Going to Monte Solaro: A Psychological Thriller

Chapter 1

Interview with Barry and Karen Kellerman

Auckland Central Police Station, New Zealand

Time leaks out of the windowless room, yet the real answers remain hidden inside a marriage nourished on lies and self-delusion.

Karen considers the situation grotesque, the two of them called upon to add substance to the belief that the fugitive is a madman, when her own life is an insane fabrication. How are they to truthfully answer the sergeant’s questions, when neither of them talks candidly to each other about the summer holiday at the farm?

Inviting people to stay with them at the renovated farmhouse was an opportunity to infuse the charade of their marriage with an air of reality, to make their relationship enviable, marvellous even. The house, the barn, the cleared fields, all offered up as evidence of their shared toil. But the man the police hunt had ruined everything; he had stumbled into their lives as an uninvited guest who unwittingly tore away the pretence. She wonders; would the sergeant care to know this?

Barry knows about Karen’s longing. He realises that he can ride his wife till the cock crows, but she’ll never be satisfied. To her, their house in town and in the country are empty shells without the clattering annoyance of children; without the atrophying allegiance to ‘hearth and family,’ all of the other accoutrements are simply hollow indulgences. Barry knows this, as surely as he knows that a borrowed shirt is tantamount to a borrowed wife. He had seen her body swell with maternal longing, witnessed the delusional fawning over a male less equipped than he, and was for the first time in their relationship jealous. Why should he now go over all that again? His marriage isn’t the focus here. They are gathered to cast judgement on the fugitive.

Was their erstwhile guest, the fugitive, mad or simply evil?

The Kellermans focus on the police officer again, once more they hear the questions, and once again they try to find crumbs to throw him, innocuous details to help fill his report.

Detective Sergeant Sam Rollings stretches out his legs beneath the table and considers emptying the contents of the pale blue folder onto the desk. The grisly images could ignite the stifling air in the room and unearth a last minute recollection. He decides against it. Lurid news stories have painted a sufficiently graphic picture of the crime; there is no need to reinforce the reasons for delving into the suspect’s background.

The Italian authorities, like everyone else, have legitimate cause for seeking a motive for the killer’s actions, an explanation as to why someone would commit such an evil act. But despite interviewing various workmates and friends of the suspect, Rollings has been unable to uncover anything of value. Even talking to the man’s parents has provided little background to his character. They said that their son couldn’t have done the things that he has been accused of, the mother stated that he’s a ‘good person’ who always attended church as a child, and since then kept in touch, coming around for dinner most weekends. The father said that his son is quiet, and Rollings subsequently deduced a bit of a loner, but that was about it.

Barry and Karen Kellerman are a last minute inclusion to the list of interviewees, added only because the suspect had spent a week at their holiday home in the country during the summer. They have politely listened to the sergeant’s probing for nearly an hour; they want to do their bit and be on their way. It’s a sentiment Rollings shares; as far as he’s concerned, the villain has been identified and is almost certainly dead. Sure, the reasons behind the crime may remain a mystery, but sometimes that’s just the way it is. The Kellermans have told him what they know about the suspect, and that isn’t much, it’s time to thank them and wrap it up.

‘So there was nothing to indicate that this young man could have gone on to commit the crimes that he’s accused of; nothing about him out of the ordinary?’

Karen instinctively glances at Barry for guidance, and then silently chastises herself, after all, isn’t she capable of offering her own opinion?

When the story first broke the newspapers latched onto the ‘local’ connection and during the ensuing week hounded most ‘friends’ of the accused, reporting any piece of tittle-tattle they could unearth. She has to admit that in the beginning the daily revelations had been exciting. She had enjoyed being in the ‘know’ and deflecting the salacious scouting of coffee-group friends. But now the knocks at the door and phone calls from barely remembered acquaintances are annoying. Her daily routine has become a continuation of the summer holiday that she had endured months earlier, and it’s all thanks to a far away story that titillates others with what she considers to be an implausible concoction of the macabre and the exotic. She has met the man and in hindsight considers him unremarkable; he was background to a summertime gathering of friends, nothing more.

Barry, for his part, wouldn’t have let the wanker join them for the holiday up north if he hadn’t been preoccupied with getting the place ready.

‘Barry,’ a friend said, ‘this guy is going to call in for a couple of days, is that ok?’

Barry said, ‘Yes, there is always the barn to accommodate a last-minute guest.’

But it was obvious from the start that none of the others were particularly close to the late arrival, and he was a bit creepy for Barry’s liking; hanging around the house with the girls instead of coming to the rodeo with the guys.

Karen, on the other hand, has always hated the macho posturing of weekend cowboys. Flowers in a vase and chooks in the yard are her idea of a rural retreat, not the muscled and unruly horses that stomp defiantly at her proffered carrots and scar the paddocks with their spiteful hooves. She longs to show Barry how to win the ridden one’s heart with compassion and frailty, but she’s a coward, a silent follower in the wake of her man’s great procession. He has never been the man to display frailty to her; through loot and lust he drives a straight furrow, the farmer executive with the supine sow.

So in her imagination, she had taken a damaged suitor, who had seemed all the more attractive because of his obvious flaws. Flaws that the sergeant wants to unearth in his quest to unveil the madness behind the crime.

Was he mad or evil?

This is her last chance, should she jump in with her opinion? Now, with the comfort of a cop in the room, should she take the risk and assert herself? Of course, once they are back in the car, there will be hell to pay, but at least the stifling acquiescence of existing inside another’s life will have been exposed for what it is; a dull and nagging ache. She shouldn’t complain, but inside she does; inside she complains every day.

Karen focuses on the cop’s broad green tie as she searches for the words without really looking; she knows that her opinion, if she volunteers it, will also condemn the sham that even now she desperately wants to believe. If she goes against Barry and the sergeant on this she’ll be damned just as unequivocally as the fugitive. No, now isn’t the time, and if she’s honest with herself, this one isn’t worth standing up for. Whatever the facts of the case are, to her they have simply become a distraction from the real task of escaping her life. Of course she can see that to Barry they are much more, they are a simmering reminder of his need to be vigilant, to maintain control.

While Karen lays the plans for her escape, Barry plans his retribution. In his opinion, their unwelcome guest was a fucked-up tosser who simpered around the girls because he wasn’t man enough to get his own. Barry is sure the sergeant and he understand this type of man. We know the sort of loser who does stuff like this. Karen can learn a lesson from this; just shut up bitch and I’ll show you how the real world works.

The sergeant is tidying up his papers, he has his opinion, and the two of them have merely to reinforce that judgment.

Karen continues to unravel the threads of the sergeant’s tie while she searches for some meaningless words to offer up. She needn’t worry, Barry has taken control of the interview on behalf of the two of them, and the policeman is obviously happy to sign off on the facts as Barry has chosen to reveal them.

Sergeant Rollings pushes back in his chair and tugs at his tie to smooth out the wrinkles. ‘Thank you, Mister Kellerman, you’ve been very helpful. As I said, a body hasn’t been found yet, but the authorities are reasonably sure that the fugitive has drowned. If you think of anything that could be helpful, please call me on this number.’

Barry takes the sergeant’s card and buries it deep in his pocket. The sergeant does likewise with his notebook. Karen looks at the two men who have just pocketed the truth. The two of them have answers without asking questions; the men in her life always do.

Chapter 2

The Victoria Valley, Northland New Zealand

Four months earlier

The irresistible aroma has gathered in every unchained dog in the valley. For almost four hours the hogget has been peeling, blistering, and dripping onto the embers; and now the hounds lie with unblinking eyes watching each revolution of the spit, their ears tuned to the monotonous chink of the drive chain, their artless minds lulled into soporific stupor by the endless hum of the electric motor.

When we had impaled the headless carcass the sun had just broken the tree line, but now it’s directly above. What had been a refreshing summer morning has been transformed into a scorched afternoon of burnt grass and prickly skin. In the morning, there had been mist in the valley and birds singing in the trees, now there is only Ti Tree smoke and the ringing din of hidden cicadas.

I had volunteered to baste the hogget and tend the fire while most of the other guests went to the rodeo in the local town. I’ve never been to a rodeo, and although I was intrigued as to how such an American event would be played out in the South Pacific, my interest is tempered with the belief that rodeos are simply bullfights in scruffy clothes. The animals are still terrified, surrounded by a hooting crowd, and driven to frenzy by a guy armed with sharp spurs. I didn’t share my thoughts with the others; I have an aversion to confrontation, no matter how harmless, even alternative points of view need to be delicately handled. Which is why I am still an under-valued and under-achieving draftsman for a low profile builder of shit-boxes: Unnoticed, unremarkable and, I admit, egotistically unconcerned.

When the others drove to the rodeo in Kaitaia it left only Meg, Karen, and myself at the farm to nurse hangovers and prepare the evening’s feast. Karen is married to Barry and the two of them have this farmhouse as a weekend escape from Auckland. Earlier Karen and Barry had argued about something, so she chose to remain at the farm while Barry led the way into town. Meg, on the other hand, simply waived the rodeo because the previous night’s drinking hit her harder than most. She’s going out with a guy on the periphery of my circle of friends; I don’t really know him and this is the first time that I’ve met her, but I’m sure that I’d like to see a lot more of her.

Last night we stayed up late around a bonfire, drinking and singing old Dylan ballads, and the full back-catalogue of kiwi classics. It’s the sort of occasion where I’m usually an observer. I’m someone who needs to sink a few before I’ll sing-along with the crowd, but last night the desire to croon was upon me. Under a fat and friendly moon, I bayed with the rest of them, and even teamed up with the girls to do a couple of Abba numbers.

It may be wishful thinking on my part, but if I rewind a couple of key scenes from last night, I identify flashes of connection between Meg and me. For instance, there’s the bit where we were all bellowing a ragged ‘Super Trouper’ rendition into our ‘bottle-mics’. Meg and I were enthusiastically swinging our arses to the music, hips banging together for the chorus, her hand on my waist as we bump out of time; my hand on her hip, a thumb against her skin gently rubbing – Nothing obvious, just enough for a surreptitious thrill that probably only I felt.

Meg was waving her arms out in front like a conductor and the bonfire danced along, throwing sparks into the night as everyone threw their arms in the air, waving them to and fro, bawling out the lyrics. Everyone was having fun, me too, in fact far too much of it to wave my right hand uselessly around in the air; it stayed hooked through the belt loop of Meg’s jeans.

When the song ended, the spell was broken. Meg, oblivious to the sweet gratification that I’d been leaching out of her, jumped forward to supervise selection of the next CD. In the dead space beside me, perfume of summer flowers and wicked spice lingered a moment longer before evaporating in the swirling smoke of the fire.

That was it. I can’t honestly say that she feels anything about me, or that I’ve made any moves obvious enough to elicit a response, but I have looked, god, have I looked and imagined. I have nuzzled the downy hair on the back of her neck, traced the line of her breasts through the stripy cheesecloth shirt that she’s put on today; and I’ve dragged fingers along her goosepimply legs as they lay stretched over the back of a crackle-skinned old Chesterfield. In my imagination, I have discovered every part of her.

I’ve spent the whole morning happily daydreaming, stealing bits of Meg’s morning and parcelling them up for a later re-living, but the sizzling fat brings me back to reality, where the fire has so far consumed a trailer load of wood. At regular intervals I’ve pushed a long-handled shovel into the coals to retrieve embers that I spread along a piece of roofing iron lying under the carcass; the idea being that the heat cooks the meat without the smoke tainting its flavour. I’m also supposed to paint the lifting flesh with rosemary oil to keep the meat succulent, but I’m not entirely sure what the finished thing should look like, so I’ve no idea if I’m putting on too much or too little.

Leaning forward through the curtain of heat, I attempt to gauge the success of my ministrations by gently prodding the erupting flesh with the top of my beer bottle; still no idea. But with only sour drops trickling past the sticky mouth of my hastily retrieved bottle, I at least ascertain that another beer is needed. Despite standing guard from the shade of a large tree, I’ve discovered that my wilting resolve to see the job through can only be sustained with regular chilled beers. After waving a warning finger at the dogs, I wander up to the house.

Meg and Karen are preparing salads while sharing the little details that build intimacy between women. Meg’s doing most of the talking and Karen’s doing the nodding bit as they drift back and forth from the sink to the kitchen table. From the porch I hear Meg’s life being rolled out for Karen’s appreciation.

It’s said that the devil finds work for idle hands, but that’s rubbish. What he does is find keys to idle minds, like the one slipping away from Meg as Karen coos encouragement. Meg puts down her knife and leans against the chipped sink while Karen fusses with a bowl of lettuce leaves. Freed from the requirement to focus on the salad, Meg drifts into that place where the shutters guarding her thoughts can be unlocked. She doesn’t feel it happen, but the latch is lifted and hinges creak as her mind is unfastened.

I move closer to catch the words, and to me, the news that there’s an estranged mother who shows little interest adds another facet to the picture I’m building of Meg. I’m sure that her dim-witted boyfriend wouldn’t care about her as much as I do.

Karen is doing the listening. She’s not letting her own dangerous secrets out; her mind is guarded by a thickset chunk of worm-eaten wood, hammered in place to plug a hole that would otherwise swallow her. Anyone willing to spend a couple of days at the farm can see that she nurses wasted passions inside a loveless marriage; and that’s why her mind won’t rest, it’s on guard against the urges straining to break free.

Meg’s still happily dropping her secrets amongst the lettuce leaves and chopped tomatoes. She offers up her most private indiscretions, there’s a whispered reference to an unwanted pregnancy and the sour reproach of a hurried abortion. She needs to stop talking; she needs to protect her secrets. Karen should tell her that.

The pretence of shouting at the dogs is enough to warn the girls of my approach. Meg stops mid-sentence and picks up her knife again as I enter. I pull a beer from the fridge and sit down at the table, which is a signal for the desultory work on the salads to grind to a complete halt and wine glasses replenished. We spread ourselves around the battle-scarred planks and push a bowl of chips between us, happy to be idle while the fan on top of the fridge does its best to move the heat around.

‘How’s the hogget?’ asks Meg from the far end. She’s spread her bare arms across the table in supplication to the stifling heat and flicks a wine bottle cork from one hand to the other. Her chin, planted firmly on the table, makes her head bob up and down with each word.

I imagine the cork wobbling back and forth through the secret thoughts she’s carelessly left scattered and unguarded on the table. It surprises me how clumsy people can be with their secrets. If she shared her secret with someone she could trust, then that would be a burden easier for her to carry. If she shared them with me, I could help keep them safe – Together we could protect our secrets.

She interrupts my thoughts to ask again about the hogget. ‘Is the hogget ok?’

‘Well, I haven’t heard any complaints from it,’ I answer offhandedly.

‘Need more rosemary oil?’

‘No, there’s still a third of a bucket out there. One of the dogs stole the paintbrush. I’ve been dribbling the oil over the hogget directly from the bucket.

‘Well, that’s not going to give it an even coverage,’ Meg flings back.

Was she smiling at me when she said that or was there a whiff of reproach? I’m imagining stuff, reading more into an innocent comment than it deserves. However, even the illusory bite in her retort yanks the shag pile out from under me and I quickly stumble to retrieve the situation.

‘Oh, it looks fine, honestly. I’ll get another brush. The hogget is handling the heat better than me.’ Chuck out a plea for sympathy wrapped in a lame joke, the last recourse of the plonker.

The conversation about the happy hogget dribbles on for a few minutes more and then turns to reviewing the merits of the girls’ jobs back in the city.

I push away from the table and armed with a fresh beer go outside to check on the meat. From the shade of the deck I see that the honour guard of dogs is still in place, while the blistered beast continues to rotate serenely on its iron spike.

Sitting on the edge of the deck with my knees in the sun I call back for one of the girls to turn up