by Ray Connolly
"To the Glee Club...?"
He nodded. “Those kids are like a praetorian guard, involved in everything.”
"I thought they just fetched and carried."
"They do. But they're also Gadden's eyes and ears, keeping watch on what the professionals are up to. They're like courtiers to the king and the Stasi all rolled into one. They even spy on each other.”
Courtiers to the king, Kate thought, and pictured the eager, young faces at Haverhill, who had switched off their charm so abruptly. "Have you found anyone who’ll talk?”
"None of the professionals. They've got absurdly lucrative contracts with Gadden and they don't want to lose them. And those who've split with him have hefty loyalty pensions which stop if they say anything.”
She’d anticipated that.
“But…if you put up enough signals you always get something back. And a guy I know had a night or two with a boy from the Glee Club a few months ago, which, by the way, isn't allowed."
"Being gay?"
"Fraternising with anyone outside the organisation. Apparently it's seen as a sign of disloyalty. They even have to room together in apartments Gadden owns."
Kate grimaced. "Christ! Can you imagine, everyone smiling all the time and playing those bloody records!"
"Unfortunately, yes," said Greg. Then fishing in his bag, he produced an envelope and shook it. A small square photograph dropped out, one of the sort taken in an automatic passport photo kiosk. It showed a good looking young man with shoulder length fair hair, staring confidently into the camera. "This is the guy, Hans Overmars, and he's a mad Jesse Gadden fan but currently a reluctant semi-member of the Glee Club. Apparently he's disillusioned with the whole scene and wants to leave, but they're making it very difficult."
"In what way?"
"Psychological pressures, putting up endless barriers, telling him how Jesse relies on him, how much he's an essential part of the team, and how bad he must feel letting everyone down. He's moved out, but even now they want him back, phone calls, visits… And because he still worships Gadden he's being torn apart."
“They sound like the Moonies.”
“Worse from what I hear.”
"Why does he want to leave if he's such a big fan?"
"Something to do with discipline, and maybe some unfulfilled expectations. He thought he'd be getting into a wild scene, mountains of drugs, wall-to-wall sex, all that rock and roll legend stuff. But apparently Gadden runs a pretty tight ship. It seems the only one there to get any kind of action is Jesse himself. Of course Overmars is said to blame all the others for keeping him and Jesse apart."
Kate's brows knitted. “Any kind of action!” Was that what she was supposed to have been? Some kind of action. "Can I talk to Hans Overmars?"
"I'm trying to arrange it." Greg took the photograph back. "He's difficult to pin down. Does the clubs a lot. Takes all that walk on the wild side stuff to heart. I'll give you a call when he surfaces."
"Great!" She checked her watch. She was already late. "I have to go."
"Me, too." He finished his coffee. "And in the meantime, a word of warning..."
"Yes?"
"Keep away from the loonies on the internet. They can damage your health."
“I’ll do that.”
They looked back across the street as they waited for the bill. Having failed to draw an audience with the skittles, the harlequin was now entertaining a group of Japanese tourists with the three card trick. He was a bright button of a boy, laughing winningly as he moved the cards around.
"Can you believe that," Greg said, as the tourists tried and failed to spot the queen. "They know they're being manipulated..."
"...they just can't see how he's doing it."
She got her hair cut at lunch time. Greg had made her feel better, so on a whim she went to a new place in Butler’s Wharf and came back with an urchin cut. Della, from make-up, said she wished she'd warn her when she was going to do these things, but she was complimented by everybody else. Even Ned grinned and said, "Well, well", which was his way of expressing approval.
The rest of the day was spent with the researchers planning the following morning's scheduled live interviews. Around her it was the usual steady newsroom tide as information ebbed and flowed over the hours. There was even another mad letter from the tyre salesman in Damascus in the afternoon post. It went straight into the bin this time. She'd had enough of fans who fancied her.
She was home by six. Jeroboam was waiting on her doorstep, holding a letter inviting him to attend for interview at the Wellington Hotel the following day. He'd shaved off his burgeoning moustache and was looking altogether more grown up. He giggled when he saw her hair. She took that as approval.
Because he was always hungry she grilled him some chicken (with chips, of course: he always wanted chips) and then, sitting together at her kitchen table, they discussed the interview.
"Best not to fake it if you don't know the answer to something they ask you," she advised. "They nearly always guess."
He nodded gravely. She didn't tell him that she'd spent the best part of her television career faking knowledge she didn't have and getting away with it. Jeroboam's best bet was his guilelessness.
"Just be yourself," she insisted. "And don't forget to clean your teeth before you leave home."
He promised he wouldn’t forget.
I'm just like a mother, she thought, nag, nag, nag. But she was always pleased to see him. For years she’d run around the world chasing events, seeing less and less of old friends, and then not wanting them to visit when she was in hospital. Then, there was Jeroboam, someone who needed helping. As she sat watching him eat, his boyish excitement visible, she smiled to herself. Who was helping whom?
She was out in the street wishing him luck when she heard the phone ringing. When she got back into the house Greg was leaving a message.
"It's tonight," he told her. “Hans Overmars will be in a bar called Danton's in Kentish Town at midnight. He wants to talk.”
"Tonight! So soon!" She winced with frustration. She had to be up at dawn for the morning show and would need to be in bed by ten or she'd look terrible on screen. "I'm sorry, Greg. It's too late. Can't it be earlier or some time tomorrow?"
"I don't think so. He's been hard to get hold of."
"Blast!"
"Sorry,” Greg said. “Never mind, I’ll use this meeting to get to know him, soften him up. Is there anything specific you want to know?”
Kate thought quickly: “A list of Glee Club members and their backgrounds would be interesting? Can he get us that?"
"I don’t know. From what he was saying on the phone I got the impression he reckons most of them are drop-outs, ex-junkies and hopeless cases who gravitate towards Gadden because he seems so strong and they like being told what to do.”
So much for Petra Kerinova's careful recruitment policy, Kate thought.
"Anyway, let's see what he has to say. If he's as good as he sounds maybe we can all meet later in the week when you can be there, too. Okay?”
"Okay!"
They were about to hang up when Greg’s voice suddenly lightened. "And, hey, guess what! Harry's coming home from Stockholm tomorrow. He's given up his job. Says he misses me. He called this morning."
"That'll be nice. Keep you out of trouble, too."
Greg laughed. "That's for sure. Anyway, speak to you tomorrow with more news."
And they rang off.
She was in bed by ten. It was frustrating that she couldn’t be in Danton’s to meet Overmars, but Greg was a good reporter, he’d know what to ask. Besides it might be better if she gave them some time together. If the guy was nervous he might take some persuading.
She purposely hadn’t checked for new messages on the internet. Greg was right. Those freaks could mess up her mind.
Chapter Twenty Five
October 20:
It was like driving a car, she liked to think, sitting at the desk with the robot camera f
acing her, steering through the traffic of news and weather, City and foreign stories, fashion, studio interviews and filmed packages. She actually preferred being alone to sharing the job with Robin Broomfield. It was easier to concentrate this way and she didn't have to go through the tedious girlie smiles routine with her partner.
She wasn't really alone, of course. Behind her orderly, friendly facade, the editorial and production teams were there, too, feeding stories into her computer screen and messages into her ear-piece, altering the running order, warning her of hazards approaching, glitches to avoid and how to pronounce difficult foreign words.
The morning passed quickly as with news headlines every twenty minutes, the stories were read and re-read, expanding in length when they became more interesting, contracting as their news value diminished. Once an hour the WSN financial correspondent joined her with the latest currency and share price news, and a regular thirty minutes later, toothy track-suited Sally Bracken, permanently tanned and personal trainer toned, enthused through the sports headlines.
She called Greg after the show wanting to know how the meeting with Overmars had gone, but reaching only his answering machine, left a message for him to call her back. For lunch she had a sandwich at her desk, gossiping with Ned about the potential candidates for WSN-TV's new Washington correspondent; before Owoso she might have considered applying for the post herself. Then in the afternoon she went home and took an hour's sleep. The early morning had taken its toll.
Jeroboam woke her just before four, ringing the bell insistently. Opening the door sleepily she led him into the kitchen.
"So…?” she asked as she put the kettle on.
"I got the job, Kate," he whispered, his squashed features creased in delight.
"Well…of course you did," she said, pretending she wasn't in the least surprised.
He giggled. "They said they'd give me a try. I start on Saturday.”
"I'm so pleased, Jeroboam."
"You helped. It was your reference that made all the difference."
"No. You made the difference yourself. You got the job because you're a very nice young man who'll be good for them. They're lucky to get you. Your mother must be thrilled."
"Yes. I won't let her down any more." He looked embarrassed. "I won't let you down either."
She ruffled his hair fondly. "You could never let me down."
The kettle had boiled. They had a cup of tea together, and she found some crumpets which weren't too stale. Jeroboam covered them in butter and jam. He left shortly after five, jogging away down the street, the happiest boy in London.
Kate felt good, too. After watching him leave she closed the front door and made her way outside to water her plants. It was mild and her neighbours had their windows open. From the Motts’ house she could hear the Beach Boys singing God Only Knows. She hummed along.
By now, though, she was puzzled that Greg hadn't returned her call to report on his meeting with Hans Overmars. She needed to know.
Switching off the tap, she went back into the house. As always the television was on. She skipped through the channels. The BBC national news was just being replaced by the local London stories. These didn't interest her. Flicking off the sound, she picked up her phone and dialled Greg's number again.
She'd just got through when a photograph of a good looking, fair haired young man, smiling winsomely into the camera, appeared on the screen.
On the telephone Greg's recorded voice was asking callers to leave a message.
But Kate wasn't listening. She was turning up the sound of the TV.
"...found today on a mudbank in the Thames in East London has been identified as that of part-time disc jockey, Hans Overmars. Mr Overmars, who was Dutch, is believed to have been well known on the London club circuit. Police are asking anyone who has seen him in the last few days to get in touch..."
She didn't know why she was going there. If Greg had been at home he would have answered the phone. But she didn't know what else she could do. She knew where he lived; she'd been invited to a party there shortly after he'd moved in with Harry. The two shared a flat on the first floor of an end of terrace house in Kentish Town.
Theirs was a street of mixed incomes and nationalities, and, parking in a side road, she walked towards the house. Traces of different cooking smells and styles in music met her from the various homes. An overflow pipe which stuck out of a side wall of the house was dripping on to the pavement. Avoiding it, she rounded the corner, entered the tiny garden and approached the front door. There was a set of bells with three names taped alongside them. She pressed for Gregory Passfield.
Now that she was here, she remembered that Harry had been coming home from Stockholm today. Greg had probably gone to the airport to greet him. She should have thought of that earlier. But a man he'd been meeting was dead.
There was no answer to her ringing. After leaving a discreet five minutes in case Harry was already back, she tried again. Nothing. Retreating a few paces back down the garden path, she looked up at the first floor window. The curtains were drawn and she looked at the other windows in the house, wondering if any of the other residents were at home. There was no sign of anyone, but she rang the other two doorbells, just in case. There was no response.
Disappointed, she made her way out into the street, around the corner and back along the pavement. It was a warmer evening than she'd realised, and, reaching the Citroën, she took off her cream linen jacket. She was about to throw it on to the back seat of the car when she noticed a small round stain on the shoulder. It looked like a red bullet hole.
Puzzled, she lifted the jacket up for closer examination, tentatively putting a finger to the stain. It was wet.
For a moment she wondered if she'd accidentally cut her hand and not noticed. She examined herself. She hadn't. Turning, she looked back down the pavement. The overflow pipe she'd noticed earlier was still dripping. Locking the car again, she retraced her steps.
There was a wet pool on the pavement under the pipe. She put her hand out. A fat, red globule dropped into her palm.
She was still staring at it when, with the rattle of a diesel engine, a taxi drew up. The rear door opened.
"Hello! This is a nice surprise. Don't tell me he's laid on a surprise party! If he has, I'm not coming." Harry, Greg's boy friend, was pulling his suitcase from inside the cab. He was a merry, plump, young man, whose dyed yellow, receding hair had been shaved very short. Laughing, he put a hand out to her. "Good to see you again."
Kate couldn't offer her hand. She stared at the stain; it lay like a stigmata.
"Are you all right?"
Another drop fell from the overflow pipe and catching the cuff of her shirt spread outwards.
Harry's puzzled smile faded as he followed Kate's eyes up to the overflow. "Kate! What's going on? Where's Greg? He said he'd meet me at the airport.”
She was hesitating to answer, when Harry dropped his bags and ran off around the corner, pulling out his keys as he went.
"Wait here! Please!" she called to the cab driver.
Harry had already opened the front door of the house and was pushing up the stairs by the time she caught up with him. On the first floor landing a door leading into the flat had to be negotiated. The Yale lock was at eye level. As Harry turned the key she dropped under his outstretched arm and slipped in ahead of him.
"Greg! Greg!" Harry was calling. She could hear the fear in his voice as he entered the bedroom.
She turned towards the bathroom. The door was closed. She hesitated, opened it and stepped inside.
The shock was so great an involuntary suction of air into her lungs made her gasp noisily and step back. The bath was filled with red water. Lying in it, his long thighs pointing upwards, his face an inch or so beneath the surface, was the naked body of Greg.
"Greg!" Harry was trying to push past her. "Greg!"
"Stay out!" she shouted, trying to block his way. But she couldn't hold him.
Harr
y screamed.
She was gasping for breath, clinging to the wash basin. Harry had thrown himself at the bath and was trying to pull the body out of the water, shouting hysterically. Thick, red liquid was splashing over both of them, spilling on to the tiled walls and floor.
She looked up. The mirror behind the wash basin stretched to the ceiling. Through it she could see the reflection of the bathroom. It looked like an abattoir. She forced herself to look into the bath: to look at Greg. Between his thighs, bobbing about in the deep, red soup as Harry struggled with his corpse, was what looked like a small piece of semi-attached gristle and skin.
Only then did she realise where the blood had come from. Greg's penis and testicles had been almost cut off.
They served her strong tea, two young policewomen, their faces glowing, one pink, one brown, against white shirts. Harry, they’d told her, had had to be sedated and taken to hospital. He was suffering from shock. She wondered why they should think she wasn’t.
They didn’t say much, but simply observed her with a strange yet polite curiosity. Finally she realised what it was. They were thrilled to be in the presence of a television presenter.
“A gay killing?” Kate repeated the words. “That’s what you think?”
The elder of the two detectives, a paunchy fortyish man in an olive polo shirt, looked embarrassed. His name was Bull and he’d let the words slip while commenting to his partner, in a world weary aside, about the ways people chose to kill each other. She hadn’t been meant to hear. “Well, it certainly wasn’t an accident,” he said bluntly.
His companion looked at Kate.
Her hands were trembling, and she slipped them under her thighs so that they wouldn’t notice. She was now wearing a borrowed, police track suit two sizes too big for her. Her own clothes had been taken away for forensic examination. She knew why. Greg’s blood had become encrusted in the fibres. “I don’t believe it was a gay thing,” she said.
