No Cure For Love (8 page)

Outside the window was a night view of skyscrapers across the street, a painted or computer-generated backdrop about ten feet high, which would look real on camera. The duty rosters and wanted posters pinned to the corkboards looked real enough, too, though the paper seemed yellow and dry.

A couple of minutes later, Stuart walked back in with Sarah Broughton. She was wearing what Arvo took to be her TV uniform, a simple grey suit over a white blouse, and carrying a black purse. Smaller than he had expected, about five-four, she was even more beautiful than her photograph, though he got the sense that she was still at least partly in her character and trying to look rather more prim and severe than she would normally. Her eyes were a deep, disturbing cobalt blue. The colour and depth of a cold ocean a man could easily lose himself in.

‘Sarah Broughton, Arvo Hughes,’ Stuart introduced them. They shook hands; hers was cool and limp. Then they sat in the rickety chairs, Stuart leaning back against a desk. The irony of a real detective interviewing a TV detective in a fake precinct house wasn’t lost on Arvo.

Sarah sat erect at the edge of her chair, legs crossed, hands linked just below her right knee. Her right leg was moving slightly back and forth, as if in time to some unheard music.

‘Were all three letters addressed the same way?’ Arvo asked.

‘Yes.’

‘What did the first two say?’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t recall the exact wording. They were short, much shorter than the third. I think he just said how happy he was to find me again after so long and he promised not to let me go this time. He said he would write again soon, that he had a lot to think about.’

‘Were there any sexual references?’

‘No. Not in the first two.’

‘Any threats?’

‘No.’

‘I understand you think someone’s been watching you?’

‘Maybe. But it’s just a feeling. I mean, I haven’t actually seen anyone.’

‘Where?’

‘In the hills across the highway. And further up the beach. I thought I saw binoculars flash a couple of times, but I was already jumpy. It could have been anything, anyone.’

‘Does the name “Little Star” mean anything to you?’

She hesitated. Her leg started moving more quickly, as if the tempo had increased. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I mean, I don’t remember.’

‘What don’t you remember?’

‘Anyone calling me “Little Star.”’

‘But it
is
familiar to you, isn’t it? You
think
it comes from somewhere, means something, don’t you?’

Her jaw muscles seemed to tighten and her leg moved faster. ‘I don’t remember.’

‘Okay. What about
M
?’

She shrugged. ‘It could be anyone couldn’t it? I have a friend called Miriam. I know a Michael and a— What are you doing?’

‘Writing the names down. I’ll get the full details from you later. I’ll have to check them out.’

‘But surely that’s not necessary?’

‘It
could
be someone close to you.’

‘But he . . . he’s crazy. I don’t know anyone like that.’

‘He could appear quite normal. Let me do my job, Ms Broughton. Just give me the names and addresses. Everyone you know with the initial “M.” First name, middle or last.’ He smiled. ‘I’m not going to haul people in for questioning, you know. I can be discreet.’

Sarah’s eyes flashed briefly, then she said, ‘Very well.’ She took an address book from her purse and gave him the information.

Arvo went on. ‘In the letter, he – let’s assume it’s a
he
for now – he refers to you as Sally. Stu told me that’s your real name, Sally Bolton.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Why did you change it?’

‘The studio thought it sounded too . . . I don’t know . . . too lower-class. I’ll never be able to fathom what goes on in the minds of these sales and marketing people. Sarah Broughton just sounded more California Brit to them. More classy.’ She flashed a nervous smile. One upper front tooth overlapped the other, and Arvo thought it looked sexy as hell.

‘How long have you been living here?’ he asked.

‘About fifteen months. Since a year last September, to be exact.’

‘Before that?’

She shrugged. ‘I lived in London. I travelled . . .’

‘And you came over here to work on this series?’

‘No. That came later.’

‘How much later?’

She looked at Stuart. ‘Let me see,’ she said. ‘They started casting last January.’

‘Did you apply?’

‘No. I was staying with an old friend from England, Ellie Huysman. She used to be Stuart’s assistant here. When the part came up, she thought of me.’

‘When did you change your name?’

‘March.’

‘Any idea who might be sending the letters?’

‘Not the slightest.’

‘Ex-boyfriends?’

She reddened a little but kept her composure. ‘There haven’t been very many.’

‘Who was the last?’

‘It’s of no relevance. He’s dead.’

‘How did he die? When?’

Sarah paused for a moment. Arvo noticed a tic at the left side of her jaw. ‘I told you it’s irrelevant, but if you must know, he died of a drug overdose. Late last year.’

‘Were you with him at the time?’

‘No, we’d split up.’

‘What about the one before that?’

‘The only serious one was Justin. Justin Mercer. I lived with him for five years in London, but that was a long time ago.’

‘How long?’

‘Ten years. He was older. An actor. I was new in the business. It started as an affair, then he left his wife . . .’ She shrugged. ‘I can’t very well see Justin pursuing me this way. He dumped me for a younger model just after my thirtieth birthday.’

‘I didn’t see his address in your book. Mercer does begin with an “M.” Have you still got it?’

‘No. We haven’t stayed in touch. You should be able to find out easily enough, though. He’s quite famous.’

‘He still lives in England?’

‘As far as I know, he does.’

‘What about while you’ve been here, in Los Angeles.’

She shook her head. ‘There’s been no one.’

‘Anyone who might
like
to have been?’

That small smile came to her lips again, just revealing the overlapping teeth. ‘Probably a few,’ she said. ‘But nobody who’s been really troublesome.’

‘What about dates, casual affairs?’

‘You mean one-night stands?’

‘If you like.’

‘I don’t go in for that sort of thing.’

One of the director’s assistants walked in and said something about getting the show on the road again. Technicians started ambling among the snaking cables at the edges of the phony precinct house.

‘Okay,’ Arvo said to him. ‘Almost finished.’ Then he turned to Sarah again. She sat down slowly. ‘Are you sure you can’t think of
anyone
who might be doing this?’

‘No, I can’t. I’m sorry.’

‘Well, think about it, will you? And think about “Little Star.” You might remember something important. If the writer
did
know you, it could help us find him.’

‘I’ll try. Is that all?’

‘For now.’ Arvo stood up and handed her his card. ‘And get in touch immediately if anything else happens, okay?’

She nodded.

‘I understand you’re leaving the country tomorrow?’

‘Yes.’

‘Between now and then, I suggest you take extra security measures, just in case. Make sure everything’s locked up properly, avoid walking around alone, that sort of thing. Common sense stuff.’

‘I will,’ she said.

Outside the sound-stage, Stuart picked up two skewers from the barbecue and offered Arvo one. He accepted. The shrimp was delicious, marinated in some sort of Thai sauce, spicy and sweet at the same time.

‘What do you think?’ Stuart asked as they walked back to the administration block.

‘I don’t know,’ said Arvo. ‘But I think you’re right. I got the feeling that she’s either holding something back or she really can’t remember. Either way, “Little Star” means
something
to her.’

‘Why would she hold anything back?’

‘That’s one of the things that puzzles me. But if she’s not holding back, then why can’t she remember? Whatever the reason, it’s worth opening a file.’ He popped the last shrimp in his mouth, said goodbye to Stuart and headed for his car.

8

The Boulevard was a kaleidoscope of broken colour, shards of green, orange, red and blue neon fragmenting through his windshield as he cruised, looking for the right place.

He stopped at a red light. His chest felt tight and his breath was coming in sharp, rapid gasps. Hanging from the rear-view mirror was his talisman, a small framed icon of Sarah/Sally. She was naked from the waist up, her small breasts firm and rounded, thrust forward like the figurehead of a ship. And
she was smiling at him
.

The light changed and the car behind him honked its horn. A wave of anger swept through him and for a moment he felt like . . . but no. He knew he had to keep control; he mustn’t give in to blind rage. This was for Sally.

Slowly, he edged down the throbbing Boulevard. From store windows, mannequins followed him with their gaze; crowds wandered from bar to bar, oblivious to him. But that would soon change.

Finally, he found the stretch he had been looking for. A place where the pickings would be easy. It didn’t matter who the victim was, only
what
. Like a cat, he thought. Does a cat really care which bird it captures? Doesn’t one pigeon look just like another?

He pulled over and parked by the curb, engine still ticking over, and wound down the window.

Maybe it was okay to be a little nervous. It gave him an edge; it honed his vision. The lights had never looked so sharp; they felt like knifepoints piercing his eyeballs. He knew that he would never see anything as clearly as what he was to do tonight. And it was all for her. He gazed proudly at his icon.

A figure separated itself from a small group standing outside a minimart and strutted towards him. He held his breath and gripped the wheel tightly. His pigeon.

9

Sarah woke with a start at four-fifteen in the morning. At first she felt confused, not sure what had woken her. For a while she just lay there, hardly daring to breathe, frightened that there was someone in the house. But it was probably just a siren or a squeal of brakes on the Coast Highway. As the policeman had suggested, she had locked up everything securely, including the outside gate to the beach. She lay still and listened for ten minutes. Nothing. All she could hear was the ceaseless rolling of the waves and her own heart beating too loud and too fast.

When she was certain she could hear no one else in the house, she got out of bed and walked over to the sliding glass doors that led to the second-level deck. She left the light off, just in case there was anyone watching her, and slid the doors open slowly and quietly. If
he
was out there somewhere, she didn’t want him to know that she had heard him.

But she could see nothing out there, either, only the ocean rippling and rolling under its pale blanket of moonlight. She thought she saw something further up the beach, the sudden movement of a flashlight, perhaps, but it was gone before she could be certain.

She wondered if she should phone the police, but decided they would think she was getting paranoid. After all, she had only received three weird letters. As Stuart said, there was nothing special about that in Hollywood.

Still a little nervous, she knew she wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep. She was also thirsty from the red wine she’d had with Jack at dinner that night, and Italian food always gave her heartburn. First, she padded to the bathroom, where she drank a large glass of water and took a couple of Maalox tablets. Then she went downstairs to the kitchen and put water and ground beans in the coffee-maker.

She would have to watch the drinking, she admonished herself, feeling the weight of a mild headache as she moved. For over a year now she had hardly touched a drop; even at Jack’s party she had held on to one rum and Coke for the entire evening. But last night at dinner, she had drunk four glasses of red wine and laughed too loudly. Bad signs.

It was her habit most mornings to get up around dawn. First she would make coffee, then, while it was brewing, she would go for a run. It was too early yet, though. She liked to wait until she could sense the first light before she set off.

She put on her tracksuit, drank coffee, ate toast, did a little housework and read J.B. Priestley’s
The Good Companions
for a while. It was the third time she had read the book, and it always made her feel homesick. Then, when she felt the light growing outside, she stood up and stretched. After her warm-up exercises, she set off. Originally a chore, the morning run had soon become compulsion, and now it was a pleasure.