Питер Робинсон - No Cure for Love

Almost on cue, the gunfire started up outside. Arvo guessed that the guy in the video shop just didn’t want to come out with his hands up. At least he hoped the gunfire was part of the show. He still felt shaky from yesterday’s confrontation with Chuck. There’s nothing like talking to a guy holding a.38 for concentrating a man’s thoughts, even if it does turn out to be a replica.

“Any idea who the letter-writer might be?” he asked.

“No.”

“Do you think she does?”

Stuart hesitated.

“Do you?” Arvo asked again.

Again, Stuart hesitated.

Arvo pushed the letter across the desk. “Look, Stu,” he said, “you asked me to come here for a reason. You’ve seen letters like this before. What is it about this one that’s got you so rattled?”

“It’s just... You know, I told Sarah there was nothing to get her panties in a knot about, tried to stop her worrying. Like I said, she doesn’t need that right now. But... I don’t know... I think there’s more to it. I think it really might be someone she knew once but can’t remember. Someone really weird who’s come back to claim her.”

“What makes you think that?”

Stuart shrugged. “Just the way she reacted when I asked her about it, that’s all. Hell, it’s mostly just a gut reaction on my part. I’m probably imagining things. But he does say in the letter that he’s known her before.”

“Oh, come on, Stu. That means diddly. That’s a common fantasy in this type of letter. You can’t take the content of these things at face value. There’s how many million viewers out there? All with the hots for pretty Miss Sarah Broughton. Those are the kinds of dreams you sell, Stu. That’s the business you’re in. What’s the odds that there’s more than a few of them out there two tacos short of a combination platter?”

Stuart pushed his glasses back over the bridge of his slightly hooked nose. “Can you help, Arvo? Can you tell me how dangerous this guy’s likely to be?”

“We don’t even know it’s a guy, for a start.”

“Shit. Are you telling me you get stalking dykes?”

“Sure we do. It’s an equal opportunities business. No discrimination allowed.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Leave it with me. I don’t think there’s any real danger yet. The highest probability of approach comes from people who have sent between ten and fourteen letters over a long period. But I’ll have a closer look at it.”

“Thanks, Arvo.”

“No problem.” Arvo looked at his watch. “Can we go over and talk to her now?”

Arvo and Stuart walked along the perimeter road of the studio lot. As they neared the commissary, a group of people came out and walked toward them. One of them, a small, wizened elderly man, smiled and said hello. He looked familiar, and Arvo felt he should recognize him, but he couldn’t put a name to the face.

Stuart was smiling. “Know who that was?”

Arvo shook his head.

“Mel Brooks.”

Of course. It was obvious when someone told you.

They crossed the road to the sound stages, huge, white hangar-like buildings laid out in a grid system over several blocks. There were twenty of them altogether, and in the boom days they might have all been in use. Now, though, many of them stood empty and silent. It was easy to spot the ones that were being used because they had trailers outside for the actors.

As they walked between the stages, technicians and office workers passed to and fro, some of them using little golf-carts to get around.

“Here we are,” Stuart said, pointing to the hangar ahead.

Outside the sound-stage door, the caterers had set up barbecues of plump chicken breasts, shrimp and bay scallops on skewers, T-bone steaks, salmon and swordfish. Arvo smelled the sauces and marinades before he even saw the barbecue and realized he had forgotten to eat lunch. Maybe later. If he was lucky.

They went inside and Stuart led Arvo over to the set. “You might as well stay here,” he said. “I’ll go find her.”

Arvo looked around. He was in a fake police precinct, which looked as if it had been built in about 1930 and not cleaned or redecorated since. The puce plaster walls were cracked and stained, the wooden desks scratched. The glass in one of the windows was broken and the paintwork around it was chipped and grimy. It looked derelict now, but under the 50,000-watt lights it would look only as grungy as people expected a precinct house to look.

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 gray 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 color 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.”