Kill For Love (7 page)

Chapter Ten

September
27:

"So, this spiritualist is addressing a hall
full of people in a little country town in the Cotswolds." Robin
Broomfield, WSN-TV's main anchor, fixed Kate with his glint of authority.

Kate's eyes flicked to the second digit of the
studio clock. Broomfield
was playing his usual trick of trying to make his occasional co-presenter
break-up just before they went on air.
 
He'd
have to be quick. They were less than thirty seconds from transmission.

"Looking around the audience, the
spiritualist says, ‘hands up anyone who’s ever seen a ghost’,” Broomfield continued.
“About half the people in the hall put up their hands. ‘That’s very good,’ says
the spiritualist. ‘Fifty per cent of you have seen a ghost.
Now will those who’ve ever shaken hands with a
ghost put your hands up.’ And this time about a quarter of the people put their
hands up.”

"‘That’s astonishing’, he says. ‘Twenty five
per cent of you have shaken hands with a ghost.’”

In her earpiece Kate could hear last minute
preparations from the gallery. Nodding into the lens of the robot camera, she
patted a renegade tuft of hair into place, straightened her back, and, sitting
on the tails of her jacket, stared into the autocue. Ready.

Beside her Broomfield
was unhurried. "So finally the spiritualist looks at the audience and
says, ‘Now, how many of you have ever had sex with a ghost’. And he gazes
around the audience, all of whom are shaking their heads. Then, right at the
back of the hall a little old man puts his hand up. The spiritualist is amazed.
‘You’ve actually had sex with a ghost!’ he says, as everyone turns to look.

"Seven, six, five…”
In Kate’s earpiece
the technical co-ordinator was counting them in.

 
“‘Oh,
sorry,’ said the old man, ‘I thought your said a
goat’.”

For one second Kate smiled at the old joke, then,
wiping her face clean of expression, lifted her head, and, as the red light
came on, began to read:
"Middle East talks come under a new threat as
more violence erupts in Gaza; the White House finally comes clean on planting
bugs in friendly embassies during the Iraq War; and polygamy, could it help us
live longer? All this and more in this hour here on WSN-TV. But first, here's
Robin with the headline news."
And she handed over to Broomfield, now
transformed into the grey-means-gravitas face of WSN-TV.

Though a news-gatherer at heart, Kate enjoyed
occasional stints as anchor. In terms of concentration it was constant, keeping
up with every twist of a running story, while listening in her earpiece to
continuous technical information on talkback, her expression, friendly,
intelligent or concerned as the item dictated. But, it could be a secret
battle, too, fighting Broomfield’s
schoolboy mission to make his latest female co-host giggle on camera.

"You looked very happy today, Kate," Chloe
said as she made her way back to her desk after the show.

“Happier still to get away from Robin’s jokes,”
she replied. And sitting down at her computer she scanned her messages. She'd
been hoping for some word from Gadden, or at least Kerinova, setting a date for
the interview, but there was nothing. The only mention of him was a long list
of suggested questions now on her screen from Seb Browne. Looking across the
office she could see the producer alongside Beverly.

Noticing her watching, Browne picked up his
phone. Hers rang almost immediately. "So what do you think of the
questions?" he asked.

"They’re good," she said, browsing
through them.

"We've got a few more leads on the childhood
bit. Nothing on the mother yet, but a couple more schools."

"Anything interesting?"

"Not yet. We'll keep after it."

"Okay, but tread carefully."

"Of course."

Then, seeing her incoming call light flashing,
she rang off.

The caller was Helen Walker at the Hammersmith
and Fulham Youth Offending Service. "I thought you'd like to know that
after talking to the record shop the police have decided not to press charges
against Jeroboam," she said.

Kate was relieved. "Oh, that's very good. Thanks
for letting me know. He'll be very pleased."

"A nice birthday present!"

Kate was surprised. "It's Jeroboam's
birthday?
Today
?"

"You didn't know?"

No, she didn't know. Jeroboam was sixteen! That
was virtually grown up.

He was one of the last to leave the school, and
for a moment she was worried in case he was playing truant again. But at last
he came shuffling around the corner, his head down, alone, looking, as always,
as though he didn't want anyone to notice him. He didn't see her car at first,
and when she leaned across and threw open the passenger door, he instinctively
pressed himself back against the graffiti decorated wall.

"Hello."

Recovering from the surprise, he smiled, before a
shadow of anxiety crossed his face, as though he was half-expecting a reprimand
but not knowing why.

"Come on then. Jump in!" she ordered.

He looked around. Behind him two youths of about
the same age were approaching, watching him. Whether he was pleased that they
should see him getting into a car, or grateful to have a car to get into when
they appeared, Kate couldn't tell. But quickly he slipped in alongside her.

Putting the car into gear, she pulled away down
the street. "Happy birthday."

 
Only now
did he smile. "Where are we going?"

"Where do you want to go? It’s your
birthday. You choose."

She'd invited his mother, Maria Elena, along,
too, but had been told she had to work between four and midnight, so they
celebrated alone at Burger King in Westfield,
the shopping mall in Shepherds Bush. It was Jeroboam's choice.

She'd never known him so chatty, gallant almost.
Carefully he advised her of the best buys on the menu, going through the different
relishes included with each item, warning her away from the Veggie Whopper and
Chicken Pick-'Em Up, recommending the Flamer or perhaps Junior Whopper if she
wasn't very hungry.

Together they sat in a booth as he opened his birthday
card (it showed a footballer, the only one in the shop she could find which
wasn't either garlanded with flowers or sexually suggestive) and, for the first
time, she began to see a future for him. He'd heard they needed trainee porters
at the Wellington Hotel, he confided, as he sucked a vanilla shake. He thought
he might like to do that.

Ignoring the detail that he didn't look strong
enough to spend his days lifting suitcases, she encouraged. "Perhaps you
should write and apply for a job."

"Will you help me?”

“Of course I will.”

She’d taken the precaution of buying a small
chocolate cake, and, despite glares from the counter staff, she pulled it from
its box and laid it before him. "I think we'll have to imagine the sixteen
candles," she said.

"That's all right. I'll imagine blowing them
out, too." And closing his eyes he blew softly.

It was the first joke she'd ever heard him make,
and for that moment she saw him as his mother must, the funny face rounded into
an expression of dignity. "Did you make a wish?" she asked as he
opened his eyes again.

He nodded, and then smiled wickedly to himself.

She pretended to look stern: "Perhaps it had
better be a secret then."
 

He giggled some more. She’d guessed right.

When he’d finished eating most of the birthday
cake, she led him through the mall into PC World for his present. Now he became
reticent, and she worried that he might have visited this shop before under
different circumstances.

He lingered long over the decision, going from
one model to another. But when the choice was made he stuck to it. She might
have guessed: the one he chose was the cheapest. It had everything he would
need, he insisted. "If I have a fancier one and the boys on the estate get
to know, they might come and steal it," he tried to reason, though she didn't
believe him. He was used to a bargain. His mother hadn't brought him up to
extravagance. So Kate bought him his first computer.

“And it isn’t just for playing music or games,”
she warned. “If you’re going to get a job you’re going to have to learn how to
use it properly.”

His eyes were warm with gratitude.

She knew she was spoiling him. But everyone
needed spoiling at some time in their life: Jeroboam probably more than most.

She spent the evening finishing her
Observer
book review, and then found
herself trying to decide what music to listen to. She looked through several
CDs, but she was, she knew, delaying the inevitable. The only decision to be
made was which Jesse Gadden album to play. She chose
River
of Ghosts
.
It had been his first studio album.

Pouring herself a glass of wine she studied the
photograph on the front of the accompanying booklet as it played. It showed a
black horse dressed as for a medieval tournament, chainmail covering its chest
and quarters, one bright red eye staring defiantly from behind a cloth head
mask. It was a disturbing image and she moved on to a picture of the singer
himself, a bleached, ghostly figure, wrapped in what looked like a cloak and
standing in a mist. Manufactured romanticism, she said to herself, so easily
achieved with soft focus photography, a filter, make-up, lights and dry ice.
Show-biz marketing!

On the CD the high, delicate voice was singing
something about a “
ringed circus of dreams
”, where “
ponies were
painted and love untainted
”. She listened more carefully and then found the
place in the lyric sheet. “
Where toys were real and never came undone, with
broken words from some hell-bound nun
.”
 

She shook her head. No wonder he kept the freaks
on the internet busy.

Greg Passfield called just before ten. They
hadn’t spoken since the party after the Hyde Park concert, and he’d just heard
on the rock grapevine that Jesse Gadden was about to break his silence and do a
TV interview with her. “This is
wonderful
, Kate. How did you get it?”

“I don’t know.
He
seems to have chosen
me.”

“Really! What’s he up to now, I wonder!”

“Can’t it just be that he finally wants to unburden
himself to his fans?”

She could hear Greg almost smiling down the
phone. “Come on, this is rock and roll we’re talking here. Those guys never
give you anything for nothing. Good luck.”

Chapter Eleven

October
1:

She hated herself for caring, but as she drove to
work before dawn through the empty London
streets she was puzzled. Gadden had been keen to see her, had virtually pursued
her, yet a full week had passed with no further attempt to make contact. It
shouldn’t have bothered her, but it did, and not just because of the interview.
He’s a rock star, you idiot, she told herself, as she drove across Blackfriars Bridge. What do you expect? He probably
visits a different woman every night. She was being pathetic, but she couldn’t
help herself. He was so unlike anyone she’d ever met before.
 

There was a
message from Seb Browne waiting on her computer when she reached the studio at
six. It read:
“Got a couple of leads but Gadden's childhood is tricky to
research from here, so I'm nipping over to Galway
for a couple of days. And, since she's the nearest we have to a Jesse Gadden
expert (unless you’ve now become one!), and can drive, I'm taking Beverly with me. Will be
in touch, Seb.”

Kate sipped
her coffee, irritated.
 
“Chloe, doesn’t
Seb drive?” she asked the agencies monitor when she arrived.

“Not since he lost his licence. Disqualified for
twelve months.”

“Ah! Thank you.”

Okay, she thought, Seb would need a driver in Ireland.
But did it have to be Beverly?
According to a famous waggish survey conducted at the BBC the chances of
seducing someone while on a trip rose in direct proportion to the distance you
travelled. Abroad was always best, it said, but did Ireland really count as foreign?

Dismissing the thought, she picked up her copy of
the morning’s running order, and made her way to the make-up department.

Robin Broomfield, his head poking out of a bib,
nodded a curt good morning into the mirror as she entered. Behind him, Della
Jordan, the make-up artist, was re-pointing his cheekbones with blusher.
"Did you see the
Guardian
today?" he asked grumpily. The Friday
morning papers were scattered around the room.

She had but, but following his look, Kate's eyes
fell on the lead headline in the
Guardian's
media section.
"Satellite
news channels: can they all survive?”
it read across a page of television
screens showing the variety of English language channels, from CNN, Fox and Al
Jazeera, to Russia Today and France 24. “Yes, more competition all the time,”
she said taking the make-up chair alongside him.

“And maybe not for much longer,” Broomfield grunted. "According
to the
Guardian
, the internet and bloggers are going to gobble us all
up. Well, perhaps not before time.” Then, glaring unhappily at himself in the
mirror, he added more quietly: "Perhaps a little bit more around the eyes,
d'you think, Della? Late night, last night."

Della, notionally deaf to any conversation
between presenters in which she had not been invited to contribute, did as she
was asked. She was a statuesque, black girl, whose own make-up was always
flawlessly applied.

At that moment Kate spotted what was really upsetting
Broomfield.
Pictured in the
Guardian's
screen devoted to WSN was a large flattering photograph
of herself reporting from Mombasa.
That would have irritated. Robin saw himself as the face of WSN.

Still grumbling he stood up as Della finished with
him. "Anyway, your turn. See you inside.” And pulling on his jacket, he
strode off to the studio.

Kate winked at Della. He wouldn’t be trying to
make her laugh this morning. But it was only as Della was putting a gown around
her shoulders and she glanced again at the newspaper that she noticed the story
on the facing page. It was about rock music and the internet. The photograph
illustrating it was of Jesse Gadden.

"Della," she said as the make-up artist
went to work. "Supposing you were going to interview Jesse Gadden, what
would you want to know?"

Della's concentration on her work never faltered.
"I'd like to know if he looks into a mirror when he says his prayers at
night," she said.

He telephoned during one of the mid-morning
breaks for sports news. Normally callers were told to ring back after the show,
but no one refused Jesse Gadden.

"Just to let you know I'm watching
you," he said quietly down the phone.

Surprised, she swivelled her chair away from Broomfield, who was
contemplating the racing pages in the
Daily
Telegraph.
She was
unsure of what
to say: "Sorry it's such a thin news morning." She wished he’d called
her mobile.
 

"Don't be. I like items on the weather in Antarctica. It broadens the mind. We get it over in Ireland,
too. Only we call it autumn."

Kate smiled.
 
Environmental stories were regulars on WSN. They were cheap and offered
great visuals.

Gadden was still talking. "Anyway, I’ve been
thinking...what about the weekend?"

"The weekend? Didn’t they say ‘fine and
sunny’? Anyway, you won't be able to blame me. I'm off after today."

"So we could spend the weekend
together."

She was so taken aback she didn't answer.

"I have a house. In Cornwall…Haverhill."

"Er, yes, I know..."

"You'd like it. We could have a nice, quiet,
normal weekend. It would give us chance to sort a few things out...map out
areas…for the interview..."

"
Twenty seconds, Kate
," the
warning came into her earpiece from the gallery. Everyone there would be watching
her, even though they wouldn't be able to hear what Gadden was saying. This was
a hell of a public way to be asked away for the weekend. Perhaps he’d intended
that.

She glanced at the clock. "I have to
go."

"I need an answer. Yes or no?"

"I can't talk now. We'll speak later."

"Yes or no?"

"I'm sorry, I..."

She was about to decline on the grounds that as
she was soon to interview him it would be unprofessional to accept his
hospitality, when he suddenly said: "Just say yes. Please." The plea
came like a murmur from one of his records.

She glanced at the camera.

"
Ten seconds.
"

"Yes, all right."

"Thank you," Gadden breathed.
Immediately his tone became business-like. "We'll pick you up at four this
afternoon then. See you later." And the line went dead.

Kate still held the phone.

"Well, Kate?" Broomfield was watching her. "Are you
with us?"

"Sorry." She put the phone down.

The red light came on. Staring into the camera,
and now pasting on his concerned expression, Broomfield began to read the next item from
the Autocue.
"A report published today predicts that within twenty five
years butterflies could become extinct across much of Europe and North America... "

Another environmental
story, thought Kate, and then wondered what she’d let herself in for.

By the time she came off air at mid-day the
entire office seemed to know that Jesse Gadden had called. Chloe Estevez shook
her head in giggly mock despair. “And you aren’t even a fan! What a waste!”

At the foreign desk Ned Swann was unusually
quiet.

"I shouldn’t really have taken the call
during the show," Kate told him as Chloe went off to a sandwich bar.
"They were probably fuming in the gallery. But this interview is important
to me….and probably to him, too.”

Ned snorted scornfully “You think? So why doesn't
he just do it, instead of all this pratting around?"
 

"He's a rock star. You know what they're
like."

Ned’s voice rose. "No, I don't know what
they’re like. And neither do you. You're a foreign correspondent….not a …."
He didn’t finish.

Kate was surprised at his sudden irritation. Ned,
a former war correspondent himself, and now in his late fifties, was known to
be hard on some of his reporters and contacts scattered around the world, but
he’d never been anything other than protective of her. "I
was
a
foreign correspondent," she snapped back. “But not, it appears, any more.”
Then, turning away, she checked her messages and logged off. "No word from
Seb Browne or Beverly in Ireland,
I suppose?" she asked the stand-in secretary, dropping her voice.

The girl shook her head.

"Oh, well, they know where to reach me.” And
throwing a tentative "Have a nice weekend" over her shoulder, she
left the office.

Ned ignored her.

Jeroboam rang while she was ironing her shirts
for the trip, a check call about a lesson they’d planned for the Saturday
afternoon.

“I’m sorry,” she apologised. “Something’s cropped
up. I have to work. I have to go away.”

He didn’t speak. He never did when he was
disappointed.

“We’ll do it next week. Promise. Can we make
another time?”

“All right.”

“By the way how’s the computer going?”

“It’s good. I’m teaching myself to do it. It can
correct the spelling.”

“That’s right. Excellent.”

The boy didn’t add anything further, although she
could hear his husky breath down the phone.

“So, do you want to make another plan? Would one
night next week be all right? Do you want to call me when I get back?”

“Yes,” said Jeroboam. “Bye!” And he hung up.

She returned to her ironing, irritated about
something but not quite sure what. She was on to her third shirt when she
realised. Jeroboam had made her feel guilty. “That boy…” she murmured.

Then smoothing a final silk shirt across the ironing
board, she set to it with a purpose.