Sending him a short message, I instruct him to call me or I will knock on his door and ask his wife if she can answer my questions. Underneath the threat, I list a couple of the things he’d requested Kira to do. That should have him reaching for his phone.

When I look down at my half-finished meal, I realise my appetite has gone. I cover the uneaten food with a napkin and drop a few bills onto the table. It’s best I leave before Terri cross-examines me about my lack of completion. The last time I’d seen her find a half-eaten meal, one of her cooks lost his job and two waitresses had run out in tears. The guilty customer had received a lifetime ban despite being a regular patron.

I call Alfonse when I get back to my car and listen while he updates me on his progress. He’s had a productive morning despite most of his results being negative.

Six of the remaining seven have called to protest their innocence and offer alibis for the time Kira was alleged to have been killed. None had sounded anything but remorseful. All had been eager to clear their names and help us catch her killer.

Where he has made some headway is in identifying the tenth client, an actor from a once popular sitcom. He’s dug into the client’s life and has found out he’s in LA filming. Once again he isn’t the star, but his part is large enough to keep him in work.

Knowing the odds of getting someone as narcissistic as a famous actor to call us are small, Alfonse has booked me on the next flight to LAX.

He promises to forward the confirmation email and hangs up.

I have a half hour to go home, throw a few things together and get myself to the airport.

20

The heat outside LAX hits me like a wrecking ball; unlike the more temperate climate of Casperton, Californian sunshine blisters uncovered skin for kicks.

The rental car is hotter than a blast furnace, so I climb back out after starting the air-con and wait five minutes under the shade of a nearby tree until the temperature inside the car is bearable.

My GPS says the journey from LAX to Hollywood should take around a half hour but the LA traffic has other ideas. I creep fender to fender for two hours until I can turn onto Santa Monica Boulevard.

If I had an iota of local knowledge, I’m sure I’d be able to find an alternative route, but in this strange land of eternal sunshine I’m a slave to the GPS. I crawl past surplus marts, gas stations, a score or more of light industrial areas and various stores offering everything from mattresses to fruit.

I’m not sure what I’d expected of Hollywood, but this normal-looking area holds no special attraction for me.

Speeding up to a mighty ten miles an hour, I follow the GPS until it tells me I’ve reached my destination.

Alfonse has tracked down where the actor is staying and arranged for him to be interviewed by the showbiz reporter for The Scotsman – a paper my grandfather read from cover to cover with a religious fervour. It’s good thinking on his part, as my accent will fit the role he’s assumed for me.

The Sunset Plaza is quite unlike any other hotel I’ve encountered. Ten storeys high, it fills a whole block with a regimented white façade giving it the air of a prison. The fact each window has a small balcony enclosed by metal railings only adds to the prison effect.

I re-evaluate my opinions of the actor’s standing. If his studio bosses have lodged him here, it’s obvious he isn’t their prize asset.

With time to kill before my appointment, I take a walk along the street to get a feel for the area.

When I’m on Hollywood Boulevard the area feels more like I’d expected it to. Cinemas line the sidewalks above the famous stars, and most of the people on the streets are tourists trying to spot actors and actresses. Every minute or two a large car with blacked-out windows will elicit pointed fingers and wild guesses as to its occupants’ identities.

I find a diner where I drink a soda and munch a sandwich while I watch the world go by.

After ten minutes I feel the need to shower and it isn’t the diner or the Californian heat making me feel this way. It is the whole falseness of the area. Tourists are being heckled by ambitious touts attempting to sell them trinkets and behind-the-scenes tours. Yet nothing here is real, everything is an illusion.

Hollywood is a place that deals with, and lives in fantasy and escapism. Yet the magic has escaped the conjuror’s influence to permeate itself into the fabric of the buildings and streets. If you close your eyes and listen you can hear the broken dreams of wannabe actors, scriptwriters and directors screaming their angst at the injustice of it all.

It is no place for me and the sooner I’m back on a plane to Casperton the happier I’ll be.

21

I approach the reception desk of the Sunset Plaza, and ask which suite the actor occupies. The interior of the hotel is all muted tones and soft furnishings in an effort to dispel the prison-like exterior. It doesn’t work.

A receptionist with bleached hair and implants that cause her blouse to gape crinkles her nose when she hears me ask for the actor.

Whatever dreams she has about forging a career in acting are sure to be added to the millions of voices I’d heard screaming earlier. If she can’t hide distaste for one customer from another, she’ll never make it in this most critical of towns.

‘Mr Weeper is on the tenth floor in the Rose Suite.’ She points me towards the elevator with a fixed smile. Her eyes tell a different story, wishing me luck in my endeavour.

I join a group of chattering executives in the elevator. It’s all I can do not to punch any of them for their inane corporate language.

Alfonse knows the disregard I have for celebrity and TV, so he’s emailed a picture and a short biography of the actor to me so I’ll at least address the right person in the room.

Striding along the corridor, I find the door to the Rose Suite obscured by a muscle-bound bodyguard with thick arms and a wedding cake neck.

When I tell him my business he grunts and knocks on the door. ‘The dude from the press is here.’

A thin woman opens the door. She’s wearing stress like an overcoat. It doesn’t suit her. Her eyes are beady, an air of annoyance and mistrust hang over her, turning every movement or gesture of the hand that isn’t pressing a phone to her ear into sharp, animated flicks.

I smile and introduce myself, laying on as much charm as possible. ‘Jake Boulder, from The Scotsman. Thank you for arranging this interview with Mr Weeper – I’ve been a fan for years.’

By now I’ve entered the room far enough to see Weeper standing on the balcony looking down. His room faces the centre of the hotel and when I join him I can see a group of young women sunbathing by a pool.

Such is his arrogance he doesn’t bother looking round before he speaks. ‘I’d do them all with the same boner.’

I clear my throat and wait for the next pearl of wisdom. One sentence has just outlined why a famous actor has to use hookers. This guy is a prime example of what Glaswegians call a bawbag.

He turns, right hand reaching for the bottle of beer on the table. I take his hand in mine and shake it with a repeat of my earlier introduction.

He winces at my grip, unaware of the effort it has taken not to crush every bone in his hand. ‘Oh yeah. The reporter.’

He stands an even six foot, but his thinning hair, forgettable face and expanding waistline suggest his best days are behind him.

He looks around until his eyes land on the stress head. ‘Mindy, bring a couple of beers will ya?’