by Ray Connolly
“Hello, Kate…Are you there?”
“Yes. Sorry about that.” She tried to concentrate. “I wonder could you do me a favour. I’m down in Cornwall, near Haverhill, and I need the number of a local taxi service. Do you think you could find one for me, please?”
“Sure, Kate…just hold on…”
It was a long walk to the Haverhill gates. No sound followed her from the house, just the certain knowledge that as her every foot crunched on the gravel, bitter eyes followed her. The jolly, sunny atmosphere of Haverhill was gone. The place was now sinister and alien. She’d been afraid before on many occasions many times, and often understandably. But nothing about Jesse Gadden and the people he called his family was understandable.
Twenty minutes later she was sitting in the back of a Toyota being driven to Penzance. The driver asked no questions about why she should be walking along a Cornish country lane at just after seven in the morning, and she offered none. At the railway station she was grateful when the buffet opened at eight o'clock, but, though she bought the Sunday newspapers, she didn’t open them. She couldn't read. Her mind was still trying to come to terms with the implications of what had happened. Jesse Gadden had undergone a complete personality change.
She wanted to phone Seb Browne and Beverly in Galway, but, unable to face their inevitable questions, she texted them. “JG interview cancelled. No need for further research. Come home soonest. Will explain later. K.”
Then at 8.33, switching off her phone so that she wouldn’t get their reply, she caught the Penzance to Paddington express.
It was just after two fifteen when she arrived back in London. She’d planned what she was going to do. Getting a plastic bin bag, she’d dropped every Jesse Gadden CD and accompanying booklet into it. Then, emptying the kitchen garbage can on top of them, she took the bag outside and put it in the dustbin. She wanted no trace of Jesse Gadden in her home.
Finally, after checking her voicemail, she went up to her study. Among other messages on her computer was an email from Seb. “Hi Kate, Thanks for the text. Sorry about the interview. Bloody rock stars. What happened? Cold feet? I hope the bastard gets foot rot. Actually, as it happens, Galway might not be a complete disaster! By the way, Beverly, who’s been listening to Jesse Gadden on her iPod for three days solid, says ‘hello’, and wants you to know that I’m not as bad as she thought! We’ll see about that! See you tomorrow.
Seb.
PS. In haste… am attaching my Gadden research notes for you to read.”
That was one attachment she wouldn’t be opening, she told herself, and went to unpack her bag. Her new, blue dress would go to Oxfam. She never wanted to see it again, or the shoes she’d worn. It was only as she was pushing her jeans into the washing machine that she heard a jingle, and, feeling inside the pockets, pulled out a set of keys. They were to the Haverhill video library. She’d forgotten to hand them back. Now she never would. Chucking them into a cubby hole in her roll-top desk, she undressed, took a long bath, swallowed two Diazepam and went to bed.
Chapter Eighteen
She didn’t sleep well. She didn’t expect to or think she deserved to, as the events of the previous night reran in her mind. So it was a relief when the morning came and she could get up early and hurry to the studio.
She wasn't anchorwoman this week, but deliberately she made herself busy, complimenting Robin Broomfield on the morning's programme, noticing Chloe's new hair colouring, and asking Hetty, the returning foreign desk secretary, about her honeymoon in Goa. She knew what she was doing. She was trying to block-out the weekend. Pulling on her headphones she listened to the news headlines, and, checking her diary, she filled in her overdue expenses forms. She even helped Ned Swann man the foreign desk phones. She was glad of that. It gave her the chance to speak to colleagues around the world, to feel that she was back in touch with a reality she understood. But, all the time, stealing up on her, the events at Haverhill pursued.
“What d’you say then, Kate? Are you coming?” Sally Richards, one of the home news reporters, was looking down at her.
It was lunchtime and she’d distantly heard a casual invitation to join a group lunch in Pearl’s wine bar. “I’m sorry, I was daydreaming,” she apologised.
“One or two of the others should be down there.”
“Er...better not. I’m waiting for a call,” she lied.
“Okay. See you later.”
As Sally left, Ned caught Kate’s eye. He hadn’t mentioned her weekend. “You haven’t heard from Beverly today, have you?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Seb Browne will know where she is. What time is he due in?” She was surprised he hadn’t already contacted her.
“There’s no sign of him, either. Both their phones are turned off. If he calls, you might get him to return her. I need her. It’s busy back here in the real world.” And he picked up a ringing phone.
At one thirty she went out for some fresh air. At a fruit stall she bought an apple, and stood and ate it on Blackfriars Bridge as she watched a chain of barges being towed down the river. She wanted to cry.
By the time she returned to the office, discussions about Seb Browne’s absence had spread. It had been established that he and Beverly had left their Galway hotel the previous day, but neither had yet turned up at their London homes. Beverly’s flatmate was said to be cross. She’d spoken to Beverly on Sunday morning and they’d planned to buy a Thai take-away for supper that night. Since then there’d been no contact.
“Any money you want says Seb’s got the poor girl holed up in some cosy little Irish hotel and is filling his boots,” laughed one of the older producers. Kate didn’t answer. Galway “might not be a complete disaster!”, Seb had written. She put the thought from her mind. Beverly was old enough to make her own decisions about with whom she did or didn’t have sex.
Neil Fraser had been out all morning. As he entered the newsroom, Kate crossed the floor to his door. “There’s something you ought to know,” she said.
With the smile the editor-in-chief reserved for his star reporters, Fraser showed her into his office. “There’s a lot I ought to know...” He gestured towards a chair.
She remained standing. “The Jesse Gadden interview...it’s off.”
“What?” The smile was extinguished.
“It didn’t work out.”
“But I thought he’d agreed!”
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, Christ! Why?”
It was reasonable that he would want an explanation, but there was none she was prepared to give. She half raised her shoulders, shaking her head.
Fraser didn’t give up easily. Quickly he talked about space having been booked by advertising agencies, and the syndication value of such a coup. “I mean, are you certain about this, Kate? Are you sure there’s no way...?”
“I’m sure.”
“Maybe somebody else could do it. I know Robin would love to. To be honest, I think he’s been feeling touchy about all the attention you’ve been getting since...”
“Gadden won’t do it,” she interrupted. “I don’t think he ever intended to.” Only now that she’d said the words could she see the truth in it. He’d used the bait of an interview as a way of getting to know her. Like the pathetic men who wrote her fan letters, he was attracted to her because she was on TV. Even rock stars had their fantasies. She’d fitted one of his.
“What d’you mean?”
“I was taken in.”
“Jesus!” The silver in Fraser’s hair looked more defined now. Anger aged him. His expression said he knew there was much he wasn’t being told.
“I’m sorry,” she said again, and left the office.
Back at her desk a small group of executives were circling Ned as he tried to keep the foreign news flow going while others were obstructing him with suppositions about Seb Browne and Beverly. Kate felt removed from it all. She decided to go home.
She’d got only as far as a squeeze of traffic conge
stion at Lambeth Bridge when her mobile rang. For just a moment she considered ignoring it. She couldn’t.
It was Ned. His voice was strained. “Kate, if you’re driving can you pull over for a second...”
She told him she was stationary.
“I’ve got some bad news,” he came back. “We’ve just heard…Seb Browne and Beverly have been killed in a road accident in Ireland.”
Chapter Nineteen
It was a hastily convened meeting for heads of departments. Kate arrived late, having turned back on the Embankment. Neil Fraser was standing behind his desk, holding the details of the accident. They'd been emailed by the Galway police. He looked gaunt, having already had to call Seb Browne's mother, getting to her before she heard about the accident on the television news. She was a widow, and it was known around the office that, bumptious as he was, Seb had been the centre of her life.
"We need someone to go to Ireland to...to put in an appearance...make arrangements, although...well, in the circumstances, I don't think formal identification will be possible. No doubt, dental records will eventually..." He stopped, as though he'd shocked himself at the significance of what he'd just said. Then he tried again. "Would anyone...?"
“I’ll go, of course.” The speaker was Larry Abramsky, the WSN-TV lawyer.
“Thank you, Larry.”
"And I'll go," said Kate.
Fraser looked at her and hesitated. He was thinking about Owoso, she knew, questioning her emotional state.
"Seb and Beverly were there doing research for my interview with Jesse Gadden," she pursued.
He waited. It was obvious he didn't want to send her, but nobody else offered to go. "Right! Thank you, Kate," he said at last.
Silently the executives filed out of the office. Kate closed her eyes. Beverly had only joined WSN a few weeks earlier, after her father, a TV producer with NBC’s Channel 5 in Chicago, had pulled strings.
A studio car took them to Heathrow, Larry Abramsky quietly relaying what little information the Irish police had offered on the way. The accident had occurred in the Connemara Mountains the previous night when Seb and Beverly’s hire car had gone out of control, careered off a hillside into a gulley and overturned. There'd been an explosion. Even if the occupants had survived the fall, which was very unlikely, they’d have been burned alive.
“My God,” Kate heard herself say.
"They’re saying that Beverly would have been driving," Larry said. "That Seb was disqualified.”
Kate had forgotten. “Oh…yes.”
“Maybe there’s something there…a young American driving an unfamiliar hire car on the opposite side of the road.”
Kate didn’t answer.
They had little meaningful conversation on the short flight to Ireland. She needed quiet, and Larry, a meticulous, reserved man in his late forties, wasn’t the companion to waste words saying all the things they were both thinking.
A young man was waiting for them at Shannon Airport. He was Desmond Kenny, a sensible boy with pale eyes and heavy shoes. He worked for Molloys, a Galway news agency that performed a stringer service for WSN in the west of the Irish Republic.
At his side was a girl trainee called Siobahn. She stared reverently at Kate as Larry made the introductions. "I'll never forget that time you were on that beach in Africa," she said, almost as soon as Larry had finished speaking. "They got us to study the tape last term on our media studies course. You were brilliant during the executions. So controlled under pressure. It was fantastic."
Kate shook her head. Was that what Owoso had become? A training video? How to report on a massacre? Quietly she turned attentions back to her dead colleagues.
"I still can't believe it," Desmond Kenny said, showing the way to his car. "I was only having a drink with them in the hotel on Saturday afternoon, me and Phil Bailey. Phil was devastated when he heard."
"Phil Bailey?" Kate asked.
"He does freelance work for a lot of the papers over here. He knows all the music people in Ireland. Your man had him looking in every music pub in Galway for contacts."
They’d reached the car. Kate sat in the front with Kenny.
"There'll have to be a post mortem, of course, and they won't be releasing the bodies to the families until after it," Kenny tolled dourly as he drove them north towards Galway. "But you’ll be able to make arrangements for the transportation of the…the remains, pending that." He spoke in official jargon: death demanded that.
"What about their personal belongings?" Larry asked.
"It was a vicious fire. Everything in the car was burned to a cinder. That was why it took so long to find out who they were. The guards wanted their identities checking and re-checking before they'd release the names."
"Was there any indication of why the car went out of control?" Kate enquired.
Kenny frowned. "I don't know that particular road. I went there for the first time this morning. It's a hell of a drop. They couldn't have chosen a worse spot to go off the road if they'd tried. The police couldn't even start work until it got light. Avis are sending their own engineers to look at what's left of the vehicle and see if there was any mechanical malfunction, but it's considered unlikely."
"Where exactly did you say it happened?" Kate asked. She'd found a road map of Ireland in the glove compartment and was looking through it.
"Near Loughmaine. That's a little place in the hills.”
"We heard it happened at around eleven."
"Maybe a little later."
"So where had they been until then?"
Desmond Kenny shook his head. He didn't know.
They drove on, passing the green fields and new pastel bungalows of modern day Ireland.
Browne and Beverly had spent the weekend at the Sandymount Court Hotel in Galway, a smart new place with a view across the river to the cathedral. Reservations had been made there for Kate and Larry Abramsky, too. Checking in, they went to their separate rooms. Sitting on the Irish tartan counterpane considering the matching carpet and practical, hotel furniture, Kate pictured Beverly in a similar room, as she would have been when they'd last spoken on the Saturday morning. She'd been just 21, shining with health and laughter. It was easy to see why Seb Browne had fancied her.
Switching on the television, she went into the bathroom to clean her teeth with a toothbrush bought at the airport; the whisky she’d drunk on the plane had left a sour aftertaste. Behind her in the bedroom she could hear the news headlines running on RTE. Then came the local Galway news. The crash was the lead item. With the toothbrush still in her mouth, she returned to the television. It was showing the hire car, lying upside down at the bottom of a steep, rocky incline, a blackened broken shell of metal.
A retired teacher who'd seen the fire from his holiday cottage two miles away was talking, enjoying his moment of television celebrity. "You never saw such flames. Like a funeral pyre. I said to my wife, ‘if anyone is in there they’ll have been melted alive in that heat’." And, on cue, photographs of Beverly and Browne appeared on the screen.
An inspector from the Garda was waiting when she returned to the hotel lobby. "They must have been going too fast, is all we can imagine,” he proffered.
"I believe Connemara's a lovely part of the world,” Kate said.
"It is indeed. Very romantic."
There was a silence. Had Browne reckoned he needed one more night to get Beverly into bed and taken her off to some little out of the way beauty spot?
Leaving the hotel they were driven across the river and then west out of Galway. To the north Kate could see the glint of a lake between the trees, but soon they were into the silent, empty wilderness of moor, bog and mountain that was Connemara. It was already evening, and as the sun fell the brown and green mountains were soon lit by a pink, rain-soaked filter.
They came across the flashing lights and police cones before they reached the scene of the accident. High on a mountain road the little convoy slowed and Kate spotted the hire car t
wo hundred feet below, a blackened wreck, still lying on its roof. She was surprised. After twenty miles of twists and turns the lane here, though narrow, was almost dead straight.
Carefully the police car drew to a halt in front of a rescue truck. Waiting alongside was a large crane.
Climbing from the car, Kate and Larry made their way past a small audience of local people. A clutch of reporters and television cameramen moved as one to greet her. Below, down the mountain, a group of men were working on the wrecked vehicle.
Suddenly the figures around it stood back. Clamps had already been attached to the car’s chassis, and, with a wave and a shout, the crane operator pulled a lever. The steel cables took the strain. Then, slowly, the burnt-out car was hoisted away from the side of the cliff and edged upwards, until, reaching the road, the arm of the crane swung it towards the rescue trailer.
It had just passed above Kate when one of the clamps slipped on the burnt metal. And, as the car shifted its angle in mid-air, something fell from it into the grass verge a few yards from where she stood. Then, gently, the wreck was lowered on to the trailer.
Stepping forward, Kate looked at the fallen object. For a moment she didn't recognise it. Then she realised: it was a charred and melted laptop. And she remembered: Seb Browne had rarely gone anywhere without his computer.
"Miss Merrimac!" A voice caused her to turn around. An attractive, heavily made-up young woman had pushed herself past the police cordon. "RTE News. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?"
Kate looked over the girl's shoulder. A television camera was already focused on her. She wanted to say, yes, she did mind, that she'd just lost two colleagues and was very upset. But she didn't. The reporter had a job to do.
Phil Bailey, Browne's journalist contact in Galway, was waiting for her in the bar of the
Sandymount Court