Питер Робинсон - No Cure for Love

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.

The Boulevard Was a kaleidoscope of broken color, 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 rearview 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 toward him. He held his breath and gripped the wheel tightly. His pigeon.

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.