“I’m looking for a name, anything, just somewhere to start,” said Arvo. “You know as well as I do that these guys usually haven’t met their victims. They watch them on TV or at the movies and think they’re getting personal messages over the airwaves. Then they start stalking them, find out where they live, get hold of their addresses and phone numbers. It’s not difficult. You can buy them along with the map to the stars’ houses on Sunset Boulevard. But if our man really does know Sarah Broughton, whether he’s a true stalker or just someone out for revenge or sabotage, that could give us an edge.”
Stuart gave a little shiver. “Yeah, I know.”
“So back to my question. Do you know of anyone she associates with who gives you any cause for concern? Friend? Colleague?”
Stuart chewed his lower lip as he thought. “Shit, Arvo,” he said finally. “Like I told you, this town is so full of loony tunes I wouldn’t know where to start. And I’m just talking about people I’ve seen around, you know. People on the show.”
“Other actors?”
“Yeah. And some of the crew. They’ve got a cameraman I swear’s the fucking image of Charlie Manson, but everyone tells me he’s a harmless whale-hugging vegan, not to mention one of the best damn cameramen in the business.” Stuart shrugged. “I guess I can’t really answer your question.”
“Can you get me a list of all the people she works with and comes in contact with at the studio?”
“Sure I can.”
“At least that’s a start. Have you heard of this Justin Mercer, that old boyfriend she mentioned?”
“I know the name. Why?”
“You’ve got plenty of contacts in the business, so maybe you can find out where he is these days.”
“I guess I could do that.”
“What about Jack Marillo, the co-star?”
“They’re pretty good friends.”
“Just friends?”
“That’s right.” Stuart lowered his voice. “Just between you and me, Jack’s queer as a duck. Nice guy, though.” He looked at his watch. “Sorry Arvo, but I gotta go now. Karen’s expecting me. Got people coming. Fucking holidays, huh?”
Arvo nodded. He had almost forgotten it was December 22. He made a few notes in a tiny, spider-trail hand that no one could read but himself, then moved away from the railing.
“Thanks for coming,” he said. “I don’t know where we’re going with this, but I’ll stay in touch.”
“No problem.” Stuart shook hands and walked down to the nearest cross-light.
As Arvo walked toward his car, a bum detached himself from the greenery and stuck his hand out. Arvo gave him a buck.
“Merry Christmas,” said the bum.
16
On Saturday morning, Sarah walked halfway to Whitby and back along the beach. She had spent much of last night unable to sleep, thinking about the letter. It so obviously admitted to the murder that she couldn’t simply overlook it. She knew she would have to do something soon. Like a bad tooth or a lump in your breast, you could ignore it for a while, but it wouldn’t go away. She had been good at procrastinating in her life. Too damn good.
The problem was that she didn’t know whether she should phone the detectives in Los Angeles and tell them everything now or let it wait till she got back.
Finally, distance helped her decide on the latter. What good would it do anyway? She didn’t know who the letter-writer was. Besides, surely now that he had murdered someone, the police would have forensic evidence to go on? By the time she got back, they probably wouldn’t need her. She would hang on to the letter, of course, and give it to them later — it might be useful as evidence — but beyond that, she didn’t see how she could help.
Also, if she phoned, they might send the local bobby round to put her on the next plane back to LA, and she would miss Christmas with her family. Just when she felt she was making some progress.
A bitter wind blew off the North Sea. Bundled up in a shirt and sweater under her down jacket, a woolly hat, mittens and earmuffs, Sarah didn’t feel too cold. The sky was as gray as used dishwater, but now and then the clouds would break for a moment and a shaft of sunlight would shoot through and dance on the pewter sea, reminding her of the calm after a storm.
Behind her, the whitewashed, red-tiled cottages seemed piled on top of one another like children’s playing-bricks, huddled together in crooked, cobbled alleys higgledy-piggledy fashion. The village straggled down a steep hill to the sea in much the same way as the ones on the Greek islands that Sarah had visited with Gary. A small church perched on top of the cliffs, and even though it wasn’t Sunday, Sarah could hear children’s voices singing “Away in a Manger.”
She had forgotten how unusual the geology was around the bay. There wasn’t much sand, only the curved layers of dark, barnacle-encrusted rock, which looked like a slice through an enormous onion, or a giant scalloped seashell embedded in the shore. The grooves showed where the waves had eroded the older rocks more quickly than the bands of limestone and ironstone between them. It was a great place for fossil hunters, and it also created numerous rock-pools where Sarah stopped to watch tiny crabs scuttle beneath the pellucid water.
Out to sea, Sarah could see a ship with white sails flapping in the wind. She shivered, imagining what it would be like out on the North Sea today in a sailboat. She pulled her jacket more snugly round her neck and carried on walking. The wind whistled around her earmuffs.
When she arrived back at the harbor, she walked up the ramp to the street. It was just after noon. Instead of returning to the cottage, she decided to call at the pub where Paula worked and give her sister a surprise.
There weren’t many people in the public bar, but when Sarah walked in, what conversation there was stopped at once. Even the clack of dominoes ceased. The only sound came from a radio playing an old pop song somewhere in the back. Sarah recognized it: Susan Maugham singing “Bobby’s Girl.”
At first, the reaction she got reminded her of the opening scene of An American Werewolf in London, where the young tourists get lost in the Yorkshire Dales and go into an isolated pub to ask their way. She could see the grizzled, sea-leathered, wind-reddened faces trying to place her. She smiled and said hello to everyone, then walked toward the bar.
Paula came through from the lounge and said, “Sal! So you’ve finally decided to grace us with your presence, after all?”
“I thought I’d drop by for a quick one, yes,” said Sarah, taking off her mittens and rubbing her hands. “It’s cold out there.”
“Not half as cold as it will be in a day or two, lass,” said one of the drinkers behind her. Then they all laughed.
“This is my sister, Sally,” Paula said to all and sundry. “You know, the famous actress. Calls herself Sarah Broughton now.” She tilted her head, put a finger to the tip of her nose and turned it up.
They all nodded shyly and said how d’you do, then went back to their dominoes and muffled conversations. Sarah doubted if any of them watched her show on television. Besides, she was getting sick of this star business Paula kept going on about. She wasn’t a star; she was a supporting actress on a network drama.
Still, she supposed that in a village like Robin Hood’s Bay, she would have to accept that she was a star.
She unzipped her jacket and sat on a stool at the bar. It was a long time since she had been in a real English pub, and she took in the rows of unfamiliar bottles, the mirrors and brass rails. There were plenty of imitations in Los Angeles, but nothing quite like the real thing, with its bags of pork rinds and roasted salted peanuts, its upside-down bottles in the racks with optics attached, stone-flagged floor and roaring fire in the hearth.