by Unknown
Frank knew that Corbin was right. Logan was a liability. But the public didn’t know that, and if Frank had his way they never would.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Corbin said perceptively now. ‘He draws the viewers, so we should give him leeway. But the Kiddie Kare Telethon is sacred, and I paid too much for the broadcasting rights to let one man – who, incidentally, I don’t even like – jeopardise its future. And you’re very much mistaken if you think the public won’t hold this against him. Jokers, they accept; piss-heads who make sick jokes, they do not.’ Standing up now, he shrugged. ‘Take my advice, get shot of the dead wood and bring in someone reliable like Dennis or Monkhouse before it’s too late.’
‘Monkhouse is dead,’ Frank reminded him, his flat tone disguising the anger simmering beneath the surface.
‘So he is,’ Corbin conceded. ‘Oh, well . . . Dennis, then. Or how about Richie? He’s a good-looking lad with a bit of spark about him. And the viewers adore him.’ Nodding now, pleased with his vision, he said, ‘Get Shane to front it, and we’ll talk about keeping Star Struck in the schedule.’
‘That’s blackmail.’
‘Call it what you like, but I don’t want to see Logan’s face in my station again – ever.’
‘Bastard!’ Frank snarled when the door swung shut behind Corbin. ‘Who the hell does he think he is, telling me how to run my show? His station was on its bloody arse when I gave him Star Struck!’
‘You’ve got to admit he’s got a point,’ Jeremy said. ‘You don’t realise how bad things actually are, because we’ve always smoothed everything out by the time the show airs, but it’s murder trying to get a good take out of Larry these days.’ Shrugging now, he added, ‘Might be worth thinking about a replacement – even if it’s only temporary; until he’s been through rehab, or something.’
‘Bollocks!’ Frank shot back dismissively. ‘Logan doesn’t need rehab, he just needs a damn good kick up the arse.’
‘If you say so,’ Jeremy said, casually easing up the volume on the monitor so that Frank could hear how good a job Matty Kline was doing as a stand-in for his golden boy right now. ‘The audience really likes him, don’t they?’ he commented as the sound of cheering filled the suite.
‘They liked the flaming singing gerbils!’ Frank reminded him caustically. Then, shaking his head, he muttered, ‘All you had to do was keep him in line, but if you’re not up to it just say the word, ’cos there’s plenty more directors where you came from.’
Biting down on the angry reply that sprang to his lips, Jeremy folded his arms. There was no point arguing with Frank when he was in this kind of mood; he would just dig his heels in deeper and lash out at whoever was closest.
Pushing his chair back with a scrape now, Frank stood up and headed for the door, barking back over his shoulder, ‘Find Larry and tell him I want him in my office in five minutes. And, while you’re at it, sack Gordon!’
2
Katy Lowndes was in bed, but she wasn’t sleeping; she was grinding her teeth, fuming about the telethon, which she could hear coming to an end on the TV in the lounge below.
She’d enjoyed the first few hours, crying with laughter when the singing gerbils chased Matty Kline around the stage, and mooning over Westlife. But then Star Struck had come on, and her night had been ruined when she saw that Tania slaggyarse boyfriend-stealer Baxter was one of the contestants. Not only because Tania was too young to take part, but also because she’d won the money under false pretences, pretending to be her older sister, Cindy.
It had actually taken Katy a little while to realise that it was Tania and not Cindy, because she hadn’t seen Tania since leaving school a few months earlier and her hair had still been long and blonde then. But now, with it cut and coloured black like Cindy’s, with her make-up done the same way and wearing the same kind of tarty dress, Tania looked so much like her nineteen-year-old sister that it was spooky. But she’d made one mistake, and that was how Katy had sussed it.
The tits.
Cindy had had a boob job, and not a subtle one but a full-on Jordan-stylie; whereas Tania’s breasts were as small as ever. And as soon as Katy clicked on to that, she’d spotted all the other things which had confirmed it for her. Like the scar over Tania’s right eyebrow from the time she’d tried to look cool by getting it pierced only for it to go septic; and the stupid way she stood with her hand on her hip and one leg stuck out, like she was on a corner looking for passing trade; and that annoying laugh of hers: head thrown back, gob wide open like she was waiting for a dick to fill it.
It had been Tania all right, and Katy had watched the rest of the show with her arms tightly folded and her lips pursed, just praying for someone to rumble the bitch. And when the screen blacked out for a few minutes, she’d been so sure it must be happening right then that she’d been on the edge of her seat biting her nails with anticipation. But then the show had come back on with Matty Kline standing in for Larry Logan, and Katy had flipped when Tania went on to win the money.
Storming up to her bedroom to sulk in private, she couldn’t settle down for the rage and envy that was eating her up at the thought of Tania cosying up to Larry Logan and flirting with Matty Kline – like she stood a cat in hell’s chance with either of them, the ugly, lying slag! And now she was ten grand richer, while Katy had nothing but her job-seeker’s to get by on, and she’d be lording it up all over town; probably buy herself a flashy car to drive on Cindy’s licence, and splash out on loads of tarty new clothes to flaunt herself in. And, seeing as she obviously wanted to be Cindy, she’d probably get a matching boob job as well, and strut round Stretford like some kind of superstar, with all the lads falling over themselves to get with her just because she’d been on telly. And there wasn’t a damn thing Katy could do about it.
Or was there . . . ?
Sitting bolt upright, Katy bit her lip. There was something she could do. She could ring the papers and tell them what was going on. They’d have to check it out, and then everyone would know the truth, and Tania would be the laughing stock of England – just like she’d made Katy the laughing stock of school when she’d nicked her boyfriend from under her nose and told everyone that he’d said Katy was a crap shag.
Fuelled by thoughts of sweet revenge, Katy jumped out of bed and ran downstairs to use the phone.
Across town, in the converted attic of the shabby three-storey house in Chorlton that he shared with two fellow journalists and a photographer, Sam Brady was tapping away at his laptop, writing a scathing piece on Larry Logan’s shameful performance, while keeping half an eye on the telethon’s digital donation display board, the numbers on which were constantly changing as the money continued to pour in. The telethon itself was reaching its end – at long fucking last! – and Sam had muted the volume, sick to death of Matty Kline’s incessant gabbing and cackling, which seemed to have stepped up several hundred notches after his stint on Star Struck earlier.
Like most of the journalists he knew, Sam despised this happy-clappy bung-us-all-your-cash type of show. And it wasn’t just the blatant attempt by the Z-list celebrities who clamoured to take part to keep themselves in the public eye that pissed him off, but that these shows were even necessary in this day and age. Kids still suffering poverty and neglect, while the government wasted the country’s cash on bombs and ammunition for other people’s wars. He’d have loved to sink his teeth into a down-and-dirty exposé of that kind of injustice, but it was a rare reporter who got away with fucking with political issues without finding every door suddenly slammed in his face. So Sam chose to aim his poisoned pen-nib into the heart of showbiz instead, taking great pleasure from biting the arses of overpaid celebrities – like Larry Logan.
He was just coming to the end of his latest piece now when his phone rang.
It was Hannah, the switchboard operator at the Herald.
‘Hi, Sam. Hope I’m not disturbing you, but I thought you’d want to hear this . . .’
Smiling slyly
as Hannah relayed the details of the call she’d just had from a member of the public complaining that the girl who’d won the jackpot on Star Struck had done so under false pretences, Sam felt the tinglings of a juicy scandal coming on. Every other journo in the country would be writing about Logan being pissed on air, so the papers would be saturated with that, come the morning. But this – providing it was true – would blow the rest out of the water.
Jotting down the alleged cheat’s name and address as supplied by the caller, Sam thanked Hannah and promised to take her for a drink as soon as he got a minute. Then, disconnecting, he tapped in Angie Rayner’s number, praying that she wouldn’t have her phone on voicemail.
‘Hi there,’ Angie crooned, her smiling voice almost drowned out by the music pumping away in the background. ‘Long time no see.’
‘Sorry, babe, it’s been a crazy few weeks,’ Sam apologised, raising his voice just enough to be sure that she could hear him clearly without broadcasting his entire conversation to his rivals in their own rooms below. ‘Bit loud there, isn’t it? Take it you’re at the after-show party?’
‘How did you guess?’ Angie yelled back merrily. ‘Shame you couldn’t be here, you’d love it.’
‘Any chance of sneaking me in?’
‘Yeah, right. Like they’re not gonna notice the press snooping round at a time like this.’
‘I’ll keep my head down – promise.’
‘Sorry, Sam, but it’s a total no-go. We’ve got major security tonight, and no one’s getting in unless they’re on the list. We’re on complete lockdown. No last-minute friends or relatives – not even for the bigwigs.’
‘Don’t want to risk anyone getting to Larry, huh?’ Sam grunted, disappointed that he’d have to wait outside with the rest of the press wolves and try to waylay the girl when she came out while the others jumped all over Logan.
‘You know I can’t discuss Larry with you,’ Angie was telling him now, her voice suddenly guarded.
‘Chill, babe,’ Sam said quickly. ‘Obviously I’m interested in him – who wouldn’t be after tonight? But I’m sure there’s enough hacks already queuing up outside for a piece of him.’
‘Yes, and they’re all wasting their time, because they’ve already gone,’ Angie said, sounding more than a little disapproving.
‘They?’ Sam pounced. ‘Are you talking about him and the girl who won? Have they left together?’
‘What do you think?’ Angie tutted. Then, remembering who she was talking to, she said, ‘But I didn’t tell you that, and if you quote me, I’ll deny it, because the boss is already on the warpath.’
‘Fair enough,’ Sam said. ‘Just tell me where they’ve gone, and I’ll be out of your hair.’
‘I genuinely don’t know,’ Angie told him. ‘But I’d say it was a fair bet they’ve gone clubbing.’
‘Sure they won’t have gone straight back to his place?’ Sam asked. ‘They’d want privacy, wouldn’t they?’
‘He’s too much of a show-off,’ Angie snorted. ‘He won’t go home until he’s been seen by everyone in town.’
Telling her she was an angel, Sam disconnected and rubbed his hands together with glee. It was a godsend having an insider like Angie to keep him up to date about the goings-on at Oasis, and he’d have to remember to send her some flowers if this turned out as good as he expected. Sure as hell none of the other journos would know what he knew yet, and the shit would hit the fan big time when he put it out there. The public might adore Logan, but while the women who made up the bulk of his viewers might tolerate the kiss-and-tells from the fully grown women he’d shagged and dumped, the slightest whiff of an involvement with a child was guaranteed to turn them against him. And – legal or not – sixteen still meant a child in most people’s eyes.
If it was true.
Calling his photographer housemate Fred Greene, he told him to get his gear together and meet him at the car – but to make sure that their other housemates didn’t see him taking his stuff out.
‘What’s going on?’ Fred wanted to know, already pulling his shoes on in his room directly below.
Telling him that he’d explain on the way, Sam slotted new batteries into his Dictaphone and gave it a quick one-two test. Satisfied that it was working, he looked around for his keys and his wallet. Then, waiting a few minutes to give Fred time to get the car running, he headed out and tiptoed down the stairs.
Blowing on his hands as he waited for the car’s heater to kick in, Fred nodded at Sam when he climbed in beside him and said, ‘Where to?’
‘Dane Grove, Stretford,’ Sam told him, pulling his seat belt on. ‘We just need to do a quick verification of facts to make sure this isn’t a hoax – then it’s off to town to catch a rat.’
Peering up at the Baxter house when Fred pulled up to the kerb opposite ten minutes later, Sam was disappointed to see that it was in total darkness. But, just as they were about to set off again, another car turned the corner and drove up to the closed gates.
Switching on the Dictaphone that was nestling in his pocket as a woman climbed out of the passenger side, Sam got out of the car and approached her, calling out, ‘Mrs Baxter?’
Turning, Judith Baxter peered at him uncertainly. ‘Yes.’
‘Sam Brady from the Herald.’ He extended a hand. ‘Sorry for bothering you so late, but I’m covering the Kiddie Kare Telethon and wondered if you’d spare a moment to give your reaction to your daughter winning the jackpot on Star Struck tonight. You must be very proud.’
‘Sorry?’ Judith looked as confused as she actually was. ‘I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Your daughter, Cindy,’ Sam persisted, watching her face closely. ‘You did know she was taking part, didn’t you?’
‘I think you’ve got the wrong family. My daughter’s in Majorca.’
Bingo!
‘Are you sure?’ Sam asked, knowing full well that it was the right family. Right family, wrong daughter – just as the caller had claimed.
‘I think I’d know where my own daughter is,’ Judith replied, a bemused expression on her face now as she pulled both gates wide for her husband to drive through.
Scratching his head, Sam frowned. ‘Strange. It was definitely a Cindy Baxter from this address who won.’
Taking her house keys out of her handbag and reclosing the gates, Judith shrugged. ‘They’re either lying, or somebody’s made a mistake, but it definitely wasn’t my Cindy.’
‘Black hair,’ Sam blurted out when she began to walk towards the house. ‘Nineteen; very pretty – like yourself; slim; five five-ish; works at a beauty salon called Glamoreyes; wants to be a model . . .’
Turning back, Judith frowned. ‘Where did you get all that from?’
‘The description’s mine, but the info’s what she gave out,’ Sam told her. ‘Sorry if I seem pushy, but I can’t see there being two girls with the same name, address and personal details. Maybe she was planning to surprise you?’
‘She’s not due back for another week yet,’ Judith said confusedly. ‘She wouldn’t have come home without telling me. She tells me everything.’
Getting out of the car just then, Phil Baxter looked from Sam to Fred to the camera in Fred’s hands, and said, ‘What’s going on?’
‘They’re from the Herald,’ his wife told him, folding her arms. ‘They reckon our Cindy’s been on some game show tonight.’
‘And she won,’ Sam added, smiling at the husband now. ‘Ten thousand pounds.’
‘Nah.’ Phil shook his head.‘You’ve got the wrong house, mate.’
‘That’s what I said,’ Judith told him quietly. ‘But it does sound like her from what he’s just said.’
‘Er, she’s out of the country,’ Phil reminded her with a sarcastic edge to his voice.
Gritting her teeth, embarrassed that he seemed intent on continuing in front of strangers the argument they’d been having on the way home, Judith said, ‘I know that, thank you very much. But he’s
just described her to a T, and he even knows where she works, ’cos she’s supposed to have said it on the telly.’
‘It isn’t her,’ Phil insisted. ‘I phoned her at the hotel before we went out, and there’s no way she’d have made it back here that fast.’
‘Well, how else do you explain it?’ Judith demanded.
‘How do you?’ her husband retorted.
Sam and Fred exchanged an amused glance when the couple glared at each other. Then, suddenly, a spark of realisation flared in the father’s eyes and, gritting his teeth, he muttered, ‘Tania!’
‘It can’t be,’ Judith said, frowning. ‘She’s only sixteen, and he said this girl was our Cindy’s age.’
‘Yeah, well she’s getting pretty bloody good at lying these days, isn’t she?’ Phil snapped. ‘If this is why she’s been copying her, so she could pretend to be her, I’ll take her bloody head off!’ Snatching the keys out of his wife’s hand now, he marched towards the house.
‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ Judith called after him. Then, casting a nervous glance at Sam, she said, ‘Sorry, I’ve got to go. He’s . . .’ Trailing off, she shrugged, then turned and ran after her husband.
Staying put at the gate for a few moments as lights went on inside the house, Sam heard the sound of heavy footsteps running up the stairs, then shouting when Phil Baxter discovered that his youngest daughter wasn’t in her bed. Armed with all the proof he needed to know that Hannah’s caller had obviously been telling the truth, Sam jerked his head at Fred and quick-marched back to the car.
Tania Baxter was having a whale of a time. She’d been to Bone a few times with her friends and had thought it was okay, but now that she’d discovered what it was like on Larry’s side of the fence, she could see why he loved it. There was no waiting in line for the stars, being looked up and down by the doormen like you were a lesser life form; or waiting an hour to get anywhere near the bar only to find yourself ignored by the bar staff. It was all first-class treatment and free champagne for the stars, and she was loving every single second of it.