Питер Робинсон - No Cure for Love

“But why would anyone want to do a thing like that? Crazy or not. Plant a body for someone to find?”

Arvo finished his Harp. “No reason that would make sense to you or me,” he said. “But people often have their own logic: attention, exhibitionism, vindictiveness, need for approval.”

“A psycho. You’re talking about a fucking psycho, aren’t you? Silence of the fucking lambs, that’s what it is.”

“I told you, I don’t know. But I want to look into it. If it’s some stranger living out a fantasy, we’ve got a problem, but if there really is a connection, and it’s someone from her past, then maybe we can find him before she comes back. It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?”

Stuart ran his hand through his hair. “Okay. Sure. Look, do you think she’s in any danger in England?”

Arvo shrugged. “I doubt it. Stalkers have been known to travel great distances after their prey. One guy even went so far as to go to Australia looking for Olivia Newton-John. But things like that cost a lot of money, take a lot of planning. And if all she’s got so far is three letters, he’s still in the early stages. You might give her a call and suggest she take care, but I don’t really think there’s anything to worry about. After all, we don’t even know for certain that there is a link between Sarah and the body. It’s just a theory I’m working on.”

Stuart nodded. “So where do we go from here?”

“To start with, I need to know as much as you can tell me about Sarah Broughton.”

Stuart slapped down enough cash to cover the bill. “Okay,” he said. “But let’s walk. This fucking cheeseburger’s giving me indigestion.”

They walked into the hazy sunshine. Stuart screwed up his eyes against the light, and Arvo put his sunglasses on. Outside on the pier, a puppeteer had set up his show, spinning a grinning marionette through a grueling break-dance to loud rap music. Quite a crowd had gathered around. Stuart clapped his hands over his ears and hurried ahead.

They crossed the walkway to Ocean and turned left toward Palisades Park, a stretch of grass and trees right between Ocean and the cliffs above the Coast Highway. Christmas decorations hung across the street. The music began to fade into the distance. Joggers lumbered by, dripping sweat, grunting with shin splints and gasping for breath. Couples walked hand in hand. Homeless people slept against the boughs of the palms and sheltered under the smaller shrubs by the path. Many of them were wrapped in heavy overcoats, despite the heat, and some clutched plastic bags full of meager possessions.

“Truth is,” Stuart said, “now I come to think of it, I hardly know a thing about Sarah except what I’ve told you.”

“You don’t know anything about her past?”

“A scrap or two, at best. Nothing interesting.”

“She said her last boyfriend was dead. Know who he was?”

“Gary Knox. The rock singer. Have you heard of him?”

Arvo whistled. He had heard of Gary Knox but hadn’t known about his association with Sarah. It seemed an odd combination. Knox was hardly Sarah’s type, from all Arvo had seen and heard.

Gary Knox had found rock-legend immortality when he walked out of a Hollywood hot-spot after his US tour last summer and dropped dead right on the sidewalk. Drug overdose. Arvo remembered reading the endless obits and eulogies in the press, many of the writers obviously trying hard to find a kind word to say about the obnoxious, egomaniacal junkie Knox had apparently been toward the end. Well, now he was part of that eternal junkie jam session in the sky, him and Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Elvis, Kurt Cobain and the rest. At least he was beyond doing anybody harm now.

“How long were they together?” Arvo asked.

“I don’t know. She came over here from London on the tour with him last year. I think that started in the spring, playing outdoor stadiums all across the country. Apparently they’d split up before he died. That’s all I know.”

“Why did they split up?”

Stuart shrugged. “She didn’t say. Just walked out on him.”

“I don’t remember hearing anything about them being an item. Wasn’t there a lot of publicity surrounding their relationship?”

“Not particularly. I mean, she wasn’t well known then. You’d have had to cast a pretty fucking wide net around here to find anyone who’d heard of Sally Bolton. You think everyone sits down and tunes in to PBS?”

“I guess not.”

“You bet your ass not. As far as most people are concerned it’s strictly Beavis and Butt-head, The Simpsons and Married with Children . You can forget your fucking Middlemarches and your endless P.D. James adaptations. Your average television viewer ain’t got the attention span for shit like that. And she looked different then.” Stuart laughed. “Boy did she ever look different. I’ve seen pictures. You know, the frizzy hair, green and orange, and the weird makeup, black lipstick, skin-tight leather pants, bare midriff. Fucking earrings as long as your arm. She even had a tattoo of a butterfly on her left shoulder. Still got it, I guess.” He laughed again. “She sure wasn’t the Sally Bolton who came to my office that day with Ellie.”

“Sarah mentioned Ellie, too,” Arvo said. “Said she was the one who brought the two of you together. That right?”

“Right. Ellie Huysman. She and Sarah went to drama school together in London, then Ellie decided she didn’t have either the talent or the stamina for acting, so she came over here and went into the business side. Eventually got into casting and ended up working for me. Small world, huh?” Stuart laughed. “I think after a couple of years she wished she’d stuck with acting. Would’ve been a lot fucking easier.”

“And you met Sarah through Ellie?”

“That’s right. I was meeting with her one day about this new cop show the network was coming up with and she mentioned she thought Sarah would be perfect. They were looking for something different but the same, as usual on TV, if you get my meaning, and there’s always a pretty good market for the right kind of Brit women. You know, Amanda Donohoe, Emma Thompson, Helena Bonham Carter and the rest. So I ordered some videos of Sarah’s work from PBS, and I saw what Ellie meant.”

“Is Ellie Huysman still around?” Arvo asked.

“Moved to Canada late last year, just after she introduced me to Sally. Said she couldn’t stand living in LA one more minute. Not that I blame her, some days. I mean, we got a few problems here, right? But I ask you, fucking Canada? Anyway, she lives in Toronto now. She’s still in the business. Apparently they make movies up there in the snow, too.”

“You got her number?”

“Sure.” Stuart pulled a small address book from his pocket and gave Arvo a number with a 416 area code. “She’ll be able to tell you a lot more than I can about Sarah,” he said. “Like I said, they’re old friends. Go way back.”

“What does Karen think about your relationship with Sarah?”

Stuart narrowed his eyes. “I know what you’re getting at, Arvo,” he said, “but forget it, there’s nothing like that between us at all. Never was. Sarah’s special. It’s like she’s family.”

“Karen goes along with this?”

“Karen adores her.”

That satisfied Arvo for the moment. He had met Karen a year ago at a party Stuart had thrown. She was a strong-willed, intelligent woman about twenty years younger than Stuart, and she had given up a promising acting career for her husband and family. She and Sarah would be about the same age, Arvo calculated, around thirty-four. If Karen accepted Sarah, that was a good enough character reference for him.