Kill For Love (8 page)

Chapter Twelve

She saw the horses first, a dozen or more, lean
and handsome, cantering around the field at the edge of the estate, nervous at
the clatter of the rotor blade. But then, as the helicopter tilted and turned
and began its descent into the wooded valley, came the garden, the maze, the
tennis courts, the orchards and lawn and finally, at the top of an avenue of
fat oak trees, the house. Haverhill.

She couldn’t not smile. It was just
so
big, a white Palladian palace,
complete with columned portico and elegant side wings.
History changed
little. Two hundred and fifty years ago newly rich entrepreneurs from London and Bristol
had commissioned the building of such homes to display their wealth and
sophistication. Today these houses belonged to the latest generation of the
suddenly rich, young men who played guitars.

She’d expected to travel down to Cornwall by car and with Gadden,
so it had been a surprise when Stefano, the driver, had delivered her to the
heliport in Battersea. “Jesse went on ahead,” he’d explained as he sat up front
with the helicopter pilot. In the back with her was a muscular, silent, dark
boy he’d introduced as Kish,
his assistant.

She spotted Gadden just before they landed. He
was at a first floor window of the house, standing half hidden by curtains, the
evening light rinsing his hair and features in a blood red wash. But then he
turned away at the last minute, as though, while waiting for her to arrive,
he’d turned to talk to someone.

           
Half
a dozen young people were the first to greet her. As the helicopter landed they
came hurrying from the house out on to a terrace and across the wide lawn, waving
and laughing. They’re doing everything but sprinkle rose petals in my path, she
laughed to herself, as she thanked the pilot and jumped down.

 
Then there
was her host making his entrance, entirely in black as usual, tripping down the
steps of the main house and past a shining herd of expensive cars as the welcoming
members of the Glee Club parted obediently before him.

“Imagine! Kate Merrimac in my house!” he
virtually sang as he led her inside and the staff returned to their chores.

“I’m very pleased to be invited,” she said,
putting her bag down in the square hall and looking around at the perfect
proportions. “Wow. It’s…pretty impressive.”

“I think so. Would you like a quick tour? No
admission fee.”

And, without waiting for an answer, he led her
past moulded friezes in white on the blue walls of what he called the “morning-after
room”, with its marble fireplace and paintings of rural idylls, and on to the tapestries
and dark oak of the library. “Please note the collection of antique, leather
bound copies of
Rolling Stone,”
he
joked, “with all that bollocks they write in them guaranteed unread. And then
there’s this room. Not exactly Versailles,
but we did our best.”

They were in a hall of mirrors. From every angle
she could see him smiling at her, his long black hair shining, his eyes merry with
mischief. A white grand piano stood in the semi-circular bay of the window.

“And this would be…?”

“The Imagine room, what else?” Then stepping
across to a panel he revolved it to reveal a large, fifties Wurlitzer juke box
on which electric flashes of red, purple and green clashed biliously with each
other. “Isn’t she wonderful?” he grinned, stroking the glass dome. “No iPod or
YouTube or anything in the kingdom of rock and roll heaven will ever be as
beautiful to me as this.”

Kate stood well back from the monster. It was
hideous. “Well…”

“I know, I know, it takes a bit of getting used to.
But take a look. Choose a record. It has the best Oldies But Goldies selection in
the country, probably in the world. What shall we play? What do you fancy?”

Laughing, Kate studied the records. She was no expert
but even she knew most in this collection. They were all there: “
Johnny B. Goode
, Pink Floyd, Muddy
Waters’
Hoochy Coochy Man
and Dylan’s
Positively 4
^th
Street
;
then there were a couple of Beatles’ records, others from U2, Nirvana, Natalie
Merchant, Lou Reed, The Doors, Black Eyes Peas’
I Gotta Feeling
, Bowie, Marvin Gaye, Dire Straits, The Rolling
Stones, Jeff Buckley,
Suzie Q
, Neil
Young, Jefferson Airplane, The Crickets’
That’ll
Be The Day
, Howlin’ Wolf
 
and
Springsteen’s
Dancing In The Dark…
and hundreds more.

She took her time deciding. It seemed important
to get it right, although presumably her host liked all of them. “Elvis, I
suppose,” she said at last. “It has to be Elvis in this company.”

Gadden raised a surprised eyebrow, then pushing
his hand into his pocket, pulled out a dime and gave it to her. “It’s even
inflation free,” he said.

She dropped the coin right into the slot. “Now
let’s see. Yes, A-5,
Mystery Train
.” And she pressed the heavy, chrome
plated buttons.

Immediately the cranking and whirring of mechanical
endeavour began. The records span clockwise, standing vertically like plates in
a dishwasher, before, as they jolted to a stop, an arm reached out, clutched
one and, flipping it over, dropped it on to the turntable. Finally the heavy pick-up
crashed down on to the vinyl and the trembling sound of a guitar introduction
began.

“
Train I ride, sixteen coaches long. Train I
ride, sixteen coaches long...
” sobbed the twenty year old Elvis.

“I’m surprised you know this one.” He was
watching her.

Kate’s brow furrowed. “Me, too. It always reminds
me of a heavy goods train going over railway sleepers on a humid night in Mississippi. My first
boy friend used to play it. He was called Julian. He was a real rock purist,
and he’d put this on when I was getting over-excited about Bryan Adams and that
Robin Hood song.”

“It was tripe. Bryan Adams can do better than
that.”

“Maybe. But I liked it. Julian said
Mystery
Train
was the Rosetta Stone of rock, that if you understood this you could
make sense of everything else.”

“He was a good man.”

“With bad timing. He could never quite forgive
himself for having been born thirty years too late. The last I heard of him he
was running excursions to Graceland.”

Gadden laughed, then, turning up the music so
that it could be heard throughout the house, he guided her back into the main
hall and up the cantilevered double flight of staircase.

“We mainly use the first floor for living,” he
explained as they passed statues of semi-naked rustic youths making assignations
with stone-breasted shepherdesses in the alcoves above the swirling banisters.

“
We
?” she asked as they continued up the
next flight, secretly amused that rock stars, like honeymooners, preferred the
royal pronoun.

“We spend a lot of time recording down here,” he explained.
“There’s a studio in what they used to call the west wing. It’s not big enough
for the London Symphony Orchestra, but perfect for rock and roll.”

“And are the band here at the moment?”

He shook his head. “I meant the engineers. They’re
the only ones I need when I’m recording. For records, I’m the band. I play
everything myself.”

“Of course you do,” she teased, feeling foolish. Beverly would have known
that.

They’d reached a room on the second floor. He
opened the door and stopped. “I’ll see you in…what? An hour or so?”

“That’ll be fine,” she replied. And, as he jogged
back down the stairs, she went into the bedroom to find that her overnight bag
had got there first.

The room was everything she might have expected,
only better, rock star rich in heritaged splendour with panelled walls and tall
windows looking west over the gardens and out towards the sea. Almost
decadently comfortable, it was dominated by a very large, lace-draped,
four-poster bed. She’d slept in four-posters before, but they’d usually been
small and dusty in draughty homes of faded ambition and moulting dogs. This bed
was new and Las Vegas
vast, though its makers had taken pains to make it look authentic.

On the wall facing the bed was a tapestry. She
guessed what it would cover. Pressing a button on a remote, she watched as the
tapestry rolled into the ceiling to reveal a large screen TV. She switched it
on. It was already tuned to WSN-TV.

They had dinner alone, sitting together in a
small oval-shaped dining room, waited on by two agreeable and pretty girls, one
Chinese-American called Dana, her hair long and loose, the other a dark-eyed
Brazilian, Renata. A French boy with a ruby ear-ring poured the wine.

“You wouldn’t believe how nervous I was before I
called you this morning,” Gadden said as they ate.

“You didn’t sound nervous.”

“I’m a performer. Like you. It’s my job to hide
what I’m thinking or feeling.”

“You were very insistent. What would you have
done if I’d turned you down or been busy this weekend?”

“Kept on begging until you changed your mind.”
And he laughed loudly.

That set the mood for the evening. It was a
jokey, easy-going dinner, poached salmon “from Haverhill’s own salmon farm”, he mock-boasted,
with the lightest of wines, after which they had coffee sitting together on a
sofa in an upstairs sitting room while, somewhat incongruously, a recording of
a harpsichord recital played. He’s trying to impress me, she told herself, and
wondered if this was the moment when the mountain of cocaine that rock stars
were fabled to consume would be produced.

He read her thoughts. “I don’t do drugs. Not any
more. But if you’d like anything, I’m sure we could rustle up something
interesting.”

“Oh, no. Thanks anyway.” She was curious. “You
don’t do drugs? As a matter of interest, why did you stop?”

He shrugged. “Maybe it’s because life’s too short
to monkey around.”

He was in good spirits and soon the conversation
moved on to gossip about rock stars and television presenters. But it was late now
and she was tired. She’d been up since five to do the breakfast show.

At eleven he showed her to her room. “Well, good
night,” he said. They were standing at her bedroom door. “I’m glad you came.”

“
I’m
glad I came,” she replied, hoping he wouldn’t make a pass at her.

He didn’t. He half-turned away, then just as she
was about to enter her room, he swung back as though acting on an afterthought
and kissed her, quite gently. Then, just as quickly, he withdrew. “I’ll see you
tomorrow then. I have to get to work.” And he went back down the stairs.

Kate entered the bedroom and closed the door.
What an unpredictable man he was.

Chapter Thirteen

October 2:

She
checked the messages on her BlackBerry before getting up. There were over a
dozen, including one from Beverly in Galway. She called her back. Beverly was alone in her hotel room, Browne
having gone running. Kate didn't tell her where she was phoning from. That
would have been too much for the girl. "So, how are we doing on Seb’s
leads then?" she asked.

"God
only knows, Kate. All I seem to be doing is driving him around these little
lanes at twenty miles an hour, looking at schools and talking to monks and
teachers who can't even remember Jesse."

“Twenty
miles an hour?”

“If
that. To an American girl these narrow Irish roads concentrate the mind
wonderfully."

“Oh,
right! You’ll get used to it. Hasn’t Seb found
anyone
interesting?”

“Well,
there’s this one guy…Michael Lynch."

"And?"

"He's
supposed to have been a friend of Jesse's from school. Unfortunately he's
playing hard to get."

"Why's
that?"

"You
tell me. Seb's talked to him on the phone but he hasn't come out to play yet.
My bet is he’s a creep, but Seb wants to see him."

"Why
do you think he's a creep?"

There
was a groan. "Well, according to Seb, he says what he's got on Jesse is
worth big money."

"I
see. And Seb told him this is a serious meet-the-artist interview, not a
tabloid rake through the gutter, right?”

“Well…not
in so many words. You know what Seb’s like. Anyway, Lynch sounds like a bum and
a drunk, so I'm sure it's all phooey. My bet is he never even met Jesse.”

"Maybe.
But you never know. Good luck, anyway. Give me a call if you come up with
anything interesting."

“Will
do.”

About
to hang up, Kate had another question: “By the way, how are you and Seb getting
along?”

Beverly
giggled. "Oh, not bad. It's an education
just to see him work the phones. That said, it was touch and go last
night."

"Touch
and go?"

"Yes,
I told him, 'you touch and I go'. He behaved himself after that. Well, sort
of..." She laughed again.

"Good
for you!" Kate congratulated. And, telling the intern to enjoy Galway, she said goodbye.

It
was a surprisingly warm day for October, and, dressing, she made her way
downstairs where the murmur of what was now becoming very familiar music drew
her towards the kitchen. Was there no escape from it, she thought
mischievously, as she put her head inside the room.

The
three members of the kitchen staff who’d served dinner the previous night were quietly
preparing lunch, but on seeing her, faces lit up and within seconds she was
seated in a conservatory looking down across the gardens. A sliver of the Atlantic was visible between a parting in the woods.

"It's
a beautiful view," she offered by way of conversation to the younger of
the girls, Dana, the American, as orange juice and coffee were brought.
"Have you worked here very long?"

"Not
long," the girl replied breezily and hurried away.

Thank
heavens civil servants weren’t so reserved, Kate reflected as she drank her
juice; no reporter would get any information at all if they were like this.

After
breakfast, and with no sign of Gadden, she went for a walk in the garden.
Everywhere was Indian summer perfect, packed flowerbeds against crumbling south
facing walls, forests of pink oleanders, armies of roses drawn up in geometrical
formations, and bees patrolling the late honeysuckle that climbed around the inevitable
neoclassical summer house. No expense had been spared in recreating the most
perfectly elegant past.

Strolling
through the orchard, a movement caught her attention. A woman in her thirties,
wearing a large straw hat to keep the sun from her face, was cutting some
sunflowers in a patch.

"They're
amazing,” Kate complimented as she drew near. “So tall. Do you think I might
take one or two back to London?"

The
woman didn't reply. But, turning away, she pulled her hat further down over her
eyes and went on with her cutting.

Kate
backed away, embarrassed. Gardeners could be such shy creatures.

She
walked on. This was not the weekend she'd expected. Jesse Gadden could afford
to have anything he wanted, but had chosen to surround himself with natural English
beauty, an island of tranquillity, run by admiring employees. It wouldn't have
suited her, but then the talents she'd been born with weren’t the kind to make
her an absolute monarch.

Returning
to the house she found herself passing the stables and approaching the west
wing. This, she remembered, was the studio area. Hoping she might find Gadden,
or someone who would at least talk to her, she wandered into an open doorway.

A
flagstoned corridor led into the house. On the left was a modern door. She
pulled it open. It was heavy. Immediately behind it was another. She pushed it
and found herself in the control room of a small recording studio. It was
empty.

Stepping
back into the corridor she continued further into the house looking casually
inside other rooms. In one there were instruments, tubular bells, a drum kit
and some pan pipes, while another contained keyboards and monitors. Further on she
found batteries of speakers and amplifiers, while in other places were cameras,
lights and microphones.

On
another door was a notice,
Websites.
She
peeped inside. There must have been a dozen screens and assorted towers of
computer equipment, with photographs of Gadden stuck to the walls as he
appeared on the internet, his blue eyes almost azure. She was, she knew,
snooping slightly. But she was a reporter: she was supposed to be nosey.

Deciding
to make her way back to her room by threading through the west wing and on into
the main house, she climbed a flight of stairs. If her sense of direction was
correct, this would bring her out in the living area on the first floor.

It
wasn't so simple. While from the outside the two wings of the house maintained
an equally balanced appearance, on the inside two hundred and fifty years of
alterations had produced a warren of corridors and back staircases. Reaching
the end of a corridor and uncertain of which way to turn she noticed a slice of
sunlight shining through a slightly open door at the end of a landing. Perhaps
someone there would be able to give her directions.

Striding
towards the door she looked inside. She was disappointed. The room, a long
gallery, lined with shelves for use as a DVD library, was unoccupied. Casually
she glanced at some of the titles on the spines of the DVD cases: “Middle East, USA,
China...”

About
to step out again a television monitor at an editing desk caught her attention.
It was switched on and was showing the WSN logo, the usually revolving globes
now frozen. Casually curious about what exactly had been recorded from WSN, she
approached the desk. A plastic DVD container was lying open. But it was what
was written on the spine that surprised. In neat black letters it read, “
KATE
MERR…
.” A set of keys lay on top of it covering the rest of the letters.

She
reached out to move them.

"
Can I help you?" The voice was soft, just behind her.

She
span around.

Petra
Kerinova, her white-blonde hair and pallid cat’s face almost luminous, was
standing in the half light of the open door.

"Oh...hello!"
Kate started, shocked and embarrassed, quickly putting her hand to her side, still
holding the keys.

Kerinova
stepped into the room. "Did I make you jump?"

Kate
felt the frost of her presence. "I was trying to take a short cut through the
house..." she began lamely.
 
"I
thought someone here might be able to direct me." She sounded guilty, like
a child searching for an excuse.

“There’s
a staff meeting.” Kerinova showed no expression. "The house can be
confusing. I'll show you the way." And, indicating that Kate should leave,
she closed the door to the video library firmly behind them, and set off back
across the landing and down a couple of corridors into the main sitting room.

"Actually,
I was hoping to find Jesse," Kate said as they walked, trying to open a
conversation. She’d just noticed a scar running lengthways on Kerinova’s left
wrist, accompanied by a busy pattern of white stitch marks on either side of
it.

The
answer came back with a flat indifference. "He was working all night. He
has a very bad headache this morning. He needs to rest.”

"Oh,
I’m sorry!" Kate came back. She was still trying not to look guilty,
wondering how to get rid of the keys. She hadn't even known Kerinova was in Cornwall. There'd been no
sign of her the previous evening.

They'd
reached the main staircase. "I think you know where you are now,” Kerinova
said, and, leaving her, carried on across the landing towards the staff quarters
in the east wing.

"Bitch,"
thought Kate, hoping she hadn’t blushed too much, and returned to her room to
check her emails.

“I
see you’ve been recording me,” she said as they sat down to lunch. She was
certain Kerinova would have mentioned where she’d found her and she didn’t want
any misunderstandings.

“What
was that?” Gadden enquired.

“Didn’t
Petra tell you?
I was casing the joint and came across your video library. Not quite
Blockbuster, but...”

“I
haven’t seen Petra
yet today.” He looked at her questioningly.

She’d
been intending to hand back the keys at this moment, with an explanation of how
silly she felt, afraid that Kerinova would consider her a snooping reporter,
but Gadden’s expression deterred her. Deciding to wait for a better time she
said: “Oh well, not to worry. I’m thrilled that you think I’m worth the
archives. Unless, perhaps, you’re collecting for a ‘TV cock-ups of the Century’
series. Which bit of me have you saved, anyway?”

“You
didn’t look?”

“No.”

Now
he grinned. “Well, wouldn’t you like to know!”
 

Actually
she didn’t care. Over the past ten years hundreds of hours of her had been
captured on tape, covering everything from the mundane to the murderous. It was
flattering that he wanted to save anything at all.

He’d
appeared just before lunch, barefoot, in black jeans and T-shirt, his long hair
still wet from the shower, laughing off her concerns about his headache. Now
they were sitting together on the terrace under a large green parasol, the
slightest scent of burning leaves in the Indian Summer air.

Below
them in the garden the woman with the straw hat Kate had seen earlier among the
sunflowers was weeding a flowerbed. Occasionally she would glance up at Gadden,
catch his eye, and then return to her work.

Kate
watched the exchange idly as she munched a piece of celery. “Can I ask you
something?”

“It
depends on what it is?”

“Well,
the staff here, the people they call the Glee Club...”

“Silly
name.”

“Yes,
well, maybe. They’re all as loyal as leeches, though, every one. I can’t get a
breath of scandal out of any of them, hardly any kind of word actually. I’ve
never known such faithful employees. Where do you find people like this? What’s
the secret?”

He
looked down at the gardener in the flowerbed, and then across at the American
girl who’d served lunch and was now hovering waiting for further commands. “I
don’t know. We pay them well, treat them fairly, give them good lodgings,
amenable hours, make them feel important. Something like that.”

“And
a good pension scheme? Opportunities for promotion? Luncheon Vouchers?”

“All
that, as well. They say I’m nominated for Employer of the Year.”

“They’re
in love with you, aren’t they?”

“Oh,
come on, away with you.” He pulled a face.

“It’s
obvious. They’re fans and they’re in love.”

He
shook his head. “Sure, Petra
recruits from fans, but she chooses very carefully, looking for those she
thinks will be the most useful, but love...no…”

She
smiled. “Love…
yes
! Where does she
find them? Do they write in, sending CVs or something?”

“All
kinds of ways. The internet’s very good in that respect. It’s a bit like
internet dating, only we’re hiring. You can have quite a lengthy correspondence
before you actually meet. We have a couple of very good IT people working for
us.”

“And
they help you weed out the lunatics...”

“Or
maybe weed them in.”

She
laughed. “Making sure you only get the ones who are head over heels.”