Authors: Peter Robinson
‘It’s okay, honey,’ said Stuart, getting up and touching her arm. ‘Don’t worry about it. Arvo here’s good people. Why don’t I just go out and pick you up a few groceries, huh? Maybe some milk, eggs, bread . . . you know. Some real coffee beans. Hey, it’s not everyone gets a big Hollywood casting director to do their shopping, is it?’
He patted Sarah’s shoulder and she managed a smile. Then he left. Arvo sat in one of the black leather armchairs and Sarah took the sofa. She put her coffee cup on the low glass table.
‘You didn’t have to send him away like that, you know,’ she said as they listened to the Caddy start up and drive off.
In the pause that followed, Arvo got his first long look at Sarah Broughton. At the studio, she had been playing the lady cop, Anita O’Rourke.
Even after a long flight and without make-up, she was certainly a beautiful woman. Her heart-shaped face caught his attention most of all. Her skin was pale and flawless, what he would call an alabaster complexion, which was certainly different from most of the tanned denizens of Hollywood he came into contact with. Her blue eyes matched her lapis lazuli earrings, and though they looked capable of expressing many emotions, at the moment they showed mostly anxiety and weariness – enough to warn him that this might be a difficult interview ahead – and they had bags under them.
Beyond all the external features, though, was the unmistakable gleam of intelligence and, Arvo fancied, a strength of character born of suffering and deprivation. This was a woman who had been there, seen it, and come back changed. Was that an act? Arvo doubted it. Some things you just couldn’t fake that easily.
She gave him a challenging, almost coquettish look. ‘Do you like what you see, Detective Hughes?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Arvo. ‘I didn’t mean to stare.’
She smiled. ‘I’m used to it. Occupational hazard. Though I must admit I’m not at my best right now.’
For some reason, her response irritated him. Her smile looked far too self-satisfied; she was acting, toying with him. Before he could stop himself, he said, ‘I suppose you think this is going to be just like the movies, don’t you? Grunt cop falls in love with beautiful vulnerable actress.’
Her eyes turned to chips of ice. ‘The last thing I need right now is for yet
another
creep to fall in love with me.’
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Bad choice of words.’
She nodded. ‘Indeed it was.’ Very ice-queenly. ‘Look, Detective, I’m really tired. If we can get this over with as soon as possible . . .’ She pushed back the long sleeves of her sweater and picked up her coffee.
Arvo crossed his legs and leaned back in the armchair. It creaked as he moved. Christ, he hated the kind of furniture that made it sound like you farted every time you crossed your legs. ‘I don’t know how long it’ll take,’ he said. ‘Depends on you, really. Maybe the caffeine will keep you awake.’
Sarah sipped her coffee and said nothing.
Arvo glanced over at the telephone answering machine, where the red light was still flashing. Three calls. ‘You could start by playing back the messages,’ he said.
Sarah got up and hit the play button. The first was a hang-up, the second a computerized sales call, and the third was a man’s voice.
‘I know you’re not there, Sarah,’ he said. ‘I know you’re in old Blighty. It’s Christmas Eve and I’ve had a few drinks and I can’t get it together to punch all those overseas buttons. Do they even have phones over there? Anyway, I just want it on record I
did
call to wish you a Merry Christmas. Maybe it’ll give you a laugh listening to this when you get back. Am I slurring my words a lot? Hope you had a good one, sweetie. See you back at the sweat factory.’
The voice was vaguely familiar, but Arvo couldn’t place it. Whoever it was, he certainly sounded drunk or stoned. He glanced at Sarah, and she looked at him through the tears that filmed her eyes. ‘Jack,’ she said. ‘It was Jack. Just the kind of thing he’d do. Idiot.’ She hit the stop button and wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands.
Jack Marillo, the day before he died. It was an eerie feeling. Arvo gave her a moment to sit down and compose herself, then he asked, ‘Have you received any more letters?’
Sarah hesitated, then nodded.
‘Will you show them to me?’
She reached for her purse and passed him the letter and card. He was aware of her watching him over the rim of her coffee cup as he read. Though he doubted that the specialists would find any prints or saliva traces – according to their report, whoever had mailed the first letter had used water and a sponge for the flap and stamp – he handled it carefully anyway.
‘Interesting,’ Arvo said, setting the card and letter down carefully on the table. ‘When did you get the letter?’
‘I picked it up on my way to the airport, when we came here to pack. I was running late. I didn’t want to miss my plane.’
‘No, I don’t suppose you did. And I suppose you thought as soon as you were a few thousand miles away the police would get on with their jobs and clear up the mess for you before you came back? Right? Or maybe that it would all just magically go away?’
She chewed on her bottom lip.
‘And the last thing you wanted to have to deal with when you got back was a situation even worse than the one before you went away, so you tried to convince yourself that none of it had really happened, didn’t you? Denial.’ He held up the letter. ‘I don’t suppose it occurred to you that this practically constitutes a confession to the John Heimar murder?’
‘But I didn’t see how it could help you,’ Sarah protested. ‘How I could help you. It doesn’t tell you
who
did it, does it?’
‘It’s evidence,’ Arvo said. ‘That’s the point. Have you thought any more about who could be doing this? About someone with the initial
M
and about what “Little Star” means?’
‘I’ve thought about it, yes,’ she said, ‘but I still don’t know who it could be.’
‘Could it have anything to do with Gary Knox?’
She frowned. ‘I don’t understand. Gary’s dead.’
‘I know that. I mean before. The tour. It looks like we’re dealing with an American, unless he’s being very clever indeed. Look how he spells “honor” and “anesthetist.” That means that if it is someone who knows you, then it’s most likely either someone you’re working with now, someone at the studio, maybe even on the show, or someone you came into contact with during the tour.’
Sarah seemed surprised. ‘Who have you been talking to? Did Ellie tell you this?’
A light breeze fanned through the doors and ruffled Arvo’s hair. The waves rolled and crashed on the shore. ‘Does it matter? Why don’t you just answer the question?’
‘It could be. I don’t remember a lot about it.’
‘Drugs?’
Sarah said nothing.
‘Look, can you just give me a name? Someone who might remember. I need some sort of lead here.’
She thought for a moment, then said, ‘Stan Harvey. He wasn’t part of it, but he promoted the tour here. I’d also met him in London once when he was on business. He was kind to me,’ she added. ‘Here, I mean. Funny, I should remember that.’
Arvo wrote the name down. ‘And you spent some time in the Shelley Clinic, right?’
Sarah paused. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Yes, I spent some time there.’
‘Did you form any close relationships with any other patients in the clinic?’
‘No. I was too . . . I was suffering from depression. I didn’t really talk to anyone except Dr Fermor. I was very ill.’ She put her hand to her forehead in what Arvo thought was a theatrical gesture. ‘Please . . . I’m tired . . . what do you want from me?’
Arvo leaned forward. ‘In a nutshell? I want you to tell me what you know. I think that the same person who’s been writing you letters killed John Heimar. Then I think he killed Jack Marillo. And I think you know something you’re not telling me. I’m not sure why, but I’d guess you’re still trying to deny the connections to yourself, and you can’t bear to admit any responsibility for Jack’s murder. I’m not blaming you for that. Nobody wants to admit they’re the victim of a love-obsessional, someone who has killed twice already. After all, you didn’t ask for it, did you? You don’t feel you’ve done anything to deserve it, do you? You just don’t want to be involved in the mess. It’ll spoil that neat, comfortable ordered life you’ve got going for you. But you are involved. The order is already spoiled. And that’s not all. You’re in danger, too, and I think you’re scared. It’s time to wake up, Sarah. Face the truth.’
Sarah put her coffee cup on the glass table, stood up and walked over to the sliding glass doors, her back to him. ‘Why are you so certain that Jack’s murder has anything to do with me?’ she asked.
Arvo picked up the briefcase he had brought in with him, took out a black-and-white photograph and walked over to her.
‘Is this scene familiar?’ he asked, holding it out in front of her and pointing to the faint outline in the wet sand. ‘Do you notice anything here?’
Sarah looked at the picture and shook her head, more in denial than to indicate no. She wrapped her arms around herself. The sleeves of her sweater were so long that they covered her hands, and she looked as if she were wearing a straitjacket. She was so tightly coiled in on herself that Arvo could feel the tension in the air around her.
‘Sarah,’ he said slowly. ‘Does the symbol of a heart pierced by an arrow mean anything to you?’
He saw the blood drain from her already pale face, leaving her looking like a ghost, and he knew he’d hit the spot. Shock tactics, but he felt he had to play out this little game, run through the script, to get her where she wanted and needed to be.
‘Why?’ she asked.
‘With maybe a name or something written inside?’
‘A name?’
‘We think it might be, yes.’
‘What name?’ she whispered.
‘We can’t read it.’ This was the information about Jack Marillo’s body that they had managed to keep out of the media. He was probably telling her too much, he knew, but he was running on instinct. He couldn’t stop himself now if he tried.
‘Why?’ she asked again. ‘Where did you find this thing?’
Arvo paused, then said, ‘Someone carved it into Jack Marillo’s stomach with a kitchen knife.’
A sound halfway between a gasp and a groan came from deep in her throat. She looked at Arvo with anger blazing in her eyes and started pounding on his face and chest with her fists until he got his arms around her and held her tightly. Then the violence subsided and she buried her head between his chest and shoulder, and her whole body shuddered with deep, convulsive sobs.
‘You bastard,’ he heard her repeat between sobs. ‘You bastard.’
He didn’t know who she meant – him or the killer.
26
When Sarah awoke the following morning, she felt as if she had taken a sleeping pill; her mouth was dry, eyes heavy, and her head felt muzzy, as if it were filled with warm cotton wool. For a while, she didn’t know where she was. Then she realized she was home at the beach house again.
She lay on her back watching the play of green light on her ceiling and walls, listening to the waves, the gulls and the rumble of traffic on the Coast Highway. In the background, she could hear the gabble of a radio talk show coming from next door.
Slowly, she rolled out of bed, stretched and wandered downstairs to put the coffee on before she took a shower. She’d skip the run this morning. It would take a couple of days to get back into the routine. Maybe even longer.
She had finished grinding the coffee and was tapping it into the filter cone, when the man walked into the kitchen. At first she was aware only of a presence, like a shadow crossing her heart. Grasping a kitchen knife, she twirled round to face him.
It was the detective. He just stood there rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, tie askew, hair dishevelled, hand on his gun in its nylon holster at his waist.
And the next thing Sarah realized was that she was stark naked, as usual first thing in the morning. She always slept in the nude and came down naked to put on the coffee. There was no reason to worry about anyone seeing her because she always closed the front drapes before she went to bed and there were no windows at the back or sides of the house.
Though Sarah had never been concerned about appearing nude in films, this time, in front of a stranger in her own home, she felt vulnerable and shy about it. She especially didn’t want this man to see her naked. Too late for that.
She put the knife down, gave him a hard look and walked to the door with as much dignity as she could muster. Dumbly, he moved aside to let her through. They were so close that she couldn’t help but brush lightly against him as she went. ‘Coffee’s on,’ she said over her shoulder, feeling her skin burn with shame and embarrassment. She could feel him watching her as she walked away.
In the shower, she began to remember how the previous evening had ended, how she had sobbed uncontrollably and he had comforted her in a perfectly gentlemanly way, held her close, told her everything was going to be fine. She had been crying as much for Jack as for anything else, and in a way it had been a relief finally to let it all out.
Stuart had returned with the coffee and other groceries, and the detective had asked him to leave. Then, she had told him everything, just as she had told all to Paula on Christmas Day.