Carolyn Caughey; Emma Knight; Isobel Akenhead; Ron Beard; Auriol Bishop; Lucy Hale; etc, etc . . . (Far too many to mention by name, but you’re all brilliant.)
Same to my lovely agent, Cat Ledger.
Gratitude, as ever, to Nick Austin.
And thanks to Bill Woan for the police info.
Hi! to the reps, buyers, and sellers who we had the pleasure of meeting in Gloucestershire, Manchester, and Glasgow – we had some great nights with you guys, and really appreciate your efforts for getting the books out there. (And the readers for buying them, of course.)
And, lastly, the lovely library ladies for ordering all those extra copies.
Thank you all so much!
PART ONE
1
‘Aaaand cut!’
‘Thank fuck for that!’ Larry Logan muttered, pulling a tissue from his pocket and wiping his handsome face. Tossing the crumpled wad onto the floor, he said, ‘I thought there was supposed to be flaming air-con in here?’
‘There is,’ the floor manager replied curtly, sick of Larry’s moaning and whining – like he was the only one suffering. Snapping her fingers at one of the runners now, she barked at him to dispose of the tissue properly. Then she strode out onto the studio floor, yelling, ‘Quiet in the audience, please! We’re back on air in ten minutes, so no clever ideas about nipping to the toilet or opening noisy sweets, or you’re out!’
Sticking two fingers up at her back, Larry sidestepped the make-up girl who rushed forward to repair his face and made a dash for the heavy soundproofed studio door. Yanking it open, he stepped out of the stifling heat and shivered as the contrasting iciness of the corridor bit into him.
Heading towards his dressing room, he glanced back to see if anyone was following, and groaned when he saw the assistant director barrelling out of the studio door.
‘Christ’s sakes, Gord,’ Larry complained, knowing full well that he’d come to keep an eye on him. ‘I’m only going to the fucking loo.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ Gordon told him firmly. ‘You know what Jeremy said.’
‘Tell him I gave you the slip,’ Larry flipped back defiantly, walking on.
‘No can do,’ Gordon said, catching up.
‘Give me a break,’ Larry moaned. ‘I’ve got the trots, man.’
Stopping in his tracks, Gordon frowned. He’d been ordered to watch Larry like a hawk to stop him getting his hands on any booze, and that was exactly what he had been doing – all bloody day, despite having a heavy workload of his own to be getting on with. But there was no way he was standing outside the cubicle while Larry took a dump. That was way above and beyond.
Nodding, he said, ‘Okay, go on, then. But I’m waiting here. And if anyone asks, I was with you all the way.’
‘I’ll tell ’em you wiped my arse if you want,’ Larry quipped.
‘Fuck off! And hurry up. We’ve only got a few minutes.’
‘Thanks, mate. I owe you one.’
Taking off again, Larry turned the corner and ran straight past the toilets. Letting himself into his dressing room, he closed the door firmly and dragged his holdall down from the top of the cupboard. Taking out the bottle of Scotch that was stashed at the bottom of the bag he twisted the cap off and took a long drink, exhaling with pleasure and relief as the liquid seared his parched throat.
Taking another long slug, then another for the road, he put the bottle away again and gave himself an approving once-over in the mirror before heading back to the set.
Concerned that Larry wasn’t going to make it back in time, Gordon was just contemplating going to get him when he came hurtling around the corner, making an exaggerated show of zipping up his fly.
‘Sorry, Gord . . . took a bit longer than I expected. And there was no paper in my cubicle, so I had to run down the line with my kecks round my ankles. Thought I was gonna have to mop up after myself, as well. Still, better out than in, eh?’
‘Too much information,’ Gordon grunted, yanking the studio door open and waving Larry back in.‘Better hurry up,’he warned then, nodding towards the floor manager who was standing in the middle of the stage, hands on hips, tight-lipped scowl on her face.‘Looks like she’s on the warpath.’
‘Fuck her,’ Larry scoffed. Then, laughing, he nudged Gordon in the ribs and said, ‘Then again, maybe not, eh? I mean, you wouldn’t, would you?’
Getting a full blast of Scotch fumes, Gordon grimaced. But it was too late to say anything, because Anne was already waving Larry over, hissing, ‘Get a move on! We’ve got exactly twenty seconds.’
‘Keep your knickers on,’ Larry called back, blithely strolling towa
rds her – and infuriating her some more when he decided to waste a few more seconds saying hello to the pretty girls on the front row.
Biting down on her irritation, Anne held up her hand when Larry finally sauntered into position.
‘Three . . . two . . . one . . . aaand action!’
Back under the blistering heat of the lights, the Scotch began to kick in and Larry swayed slightly as he turned to camera six to welcome the viewers back. Burping loudly when he opened his mouth to speak, he gave the audience a mock-sheepish grin.
‘Oops! Pardon me for being rude, ’twas not me, it was my food.’
Up in the editing suite, watching the action on a high-tech bank of monitors, Frank Woods gave Jeremy Hislop an accusing look, hissing, ‘He’s pissed! I thought you said Gordon was watching him?’
‘He was.’
‘So how the fuck did it happen, then?’
‘I don’t know,’ Jeremy admitted, frowning as he studied Larry’s face on the monitor. Logan was definitely under the influence: cheeks flushed, eyes beginning to glaze over.
‘Idiot!’ Frank snarled, slamming his fist down on the console. ‘How could you let this happen? It’s the Kiddie Kare Telethon, for fuck’s sake. You knew how important it was to keep him in line. You should have handcuffed yourself to him.’
‘You wanted me up here with you. I can’t be two places at once.’
‘You won’t be any bloody place if he cocks this up, I can promise you that.’
‘I warned you this would happen,’ Jeremy argued, swivelling his chair around to face Frank now. ‘But you ignored me, so . . .’ Leaving the rest of the sentence hanging, he shrugged, his meaning quite clear without him having to spell it out.
Annoyed as much by the intimation of blame as by the knowledge that it was rightly placed, Frank said, ‘What choice did I have? It’s the first time they’ve put a game show in the line-up, and they chose ours. I’d have been crazy to turn it down.’
Crazy to agree to it, more like, Jeremy thought scathingly, shaking his head as he turned his attention back to the screens. Only a fool would let a loose cannon like Larry Logan front a live show. He might be Mr Gorgeous, with the ability to charm the knickers off any woman at fifty paces – as he seemed intent on proving, going by the number of times he’d been papped coming out of clubs with different tarts hanging off his arm. But for those who had to suffer him on the dark side of the screen, he was rude, arrogant, and completely incapable of sticking to the format. Working with him had been the longest, most stressful six months of Jeremy’s career to date.
And it didn’t help that Star Struck was the biggest piece of TV crap Jeremy had ever been unfortunate enough to direct. But a job was a job, and this one paid well enough for Jeremy to bury his personal opinions – for the most part.
Back on set, Larry was taking the two surviving contestants into the final head-to-head. They were both female, but while one was middle-aged and plump – and, therefore, of no interest to Larry whatsoever – the other was young and pretty, with small, pert breasts, full glossy lips, and a sleek, jet-black bob. Just how he liked them!
‘The Bat’ – as Larry had mentally been referring to the older woman throughout the show – was first up. Making a concerted effort not to stare at the mole on her cheek that was beginning to look suspiciously like a couple of money spiders mating, Larry cleared his throat and peered down at the question card in his hand.
‘Right, Elaine . . . for a chance to win tonight’s jackpot . . . can you tell me the real name of the former girl-band member known as Baby?’
‘Oh, I really didn’t want a pop question,’ Elaine moaned, biting her lip. ‘Oh, damn! I can’t think of any girl groups.’
‘Gonna have to hurry you along there, sweetheart.’
More lip biting and frowning. Then, shrugging hopelessly, ‘Is it The Supremes, Larry?’
‘’Fraid not.’ Mock-sympathetic smile. ‘I was looking for Emma Bunton from The Spice Girls.’
Turning to tonight’s shag now, Larry gave her a conspiratorial wink and slipped an arm around her slim waist.
‘Okay, Cindy, my darling, get this right and you’ll steal the money. Ready?’
‘I think so,’ Cindy gasped, her heart thudding in her chest as Larry’s hand slid from her hip to the curve of her buttock. She’d loved him from the moment she’d first laid eyes on him, and she couldn’t believe that she had finally made it onto his show. And not only was she in with a real chance of winning, but she just knew that he fancied her, because he’d been winking at her all day and giving her that super-sexy grin of his. And now he was actually touching her bum!
Stumbling slightly as an alcohol rush threw his head out of whack, Larry dropped his question cards. Muttering ‘Shit!’ when they landed question-side up on the floor at Cindy’s feet, he reached down and snatched them up. ‘Sorry!’ he said, waving them at the camera. ‘But don’t panic, she didn’t see them . . . You didn’t, did you, darlin’?’
‘No.’ Cindy shook her head innocently.
Feigning a cough to bring himself under control as he felt a sudden urge to laugh, Larry said, ‘Sorry, folks, frog in the throat . . . better than cancer, though, eh?’
Waiting for the smattering of nervous audience laughter to die down, he turned back to Cindy.
‘Right, then . . . for a chance to win ten thousand pounds, can you tell me the name of Britney Spears’s last husband, Kevin Federline?’
‘Moron!’ the floor manager hissed, standing in the shadows beside the camera. Stepping forward now, she waved her arms to attract his attention.
Frowning when he saw her, Larry shrugged, and mouthed, ‘What?’
‘You gave her the answer,’ Anne stage-whispered, jabbing a finger at the question card. ‘Ask her another! Ask . . . her . . . another!’
‘Oh, right,’ Larry murmured. Then, giving a cheeky grin to camera, ‘Sorry ’bout that. Seems I made a bit of a boo-boo. But ’s all right. Just gotta ask another question.’
Rifling through the cards now, he pulled one out at random and looped his arm around Cindy’s shoulder.
‘Okay, my darling, for ten thousand pounds, can you tell me . . . why the hell Madonna picked Guy Ritchie over me?’
Cindy peered up at him confusedly. Then someone in the audience started laughing, and everyone else quickly followed suit – Larry included.
Alan Corbin, Oasis TV’s Head of Light Entertainment, was far from amused. Storming into the editing suite, he yelled, ‘Get him off! NOW!’
‘He’s on the last question,’ Jeremy said, trying desperately to remain calm even though he knew it could only get worse. ‘If we just—’
Corbin wasn’t listening. Eyes bulging from their sockets, he stared at the monitor screens and yelped, ‘What the bloody hell’s he doing now?’ in a voice several octaves higher than was healthy for a man of his age.
Down below, Larry had totally lost it. Clutching at Cindy with tears of laughter streaming down his face, he’d managed to snap one of her flimsy shoulder straps, revealing one of her bare breasts.
‘Oh, my God!’ Corbin croaked as the studio audience erupted with male approval and female disapproval. Shoulders slumping, he sank down on a vacant chair and dabbed his handkerchief over his sweat-slick face. ‘We’re fucked!’
‘Not necessarily,’ Jeremy muttered, pushing sliders and pressing buttons on the master control panel. ‘We’ve still got time-delay on our side. Any luck, we’ll black-screen before anyone spots the tit.’
‘Bit late for that,’ Frank interjected bitterly. ‘They’ve been watching him for the last half-hour.’
Ignoring him, Jeremy carried on with what he was doing. Then, sighing with relief after a moment, he said, ‘We’re off air.’
‘What about the tit?’ Corbin wanted to know. ‘Have you caught it in time?’
‘Soon know,’ Jeremy told him, turning his attention to the live-stream monitor.
Everyone in the editing suite held their bre
ath as, on screen, Larry reached the point where he’d dropped the question cards. Snatching them up again, he started to ask the Britney Spears question, but just as he reached the point where he unwittingly supplied the answer, the screen went blank, and seconds later a ‘Technical fault’ warning flagged up, followed by the help and appeal-line numbers, and a pre-recorded voice-over by Matty Kline, the comedian who was compering the telethon, urging people to ‘Keep ringing in those donations, guys, ’cos every little helps!’
Excusing himself now that the worst of the disaster had been averted, Jeremy rushed down to the set to try and salvage what was left of the show. Grabbing Larry, he frogmarched him to the studio door and ordered him to go and get himself sobered up. That done, he asked Matty Kline to stand in and wrap Star Struck up.
Frank Woods and Alan Corbin were in the middle of a hushed but obviously heated discussion when Jeremy got back to the editing suite: Corbin was telling Frank that Larry had to go, but Frank was in no mood to be dictated to. Bad as it had been today, Star Struck was his baby, and he was proud of its success. And he wasn’t about to risk a drop in the ratings by replacing Larry – not on Corbin’s say-so, anyway.
‘You’re overreacting,’ he told Corbin now. ‘The viewers love Larry, and they won’t hold this against him. We’ll just issue a statement saying he was doped up on flu medication, or something.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Corbin snorted contemptuously. ‘Any idiot can see he’s steaming. And, to be honest, he’s not good enough that I need to be putting myself through this kind of stress every time he hits the screen. He goes – that’s my final word.’
‘With respect,’ Frank replied with measured calm. ‘This is my production company, and I decide who goes and who stays on my shows.’
‘And I decide which programmes to commission for my station,’ Corbin reminded him firmly. Exhaling wearily then, he said, ‘I don’t want to fall out with you over this, Frank, but if you can’t see what a liability Logan is you’re not the man you used to be.’