Free Broken Heart by Tim Weaver Page B

from you. Can you start by telling me how the article came about?’
    He didn’t reply straight away, clearly concerned that his article might be directly linked to Lynda Korin’s disappearance.
    ‘Marc?’
    ‘Uh, well, I guess ultimately it came about because I mether at a convention in 2011,’ he said. ‘Have you heard of Screenmageddon?’
    ‘That’s the horror and science-fiction expo, right?’
    ‘That’s right. Back then, I was a freelancer for a horror magazine, so, when I managed to get some time with her, I mostly spoke to her about the Ursula films. But, after we were done, she gave me her card. A couple of years later, in 2013, I got in touch with her again, because I was working for Cine by then, and it was the sixtieth anniversary of The Eyes of the Night , and I thought it might be cool to do a retrospective on it, and to have her talk about Hosterlitz, about his films, about him as a person. She wasn’t keen on the idea at first, especially about inviting me into their marriage. I got the sense … I don’t know, I just got the sense that her marriage was sacrosanct.’
    ‘What makes you say that?’
    He paused, tapping a finger against the table. ‘I figured it had something to do with how she honoured her husband’s memory. You know, that she wanted to protect the things they did in their marriage, certain special moments between them, and she didn’t feel comfortable talking about any of that with a stranger. I understood that.’ He stopped again, flicking a look across at me, clearly weighing up whether to say whatever was coming. ‘When my dad was still around, he used to take me to Tynecastle to watch Hearts, and I’d come home and write these match reports for him, and I’d read them out to him – it was our little thing. I didn’t show them to anyone. Those moments were between him and me and no one else.’
    I could relate to that too, locking away the things that mattered from parts of your life you could never claim back.
    ‘But then she changed her mind?’ I asked.
    ‘Eventually, yeah. We kept in touch, on and off, and lastsummer I again floated the idea of doing a celebration of Hosterlitz’s career. She was still reluctant, but she at least agreed to have a chat, and so I went to her house, and we got on really well, and it developed into something much bigger. In the end, it turned out to be the first of two interviews. She was brilliant, basically – really open about everything, surprisingly honest. I just kept pushing and she kept answering questions. She never batted an eyelid.’
    ‘So you found her likeable?’
    ‘Yeah, definitely. She was smart, witty, generous. She was confident and interesting. And, well, she was …’ He smiled, but seemed uncomfortable for a moment. ‘Basically, she looked bloody good for her age.’
    I thought of the photograph I’d seen of Korin, taken for the magazine. He was right about that.
    ‘Have you ever heard of a Lake Calhoun?’ I asked, keeping things going. ‘It may have been a place Lynda mentioned to you during your interviews.’
    ‘Calhoun?’
    ‘Yeah.’ I spelled it out for him. ‘That ring any bells with you?’
    He shook his head. ‘No, none.’
    ‘It’s probably nothing,’ I said, although I didn’t really believe that. The name hadn’t been carved into a tree by chance. But, before we could get bogged down in a guessing game, I shifted things forward again: ‘There’s a section three-quarters of the way through your feature where Korin talks about what attracted her to Hosterlitz in the first place.’
    ‘I remember that, yeah.’
    ‘She said she thought he may have had a secret.’
    Collinsky nodded. ‘Yeah.’
    ‘Did she ever say if she found out what that secret was?’
    ‘No, she didn’t.’
    ‘Because she dodges the question in the interview.’
    ‘Or she’s embarrassed that she never found out.’
    I studied him. ‘Is that what you believe?’
    He took a long breath. ‘I don’t know.