Closer by Morning (16 page)

“Oh my God.” Dale clung to the armrest of his chair as a surge of dizziness came over him. This could not be happening. Aaron couldn't be dead. No. It wasn't possible. Except he knew with agonizing certainty that it was very possible. “Has he been identified? Is it definitely him?”

“They're waiting for his sister to arrive and do that formally, but Nicola has been to see the body and given an informal ID. There's no doubt about it, it's him.”

Dale didn't know Aaron had a sister. He didn't know much about him at all. Why would he? They didn't have that kind of relationship, didn't share personal information. Whose fault was that? Shit. If he hadn't spurned Aaron at the party on Monday, he might still be alive. It was a devastating conclusion.

“Are you all right?” Russell asked. “You don't look good.”

“Shock. I can't get my head around it.”

“Ironic, isn't it?” Russell said sadly. “We spend our days talking about and creating murders in front of a camera, striving for authenticity. But when we're confronted with the reality of it, we are ill-equipped to cope.”

“He was only thirty-two,” Dale said, wringing his hands.

“Was he? Oh, that's right. He was your assistant too, wasn't he? You probably knew him better than any of us.”

“What happens now?”

“The detectives will want to speak to everyone. You included, Dale, given that you knew him so well.”

Elton threw his used cigarette butt out of the window and immediately lit another. “What will happen to the show?”

Russell gave a small shrug. “Can't say.”

“Will they close us down?”

“I don't know. I can't see us shooting anything else this week. We should close production down out of respect, if nothing else. Maybe we can pick up again next week.”

“What's this
maybe
crap?” Elton said harshly. “Are we picking up on Monday or not?”

“I don't know.”

“You're the fucking producer. You ought to know.”

“Elton, please. I don't know. It's not my money. We've had enough problems already before any of this. Maybe they'll decide it's just not worth it and close us down for good.”

“They can't do that.”

“They can do whatever they like. We're not talking about a minor disruption. Bad weather or a temperamental fucking director. A boy is dead.”

“One boy—one employee out of hundreds. It's a tragedy, yes, but you can't put all those other people out of work because of it. We have to keep going.”

Dale stood up angrily, staring at the pair of them. “I don't believe what I'm hearing. You assholes. How can you even think about money and your fucking careers when a member of our team has been killed? You're a disgrace. Both of you.”

He stormed out of the room, letting the door crash behind him. He couldn't stand it. The heat, the arguments, the oppression. He couldn't breathe. He had to get out.

****

Dale Zachary. Jamie finally put a face to the name. After seeing the Audi parked on Matt's drive Sunday night, Jamie made a casual enquiry to the rental company on Monday and learned that the car had been rented to a man called Dale Zachary. The name had meant nothing at the time. He had not paid much attention to the news that linked the Durham murders with the TV drama. Why would he? The idea was ludicrous. Nothing more than a coincidence. Until now.

With the murder of Aaron Oxford, the connection was very real.

Jamie stood in Dale's trailer. The actor was in jeans and a loose checked shirt. His dark blond hair was still damp from a recent shower, while he searched the trailer for his socks and shoes.

Could this really be the man who was parked up at Matt's place the other night? It sounded unlikely. How did they even know each other? A small-town solicitor and a visiting American actor. Where would they ever have met? Grindr? Cruising the Internet? That wasn't Matt's style. Maybe there were two Dale Zacharys. Again, it sounded unlikely. It was hardly a common name for this area. And both men driving rented Audis? Not a chance.

This was him.

He was good-looking enough. Very. Looking at him now, with his damp hair and open-necked short, had Jamie feeling, well, horny. Yes,
horny
. That was not the typical reaction he had to suspects.

Not that Dale looked happy about the situation. Right now that handsome brow was drawn into a pretty intense scowl. Dale located a pair of socks in a dresser and sat to pull them on.

The TV crew had been stood down for the rest of the day, though DCI Redgraves had given instructions that no one was to leave the studio until they had been spoken to by his team. Jamie, intrigued after seeing Dale's name on the list of crew members, made sure that he bagged this one.

“Aaron Oxford was your personal assistant?”

Dale looked at him with wide blue eyes.
Jesus, this guy's a knockout
. “I can't believe you have to say
was
. Sorry, this is all still such a shock. No, Aaron wasn't a PA. He was a production runner. It's more general than PA. He worked for the whole crew, not just me. But he was assigned to help me out when I needed anything.”

“So you must have known him pretty well?”

Dale looked away, paying an unusual amount of attention to his socks. “I wouldn't say well, no.”

“Did he know anyone in the area?”

“I don't think so. He didn't mention anyone if he did. Most of the crew are strangers to Durham. I don't think Aaron was any different. It was work.”

“Girlfriends?”

“Aaron was gay.”

“Okay,” Jamie said, sensing an opening. Something he could exploit. “You see, you knew him better than you thought. What else can you tell me? Did he ever talk about any boyfriends? Did he ever go cruising?”

Dale signed. “Is that what you think happened? He picked up the wrong man?”

“We don't think anything yet,” Jamie said. Suddenly he was no longer keen on Dale. He was holding something back. An unpleasant image of Dale and Matt formed in his mind. He could see how well they would complement each other. Matt, so tall, dark and handsome, and Dale, the blond all-American hunk. He knew intuitively that this
was
the guy whose car had been parked outside Matt's on Sunday. “We didn't even know Aaron was gay until you told me just now.”

“It's not like it was a secret,” Dale said. “Everyone knew.”

Now he was being defensive. They stared each other straight in the eyes. Jamie no longer felt horny about Dale. He was a ‘
good-looking nothing'
, as his mother would say. Dale looked away first.

Inexplicably, Jamie wished that Shona were with him. He couldn't stand the pushy DC but she wouldn't give a man like Dale an inch of maneuverability. He might be the big man on set but Shona would twist him so tight, he would divulge everything.

“It sounds to me like you knew him pretty well,” Jamie pressed. “What else can you tell me?”

Dale stared at the floor, clasping his hands together. “All right,” he said quietly. “This has no relevance to your case but I'll tell you now because it's better to be upfront than have it come out later and be misinterpreted. Aaron and I had a little bit of a thing going on.”

“A
thing
? Does that mean you were seeing him?”

“Not as such. It wasn't really anything, just a couple of guys away from home and keeping each other company. Do you know what I mean?”

“Spell it out for me,” Jamie said slyly.

“We were screwing,” Dale snapped. “Is that clear enough for you? Aaron was a nice guy. I won't talk bad about him, but it didn't amount to anything. I never saw him outside of work. We just…fooled around a little in here. In the trailer. That's all it was.”

“Two minutes ago you told me you hardly knew him.”

“I didn't know him. We're guys, you know? We don't have to be in a committed relationship to help each other get off. That's all it was. I even put a stop to that last week.”

“Why did you do that if it was so meaningless and convenient? It seems to me that you have nothing to lose. You were on to a good thing. Why spoil it?”

“Because I met someone else. Someone I am serious about.”

Matt? It had better fucking not be
.

“When did you last see Aaron?”

“On Monday.”

“Here?”

“No. Monday evening. There was a reception at the hotel in town. It was a press thing. We were all there. The whole cast and crew.”

“Monday? The night he went missing?”

Now there was anger in Dale's eyes. “If you say so.”

“What did you do afterward?”

“I stayed at the hotel till around ten. Then I went to see my friend. I was there all night.”

“The name and address of this friend?”

“Oh, come on. He has nothing to do with this either. He didn't even know Aaron.”

“But you knew him, Mr. Zachary. Very well, it sounds like. And you claim to have ended a relationship with him the week before he was murdered. So you'll understand that we have to check out this alibi of yours very carefully.” Jamie couldn't deny the callous pleasure he got from watching this smarmy American squirm, though he dreaded the answer to his next question. “What's the name of the man you spent Monday night with?”

“Damn,” Dale said, wrenching his fingers through his hair. “All right, his name is Matt. Matt Blyth.”

The words went through Jamie's heart like a knife.

Chapter Fourteen

When Clint Dexter closed his gym at ten p.m. he had been at work for over fifteen hours. That was the way he liked it. Clint didn't believe in downtime or days off—that only led to laziness and apathy. Soft minds and, even worse, soft bodies. Hard physical work—that was the best form of stress relief and relaxation.

Clint wasn't superman and he couldn't be in two places at once. He'd hired a full-time manager, Jimmy Richards, to run the gym while he was engaged in other activities—his boot camp, personal training sessions and seeing to his own fitness regime. Jimmy finished work at seven p.m. and Clint took care of the gym for the last three hours each night. He ran a tight business, a hangover from his military career, and didn't tolerate bad attitudes, poor gym etiquette or any kind of drug misuse. If the meatheads wanted to abuse their bodies with steroids and illegal supplements they could do it on someone else's premises.

Clint Dexter didn't want trouble of any kind.

John Armstrong, a heavyweight boxer, was emptying his locker as Clint made his final check of the building. John was the last customer.

“How's it going?” Clint asked.

John was the very image of a beat-upon boxer. At forty-two, he should have retired from the sport at least five years earlier. He had a square head, bull neck, cauliflower ears and a nose that was every shape of broken. Despite his knackered appearance, John was still a winning fighter.

“Not too bad,” he said, pulling a hoodie over his head. They patted each other's shoulders. “I'm trying to get my weight down. I've got a fight in Liverpool next week and could do with shifting about eight pounds. They just won't come off.”

“Cardio?”

“That's what I've been doing. Two hours straight tonight.”

Clint told him about his morning boot camp. John had time to attend four sessions before his next fight. “So long as you don't finish off with a gut-busting breakfast, my course will get the weight off.”

Encouraged, John signed up for the next week. “Those early mornings will probably kill me, but it will be worth it.”

“All effort is rewarded,” Clint said stoically.

John waved good night. Clint locked the door behind him. He loved the stillness that came over a busy building when all the people had left. The uneasy, almost spooky quiet. He felt right at home there.

Alone, the forced smile he struggled to keep up in front of the customers faded.

Clint went to the reception desk and tapped the computer screen. He closed the program Jimmy had installed to manage membership plans and logged onto the local news pages. The bold headline on the opening page made him smile again.

Durham Strangler—Latest Victim Named
.

At last. They had given him a title. The Durham Strangler. This was new. He liked it. Simple and to the point. No mistaking its intent. Though strangling was only a minor part of what he did—the final, most crucial part. He was so much more than a that.

Aaron Oxford has been named as the latest victim of the predator now known as the Durham Strangler
.

Predator. Now that was a more fitting description for him. He was an apex predator.

Aaron, thirty-two, from Brighton was working in the North East as a production assistant on the crime series
Blood Falls on Stone.
The controversial TV show has come in for much criticism from local groups for the chilling similarities between the crimes it depicts and the recent, real life murders. In a tragic twist of fate, the fictional killings of the series have become intrinsically linked with the crimes of the Durham Strangler
.

It was no accident.

Clint hadn't intended for Aaron to become his next victim, not until last weekend. But adaptability had always been one of his strengths. It was a poor twist of fate for Aaron, but once Clint had made up his mind, it had all gone to plan.

He turned off the computer. There was nothing more of note in the story. The press and the police were clueless. Nobody knew what motivated the Durham Strangler. How or why he operated. That was the way it would stay. It was time to switch things up again. The riverbanks around the city would be too well patrolled now. He couldn't risk grabbing another boy from within the city or dumping them in the river. Didn't matter. He was ready to take his campaign to another level. While the police were looking one way, he would seize them from another.

Clint turned out the lights and locked up the gym. His four-by-four was parked in the deserted car park behind the main street. He sat behind the wheel and ate the beef sandwich he'd picked up earlier. It had been a long day and it was not over yet. He ate slowly. Thoroughly chewing before swallowing each mouthful. The bread was stale and dry and the beef was tough. It didn't bother him. Clint took little pleasure from food. It was merely fuel.

Finished, he started the engine and got on his way. Driving carefully and observing the speed limit. The Durham Strangler would not be one of those incompetent killers the police caught on something as mundane as a traffic stop.

The press had claimed Aaron Oxford was Clint's third victim. A fact that was far from true. The police had only made the connection between Aaron and the previous victims because he had wanted them to. The parallels between the three killings were deliberate. They thought Connor Welsh was his first but Clint had killed before Conner, many times. None of those deaths were ever connected or attributed to a single killer. He liked killing. But as with all things he enjoyed, moderation and variety were key. Together with a considerable will and steely determination. Clint was confident in his abilities. He would not be caught. The murders would only stop when he wanted them to.

And that would be never.

He had been twenty-five when he had taken his first life. Serving in Germany, he'd picked up a skinny blond boy in a leather bar. The kid had been all for show, posturing around the club, telling everyone how much he had wanted an older top to fuck him hard. Going back to the boy's grimy apartment, Clint had done just that, fucking the boy harder than he'd ever expected or wanted. He had cried like a bitch and begged him to stop. When he'd begun to cry rape, the only way to silence him had been to break his neck.

It had been a spur-of-the-moment loss of control. He'd reacted on instinct, foolish instinct that could have landed him in prison, but he hadn't been able to deny how much he'd enjoyed it. The power of that control. Of exercising his strength over the boy's weakness. Feeling those bones crack. He had cleaned the apartment as best he could. There would always be traces he could not eradicate, but thankfully he had used a condom to screw the kid, keeping DNA evidence to a minimum.

The murder had not made the news. He had followed the local papers and bulletins, but seen nothing. He had been deployed to Ireland four months later and considered himself lucky.

He'd always known there was something wrong with him. Being queer was bad enough but his issues went deeper than that. Sex alone was never enough, even before that night in Germany. He liked to punish his lovers. Fuck them without lube, hit them, mark them, take them by force. He craved total domination over other men.

But he didn't know what that truly meant until he broke the German boy's neck in that depressingly small apartment.

For the first time he'd experienced real power. Total control.

Having tasted it, nothing else would ever be enough.

He tried to keep those urges at bay. He had struggled for years to deny them. Making do. Humiliating his lovers. Punishing them. The men he met in leather bars and on hook-up sites were submissive. Willing victims who got off on the cruel punishments he devised for them. Clint could take no pleasure from their masochism. There was nothing he could do to hurt those men, short of ending their lives. But he wasn't ready to take that step again. Not yet. He'd left the Army and was living permanently in the UK. It would not be as easy to get away with it on home turf.

For a while, rape provided the solution. Taking other men by force satiated those passions.

He had to be careful. Always. He had no intention of going to jail for raping some faggot's ass. He was no opportunistic sex offender. He chose his victims with tremendous care. It was the only way to control it.

It could sometimes take weeks to make a selection. He would travel far on weekends, just looking. In the small towns and villages around County Durham, going south to North Yorkshire, or up into Northumberland. Always looking, discounting hundreds of men until a suitable victim emerged.

Supermarkets were his favorite hunting ground, prowling the aisles, seeking the perfect one. There was no particular type. His selection was based on the feelings he underwent when he saw a certain man. He seldom found them attractive. It was the excitement they triggered that he found most electrifying.

Straight men were the best. Married men even better. They had so much more to lose when he exerted his ultimate power over then. Straight men were less likely to report it when he raped them. They couldn't admit it when another guy took their ass. Out of dozens of attacks he'd carried out, Clint was only aware of three that had been reported to the police.

He was never questioned about any of them.

He thanked his carefully planning for that. Once he chose his victim, he spent weeks stalking them. That's where supermarkets proved so fruitful. Most people doing their weekly shopping went straight home afterward. Which made finding out where these men lived so effortless. He would return several times, always in disguise, learning his victims' routines, who they lived with, where they worked, when they were alone. Compiling a picture. Formulating a plan. People were creatures of habit and that made his task so easy.

The plan and the anticipation of executing it could be delightfully drawn out for weeks. He was rarely in a hurry and always in complete control of his emotions. The murder in Germany had been the one time he'd lost control. He made sure that it never happened again.

For many years, stalking and sexual abuse was enough. The thrill of taking another man and exerting control over him satisfied his darkest needs. He wasn't too prolific either. One or two men each year, that was all he needed.

When they cried and begged him to stop—that was when he liked it best.

New Year's Eve 2013. Clint had been invited to a party at the home of one of his gym regulars. He hadn't planned on going but had changed his mind at the last minute. He had been unusually optimistic about the coming year. As he'd stood in the kitchen, talking to the husband of another gym member, he'd realized why he'd been looking forward to the new year. It had been time for him to kill again.

Once the decision had been made, he'd begun to enjoy it.

Yes, he would kill a man that year. He had decided then to start with the man he'd been talking to at that very moment. His name had been Anthony and they had only met that night. Anthony had been an electrician, almost thirty and still hanging on to the prettiness of his youth, despite having been married for four years with two kids. His hair had been receding and he had the beginnings of a beer belly.

Yes
, Clint had thought.
I'll kill him this year before he loses his looks completely.

It had been a great liberation as he'd made the decision, all he'd done till then was suppress his natural instinct. The urge to kill again had been with him ever since Germany. He wouldn't deny it any longer. Now he was free to do what he wanted.

Free did not mean careless. He had planned the murder of Anthony more minutely than any of his other crimes. He had to. It wasn't going to be like before—choosing a random stranger in a nowhere town. He would be acting out his fantasies here, in the city where he lived, among people he knew.

Keeping tabs on Anthony hadn't been an easy thing. As an electrician, he had no set routine. His job had taken him all over the county and his hours of work had been erratic. Clint had taken care not to mention him when his wife Laura had attended the gym. Once the deed had been done, he hadn't wanted anyone making even the most tenuous connection between him and his victim.

He had bided his time. There had been no rapes elsewhere that year. He hadn't needed them. They had been a coping mechanism, to stop him from killing, and he hadn't required that anymore.

He had made his move in August. For some reason, an upcoming family holiday he guessed, Anthony had taken up jogging after work, three nights a week, heading up into the lonely hills outside the town, following the same route each time. It had been too perfect.

Clint had been waiting in the deepest part of the course. Anthony hadn't even seen him when he'd stepped out from behind and smacked a rock against his head. Clint had dragged him unconscious into a deeply shaded gully and had taken his time with the rest.

The body hadn't been found for two days.

Despite a major investigation and tearful appeals for witnesses by his wife, no arrests had been made and Anthony's murder remained unsolved.

****

Clint parked his car in a quiet residential street, a mile from the estate where Matt Blyth lived. He had used this spot only once before, several weeks back and would not come this way again. There was no CCTV coverage in the area and there was nothing about his car to make it stand out from any other on the street. But twice was enough. People were naturally nosy and nosy people noticed things.

He got out of the car and pulled a scarf around his neck, high enough to cover his lower face. It was a cool night and he would not look suspicious dressed as he was. Sticking to the shadows, he took a circuitous route through the estate, down narrow pathways, between the houses, avoiding the brightly lit open spaces that were popular with late night dog walkers. Like a soldier, under cover of darkness in enemy terrain, he was the ultimate professional stalker.