‘Maybe they’re visiting relatives.’

Detective Jay looked again at the crime report on Wayne ’s attempted murder of the old storekeeper.

‘Bourbon, smokes, pretzels… and a guide to the movie people’s homes.’

On the desk in front of him was a copy of the LA Times , the front page cover of which carried a picture of Bruce holding his Oscar, alongside a picture of a corpsestrewn 711 and the obligatory piece on violence influencing kids and copycat killings.

‘Movie people’s homes,’ Detective Jay repeated. ‘Hey Joe, that picture, Ordinary Americans. Who were the stars?’

‘Kurt Kidman and Suzanne Schaefer, although there were a lot of cameos. Anyhow, I thought you didn’t care about no movies.’

‘Yeah, well, I changed my mind.’

Chapter Twenty

How much time did Bruce have? His was a very big house and the drive was a long one. If Wayne intended to go all the way down to the gates, he would be gone perhaps ten minutes. If he let Karl come up the drive, and met him at the front door, the whole thing would take no more than five. Either way, not really long enough for much delicate negotiation.

‘All right, young lady,’ Bruce barked, trying to summon up the voice with which he cowed cinematographers and hordes of extras, ‘this has gone far enough. If you hand over your gun now, it is just possible that I may be able to speak on your behalf at your trial.’

Scout did not look at Bruce but she slid the cushion from her lap, revealing her gun. ‘I don’t want to have to kill you but I will.’ She said it quietly, almost sadly, but she clearly meant it: both that she didn’t want to kill him and that she would.

Bruce was at a loss to know how to proceed. He hadn’t really hoped that schoolmasterly authority would bear much fruit, but it was the only idea he had.

Brooke had completed her programme of breathing. She was centred now, in control and ready to attempt a different approach. She stared at Scout. Her face wore a strange expression; she looked interested but slightly perplexed. She tilted her head one way, then the other, all the time looking at Scout as if trying to get a better angle, trying to work her out. Scout knew she was being studied, and reddened. She stared down at the cushion, which she had now put back in her lap to cover the gun.

‘Scout,’ Brooke said, ‘may I do something?’ Almost without waiting for an answer, she leant forward, took a lock of Scout’s hair which was hanging down in front of her face, and gently pushed it behind her ear. ‘You’re a pretty girl, Scout, you know that? Real pretty.’

To Bruce this seemed such a transparent ploy that he expected Scout to shoot them both on the spot, but she didn’t. She just kept on staring at the cushion in her lap and said, ‘Oh I don’t think so.’

‘Oh yes you are, Scout,’ Brooke insisted. ‘A very pretty girl. Except you don’t make as much of yourself as you could. Like, for instance, you have beautiful hair, but you’ve done nothing with it.’

Scout shyly explained that there had been all blood and bits of brain and stuff in it from a regrettable incident which had occurred recently in a 711. She had been forced to rinse out her hair in the ladies’ room, which was why it was such a mess.

Brooke knelt on the carpet in front of Scout. ‘Well, I’ll bet I could help you with that kind of thing, Scout. Maybe we could do a little makeover on you. I have my beauty bag and I’ll bet Bruce’s daughter has left some great clothes in the house – we could pick something out. You could look like a movie star. Don’t you think so, Bruce?’

Bruce was amazed. Scout seemed to be taking Brooke’s interest seriously. At least, she hadn’t shot her.

‘Yes, Scout is very pretty,’ he answered stiffly.

Scout’s attention still appeared to be riveted to the cushion.

Brooke addressed the top of Scout’s head. ‘You could have so much going for you. I bet any agent would love to have a cute little girl like you to look after.’

Scout raised her head a little. ‘You think so?’

‘Of course I do. You said yourself how nice you looked in that magazine.’

Bruce was stunned at Brooke’s audacity. Was it possible that this pathological murderess could be taken in by such an obvious ploy? Quietly, he began to pray that it was.

‘Why would any agent notice me? I mean, I ain’t saying I ain’t pretty, because I know a lot of men have taken a shine to me from time to time, including my own father. But there’s a heap of pretty girls in this town.’

Bruce’s heart sank. His prayer, scarcely delivered yet, was already being returned to sender, unanswered. He had been foolish to allow himself to hope. Scout was not an imbecile: just because you’re psychotic does not render you moronic. The woman would have to have had her brains sucked out with a bicycle pump to believe that a bit of makeup and a borrowed dress were going to turn her from a sad, sick psycho into a glamorous celebrity.

But Brooke was a lot smarter than Bruce gave her credit for – and braver. She took Scout’s chin and gently but firmly raised her head so that she could look her in the eye.

‘OK, Scout, I’ll be straight. You’re right, ordinarily why would anybody notice you? Just one more pretty girl in a town that’s full of them. But you know very well that you’re not just one more pretty girl. You’re a killer’s girl, already famous…’

‘I’m a killer too,’ said Scout.

Brooke conceded the point. ‘Well sure, but the world is going to know that he made you do it and meanwhile, if I make you as pretty as can be… who knows? You wouldn’t be the first person to get away with stuff just for being cute.’

Scout had a faraway look in her eyes. Her toes were twitching at the carpet harder than ever. ‘You really think I could be a star? You mean you’d help me?’

‘Of course I’d help you, Scout. I like you and I think you like me. We could be friends.’

Scout finally raised the point that Bruce had been nervously awaiting from the outset. ‘That’s easy for you to say while Wayne ’s threatening to kill you.’

Bruce cursed inwardly. Brooke’s progress thus far had been so astonishing that he had dared to think she might actually win Scout’s trust. This remarkable woman had got from nowhere to serious buddytalk inside two or three minutes. Now, however, it seemed that Scout had finally spotted the rather obvious point that Brooke’s affection might be influenced by an ulterior motive.

But Brooke was a fighter, and hit back. ‘Maybe you’re right, Scout, but think about it. Seems to me that Wayne is always going to be threatening to kill somebody or other. So how you ever going to make any friend, huh? Y’ever think ‘bout that, now?’

Not very subtly, Brooke’s voice was going both downmarket and incountry. It had left the upper echelons of West Coast society and was meandering gently along Route 66 towards the Heartland.

‘I don’t know,’ Scout replied softly. ‘Sometimes I do wonder about it.’

Brooke took Scout’s hand. ‘Listen t’me Scout. If ever a person needed friends right now, it’s you. We could help you, but you have to help us. Don’t you want friends?’

‘Sure I want friends. ‘Course I want friends. I ain’t a freak, I’m just an ordinary American.’

A loud New York accent intruded on the scene. Instantly Scout’s demeanour hardened. She pulled away from Brooke and her hand tensed under the cushion. For the time being at least, Brooke’s heroic efforts to divide the enemy would have to be suspended.