Питер Робинсон - No Cure for Love

Wearing cut-off denim shorts and a white Good Cop, Bad Cop T-shirt, Sarah turned the chicken pieces, basting them with tandoori sauce as she did so. A big pot of rice was cooking on the kitchen stove, in chicken stock with turmeric and salt, and Paula was back there in the kitchen, mixing up a salad.

The children were playing on the beach, throwing pebbles, running at the waves and back, as if being chased by them, squealing with delight. A few yards further down, a man stood up to his thighs in water, holding a fishing rod. Optimist, Sarah thought. And to think what had happened on that same beach only a couple of weeks ago. Sarah gave a little shudder. She looked at her watch. He should be here by now. She realized she was anxious to hear what had happened.

Her father sat in his wheelchair at the other end of the deck, wrapped in a light blanket, staring out to sea. He looked lost in his own sense of impending death. Though it had exhausted him, he had made the journey to what must have seemed like the other side of the earth, and Sarah knew he had forgiven her. She loved him and wished there were something she could do other than watch him die, but she knew there wasn’t. All the doctors in California couldn’t cure what he had.

The doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it,” Paula yelled from the kitchen.

“Okay,” Sarah shouted back.

A moment later, Paula walked through to the deck with Arvo in tow.

“Look what I found on the doorstep,” she said. “Is he yours?”

Sarah blushed and thumped her sister on the arm. “Paula!” She turned to Arvo. “Please forgive my sister,” she said. “She never did learn any manners.” Then she introduced him to her father, who nodded and shook hands. The children stayed on the beach. They had already eaten hot dogs for lunch, having fallen immediately in love with real American junk food, and they were easy to keep an eye on down there. They knew not to go out into the sea, and even if they hadn’t been told, the size of the waves would have given them ample warning of the danger.

“You can put those beers in there, if you like,” Sarah said to Arvo, pointing to the cooler. Arvo did so, detaching a can for himself first. “Anyone else want one?” he asked.

“Can’t stand that weak American stuff,” said Paula. “Tastes like gnat’s piss.”

Sarah smiled. Ah, good old Paula, back on form now she’s got a new audience.

“I suppose it’s too cold for you,” Arvo said. “Don’t you English like your beer warm?”

“Get away with you,” she said, laughing. “Do you know, you sound just like one of those blokes on telly.”

“Which one?”

“Americans. On telly, back home.”

“Oh, I see. Well, I am an American, I guess. You sure you won’t have a cold beer?”

Paula gave a coy smile. “Oh, go on then. You’ve twisted my arm.” He passed her a can of Michelob.

Paula actually looked quite attractive, Sarah thought, without condescension. It wasn’t that she had changed her style much: Frederick’s of Hollywood might have beckoned, but Paula was a Bullock’s girl at heart. Still, she had a good enough body to look good in her jeans and Disneyland T-shirt, and she had picked up a tan very quickly. But it went deeper than that, Sarah thought. Paula was more relaxed, she was actually enjoying herself, and the frown and worry lines that had seemed so deeply etched in her face had faded.

“Want one?” Arvo asked Sarah.

“No, I mustn’t,” she said. “I’ve got a Diet Coke on the go somewhere. I hope you like Indian food.” She turned the chicken pieces again.

“If it tastes as good as it smells,” he said, “I can’t see any problems there.”

“Sit down.”

“Sure I can’t do anything?”

“No. Everything’s under control. Paula’s making a salad, aren’t you, dear?”

Paula stuck her tongue out and went back inside.

Arvo sat and put his feet up on the low wooden railing of the deck. He cradled the can of Michelob with both hands on his lap. He was wearing white cotton slacks, sandals and a dark green golf shirt with a tiny knight on horseback embroidered on the breast pocket.

“You a copper, then?” Arthur Bolton wheezed.

“Yes,” Arvo answered. “A detective.”

“Never did like coppers. Never friends of the working man, they weren’t. And certainly no friends of the miners.” Then he went back to staring out to sea. Sarah looked at Arvo and winked, giving a “What can I do with him?” shrug. Arvo shook his head and smiled.

Soon the food was ready and they all sat around the wooden picnic bench to eat. Sarah helped herself to a glass of chilled white wine. Arvo and Paula stuck with beer. Arthur Bolton tried a Michelob but didn’t drink much of it.

“It’s okay to talk about it,” Sarah said to Arvo. “You know, about what happened. I’ve told them just about everything. But there’s still a lot I don’t know.”

Arvo nodded and tasted some chicken. “Delicious,” he said. “How’s Stuart?”

“He’s at home. I think he’s still on fluids. The knife did some intestinal damage. The doctor says it’ll be a while before he’s up to par. It’ll certainly be a while before he’s up to Indian food. Can you imagine Stuart having to change his diet?” Sarah took a mouthful of rice and smiled at Arvo. “What did you find out?” she asked.

“Quite a lot, really. Mitchell Cameron was pretty keen to talk after he found out Mark was dead. I believe he really did care for his kid brother, in an odd sort of way.”

“Why did he run away from you?”

Arvo shrugged. “It’s habitual with some people. Mitch is a small-time felon. When he left San Francisco, he owed a lot of people money, people who wouldn’t go that easy on him if they found him. He also owed the phone company and utilities. That’s why he put them all in Mark’s name here in LA. Mark Lister . Which is also why we couldn’t track him through phone or utility records. Anyway, Mitch had been into dealing drugs with a couple of crooked cops from Hollywood Division. They’d arrest someone, take their stash as evidence, then it’d find its way back onto the street again via Mitch and his club connections. Trouble was, he’d been robbing them blind, and he thought they’d finally found out and sent someone over to get him. These people break limbs and shoot kneecaps. That’s why he ran.”

“And meanwhile, Mark had come out here?”

“That’s right. He must’ve thought he’d died and gone to heaven when he saw you come home. We screwed up. I’m sorry.”

Sarah said nothing. She was remembering her confrontation with Mark on the beach. Heaven? She doubted it. “Why?” she asked. “What made him do what he did?”

Arvo took a sip of beer before answering. “You’d have to ask a psychiatrist that,” he said. “And I doubt if even they would be able to give you the full answer. I don’t know. His family background was one factor. His mother was a real piece of work.”

“How?”

“She hung around with a rough crowd, bikers mostly. Liked to live fast and dangerous. She died of a drug overdose.”

“What happened to the children?”

“Fostered. Best thing that could have happened to them. They got fed, schooled, well taken care of.”

“Then why did they turn out the way they did?” Sarah asked.

“Again, we don’t know,” said Arvo. “Maybe it was just too late. They’d suffered abuse and neglect when they were kids, in their most formative years. The sister turned out best of the three. Lives in Boston, got a good job with a publishing company. She wants nothing to do with her half-siblings. And who can blame her? When you get right down to it, Mitch is just another asshole with an attitude, a petty criminal. Only Mark was genuinely sick and nobody really knew because he didn’t talk.” Arvo took another sip of beer to cool the heat of the spices and went on. “Mitch told me a story which might explain part of what happened, though I don’t think we’ll ever be able to explain it all.