Kill For Love (21 page)

Chapter
Thirty Seven

October 31:

She went to Tesco’s on the Sunday
morning. There was rarely much in her fridge in normal times, now it was
practically empty. She was, she knew, so preoccupied, she was forgetting to
eat. People would be worrying soon that she was losing weight. Crazy people did
that.

Basically she was just stocking
up, filling her trolley with packets of pasta, vegetables, fruit and comfort
foods, moving along the aisles in a semi-distraction. Normally she didn’t read
the tabloid newspapers, but as she approached the checkout a
Sunday Mirror
headline demanded that she
bought this one:
“50 MILLION TO WATCH
JESSE INTERNET SHOW”
.

She stopped. Fifty million! So
many!

There was a small mêlée outside
her house when she got back. The Motts, in their Sunday track suits and just
back from their weekly run, had become involved with someone on her doorstep.
It was Harry, Greg's boy friend. He was sobbing.

Climbing from her car she took
over. “It’s all right. Come on, Harry, let’s go inside,” she said, putting an
arm around him and drawing him away from the couple. “Thank you,” she said to
the Motts. “He’ll be okay now.”

The Motts stared at her. “Ah, you
know him…right!” “We weren’t sure,” they chimed in turn, their usually bland
expressions arched in puzzlement.

Opening her basement kitchen door
she pushed Harry inside and then went back for her shopping. Her neighbours
watched from their front door. Living next to Kate Merrimac must have become
quite eventful.

 
Sitting Harry down, she made him a cup of tea.
He looked terrible. His cheeky, pink sheen had faded with grief. When he
finally gathered himself, he had a favour to ask. He wanted to go to Danton's.
"Just to be where Greg was. To see what he saw on that last night."

She didn’t like the idea, but she
understood.

As they drove across London he told her about
life at home with his parents. They'd liked Greg, while never understanding why
their son was gay. Now they were embarrassed because the newspapers had hinted
that Greg had been murdered after picking up a psychopath in a gay bar.

"You know that wasn't what
happened, Kate. That's why I had to see you. To be with someone who believes
me. You knew him. Greg wasn't like that. He wasn't promiscuous."

Kate had known Greg. But she had
no idea as to whether he'd been promiscuous.

Even on a Sunday lunchtime
Danton's was a slightly spooky place, with a shaft of sunlight falling on a framed
lithograph of Danton at the guillotine that was wedged on a shelf behind the
bar. Kate stared at it. Had Overmars seen it that night, and noticed the blood
of the guillotine's previous victim dripping from the blade?

Harry chose a table at the front.
"Greg always sat here," he explained, "with his back in the
angle of the window and the wall so that he could see who was coming through the
door and who was down at the other end of the bar." He sat in Greg's
place.

Kate faced the street. Was this
where Overmars had sat? Had someone seen him from outside: been keeping an eye
on him?

She ordered camomile tea: Harry
had peppermint. She thought about her last conversation with Greg, and guilt rose
like a lump in her throat as she explained how she'd been unable to be present
on the night he met Overmars. Harry didn't comment. Nor did he enquire about
the story Greg had been pursuing. Greg had often joked about Harry's lack of
curiosity.

She asked about the police.
Harry’s eyes went wet again. There hadn't been much sympathy. There was always
a risk when you took a stranger home, had been the attitude.

They went silent. But as they
drank their tea, Harry again became agitated, saying that the place gave him
the creeps. Then, getting up, he hurried out.

Paying the bill, she followed. She
found him by the car, crying again.

"What is it, Harry?” she
asked as they got into the Citroën.

"I did a really stupid
thing," he sobbed.

She waited.

"Listen to this." And
pulling a small digital recorder from his pocket he pressed
PLAY
.

Greg’s voice cut through the car.
"What do you mean, there's a chamber
of horrors?"
 
he was asking.

"A chamber of video horrors, I'm telling you. Down in Cornwall,"
a
voice answered.

Kate took the recorder and pressed
the
STOP
button. "Where did you
get this?"

Harry was shaking, trying to
control his breathing. "On the night we found Greg...while we were waiting
for the police and ambulance...I was sitting on the sofa. His bag was there
with his recorder inside. I just wanted to hear his voice again, one last
time..."

She frowned. Removing evidence
was an offence.

"What is it, Kate? I've
played it, but it doesn't make much sense."

She stared at the recorder. "I
think you'll find it's Greg's last conversation," she said. "He must
have recorded his interview with Overmars for me to listen to. Let’s go home."

"You've seen these videos?"
Greg was asking above the
sounds of a late night bar.

"One or two."

"And what was on them?"

"You wouldn't believe it."
The answer was playful, almost
flirty.

"Why wouldn't I believe it?"

This time there was no answer.

They were in Kate's study,
listening to the interview as she copied it to her computer. The quality wasn't
always good, no more than fifty per cent audible. Harry was sitting in a chair
close to a speaker, his head in his hands.
 

Greg repeated the question.
"What's on them that I wouldn't
believe?"

"Only death incorporated, that's all.
"

"I don't understand what you mean."

Again there was no answer.

Kate waited as Greg had suddenly
changed direction, the way good interviewers do with difficult subjects.
"You and the people around Jesse are
called the Glee Club by the newspapers. Why do you think Jesse has you around?
What are you for?"

“We do the jobs. Make everything work for Jesse. Petra gets us in.”

"And you say people who try to leave are bullied and threatened.
Who does that?
”

“That’s Stefano and that bastard Kish.
They’re the enforcers. And Petra,
too. She’s in control. Then everyone else gangs up.”

"Including Jesse?"

"No. No. Not Jesse. Jesse wouldn't do that.”

"You don't think they could be acting on Jesse's orders?"

"Jesse wouldn't hurt a fly."

The voice of a man in denial, Kate
thought, as the sound of someone shouting in the bar covered the conversation
for a moment? She leant forward to listen as the voices became more distinct.

"If it were possible would you want to stay with Jesse?”
“I do want to be with him. But all the hangers-on keep getting in the
way."

"Why do you think that is?"

"They're jealous, because Jesse likes me best.”

"How do you know he likes you best?"

"I just know. I can tell by the way he looks at me when we’re
alone, the way he talks to me. I know he thinks I'm special."

The recording ran on. Sometimes
it was interesting as Greg had managed to get Overmars to focus on some detail
of life in the inner circle, such as the giddy excitement when Gadden would
spend a day with them; but mostly the sheer, boring, drudgery of the Glee
Club’s lives was disappointing, and the Dutch boy had become increasingly
cautious at Greg's prompting. This interview was already labouring when the
sound of a mobile phone interrupted.

"Just a minute,"
Overmars could be heard saying. Then,
"Hello",
a hesitation,
followed by a surprised and slightly breathless,
"Oh, hello!"

Kate pushed up the recorder’s
volume, but the after-midnight camaraderie in the bar had become more
boisterous and Overmars’ voice less distinct as he must have turned away to
speak into the phone.

"I'm just sitting here with a friend, talking..."
Overmars was saying, sounding slightly guilty. There was some more indistinct
conversation and then:
"Yes, I can
hear it. I like that one, too."

Kate waited.

There was a long pause, and more
muffled talk, before:
"No, I didn't
know that. Yes...yes...I see."

For another couple of minutes the
conversation continued, but Overmars' voice was now inaudible against the
background noise. Then suddenly the recorder went dead. Overmars must have
remembered that it was still running and switched it off.

"That's it," Harry
said. "They didn't record any more."

She pressed the
STOP
button.

Harry left in the early evening,
the recorder in his pocket. It must, Kate had impressed upon him, be sent immediately
to the Kentish Town CID with a note of explanation. "They'll shout,"
Kate had warned him. "But hopefully nothing more."
 

With the entire interview now on
her computer, Kate had made three copies on CDs, one for Harry to keep and one
for her. Then, calling Frank Teischer at home, she slipped the third into a
jiffy bag with a note:
“Is there any way of
filtering out some of the extraneous background noise on this, do you think? We
need more of the phone conversation, less of the bar. See you tomorrow. K".
 
And calling her courier service, she sent
it to him by motorcycle.

It was twenty four hours since
she’d phoned Kevin O’Brien in Maine,
and, having had no response to her message, she tried again. Once more Bing and
Satchmo told her he’d gone fishing.

This time she was worried. She
left another message.

Then, collecting her overnight
bag with its usual change of clothes already waiting, her laptop and camera
equipment, and a complete set of Jesse Gadden CDs, she went to her roll-top
desk and retrieved the Haverhill
keys she'd forgotten to return. Leaving the house, she drove quickly to
Waterstones in Chelsea, where she bought an
Ordnance Survey map of Cornwall.

Back in her car, she headed west.
It was another long drive, but she wouldn't have slept, anyway.

Chapter
Thirty Eight

November 1:

Once again she drove through the
early hours. At around two in the morning she stopped at a service station near
Taunton for
some coffee. Then, after Exeter,
she ran out of motorway and the road got slower. That made her anxious. She had
to be there before it got light.

 
At five thirty she paused in a lay-by and
studied her map. Haverhill House had been built in a valley; and, peering
carefully, she managed to make out the route she and Gadden had ridden that
Saturday afternoon, noting where they'd crossed the shallow river and then
trotted their horses up on to the beach.

Setting off again she drove down
a maze of high banked lanes. On the local radio station pop records were
already playing on the early show.

Since leaving London she'd been worrying about where she
would hide her car, but in the event it could hardly have been easier.
Expecting the stone walls of the Haverhill
estate to appear at any moment, she found herself passing a plantation of firs
on the opposite side of the lane. Easing the car off the road, she followed a
track through the woods to emerge, after about a hundred yards, not far from
the edge of the cliffs. It would be visible here only to passing ships.

Pulling her camera bag from the
back seat, she made her way back through the trees, crossed the road and set
off along the hedgerow. At the estate wall she recognised her surroundings. She
and Gadden had come back this way. The rear gate was about fifty yards further
along.

“Okay, rock trivia time if you want to get home tonight?”
he’d
teased as they’d reached the arched gateway.
“In what year was Sergeant Pepper released?”

She’d failed the test then, but
she knew the answer now. She’d looked it up. Carefully she tapped four numbers
into the digital entry system embedded in the wall, praying that the code
hadn’t been changed.
“1-9-6-7.”

With a metallic clunk the gate
swung open.

Looking around for security
cameras, she slipped into the estate. It was likely that she was already being
filmed, but it was, she hoped, also likely that the security monitors were not
manned twenty four hours a day. So long as she didn't set off any alarms she
had a chance.

Taking out her camera she primed
it ready for shooting, and then made a cautious way down the bridle path
towards the back of the house. No light showed: no curtain stirred. The
floodlights, which had washed the house when she’d been staying, were switched
off, perhaps an indication that the master was not at home.
H

Rounding the back of the stables,
from where she could hear the impatient breakfast stamps and snorts of horses,
she stayed away from the kitchen area by dropping down into the rose garden
which ran behind the west wing of the main house.

The door she'd entered after her
Saturday morning walk was at the end of the building. The keys she'd taken were
already in her hand: the third she tried fitted. The lock, well oiled, turned
easily. With a quick look back she stepped inside and closed the door behind
her.

It was silent in the flag-stoned
hallway, and she took a moment to catch her breath as she looked around. There
was, she remembered, a recording studio to the left, while the Jesse Gadden
websites were run from a suite further back.

Quickly, walking on the sharp
edge of the steps, as she’d been told burglars did, she climbed the staircase,
until, reaching a landing, she looked through a window towards the main
building. Apart from the estate Jeep there were only two other cars parked in
the courtyard.

Continuing to the next floor she
turned right. This time there was no band of sunlight to attract her, but she
knew which room she wanted. She tried the door. It was locked. There were five
smaller keys on the ring. The last one worked.

The video library was dark, with
blinds over the windows, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the
conditions. Feeling into her bag she withdrew her torch and shone it around the
room.

It was bigger than she'd
remembered and the collection of DVDs more extensive. Directing the torch’s
beam along the shelves she saw that one entire wall was given over to Jesse
Gadden, his concerts, promos, tours, Glastonbury
performances and TV shows. Another wall had commercial performances by other
artists:
the Beatles at Shea Stadium
,
Bob Dylan, Nirvana,
Neil Young Unplugged.

Behind the door was a large
cupboard. It was locked. She looked again at the keys and chose one.

The cupboard door swung open.
Once again there were rows of DVDs, but none bore the insignia or titles of
distributing companies. The names on them had been handwritten as with home
movies, though they were neatly, alphabetically ordered,
G
for
GADDEN
,
H
for
HAVERHILL
and so on.

At K she stopped.
KERINOVa
.
Pulling out a case she slipped the DVD into the player, and, switching off the
sound, pressed
PLAY.

The picture was of poor quality,
but it was clear enough. Natalie's research had been good. A younger Kerinova,
wearing a dark cape, was on a low stage in a small hall standing next to a
plastic Christmas tree with fairy lights, giving a demonstration of hypnotism.
In front of her a stout man in shirt sleeves was kneeling and flapping his arms
like a penguin. Occasionally the amateur cameraman had panned to shots of a
laughing audience. Kerinova wasn't smiling.

Ejecting the disc she moved along
the shelves. She found M for MERRIMAC next. She was surprised. The first shots
had been taken by a CCTV camera at the reception after the Hyde
Park concert, and she soon found herself in a corner of the frame
talking to Greg in the roof garden. Then there she was sitting with Hilly
Weston and those TV colleagues.

At this point something had
happened. Until then the camera had been regularly sweeping the room, but
suddenly it had become focused on her. And she saw herself in close up as she'd
grown bored with the party and said goodnight to her television colleagues.

Her meeting with Gadden in the
lift hadn't been an accident.

She skipped forward through the
disc. There she was in the dark in the back of the Mercedes on the way to the
studio when Stefano had avoided her questions, then at the recording session,
and, further on, arriving by helicopter at Haverhill and playing the juke box in the
music room. Everything had been recorded: the lunch on the terrace the
following day, the swim in the pool, the bedroom...

Gadden had even saved the
evidence against himself.

There was another DVD with her
name on it. She guessed what it would show. How often had Jesse Gadden watched
this, she thought, as she found herself talking to camera in Owoso, her shirt
thick with blood, her voice croaking with fear.

This was what had attracted him
to her.

She looked around the cupboard at
the rest of the collection. There were names of countries, USA, Germany,
China and the Middle East. Reaching up, she chose one and slipped it
into the player. It was uncut footage of an Al Qaeda beheading in Iraq.

 
She tried the USA next. This time it was black
and white coverage of convicted murderers dying in the electric chair, their
heads smoking, bodies jerking. Then there were snuff movies, an IRA lynching of
two soldiers before a baying mob…

She wanted to leave. She felt
buried alive by Gadden's obsession. But she had a job to do. Opening her bag
she took out the tripod and unfolded it. Then attaching the camera and light,
she plugged in the hand microphone, and, turning back to the camera, pressed
Record
.

Finally she took up her own
position in front of the camera. She was a reporter again.