Closer by Morning (15 page)

Jamie wanted to be thorough in his investigation but it looked increasingly unlikely that Olly had met his killer through a hook-up app or chat room.

Still, these things couldn't be ruled out.

He signed off his report and checked the time. It was past nine. It had been another long day. He was starving. He would grab something to eat on the way home and get to bed early. With a good night's sleep he could be back here by seven a.m.

Jamie was heading for the door when DCI Redgraves came racing from his office. The older man's face was ashen. He looked around the incident room and saw Jamie was the only member of his staff still on duty.

“Dench,” he barked, grabbing his jacket from the hook and marching for the door. “Come with me.”

Jamie followed. Something was up. “Yes, sir. What is it, sir?”

“The university rowing club have just called it in. Their team have spotted a body on the banks of the Wear. A young man in his twenties. It looks like our bastard has done it again.”

Chapter Thirteen

Keeley Rank was a great believer in being in the right place at the right time. She owed the greatest successes of her career to just that. She had a knack, maybe it was instinct, or even clairvoyance, for arriving at a location just before a story either broke or developed further. When Johan Turner had called to offer her exclusive behind-the-scenes access to his latest TV series, she felt that uncanny sense, prickling, urging her to take the job. Given free rein on the set of a very troubled production was incentive enough, but instinct told her a bigger story awaited.

And those instincts had proved right again. How fortunate.

Keeley was in her hotel room, raking through various old stories about the handsome leading man, Dale Zachary. The gay rumors that surrounded Dale seemed a little more vehement than the usual speculation or wishful thinking which plagued most good-looking actors. Few Hollywood men were immune to them, even the notorious womanizers were accused of screwing those bit part bimbos to disguise their true selves. But the gay question cast a long shadow over the career of Dale Zachary.

Maybe this was the story her instincts were nagging her to reveal.

It was more than just speculation. Keeley had it from several sources, who had been close to Dale at one time or another, that he was very definitely into other men. But so what? Outing a B-list actor was no big deal. Who would give a shit? She needed more than that. The story required an angle.

He was playing a sexually ambivalent sex killer in this hokey TV series. So it wouldn't be a stretch to make links between the man and the character. Again—so what? No one would care unless the show was a huge ratings hit. And there were plenty of hack gossip column writers who could make that connection with just a few minutes of Internet research.

That couldn't be the story. She hadn't dragged herself to the fucking North just for that. Keeley needed more.

And, boy—she had got it.

Just as she was finishing her research into Dale, a call came through on her mobile. A subdued voice said quickly, “We've found another body. On the bank of the river, down from the castle. Right now.” The caller hung up without saying more.

Keeley had only been in Durham a couple of days, but she worked fast. It was more than enough time to make important contacts within the local police force. To grease a few greedy palms.

She leaped up, grabbed her phone and camera and headed for the door.

Another murder.
This
was the story. The reason she was here. In the heart of the action as the killer claimed a third victim.

She left the hotel and set out on foot. Durham was a small city. It was easier and much faster to get around on foot than by car. She had a good idea of the geography, how the river curved around the peninsula upon which the ancient castle was built. She knew which way to go.

Across the old cobbled streets, she strode with the fixed purpose of a journalist after a story.

There was an eerie stillness about the city at night, a trait it shared with many other historic cathedral towns. She would come out another night with her camera and take the pictures that would make a colorful backdrop to the whole series of articles she now envisioned, about the beautiful city and the evil that lurked within it.

Down the steps and under the bridge, she followed the course of the river downstream. Though the path was dark, it wasn't far. Ahead there were lights, a scattering of people. Keeley quickened her step.

Two sober-looking police officers held back the small crowd. Keeley smiled. She really had got here before the action developed. There were just a handful of uniformed officers. No MIT. No SOCO. The plods had barely secured the scene yet. Keeley raised her camera and fired off a succession of shots.

“What's going on?” she asked the nearest member of the crowd, a young man in T-shirt and shorts. He looked as if he had to be freezing—a member of some sports club, too afraid of missing the action to go and get dressed.

“They pulled another body from the water,” the young man said in a soft, southern accent.

“Who did?”

“Not me, but a couple of my buddies. I was in the boat that spotted him. Stu and Rossy, they jumped in. The river isn't deep here in this weather, they could wade right up to him.”

“Him? Another young man then? Just like the others?”

He nodded, looking past Keeley to the torchlights of the police officers farther along the bank, securing a wide area around the corpse. “A young guy. Yes, that's what it looked like. He had no clothes on.”

This is it. Right place, right time
.
Another sex murder. Nice one, Keeley.

“What else did you see?” she asked eagerly.

“Nothing much. The guys dragged him to the bank but there was nothing they could do except call the police. It was awful. I've never seen a dead body before.”

Keeley scanned the line of watchers. “Where are your friends? Stu and Rossy—the guys who went in the water.”

“The cops put them in their car to wait for an ambulance. They were both soaked through.”

“Did you talk to them before they were taken away? Did they tell you anything?”

The boy suddenly looked at Keeley more closely. His brow furrowed. “Who are you?”

“Never mind,” she said, stepping away from him. He had nothing more to offer. There were a couple of others guys farther along the bank, dressed in the shorts and T-shirts of the college rowing team. She approached them next. “Did either of you get a look at the body?”

“Yeah, we both did,” answered the taller of the two, a good-looking blond with strong shoulders. He spoke with a foreign accent, Dutch, maybe Norwegian. Keeley couldn't quite place it.

The moments straight after a traumatic event were the best time to ask questions. Witnesses were usually still in shock and willing to tell someone, anyone, what had just happened. Their natural suspicion of a person asking questions—worse, journalists—was forgotten and they were only too happy to unburden themselves.

“I don't think he could have been in the water for long,” the blond continued. “He looked too normal, if you know what I'm saying. There was no bloating or swelling to suggest the body had been in the water for long.”

“Did either of you recognize him?”

“No.”

“Know of any guys missing around the college? Anyone not show up in the last day or two who should have?”

They both shook their heads.

“Are you a copper?” the second boy asked. He was dark with an upper body that was even more defined than his buddy's.

“No. A journalist.”

“Oh.” Neither of them was fazed.

“Did you get a good at the body? Notice anything wrong? Stab wounds, for example?”

“No. There was no blood. Nothing like that.”

Both the previous victims had been strangled. This was soundeding increasingly like the Durham killer had struck again.

More police officers began to arrive. There were sirens and flashing lights on the bridge behind them. The crime scene was about to get a lot busier. Keeley raised her camera and began to fire off more shots. She wouldn't learn much more out here tonight, but she was already thinking ahead, to the morning. To the breaking news that the killer had claimed another victim. To the effect it would have on the already troubled production of
Blood Falls on Stone
.

****

Morning was bright and cold, with a frost on the ground, but a cloudless sky bode well for the day ahead. After a long winter, this morning held the promise of spring.

Somehow, Dale and Matt managed to drag themselves from the warmth of the bed and each other's bodies to attend the mid-week boot camp. It was easier than it had ever been. Once they were up, buoyed on by the light in the sky and their feelings for each other, they arrived at the park laughing and in high spirits.

Everything seems easier when you're in love.

Even Clint Dexter was smiling. Almost. There was a slight upward turn at the corners of his mouth as he ticked off their names in his notebook. His icy-blue eyes looked coolly from Matt to Dale. “Good morning, gentlemen. Nice to see you both again.”

Dale stiffened. Was that a dig? What was he trying to suggest in that comment about the two of them? And what was that look all about?
Knock it off
, he warned himself. Clint wasn't getting at anything. It was his own paranoia. He'd always been hopeless when he was out in public with another man. Imaging that they were the center of attention. As if everyone were looking at them, and whispering things.
Faggy things
.

He had to get over it. That kind of obsession would only hold them back. Matt deserved better from him.

They took the course together. Matching each other all the way. Being with Matt made him better. They spurred each other on. He was lighter and faster than he'd been before. Being in love could do that. But he should really give credit to Clint. His boot camp did get results. In just over a week there had already been an improvement in his fitness. If he kept it up, he would be a machine after a month.

Dale told Clint as much as they reached the end of the course. He had pushed them to the point of collapse and it felt so damn good. “Man, you're amazing.” He was bent over, hands on his knees, gasping for breath. “Don't know how you do it, but where other trainers promise results, you actually get them. One hour, three times a week. That's truly remarkable.”

“What matters is how you use that hour,” Clint said flatly. “Work to the max and an hour is all anybody needs.”

“In times of trouble that's the kind of man you'd want on your side,” Matt said as Clint walked away. “Nothing fazes him. He'd bat your enemies aside like a fly.”

“Yeah, he's a real terminator.”

They both laughed.

They said goodbye in the car park. Dale wanted to lean in and give Matt a passionate parting kiss on the mouth. He sensed Matt wanted it too, but couldn't bring himself to do it. A lifetime of repression could not be undone in a few short days.

Instead, he softly said, “I love you.”

****

Dale drove directly from the park to the studio. He would shower there and get straight into costume. He was expected to give face time to Keeley Rank today, but even that could not spoil his mood as he drove along the quiet country lanes in the welcome haze of a low morning sun. Despite all the shit in the last two weeks, there was a lightness in his heart, because through all of that he had found love in a most unexpected place. He was no romantic—quite the opposite—but, like the song says, love changes everything. It changed everything for the better.

The happy vibes lasted exactly as long as it took him to drive to the studio. There was the usual crowd of placard-carrying protestors at the gate, but their mood was subdued. Dale immediately saw why. The car park was filled with police cars.

“What's going on?” he asked the first officer he encountered, a serious-looking WPC who looked swamped by her uniform.

“Do you work here?” she asked.

“I do. Dale Zachary, I'm one of the actors.”

The WPC consulted a list of names on a clipboard before directing him inside. The narrow corridors were teaming with police. What the hell? Had one of the protestors broken in overnight? Sabotaged the set? Even if they had, the police presence seemed excessive.

Dale pulled out his phone and called the producer's number. Nicola Donahue's phone went straight to voice mail. He tried Russell Jones next, who answered immediately.

“Russell, I just got to the studio. There are police everywhere. What's going on?”

“We're in the production office. Come straight away.”

“I just got back from boot camp. I'm a sweaty mess, should I wash and change first?”

“No,” Russell said anxiously. “That doesn't matter. Come as you are.”

He found Russell in his office with Elton Weaver. They stared at him, grim-faced, as he entered. He knew, just from the look of them, that something major was afoot.

“What the hell is going on? What are the police doing here?”

Elton opened a window, lit a cigarette, and dragged fiercely on the stick. Russell, who would normally go apeshit over such a blatant breaking of the rules, seemed not to notice. Dale had never seen the producer in such a numb state.

“Haven't you heard the news? It's all over the TV and radio.”

“What? No. I left early to work out. I haven't seen any news today.”

“Oh,” Russell said slowly, looking blankly at Dale. “Sit down then.”

“Tell me what's going on.”

“They dragged another body out of the river last night,” Elton said, making no attempt to blow his smoke out of the window. “Our killer has done it again.”

“Shit,” he said, finally taking the seat. “But what does that have to do with us? Why are the police here? They can't seriously think there's a connection between our show and the murders. This is all make-believe.”

“That's just it,” Russell's voice was hollow. “This time, there
is
a connection—a real connection. It's Aaron Oxford.” His voice cracked. “The body they pulled from the river. It was Aaron. Our production runner. The murdering bastard has killed one of our own.”

The room around Dale seemed to shrink. The walls and ceiling were caving in. He repeated what Russell had told him in his mind, changing the order, trying to make some sense of it. Aaron—dead. The only words that mattered. It just couldn't be.

Then he remembered… Aaron didn't show for work yesterday. An invisible fist seized his insides in a ruthless grip. “Aaron… He did call in sick yesterday? Didn't he?”

Russell shook his head. “Everyone assumed he had a hangover but he hasn't been seen since the reception at the hotel on Monday night.”