Free Star Struck by Val McDermid

of the waterway providing a range of backdrops, from the sinister to the seriously hip. Gloria had drawn the short straw of an argument with Teddy outside Barca, Mick Hucknall’s chic Catalan bistro. On a summer afternoon, it might have been a pleasant diversion. On a bleak December morning, it was about as much fun as sunbathing in Siberia. It took forever to film because trains and trams would keep rattling across the high brick viaducts above our heads when the cameras were rolling.
    I couldn’t even take refuge in the cast or crew buses, since I needed to keep a close eye on Gloria. In spite of what I’d said the night before, I hadn’t entirely ruled out the possibility of an obsessive fan who was stalking her. The fact that she spent so much of her time inaccessible might actually fuel his derangement. He could be planning to take action against her only when she was in a public place and in character.
    I huddled under the awning of the catering truck where a red-haired giant with a soft Highland accent supervised the pair of young women who were responsible for making sure there was a constant flow of bacon, sausage and/or egg butties for anyone who wanted them. They served me with a steaming carton of scalding coffee, which I held under my chin. Not for long, though. If my nose thawed out too quickly, there was always the possibility of it shearing off from the rest of my face.
    I half listened to the conversation in the van behind me. It was a lot more interesting than the script Teddy and Gloria were working their way through. The caterers were discussing that day’s
    He grinned. Close up, he was even more attractive than he was with a steaming array of food between us. His thick red-gold hair was swept back from a high, broad forehead. Eyes the blue of the Windows 95 intro screen sparkled above high cheekbones. He had one of those mouths romantic novelists always describe as cruel, which lets you know the heroine’s probably going to end up in the guy’s arms if not his bed. “Hiya,” he said. “I’m Ross Grant. I own the location catering company.”
    The coffee had defrosted my lips enough for me to return his smile. “Kate Brannigan. I’m—”
    “I know who you are,” he interrupted, sounding amused. “You’re Gloria’s bodyguard. Dorothea Dawson, the Seer to the Stars, told her she was going to be murdered, and she hired you to protect her.”
    “You’ve been watching too much television,” I said lightly. “People don’t lash out the kind of money I cost without having good reason.”
    “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to insult your professionalism. Or to take the piss out of Dorothea. She’s been really good to us.”
    “Predicting a sudden rush on bacon butties, you mean?”
    He gave a sheepish grin. “Very funny. No, I mean it. You know how she’s always on the telly? Well, she’s recommended us to quite a few of the programs she’s been on. We’ve got a lot of work off the back of it. She’s great, Dorothea. She really understands what it’s like trying to make a living out of a business where you’re constantly dependent on goodwill. So she goes out of her way for folk like us, know what I mean? Not like most of them round here, it’s self, self, self. Working with people that are so full of themselves, we find it hard to take anything about them seriously.”
    This time it was my turn to smile. “They do lack a certain sense of proportion.”
    “But you’re more than just a bodyguard, aren’t you? Somebody said you’re a proper private investigator.”
    “That’s right. In fact, I almost never do this kind of work. But Gloria can be very persuasive.”
    “Don’t I know it. This is the woman that had me up all night making petits fours for her granddaughter’s birthday party. Is she really in danger, then?”
    I shrugged. “Better safe than sorry.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that. She’s the best of the bunch. I don’t like to think of her in