Broken Heart (22 page)

A few seconds later, I had something.

The white paper was a diary, or a table of some description. There was handwriting inside boxes, some numbers too, and although it was untidy and difficult to make out, the longer I looked at it, the more it began to make sense. It was a time chart. I leaned even closer to the window, my breath fogging
up the glass, trying to read the entries on it. Then I realized something: the same word was repeated over and over again.

Raker
.

I felt something curdle in my stomach. There were mentions of the Mendips, the address of Veronica Mae’s house, my hotel in Bristol. Whoever the Mercedes belonged to, they’d been following me the entire time.

Stealing a quick look at the entrance to the service station, I gave the car another rock, harder this time. The piece of yellow card strayed further beyond the perimeter of the file, two of the photographs stapled to it coming into view.

It took me a second to process what I was seeing.

The first one was a photograph of Alex Cavarno, the COO of AKI Europe. I’d met her in the Comet cinema two days ago. I paused there, a little thrown. Why the hell was there a picture of her? It had been taken without her knowing, outside the entrance to the Comet. She had a takeaway coffee in one hand and was talking on her mobile. As I looked at her, frozen within the boundaries of the snapshot, I remembered the short, unspoken moment between the two of us, the fizz of a connection. Dismissing the feeling, and then forcing the memory away too, I tried to concentrate, to connect the dots, to work out why she was being followed, just the same as me, but I couldn’t put it together.

I switched my attention to the second photograph.

It sat adjacent to the one of Alex Cavarno, half still hidden beneath the cover of the folder. I tilted my head, trying to work out what was going on in it, and realized it was a blurry shot of an old man, slightly crooked, at the front door of a house. The walls either side of him were constructed in London stock brick, so it must have been somewhere in the capital.

The man was probably in his nineties, although it was difficult to tell for certain. He was very tall, had a thin covering of white hair, and was smartly dressed in a navy jacket and brown trousers. He had a walking stick pressed between his arm and his ribcage, and was half turned to the door, as if locking up.

Just like the picture of Alex Cavarno, this one had been taken without the subject knowing, cars out of focus in the foreground, as if the photographer had been stationed across from the old man, on the other side of the street.

I glanced towards the service station again, and then back to the picture, and – when I looked at it a second time – something clicked into place. Immediately, like a match igniting in the darkness, I was transported back to Hosterlitz’s noirs, to the actor I’d seen in
Connor O’Hare
and
The Eyes of the Night.

It was Glen Cramer.

This was the person Hosterlitz had discovered in an off-Broadway show; the man who had won two Oscars for his roles in Hosterlitz’s noirs. In fact, Cramer was unique, a record-breaker – the only male actor in Hollywood history to have ever won four Academy Awards for acting. But why would anyone want to photograph him like this, as an old man? Why do it in secret? What connection did he have to Alex Cavarno? To me? To any of this?

I finally stepped away from the car, knowing that I had to get clear of the vehicle before the owner came back. Looking around to make sure I wasn’t being watched, I moved to the rear bumper.

Tearing off a strip of packing tape, I turned the phone on and then taped the handset to the underside of the Mercedes, making sure the mobile was out of sight. I then layered
the phone with more packing tape, ensuring there was no give and that it was properly secured to the belly of the car. Once I was satisfied, I headed back across the car park to the side of the Travelodge, retreating into the shadows, still trying to work out what I’d seen.

Cramer had been signed to AKI in the early 1950s, and he’d returned to do films with them over and over again throughout his career. But he hadn’t
just
worked for AKI – he’d done work across all the Hollywood studios. So why was he being photographed now? Why was Cramer even in London in the first place? He was American, he lived in LA.

But then another memory started to form, a shape gliding towards the surface of a lake.

Royalty Park
.

The blockbuster television show, co-funded by AKI and the BBC, had been the most-watched programme of 2014, and the fourth series was just about to drop. It was filling ad breaks, billboards, web pages – and, when I’d talked to Alex Cavarno, she’d said the launch party for the new series was on Monday.
That
was why. Cramer had come out of retirement in 2010 to play the role of a retired American ambassador. I wasn’t a regular viewer of the show, which was why I hadn’t made the leap straight away – but that was the reason he was living in London. So why was he being followed? Why was Alex? Why was I?

Suddenly, I clocked movement near the Mercedes.

The driver
.

He was approaching the vehicle, but not looking in my direction. Instead, his eyes were on my BMW, parked thirty feet from him. He looked from my car back to the entrance, and then out across the rest of the car park. He’d clearly looked for me inside but been unable to find me.

I stepped back even further into the shadows, slowly, so he didn’t register the shift, and then he came around to the front of the car and got inside.

Wait a second
, I thought.
I know this guy.

Yet, because I wasn’t immediately sure where I knew him from, I began to doubt myself. He was wearing a baseball cap, a tan jacket and a black turtleneck, none of which rang any bells. He had a shaved head. He was stocky, like a boxer gone to seed, in his late forties, with grey stubble. He was chunky and powerful, craggy and unattractive. Did I
really
know him? From where?

He glanced across at my BMW again, and then he finally fixed his gaze on the entrance to the service station, his face turned further towards me.

Shit. I know where I’ve seen him before.

I know who he is.

He’d been inside the Comet cinema the day I’d first met with Alex and Louis Grant. He’d been at the front of the auditorium with a tape measure. He was supposedly drawing up plans for AKI’s office renovation – except he hadn’t been doing that at all.

He’d been listening to my conversation.

The man in the Mercedes was the architect at the Comet.

31

I left a message with Alex Cavarno’s PA and told her I needed to speak to Alex as soon as possible. But, the moment I hung up, I was gripped by panic. What if she was involved in whatever this was? What if the architect was there that day on her instructions? Every case I’d ever worked had been populated by lies and liars – what if she was the same?

But if that was what was going on here, it didn’t make any sense. If she knew who the architect was and why he was following me, then why was he taking photos of her without her knowledge? Why invite him to the Comet so that I could see what he looked like? As I retreated further into the shadows, beneath the rattle of an old air-conditioning unit at the side of the Travelodge, my phone began buzzing again.

It was her.

I let it ring a couple of times, trying desperately to draw links between the things that I’d found out over the course of the last few days, but nothing led me back to her. The only link I could see was American Kingdom itself: Alex was running the European office, Cramer had starred in some of its most-renowned films, and I was trying to find the wife of a director who once worked for them.

I pushed Answer. ‘David Raker.’

‘David, it’s Alex Cavarno.’

Her accent sounded stronger over the phone, the hint of her West Coast roots coming through, and I replayed an
image of her walking towards me inside the Comet: olive skin, shoulder-length black hair; a blue skirt and white blouse.

‘Thanks for calling me back so quickly.’

‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I’m really glad you got in touch.’

She thought this was about something else. I had to manoeuvre us away from here. It was dangerous ground, but not as dangerous as allowing myself to become distracted. I was trying to find Lynda Korin. That was all that mattered.

‘David?’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘This is slightly awkward. You remember I told you I was trying to find Robert Hosterlitz’s widow, Lynda Korin?’

‘Sure, I remember. Did you get everything you needed from Louis?’

‘Yeah, I did, but …’ I stopped.
I’ve just got to tell her.
‘I’m being followed,’ I said.

A confused pause. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Someone is following me.’

‘What are you talking about?’ She sounded genuinely disconcerted. ‘What do you mean, you’re being followed?’

‘The guy who was there when I met you and Louis in the Comet the other day. I think you said he was your architect. What do you know about him?’

She seemed thrown. ‘Uh …’

‘Did he tell you his name?’

‘Are you saying
he’s
following you?’

I didn’t reply for a moment, giving myself time to think. Her responses felt genuine, but there was no way to tell for sure. I either backed away and played it completely safe, or I opted to trust her and found out what she knew about the architect. For now, I didn’t know which one was the right choice.

‘David?’ she said, sounding irritated for the first time. Her voice had begun to harden. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ She sounded pissed off, misled.

‘Your architect’s got pictures of you and Glen Cramer in his car.’

A stunned silence, punctuated only by a series of words that seemed to catch in her throat. ‘What?’ she said finally – and then, more forcibly, as if the idea was really hitting home: ‘
What?
What the hell are you talking about?’

I glanced at my watch. Six-fifteen. As far as the architect was concerned, I’d been inside the service station for half an hour. It was time to wind my way back around to my car if I didn’t want to arouse his suspicions.

‘What’s his name?’ I asked.

‘Uh …’ She still sounded confused. ‘Uh, Billy Egan.’

I remembered her calling him Billy at the Comet.

‘Have you used him before?’ I asked.

‘No,’ she said, gathering herself. ‘We invited local businesses to pitch for the work because we thought that would play out well with the community and the press. Seriously, David, this is right out of left field, don’t you think?’

I entered the rear doors of the service station, into the crowds of people.

‘Why would he be taking pictures of me?’ she said. ‘Of Glen?’

‘I don’t know yet.’

‘But his credentials were impeccable. He had photographs of all the work he’d done before, he had brilliant references, he even gave me the numbers of ex-clients of his – I chatted to them and they said he was …’ She paused, as if holes were opening up in front of her eyes.
He showed her photographs of buildings and projects – but none of them were really his work. He showed her references – but they were fake. She spoke to ex-clients of his – but they weren’t ex-clients at all.

‘Son of a bitch,’ she said softly.

A second later, I emerged into the late-afternoon sunlight at the front of the service station, and immediately kept my focus on my car.

‘Did he have a website?’ I asked.

‘No. He said it was in the process of being rebuilt.’

‘Did you ever go to his office?’

‘No. He always came to me.’

‘Did he ever give you an email address?’

‘No. He just gave me a phone number.’

‘Can you text it to me?’ I asked. ‘I can’t write it down now.’ The architect’s Mercedes was in my peripheral vision now. ‘Weird question, but did he ever mention
Royalty Park
or maybe the launch party?’

‘No, of course not,’ she said. ‘Why would he mention that?’

‘I’m trying to think of why he’d be interested in Glen Cramer.’

I opened my car and slid in at the wheel.

‘Could you email me over the guest list for the party as well?’

‘Yeah, sure. I’ll get my PA to send it to you.’

I pulled my pad across from the passenger seat and made some notes. ‘You said you invited local businesses to pitch for the contract at the Comet?’

‘It was America’s idea.’

‘The US office?’

‘Yeah. To be honest, the whole thing was driven by the US. They suggested getting people to pitch, the pitches were sent out to them for approval, and they were the ones who
selected Egan. I just met up with him so he could show me his portfolio and make sure I was in the loop. Everything else was done out of LA.’

I paused, pen hovering just above the page.

‘So who in the US office set this whole pitch process in motion?’

‘Ultimately, it was Saul Zeller.’

‘The guy who runs AKI?’

‘Wait a second, wait a second.’ She was clearly trying to pull it all together. ‘Are you saying that Saul lied to me?’

I paused for a moment, thinking. Switching the phone to speaker, I asked Alex to give me a second, then backed out of the call and went to my web browser. I put in a search for ‘Billy Egan Architect’. There was nothing.

‘So your part in all of this was what?’ I asked.

‘You mean the selection process? My admin staff compiled all the pitches and mailed them off to the US. We waited a couple of weeks, and then Saul got back to me and said, “This is the guy. Chat to him, to the people he’s done work for, see if you agree.” I chatted to Egan and he seemed smart. I liked his ideas. That was the end of it.’

The lack of a website, an email address, the fact that he always came to her office, not the other way around, hadn’t registered with her at the time. I didn’t blame her for that. She rightly would have assumed that Saul Zeller – or, rather, his team in the US – had done the necessary checks at their end.