mouth shut. It was clear from three short sentences that the voice that had made Brenda Barrowclough the darling of impressionists the length and breadth of the comedy circuit wasn’t something Gloria took on and cast off as readily as her character’s trademark bottle-blonde beehive wig. Gloria really did talk in broad North Manchester with the gravelly growl of a bulldozer in low gear.
‘How can I help you, Ms Kendal?’ I asked, remembering my manners and stepping out from behind the reception desk. She might not be a CEO in a grey suit, but she clearly had enough in the bank to make sure we all had a very happy Christmas.
‘Call me Gloria, chuck. In fact, call me anything except Brenda.’ After twenty years of TV viewing, the raucous laugh was as familiar as my best friend’s. ‘I’m looking for Brannigan,’ she said.
‘You found her,’ I said, holding out my hand.
Gloria dropped a limp bunch of fingers into mine and withdrew before I could squeeze them – the professional sign of someone who had to shake too many hands in a year. ‘I thought you’d be a bloke,’ she said. For once, it wasn’t a complaint, merely an observation. ‘Well, that makes things a lot easier. I were wondering what we’d do if Brannigan and Co didn’t have women detectives. Is there some place we can go and talk?’
‘My office?’ I gestured towards the open door.
‘Grand,’ Gloria said, sweeping past me and fluttering her fingers in farewell to Shelley.
We exchanged a look. ‘Rather you than me,’ Shelley muttered.
By the time I closed the door behind me, Gloria was settled into one corner of the sofa I use for informal client meetings. She’d taken off her hat and tossed it casually on the low table in front of her. Her own hair was a subtle ash-blonde cut in a gamine Audrey Hepburn style. Somehow it managed not to look ridiculous on a woman who had to be nudging sixty. She had the clear skin of a much younger woman, but none of the Barbie-doll tightness that goes with the overenthusiastic face-lift. As I sat down opposite her, she took off the sunglasses and familiar grey eyes crinkled in a smile. ‘I know it’s ridiculous, but even though people stare at the bins, they don’t recognize Brenda behind them. They just think it’s some daft rich bitch with delusions of grandeur.’
‘Living a normal life must be tough,’ I said.
‘You’re not kidding, chuck. They see you three times a week in their living room, and they think you’re a member of the family. You let on who you are and next thing you know they’re telling you all about their hernia operation and the state of their veins. It’s a nightmare.’ She shrugged out of her coat, opened her handbag and took out a packet of those long skinny brown cigarettes that look like cinnamon sticks, and a gold Dunhill lighter. She looked around, eyebrows raised.
Stifling a sigh, I got up and removed the saucer from under the Christmas cactus. I’d only bought it two days before but already the buds that had promised pretty cascades of flowers were predictably starting to litter the windowsill. Me and plants go together like North and South Korea. I tipped the water from the saucer into the bin and placed it on the table in front of Gloria. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s the best I can do.’
She smiled. ‘I used to work in a cat food factory. I’ve put my fags out in a lot worse, believe me.’
I preferred not to think about it. ‘Well, Gloria, how can I help you?’
‘I need a bodyguard.’
My eyebrows rose. ‘We don’t normally …’
‘These aren’t normal circumstances,’ she said sharply. ‘I don’t want some thick as pigshit bodybuilder trailing round after me. I want somebody with a brain, somebody that can figure out what the heck’s going on. Somebody that won’t attract attention. Half my life I spend with the bloody press snapping round my ankles and the last thing I need is stories that I’ve splashed out on a hired gun. That’s why I wanted a woman.’
‘You said, “somebody that can figure out what the heck’s going on”,’ I said, focusing on the need I probably could do something useful about. ‘What seems to be the problem?’
‘I’ve been getting threatening letters,’ she said. ‘Now, that’s nothing new. Brenda Barrowclough is not a woman who minces her words, and there are a lot of folk out there as can’t tell the difference between Northerners and the real world. You’d be too young to remember, but when I was first widowed in the series, back about fifteen years ago, I was snowed under with letters of condolence. People actually sent wreaths for the funeral, addressed to fifteen, Sebastopol Grove. The Post Office is used to it now, they just deliver direct to the studios, but back then the poor florists didn’t know what to do. We had letters from cancer charities saying donations had been made to their funds in memory of Harry – that was my screen husband’s name. Whenever characters move out, we get letters from punters wondering what the asking price is for the house. So whenever Brenda does owt controversial, I get hate mail.’
I dredged my memory for recent tabloid headlines. ‘Hasn’t there been some storyline about abortion? Sorry, I don’t get the chance to watch much TV.’
‘You’re all right, chuck. Me neither. You know Brenda’s granddaughter, Debbie?’
‘The one who’s lived with Brenda since she was about ten? After her mum got shot in the Post Office raid?’
‘You used to be a fan, then?’
‘I still watch when I can. Which was a lot more back when Debbie was ten than it is now.’
‘Well, what’s happened is that Brenda’s found out that Debbie’s had an abortion. Now, Brenda had a real down on Debbie’s boyfriend because he was black, so the audience would have expected her to support Debbie rather than have a mixed-race grandson. But Brenda’s only gone mental about the right to life and thrown Debbie out on her ear, hasn’t she? So me and Sarah Anne Kelly who plays Debbie were expecting a right slagging off.’
‘And that’s what’s happened?’
Gloria shook her head, leaving a ribbon of smoke drifting level with her mouth. ‘Sort of,’ she said, confusing me. ‘What happens is the studio goes through our post, weeding out the really nasty letters so we don’t get upset. Only, of course, you ask, don’t you? I mean, you want to know if there’s any real nutters out there looking for you.’
‘And the studio told you there was?’
‘No, chuck. It weren’t the studio. The letters I’m worried about are the ones coming to the house.’
Now I was really confused. ‘You mean, your real house? Where you actually live?’
‘Exactly. Now, I mean, it’s not a state secret, where I live. But unless you’re actually a neighbour or one of the reptiles of the press, you’d have to go to a bit of trouble to find out. The phone’s ex-directory, of course. And all the official stuff like electricity bills and the voters’ roll don’t come under Gloria Kendal. They come under my real name.’
‘Which is?’
‘Doreen Satterthwaite.’ She narrowed her eyes. I didn’t think it was because the smoke was getting into them. I struggled to keep my face straight. Then Gloria grinned. ‘Bloody awful, isn’t it? Do you wonder I chose Gloria Kendal?’
‘In
