Kill For Love

by Ray Connolly

  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 4th 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 m
e. 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?”