Closer by Morning

by Thom Collins

  “There’s not much to see today, Ms. Rank,” said Alan, an ex-engineer, eking out his pension with a bit of casual security work. “They’ve shut down filming until Monday in view of what’s happened to that production guy.”

  She cast her gaze over the car park—fewer than half the usual vehicles. “Who’s around? The producers, I suppose.”

  “Yes. Mr. Jones and Ms. Donahue are in there. Want me to let them know you’re here?”

  “What about the cast? Is Dale Zachary in?”

  “No. All cast members have been stood down till Monday.”

  Damn. She should have checked that before allowing her taxi to leave. “I’m supposed to be interviewing Dale today. I don’t suppose you know where I can get hold of him?”

  Twenty minutes later she was in another taxi winding its way up the narrow roads to a development of new houses built on old farm land. She gave the driver an extra ten-pound note on top of his fare and told him to wait. She had a feeling she wouldn’t be here long and didn’t want to get stuck in the middle of nowhere with no way back.

  She knew which house was Dale’s from the rental car parked in front. He was home. Fantastic.

  Keeley strode purposefully to the front door and rang the bell. A middle-aged woman with thin mousey hair answered. The housekeeper, she assumed—very Northern.

  “Can you let Dale know Keeley is here to talk about the show,” she said confidently.

  The woman looked unimpressed. “Mr. Zachary is not expecting anyone today. He gave clear instructions that he doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

  “He’s expecting me,” Keeley said firmly. “He must have forgot.”

  “I don’t think so. You must have made a mistake, Keeley, was it?”

  The audacity of the bitch. Beneath that mousey exterior was a lion. “Just tell him I’m here. And tell him it’s important. Very important.”

  The woman looked her up and down. “Wait here,” she said at last, closing the front door and leaving Keeley on the doorstep.

  For a few moments her fury at being treated this way threatened to overcome the malicious pleasure she took from the news she was about to impart. Keeping her on the doorstep indeed. Not for much longer. Dale Zachary would soon be kissing her ass and begging for journalistic mercy. And there was no chance of that. Not for anyone. If it made good copy, Keeley would trash her own mother in print.

  Eventually, after five long minutes, the door opened. Dale was dressed in casual shorts and a checked shirt. He didn’t invite her in. Didn’t even smile.

  “Keeley, what are you doing here? Johan gave you access to the studios, not to our private lives. We didn’t have anything planned for today and I’m not in the mood to talk.”

  Typical man, thinking he could dictate terms.

  “I think you will be in the mood to talk to me. Especially as I’m such a sympathetic listener. Some of those other hacks, they won’t be so kind-hearted when it comes to writing up your story. At least I can get to the real truth.” She stepped forward.

  He leaned into the doorframe, blocking her entry. “All right, stop with the shitty insinuations and get to the point. What do you want?”

  Charming. He was hardly the smooth heartthrob now.

  “All right. How does Shamed TV Star’s Gay Affair with Murdered Assistant grab you? Quite a snappy headline, don’t you think? Especially when it’s spread all over the Sunday front pages. I can turn that around for you. I can tell your real story instead of the closet-busting crap those other journos will run with.”

  Well, that hit him where it hurt. He looked as wounded as if she’d punched him in the balls. A real crushing blow.

  “C’mon,” she continued. “Just think about it. This story is going hit big in the next few days. You can’t hide from it anymore. But you can handle it in a controlled, dignified manner. I promise everyone will be on your side when they read my version of your story.”

  “That’s never going to happen,” he said angrily. “You can tell whatever shitty version of events you like. Try the angle you got from the police. I’m sure you paid enough for it.”

  “Think about this. C’mon, Dale. Don’t be a fool. You’re making a big mistake.”

  “No. Talking to you would be a mistake. Now fuck off.”

  He slammed the door in her face and turned the lock.

  ****

  Dale balled his shaky hands into a fist and breathed deeply. The shit had hit the fan. He’d known it was coming, but that didn’t lessen the impact of the inevitable. He’d been lucky, getting away with it for so long. To get to thirty-four, as a working actor, and preserve his private life. This wasn’t the 1980s and journalists didn’t routinely make a big deal of outing anymore, not even the low-life tabloids. But if there was a newsworthy aspect to unmasking someone’s sexuality, then all moral obligations were waved. And boy, was there a newsworthy story here.

  Mrs. Butterworth was moving the vacuum cleaner across the hall to the living room. “Did I do the right thing?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes. Thank you, you did great.”

  “A newspaper woman, was she?”

  Dale nodded.

  “Thought so,” Mrs. Butterworth said, chest bristling. “She had an untrustworthy look about her.” She carried on vacuuming.

  Dale headed to the kitchen. There was coffee brewing. He was usually a decaf drinker but today he’d made a strong pot of Arabica coffee. He needed the caffeine hit and poured a large mug.

  So what was he going to do now? He didn’t have a plan. Neglectful really, when he’d been dreading this moment for the whole of his career. He should have had something planned. Unlike a major Hollywood player, he didn’t have a team of lawyers, agents and publicists to call upon when the heat was on. The story was about to be written and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

  So what? There were more important things to agonize over. Poor Aaron for instance. The man was dead along with two others. What did it matter if Dale Zachary, who most people in the UK hadn’t heard of until last week, was a fag? The news was hardly going to break the internet.

  The people in his life, they were the ones he had to worry about.

  He picked up his phone and dialed his ex-wife’s number.

  “Hi, Dale,” Laura answered after a couple of rings.

  “Hi. Can you talk?”

  “Not long. I’m working. Is something wrong?”

  “Oh,” he stalled. “Well, maybe I could call you later. At a better time.”

  “Tell me now. Just a second, I’ll step outside. Okay, good. Now, quickly, what is it?”

  Oh, boy. His insides contracted. His throat was tight. The words wouldn’t come out. “It’s… It’s erm…”

  “You’re scaring me now,” Laura said softly. “Is there something wrong? You’re not ill, are you?”

  “No, no. I’m not. It’s not that.”

  “Then what is it?” she pressed.

  “Okay.” Deep breath. “You know we’re getting a lot of heat from the press about this show?”

  “I’d have to live on Mars to miss it.”

  “Well, the heat is about to be turned up higher. There’s this journalist, well, she’s barely that, more like a glorified gossip columnist. She’s going to write a story about me. Outing me.”

  “Shit. Dale, I’m sorry. Can’t you put a block on it somehow?”

  “I have neither the money nor the influence. To tell you the truth, I don’t think I want to. I’ve been in hiding far too long. I’m in my mid-thirties and still living a lie. I think the time has come. No more hiding.”

  “That’s very brave.

  “Not really,” he said honestly. “If Keeley wasn’t about to out me, I wouldn’t do it myself. But that’s not the issue. It’s how it’s going to unravel. It’s not going to be pleasant. It serves me right,
in a way. If I had come out myself I could have avoided headlines. Unfortunately, now, I think it’s going to be front page news. No, I don’t think, I know. The story is big.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He told her about his casual relationship with Aaron Oxford. “Keeley is going to portray me as the secret gay lover of the latest victim. That’ll make one juicy lead story, don’t you think?”

  “It’s offensive. The boy’s grieving family doesn’t want to read that.”

  “Exactly,” he sighed. “And I don’t want my family to read it either. That’s why I’m calling, Laura. I want to speak to Jack before the story breaks. Listen, we’ve been stood down on the production until Monday. If I drive down this afternoon, I could speak to him tonight, put him in the picture before the headlines turn ugly. I don’t want him to find out his old man is gay from someone else.”

  Laura gave a soft laugh. It was not unkind. “You’re a little late to that party, I’m afraid.”

  A fresh wave of shock came over him. Dale sat down as his legs began to weaken. “He already knows? Who told him?”

  “Nobody. Well, I did. Kind of. But Jack had already figured it out when he asked me. He’s a bright boy, Dale. And a modern boy. Kids today, they don’t have any hang-ups about that kind of stuff. And they’re better for it.”

  “Oh my God.” What an idiot. How could have waited so long to do this? He’d been living in a protective bubble, blindly believing that everything was okay. “What did he say?”

  “Dale, relax. He’s totally fine about it. He’s got a lot of questions, naturally. Stuff I couldn’t answer for him. But, as far as having a gay dad goes, he’s completely chilled.”

  “Really?”

  “Honestly. He’s a great kid. You have nothing to worry about.”

  Relief flooded through him and suddenly there was a lump in his throat, a hard ball of emotion. “I want to see him.”

  “Of course.”

  “Can I still come tonight?”

  “Yes. You don’t have to ask.”

  “I think it’s best, don’t you? He might be okay about me but I don’t think anyone is going to be fine with the headlines that are about to drop. I’d like to tell my side of that story before he reads a distorted version.”

  When he ended the call, Dale laughed. A nervous, uncertain sound. He was still trembling. The world felt like a completely different place from the one he was in before picking up the phone. It was a lot less frightening. Hopeful.

  Maybe it would be all right.

  He could only hope.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The bedroom was small and dark. Dirty net curtains hung across a tiny window, blocking a nondescript view of the alley behind. There were two twin beds with mismatched, over-washed covers. The dark blue carpet was worn right through to the floorboards beside the door and probably responsible for ninety-five percent of the bad odors in the room.

  Jamie couldn’t imagine spending one night in a shithole like this, let alone the three months Blood Falls on Stone was scheduled to film for.

  Nigel Perigrew, a sound engineer who had shared the room with Aaron Oxford, stood against the wall with his arms folded. He was a heavyset man in his early forties, with thinning ginger hair and a red face. “It’s a toilet, I know, but I’ve stayed in worse. It’s cheap and that’s what counts. We can’t afford to spend our wages on fancy hotels.”

  Jamie nodded understandingly. “That’s for the stars, eh? Dale Zachary?”

  “Too right it is. They can afford it. That guy, Dale, he’s renting a posh house in the country. The rest of us go for the cheapest digs we can find.”

  “Did you always room with Aaron?”

  Nigel nodded. “Since we’ve been here, sure. I never met him before then but we’ve had this room since getting to Durham. To be honest, I wouldn’t mind something cheaper myself. I don’t care how shitty it is. What I’ve got left in my pocket at the end of the week, that’s all I care about.”

  “How did you get along with him? Aaron? What kind of man was he?”

  He shrugged. “Didn’t have a lot to do with him if I’m honest. You try not to spend too much time in a place like this. The bathrooms are so bloody dirty we’ve taken to showering at the studios. Breakfast is better there too. This was just a place to get our heads down, that’s all.”

  Breathing in the fetid air, Jamie said, “It’s a miracle you could do that much.”

  “I’m telling you, man, I’ve stayed in worse. And no doubt will again, but neither Aaron nor me spent much time in here.”

  The two men kept their possessions on separate sides of the room, though neither appeared to have made much effort to unpack. Aaron’s stuff was stored in an open suitcase, with a handful of personal items spread across the dresser on his side of the room. There was a can of deodorant, a small plate for loose change, a phone charger and a trial gym membership card. No effort had been made to settle in. His clean clothes were folded neatly in his suitcase rather than stored in the wardrobe. His mobile phone and tablet computer had already been taken to police HQ for analysis. They had failed to yield anything of use so far.

  “Did Aaron ever bring anyone back here?” Jamie asked. “Lovers? One-night stands?”

  Nigel rolled his eyes. “Would you? It’s not exactly the kind of place to make romance.”

  “I guess not. Did he ever talk about anyone? Tell you if he was meeting someone? Going on a date?” Like with Dale Zachary? He left the last question unsaid.

  “I hardly knew him. He wouldn’t tell me that stuff anyway. We shared a room. Some days we didn’t even see each other. Just a lump beneath the covers as we went to bed late or left early. Don’t get me wrong, he was a nice lad and all that. I wouldn’t have a bad word said against him, but we weren’t good friends or anything.”

  “How did you come to be sharing together?”

  “There’s a young girl in the production office, she sorts all that out. She puts out a list of cheap local accommodation and we all go in for it. It’s pot luck. Find someone willing to go in with you on a penthouse like this one and you’re made up.”

  The room had already been gone over by a specialist team. Jamie was not going to find anything here that hadn’t been discovered before. The identity of Aaron’s killer would not be found in this rundown bed and breakfast. But he wanted to see the place. To get an insight into the kind of man Aaron was and what his life here in Durham had been like. There wasn’t much to be learned. Aaron was a transient worker, passing through with no intention of setting down roots.

  The trial gym membership said everything. Temporary. No commitment.

  “Okay, then.” He smiled at Nigel. “Thanks for letting me look around. I know our boys have already been through this, but you never know what a fresh pair of eyes can find.”

  “Happy to help,” Nigel said. “I just hope you catch that fucker soon. Before he hurts anyone else.”

  Jamie left the B and B—feet sticking to the stair carpet—and headed back to his car. The mental picture he was beginning to form of Aaron was of a regular, hardworking guy. Quite unremarkable. He fit the killer’s brief in so much as he was of similar age as the earlier victims, slightly older but not so much you’d notice. A good-looking boy-next-door type. Gay boy next door. But, unlike the others, Aaron wasn’t a local. It was a cruel twist of fate that brought him to work in Durham right when the strangler was hitting his swing.

  But what was it that brought Aaron to his attention? Or any of the other boys?

  That was the thing the police were struggling with. The boys were all gay. Sure. And they were handsome. But there was nothing else to connect them. They didn’t know each other or go to the same places, or frequent any of the local cruising areas. They all had social media profiles—but who didn’t? They had online dating accounts but none of the boys were
overly promiscuous or risk-taking in their behavior. They weren’t cruising for dick twenty-four hours a day or touting for anonymous sex. There was nothing to connect them.

  Except the fact that they had all caught the deadly eye of a serial killer.

  ****

  “What’ll you have?” Conrad asked. “Wine?”

  “Not tonight,” Matt said, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it over the back of the chair. “Vodka and tonic. Make it a strong one.”

  “Bad day?”

  “Get the drinks and I’ll tell you about it.”

  They met in town, straight from work. Matt had been working late when Conrad had called to say he was in the area and asked if he fancied a drink. He’d jumped at the chance. Dale had called earlier to tell him about the incident with Keeley Rank on his doorstep. “I don’t think she knows about you. Not yet anyway. But it’ll only be a matter of time. I just want to forewarn you.”

  Dale was on the motorway, heading south to see his son. He didn’t know how long he would be gone. It could be the whole weekend.

  “I’m gonna miss you like crazy,” Dale had said.

  Matt felt the same way. The notion of being apart for just one night was bad enough, but three or four—it was unbearable. “Just do what you have to do,” he’d told Dale. “Your son is the most important person here. You’re doing the right thing. And don’t worry about me. I can take care of that tit-witch journalist if she does come knocking at my door.”

  They both had laughed but it was a bittersweet gesture, masking the pain of separation.

  Conrad returned from the bar with Matt’s vodka and a large glass of white wine for himself. They sat at a table by the window. The sky outside was steadily darkening, casting an ominous aspect over the tranquil river. The water here, which had always been so peaceful and safe, was tainted by the recent killings. Matt wondered if he would ever be able to look at the river and feel anything other than sadness again.

  He took a long swallow. The vodka was pure and strong. The fiery heat as it went down was most welcome.