Kill For Love (18 page)

And with that she closed the
pick-up door, and, crossing the drive, went back to her cottage. He was, she
knew, watching her. Only when she was inside did she hear the pick-up drive
away.

Chapter
Thirty One

His call came the following
morning. He would be free to meet her that afternoon, he said. No promises.

She’d got to him. As Phil Bailey
had told her, Kevin O’Brien was “all right”.

This time the gates swung open as
she approached

She chose her words carefully.
“I've no proof, but I think Jesse, or perhaps some of the people connected with
him, may have been involved in the deaths of some friends of mine. But I don’t
know how or why."

His expression didn't change.
She'd been virtually laughed at by the police and put on indefinite leave by
WSN for suggesting as much, but Kevin O'Brien’s features betrayed nothing.
"Why would he or anyone else want to do that?" he asked.

"Perhaps because he was
being investigated by them.”

“And now you’re investigating
him.”

“Yes.”

"I think you're imagining
things."

"So does everybody
else."

O’Brien considered her. "How
do you know I won't call Jesse and tell him what you're doing?"

"Go ahead. But I think
you'll probably find he already knows, although hopefully not that I’m here in
the States. Besides, my guess is you like to keep your distance from him these
days. Right?"

He didn't answer that. "I
don't know anything about anybody killing anybody, I really don't," he
said at last.

"But you didn't look
particularly surprised when I told you."

He pulled a face that was both
anxious yet impotent, then, lifting his head for a moment, he gazed out of the
window across the sound. "The sorcerer has a lot of new apprentices these
days. Who knows what some of those crazy people around him might get up to.”

"The sorcerer?" She
played with the word. "Is that how you see him?"

He looked back at her. “Tell me
everything.”

She did, though still his
features betrayed not a single emotion. Even her account of finding Greg's body
was heard without comment.

The initial tension between them
was easing, but, perhaps because he needed time to think, he took her for a
walk around the grounds of his house, crunching the leaves and showing her the
views. At length, looking down across the sound, he said. "These people
who died in Ireland and in London, these friends of
yours..."

She pre-empted his question. “No.
It wasn’t a coincidence. I’m certain.”

He screwed up his eyes. "It
seems to me I could do one of two things. I could send you packing, maybe even
warning you to take care, and then forget all about your visit. Or...?"

"Yes?"

He still struggled.
"Jesus..."

Now she knew. She’d got to him.
He’d been fighting this demon all night.

He gave in. "All
right!"

"All right?"

He looked unhappy. "Let's
put it this way. I don’t know if there’s a word of truth or sense in what
you’ve been telling me. Frankly, I don’t think there is. But on the remotest
off-chance that there might be, well…as I was the one who helped take the genie
out of the bottle, maybe it's only right that I should do my bit to help put
him back in."

"First Jesse was a sorcerer,
now he's a genie. What else is he?"

He sighed. "I don't know,
and I'm not sure he does." Then, putting out an arm, he indicated they
return to the house. "Come on then, let's get on with this interview.”

"I'd heard about this weird
boy playing the music pubs, but I'd thought it was probably exaggeration,"
he began. "Then one day he came into the Crazy Horse and asked to be

auditioned. He was about twenty one or so, but with no
doubts, no nerves. I sat him down on a stool and he played and sang. Jesus, but
it was like watching electricity come to life!"

They were sitting in his study, a
captain's cabin at the top of the house, O'Brien at his desk, a microphone
pinned to his shirt. Behind him on the panelled wall was a blizzard of framed
platinum CDs. Kate sat facing him, the camera on its tripod an inch from the
side of her head, switched on and left to run. She was hoping O’Brien didn't
move out of frame.

"He had an effect upon
everybody, right from the beginning. The gift of making everyone do what he
wanted. People would go quiet when he came into a room, even before he was
famous. I suppose he was a star before he was a star, if you get my meaning.
It’s a state of mind you know…stardom. A star always believes he’s a star
before the public have ever heard of him.”

"Did he ever talk about his
mother or family?"

"Not his family. I knew that
his mother was dead."

"Did he tell you how she
died?"

"Only in so far as I once
overheard him saying his single fear in life was ending up like his mother.
When I asked him what he meant, he denied saying it, and accused me of making
things up about him.” He smiled wryly. “Stars can be like that. It goes with
the job.”

She hesitated before the next
question. "Did he ever talk about someone called Sister Grace?"

"Not that I remember."
He seemed quite certain.

She was disappointed.
Methodically she went on through her questions, getting O'Brien to tell her how
he'd launched Gadden's career, made a recording of a gig at the Crazy Horse and
released it as
Live in Galway
, before
promoting tours in Ireland, then England, Scotland and Scandinavia and then on
across Europe.

Despite the talent, it hadn't
been easy. "When he first came to me Jesse was incandescent with talent.
It was so exciting, I can't tell you. He was so hungry, and so quick to learn.
But there was an initial resistance to him in the wider context. No-one seemed
to know what kind of singer he was. He was just so different…rock, Gaelic, but
something other-worldly, too. He was good in the clubs and small halls where
people could see and hear him properly, but he lost it in the big places where
he couldn't get close to the audience.”

 
"So when did things change?"

He knew exactly. "When he
began to get on TV…that was the breakthrough. He seemed to intuitively
understand what he had to do in front of a camera. Soon he was even directing
his own videos. Overnight the world discovered him. On tour he would have that
big screen behind him so the fans could watch him in close up all the time.
That made the difference.”

"And then?"

 
“Then we had the great years. He just grew and
grew. America
loved him, then the world. He had that extraordinary voice and presence and
those weird songs that the kids loved to interpret. He was perfect for the
YouTube generation.”

She nodded, noticing the sudden merriment
in his eyes as he remembered the best times.

“Then suddenly he was
untouchable. He had a new girl friend, too, someone who would do everything he
wanted without question. They’d met in Estonia. She followed him to London. She was on his wavelength,
a chum, someone to bounce his zany ideas off. And she brought an extra
intensity to his performance.”

"And she would be...?"
Kate probed for the camera, although she knew the answer.

"Petra Kerinova. She'd just come out of
hospital when they met. For depression, I think. Before that I heard she'd been
in some kind of circus or a night club act."

"Was she the reason you and
Jesse split up?"

"No. That was later.
But..."

“Yes?”

“There was something about him I
never understood. It was there from the beginning. She just brought it out
more.”

Kate waited as he tried to shape
his words.

Then, becoming animated, he said:
“Switch off the camera for a minute and I'll tell you something."

Disappointed, she did as she was
asked. The best parts of interviews so often came when the camera was no longer
running.

O’Brien watched as the
record
red light went out, and then stared
at his large workmanlike hands for a few seconds before resuming. "They
were doing a lot of drugs then, him and Petra,
and one night a very bright, lovely girl they were with…someone they’d selected
for their own amusement, if you follow my meaning, almost died. Petra liked to watch, they
said, and, well, Jesse could get violent sometimes when girls didn't play the
games he wanted.”

Kate felt herself blink. Had Petra been watching at Haverhill? Listening? Controlling the music?
She knew she had.

"Anyway, I found out about
the girl and the state she was in, and got her to a hospital. They saved her
life and it was all hushed up, and no-one even knew that Jesse had been
involved, but I'm not sure the girl was ever the same again. She's still with
him, just one of the entourage now. They never leave, you know, those fans he
employs. I suppose they become dependent. She files his Press cuttings or does
some menial job. Her life is ruined. And Jesse just never seemed to care about
what he'd done. That’s rock music, I suppose, but I didn't like it. I wanted
out. It was no fun any more."

"This violence…it's never
reported. No one would believe it of him."

"People only see what they
want to see. And when you're as rich as Jesse you can pretty well control what
people get to know about you. He's brilliant at that. Always has been."

She indicated the camera. He
nodded. And she pressed the button to resume recording. "The missing
couple of years…" she said, "what was happening then? Was it drugs or
a breakdown, or…”

He shrugged. "Doctors.
Everywhere, I heard. New York, London, Paris.
He saw them all.”

"What about?"

"I honestly don’t know. I
wasn’t involved by this time, living over here and everything. But I'd get the
gossip, and we still have a couple of business interests together. Jesus, he
could be impossible. I used to think he might be losing his mind, but…” He
smiled.
 
“He seems fine now, doesn’t he!”
He hesitated. “Maybe you’d better cut the stuff about him losing his mind.”

She promised she would. "So,
after you left him, Petra Kerinova took over managing him?"

He laughed aloud. "Christ,
no! Jesse doesn't need a manager. He needs an army. He makes all the decisions
himself. He's very bright, brilliant at figures, money, deals! Petra’s there for
something else. I’m never sure what. There always seemed to be a hole in her
personality, a vacuum, where her sense of self should have been, and somehow he’s
filled it. Right now she just puts the troops in place, all those waifs and
strays who turn up, and who he calls his family. But he runs everything. To be
honest, by the end all I was doing was looking after his off-shore accounts and
seeing tax lawyers.” He smiled at some private memory.

She hesitated. "Can I ask
you a personal question?”

“Well, that depends.”

 
“Do you like him?"

 
“Do I like him? That's an odd one now. It
wouldn't be enough to like Jesse. He doesn't want people to just
like
him, he demands that they
love
him. All stars want that, of
course, all entertainers. But he wants it a hundred times more than the rest.
He's like a hoover, sucking up all the love in the world. But it's never
enough. And he never gives any of it back.”

“But he’s generous, you must
admit that.”

O’Brien laughed bitterly.
"He's always believed in paying well, I’ll give him that. But sometimes I
used to think every gift, every dollar, every pound, was worked out to the last
penny to make people do what he wants them to, almost like those politicians
who are always thinking about their legacy. I think he has a fear of being left
alone, so he collects people to be around him. But there are no friends. Just Petra. She's always there,
whispering with him about something…the total, perfect, unquestioning fan.”

"What about the donations to
charities, in millions, they say, and the hospital he’s planning. He’s a public
benefactor. That’s generous.”

He shrugged. "To most people
it would be. But we're talking rock and roll money here, worldwide wealth which
is multiplying faster than it can ever be spent. Jesse already has everything
he's ever going to need in this life. Giving away what you won't ever want
isn't that difficult, although some of the other guys seem to think it is.” He
chuckled wickedly.

"Thank you!" Kate said,
and switched off the camera.

For a few moments O'Brien was
silent as he reflected upon what he'd told her.

She understood. He'd betrayed an
old friend. "Can I ask you something off the record?" she asked,

He looked at her.

"If you’re not sure whether
or not you like Jesse, how
do
you
feel about him?"

He spoke very slowly. "To be
absolutely honest, on days like this, he scares the living daylights out of
me.”

Chapter
Thirty Two

“There’s one thing I don’t
understand,” Kate said as she put the tripod into the back seat of her car. “If
Jesse is so hooked on enjoying the world's adoration, why is he retiring?"

O'Brien smiled. "With Jesse
there's always some new agenda.”

“Like streaming his last goodbye
concert over the internet?”

 
He nodded. “I read about that. That was a
surprise. This last tour was streamed on sound from his website. I listened to
the New York
one myself. But this will be the first time he’s put the pictures out, too. The
TV networks would have paid millions for it and here he is giving it away for
free to anyone with a computer.”

“So why?”

“God knows!
 
He'll have a plan. Something he wants more
than what he already has. He’s always liked being mysterious.” Then another
thought occurred. “And, of course, if it’s only on his website, not on a TV
channel, he’ll have complete control over it. Control is important to Jesse.”

She could understand that.

She and O’Brien had got on better
than she’d expected, to the point that he’d even given her his phone number,
and, with a cheeky grin, suggested she come back in the summer when he could
take her sailing. But, as the afternoon had worn on, he’d become distracted, and
she was now anxious to leave before he changed his mind about co-operating and demanded
she wipe the interview. That happened occasionally when second thoughts tapped
in.

But then the estate gates opened
and a yellow Toyota
raced up the drive towards them, and she understood the reason for his
distraction.

O'Brien was smiling broadly. "Dead
on time!" he breathed as the Toyota slid in between the pick-up and the Rolls
Royce, and a girl, quite pretty, with olive skin and long, plaited, black hair
climbed out. She didn't look more than eighteen, and, in her jeans and
moccasins and wrapped in a red anorak, Kate wondered for a second if she was
O'Brien's daughter.

Then he kissed her. She wasn’t
his daughter.

"Kate, this is a friend of
mine...Julie," O'Brien said as he came out of the kiss.

Kate smiled politely. O’Brien
liked younger women, she’d been told. Wasn’t that always the way with these
guys in rock music!

O'Brien kept an arm around the
girl's waist. "I've just been doing an interview, Julie. Talking about the
old times in Ireland.
Boring to you, I'm afraid."

The teenager glanced at the
camera case in Kate's hand.

O'Brien was glowing now.
"Look, why don't you go inside. I'll be right in." And he gave the
girl a slight pat on her bottom.

She smiled prettily, and with a
nod to Kate tripped into the house.

Kate turned back to her hire car.
"Well, anyway, I'll be off…"

O'Brien wasn't listening. "Sweet
girl! She comes all the way down from Saint
John every Sunday. That's up in Canada, you know."

"Yes!" Kate did know.
She was amused by the big man's affection. "Look, I really am grateful. I
don't know what's going to happen to any of this, whether there's even anything
here, but..." She shook his hand.

"I’m sure there isn’t.
Coincidence happens, you know, inexplicable and sad though these things
sometimes are.” He shrugged his big shoulders. “I suppose I’ll have Jesse’s
lawyers on to me if he ever finds out that I’ve been talking to you. But…hey,
what the hell! I can give as good as I get. I’ve got lawyers, too. Anyway, give
Phil Bailey my best when you see the old bastard…and don't forget to tell him
about the fun I'm having here."

"I'll do that."

There was a movement in an upstairs
window. The girl was watching. She’d already taken off her red anorak. Bailey
grinned sheepishly.

"Well, I don't want to keep
you," Kate said. And, climbing into her car, she drove quickly down the
drive. Even before she reached the gates a glance in her rear view mirror made
her smile, as she saw O'Brien hurry eagerly into the house.

"Well, well, you old rock
and roll devil!" she chuckled aloud, and drove out on to the road.

She checked the DV tapes as soon
as she got back to the inn. There were no problems. The framing had been
acceptable and the sound quality was excellent. She was pleased with her day.
O'Brien had been as candid as she could have expected, and she found herself
repeating his phrase "Maybe it's time I helped put the genie back into the
bottle."

It was too late to get back to Boston in time to catch an overnight plane to London, so she booked her flights
for the following morning. Then she checked her home voicemail. A stumbling message
from Jeroboam made her smile. Normally he hated speaking into an answering
machine, but here he was determinedly making an attempt to play the part of a
confident young man, as he told her about the first days at his job. And, for
the first time, she was relieved that he neither read the papers nor watched
the television news. In his own, narrow little world, he seemed not to have
noticed that she’d made headlines when she’d found Greg’s body.

Two other messages were from the
C.I.D. at Kentish
Town, asking her to get
in touch. Then there were others from Chloe and Ned at WSN, and one each from
her mother and her brother, Richard, asking her to call back. She didn’t. First
she emailed Phil Bailey in Galway to pass on O’Brien’s best wishes, and then
she called Natalie Streub at the WSN bureau in Moscow.

“Jesus, Kate! Where are you? I
heard you were all over the papers and had gone on leave…”

She cut her short. “I’ll explain
later about that. In the meantime, can you do me a favour?”

“Go on.”

“A woman called Petra Kerinova.
She works for Jesse Gadden now, but she was some kind of circus act or night
club performer in Estonia
about five or six years ago. Do you have any contacts there who might be able
to find out exactly what kind of act she did?”

“Estonia? Well, probably. It may
take a couple of days.”

“Thanks, Natalie. I’ll owe you
one.” And asking her not to tell anyone at WSN about the inquiry she rang off.

At seven thirty she went across
to the restaurant for an early dinner. Most of the few other guests were
retired couples, so, sitting alone in a corner under a nineteenth century
photograph of a whale kill, she hurried through her fish soup and scampi,
anxious to get back to her work.

Her chunky young waiter, his
name-tag read “Joel”, had other hopes. Intent upon making at first prolonged
eye contact, and then semi-flirty conversation with the only single woman in
the place, he deliberately dawdled as he served her.

Perhaps it worked with some
women, she reflected, as she tried to ignore his comments about her hair, her English
accent and her "leaf-peeping" reasons for visiting Maine in the fall. Perhaps he thought she
looked desperate: perhaps she did look desperate. She wanted to tell him that
whatever reason she might have had for coming to Maine it most certainly wasn't to get laid
by an overweight flounder, but she didn't. Instead she smiled patiently, and,
resisting his offer of a drink when he got off, she hurried back to her
cottage, where, taking her laptop to bed instead, she pulled a fleece around
her shoulders and returned to the Jesse Gadden websites.

The forest of fan trivia had
already thickened with the announcement of the forthcoming internet concert,
and a couple of hours passed as she trudged ever deeper into it.

She was just deciding to give it
ten more minutes and then call it a night when the chimes outside on her deck
distracted her. She looked up, listening. A slight night breeze must be getting
up. She returned to the laptop. Then stopped. Another sound.

Was that a footstep? A board
creaking?

She listened hard.

Getting out of bed, she crossed
to the screen door and switched on the outside light. Then cautiously she
opened the door a couple of inches. Then further.

The deck was empty, but the
chimes were moving.
Had
a wind got
up? It was difficult to tell. The sound of a car engine drew her attention to
the inn’s parking lot. A yellow car was just leaving.

O’Brien’s teen girl friend,
Julie, had been driving a yellow Toyota.

But so did lots of people.
 

Putting the thought from her mind
she went back inside and locked the door. Returning to her laptop, she couldn’t
quite remember what the last website had been. A vague sense that she'd been
getting tired and had overlooked something prompted her to go back a site, then
another.

It took a few moments to appear,
but then the screen began to bloom as illustrations of flowers weaved
themselves into a wreath, in the centre of which came photographs of a young
girl alongside a good looking boy.
“Jesse
still sings for Donna and Rick”,
read
a caption.

Donna and Rick? Donna? She’d seen
this girl's picture before, she was sure. But where? She went to the waste
paper basket. The copy of the previous day’s
Boston Sunday Globe
was still in it. There she was: the girl in the
coma in New Hampshire
who hadn't quite died with her boy friend in the picnic suicide pact.

The website was a shrine to her
and a boy called Rick Niemen. All the details of their last day were listed, what
they’d eaten that afternoon, their nicknames for each other, the type of wine
they'd drunk, the supermarket where they'd shopped, and the popcorn they'd only
half finished, but which had blown across the fields like a paper chase
bringing the search party to find them the following day.

She hesitated. So what? Why
shouldn’t there be a Donna and Rick website linked to Jesse Gadden? Millions of
kids were Jesse Gadden fans.

And yet...

She read on through the website,
discovering the bright and beautiful young couple, who'd inexplicably thrown
their lives away. Then she turned back to the newspaper and read words of
incomprehension from the boy's father.
“Until
my dying day I’ll never understand why my son had to die. I don’t believe he
committed suicide. He just wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t have hurt his family
like that. He had everything to live for. I just don’t understand what could
have happened to them that day.”

She looked at her watch. It was
just after midnight. She reached for the telephone and called Logan Airport.
She would no longer be taking the early morning flight back to London. Then she got out
her road map. It was a two hundred mile drive to Romsey, New Hampshire,
and, as there was now no sleep in her, she'd make better use of her time if she
drove through the night. Calling the inn's reception, she asked for her bill to
be prepared: she was checking out.

Joel took the call. He sounded as
though he'd already been in bed. "At this time of night?" he asked.

"Yes."

"I hope it wasn't something
I said," he fretted. "I was only being friendly."