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clause before I was allowed into the compound that housed the interior and exterior sets, as well as the production suite and admin offices. Apart from location shooting to give the show that authentic Manchester ambience, the entire process from script conference to edited master tapes took place behind the high walls that surrounded NPTV’s flagship complex.
    A fat lot of good it did them.
Northerners
generated more column inches than any other TV program in the country. The fuel for the flames had to come from somewhere, and tabloid papers have always had deep pockets. There’s not a tabloid journalist I’ve ever met who couldn’t explain in words of one syllable to a nervously dithering source that the NPTV legal threat of suing for civil damages was about as solid as the plyboard walls of Brenda Barrowclough’s living room.
    But NPTV insisted on their power trip, and I’d persuaded Gloria it would be simpler all round if we were upfront. The downside of being out in the open was that everyone was on their guard. Nobody was going to let anything slip accidentally. If my target was a member of the
Northerners
team, they’d be very careful around me.
    In order to be effective protection for my client, I had to be visible, which meant that I couldn’t even find a quiet corner and catch up with my e-mail and my invoices. If Gloria was in make-up, I was in make-up. If Gloria was on set, I was hovering round the edges of the set, getting in everybody’s way. If Gloria was having a pee, I was leaning against the tampon dispenser. I could have made one of those video diary programs that would have had any prospective private eye applying for a job as a hospital auxiliary.
    I was trying to balance that month’s books in my head when a hand on my shoulder lifted my feet off the floor. Spot the alert bodyguard. I spun round and found my nose level with the top button of a suit jacket. I took a step back and looked up. The man must have been six-three, wide shouldered and heavy featured. The suit, whose tailoring owed more to Savile Row than to Armani, was cut to disguise the effects of too many business lunches and dinners, but this guy was still a long way off fat. On the other hand, he looked as if he was still only in his early forties and in the kind of trim that betrays a commitment to regular exercise. In a few years, when his joints started complaining and his stamina wasn’t what it had been, he’d swiftly slip into florid flabbiness. I’d seen the type. Greed was always a killer.
    The smile on his broad face softened the stern good looks that come with a square jaw, a broad brow and deep-set eyes under overhanging brows. “You must be Kate Brannigan,” he said, extending a hand. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m John Turpin.”
    For a man who’d gone out of his way to try to persuade Gloria to keep her problems in the family, he seemed amazingly cordial. “Pleased to meet you,” I said.
    “How are your investigations proceeding?” he asked, smiling down on me benevolently.
    “I could ask you the same question.” If the guy was trying to win me over with his affable helpfulness, the least I could do was take advantage and trawl for some information.
    His smile curved up at one corner, suddenly turning his expression from magnanimous to predatory. “I’m afraid I’m more of a
    “But you expect me to share with you?” I asked innocently.
    He chuckled. “Not really, but it never hurts to try. As you yourself so ably demonstrated. I had hoped we could keep Ms. Kendal’s little problem in-house, but if she insists on wasting her money on services we can provide more effectively and for free, I can’t stop her.”
    “Can I tell her when to expect the results of your internal inquiry?” I wasn’t playing the sweetness and light game any more. It hadn’t got me anywhere so I figured I might as well turn into Ms. Businesslike.
    Turpin thrust one hand into his jacket pocket, thumb sticking out