Closer by Morning (2 page)

One look at Monica, sitting bleary-eyed on the reception desk, chugging from a bucket-sized carton of takeaway coffee, convinced him he was right.

“Rough night? Rough weekend? Year?” he asked.

“Very funny,” she sneered, booting up the computer. “It's Monday, unless you've forgotten. Only freaks come in to work on Monday with a smile on their face.”

“I'm smiling, aren't I?”

“Like I said—freaks!”

She sipped her coffee, looking him up and down. In his dark blue suit, pale shirt and narrow tie, clean shaven with his unruly hair combed into a neat style, he bore little resemblance to the wild creature who had stumbled out of bed all those hours before. Wearing a suit each day was part of the job and Matt Blyth wore it well. Six-foot-two with broad shoulders and a slender waist, he had the classic male physique that suits were designed for. The cheapest, off-the-rack two-piece still looked great on him.

“You
do
look unusually happy,” Monica said, narrowing her eyes. “Why? Did you have a lottery win over the weekend? Or did you strike it lucky in other ways? A tumble in the sack?”

“It's the joy of life, Monica. You should try it sometime.”

“Huh? You should try sitting here eight hours a day, five days a week and listen to people bitch because they can't get an appointment. See how joyful you feel then.”

Matt's office was on the first floor of an imposing Victorian mid-link terrace in the heart of the old city. He bounded up the stairs, two at a time, to retrieve the planner from his desk.
This is ridiculous
. Surely he couldn't feel this good because of a little extra exercise. If so, he should have done it years ago.

Every morning from nine till nine-twenty Edward Benedict, senior partner in the firm and Matt's direct boss, held a brief team meeting in the ground floor conference room. The aim was to assess any outstanding work, go through what had come in overnight and fix what everyone had to do that day.

Edward was at the head of the table when Matt entered. He was a well-built man in his mid-fifties, with thick gray hair and a broad, often red face. He regarded Matt with serious eyes over the top of his wire-framed glasses. With the table only two-thirds full, Matt was glad he wasn't the last to arrive.

“Morning,” he greeted the room and took a seat beside Trish Coleman, the firm's bookkeeper. She had been with the practice almost as long as Edward.

“Have you heard?” Trish asked as he poured a glass of water from the jug on the table. “There's been another murder in town.”

“I heard they had found a body. Have they confirmed it's murder?”

“Not officially. Not yet. But I've heard it from various sources already this morning. It looks
exactly
like the boy they found the other week. Same circumstances and everything.”

“Shit. Poor kids. Have they ID'd the body?”

“Not that I know of.” Trish Coleman, with contacts in most other law firms and within the police force itself, was the first person to find out everything. Whatever she said would be easy to dismiss as gossip but Trish had been right about so many things, so many times before, it was stupid not to listen. Gossip was her life. If she decided to change careers she would make an excellent journalist. Her contacts were outstanding. “There's something else,” she said, relishing the power of her knowledge. “The first victim, Conner Welsh—what hasn't been released so far is that he was severely assaulted—sexually. Before and after death.”

“My God.”

“I know. Isn't it awful?” Her eyes were indecently excited. “There's potentially a serial killer. A
sexual
serial killer. On the loose, right here in Durham.”

“That's all idle speculation,” Edward said firmly. He'd never approved of Trish's gossiping. Gossip worked both ways and he was suspicious of any information about the firm she might share with a rival in return for tittle-tattle.

For Matt, the shine was taken from his previous good mood. The discovery of another corpse was bad enough without the prospect of a sexual predator stalking the city. Unlike his boss, he was inclined to believe what Trish said. She was rarely wrong. The police needed to move quickly on the case before anyone else was killed.

Annabel Faith was the next to arrive. Edward glanced frostily at his watch as she came in, but it was not yet nine o'clock. Annabel had joined Benedict and Taylor six months after Matt and had been his best friend in the practice since her first day. There was less than a year between their ages and Annabel was like the young sister he had never had.

In a black trouser suit and silk blouse, Annabel had clearly spent some considerable time getting ready that morning. Her makeup was immaculate and her soft blonde hair had been straightened into a sharp style. Matt looked her up and down.

“So what's your excuse? Hair dryer emergency?”

“Sorry, sweetie, but I just couldn't face it. Not this morning.”

“Neither could I but I still made the effort. It's what we agreed after all. You could at least have sent a text and told me you weren't coming.”

“I didn't think you'd have your phone on you.” She helped herself to a breakfast muffin from the pile on the table and sat beside him. “I said I was sorry, sweetie.”

“I told them you would definitely be there,” he lied. “The instructor was really pissed. The entire group waited for you.”

Her mouth widened, as she was about to take a bite. “Oh my God. Really? Were they mad? What did they say about me?”

Edward called the meeting to order. Not everyone was there yet, but a bit like Clint Dexter, he was a sucker for punctuality and starting on time. Matt decided to keep quiet for a while. It would do Annabel good to stew a little.

As usual, Edward went around the table, getting his staff to read out one by one what they had listed in their diaries for the day. It was the standard list of mundane matters, the kind of work that kept modest firms like this one ticking over.

“I've got two clients at court this morning,” Matt said when it came his turn. “Magistrate's stuff over at Newton Aycliffe. One breach of the peace and one driving offense. Both are pleading guilty so it shouldn't take more than an hour. I was going to spend the rest of the morning preparing a trial I have tomorrow.”

“Which trial?” Edward observed him over the rim of his glasses.

“Newby versus Lewis. A family matter. Dad is going for access rights to his son.”

“Difficult?”

“Mother is being difficult but I think we can win. Her main argument against our client getting access is that he has a new girlfriend. Nothing to do with his suitability to have the boy. If I can get that across to the judge, I think I can get our client what he wants.”

“Good. And this afternoon?”

“Appointments every half hour until six. Two new cases. It's a full schedule. And I'm on call tonight. This morning is the only time I have to prep the trial,” he added hastily. Edward had a habit of spotting what he perceived to be gaps in his workers' schedules and filling them, with little consideration for the amount of work required before and after even the most mundane case.

“That's fine. Annabel?”

Less prepared, Annabel blustered through a sparse calendar and tried to make herself sound busy. In reality she had little going on that morning, other than a few follow-up phone calls, and only appointments booked for the afternoon. Edward saw straight through the ruse.

“Take the files from Matt for the magistrate's cases. You can handle the sentencing. Matt, take the morning to prepare your trial for tomorrow. I think you'll need it.”

“Thank you, sir. It's appreciated.”

“You bloody crawler,” Annabel said afterward, coming to Matt's office to collect the files she needed for court.

He laughed. “I didn't ask for this. The boss saw right through that crap you gave him. You've got bugger all to do today.”

“I like to keep things light on Monday, you know that.”

“So does Edward,
that's
your problem.”

She pulled up a chair and sat, leafing through the files without taking much notice of what was inside. It was routine stuff. Nothing she couldn't deal with on the fly at court. “So how did it go this morning? Were they really pissed I wasn't there?”

“You'd love that, wouldn't you? But no, they weren't pissed. Nobody noticed to be honest, except me. This guy Clint, he doesn't wait around for people. If you're not there on time, too bad.”

She flicked her hair across her shoulder. “What's he like? The instructor? A hottie or nottie?”

Annabel was a serial fiancée who had recently broke off her latest engagement. She was back on the market and finding a new man was her number one priority.

“He's okay. He's very fit but probably not your type.”

“Hmmm. How old?”

“Fortyish. Thereabouts. It's sometimes hard to tell with those really muscular men. Too much muscle can be ageing. He might not be as old as all that.”

“I need to find out for myself.”

“Then you need to get your butt out of bed on Wednesday and be there at five-forty-five.”

“You're going back?”

“I am. Unlike you, when I commit to something I see it through.”

He decided not to tell her about Dale. Not yet. Selfishly, he hoped Annabel wouldn't show on Wednesday. He wanted the American to himself. At least until he had time to figure him out. The more he thought about him, the more convinced he became that Dale had been showing definite signs of interest this morning. Crazy, for sure, but Dale was so goddamn beautiful, he couldn't pass up the opportunity of seeing him again.

Even if it was just a sweaty yomp around the woods. When a man looked as good as he did, a moment of his time was better than nothing.

Chapter Two

The boy, not yet twenty, slept peacefully in his bed. The white sheets were thrown back to the waist as he lay, one arm flung carelessly above his head, the other open wide. His body was lean and smooth, the muscles of youth flourishing as they transitioned from adolescence to manhood. His bare chest rose and fell with the regular rhythm of sleep. Peaceful and content, he was oblivious to the danger standing less than three feet away.

If the boy opened his eyes he might not see the man across the room. His black clothes and hooded face merged almost seamlessly into the shadows. Barely breathing, not making a sound, the man was quite undetectable. Until he stepped out of the darkness and approached the bed.

He stood over the boy, silently watching.

The boy moaned softly in his sleep and raised a hand to scratch an itch above his right nipple. It was an unconscious action and his eyes remained shut.

Unlike the eyes that watched him from the slits of a balaclava. They glistened in the darkness, almost burning in their intensity—full of evil. The man was as still as a statue, until suddenly he made his move.

The boy stirred, aware that something was off. By the time he opened his eyes it was too late. The man was on top of him, crushing him with superior strength and weight. A black cord wound around the boy's neck. Before he knew what was happening, the man's hands drew tight. Desperately the boy scrabbled at his throat. Teeth bared, mouth open, he struggled to breathe. Tighter, tighter, the man drew the cord.

The boys eyes bulged and his tongue protruded obscenely from his mouth.

The man was merciless.

Finally, it was all over.

The killer released his hold, sitting back to admire his efforts.

Stillness and quiet returned to the small bedroom.

“Excellent. Cut!” yelled a voice from the darkness.

The room was flooded with light and the dead boy opened his eyes, looking somewhat bewildered and vacant.

Dale Zachary eased his weight off the body beneath him and pulled off the killer's hood.

“Are you okay?” he asked, rolling off the bed so the boy could sit and catch his breath. It may only be acting but the brutality of such a scene could have a disconcerting effect on the performers.

The boy, a young actor called Rory, pushed up onto his elbows.

“I didn't hurt you, did I?” Dale asked.

Rory shook his head. “Not at all.”

Playing the unfortunate first victim in a new TV series,
Blood Falls on Stone
,
was a big deal for the young actor. His biggest role to date. Dale knew there was nothing he or anyone on the crew could do to dampen this guy's enthusiasm. He'd been that inexperienced newbie back in the day. That's why it was important for him to look after the kid, even when he was wringing his neck.

Elton Weaver, the director, strolled over. He was short, overweight and chewing gum. His minty breath failed to cover the stink of gin. It seemed to leak from every pore. “Good one, guys. Let's do another take of that. This time, let's see you really go for it. Dale, I want you to let him have it. Don't hold back. Rory, I want you to put up a bigger fight. Struggle, twist and kick. Fight the fucker with all you've got. Let's see how badly you want to live.”

“Okay,” Rory said, happily flopping back on the bed and pulling the covers into place.

“Are you sure?” Dale asked the director. “This is TV after all. Can we really get away with this? Seems like we've gone pretty far already.”

“Trust me. We can get away with all sorts of things these days. I want the violence to mean something. For the audience to feel the pain of your victims. It'll contrast well with the slower-paced dialogue scenes. If Aunty Beeb gets cold feet, we can always substitute the earlier stuff.”

The scene was pretty violent as it was but, despite his reservations, Dale gave the director what he wanted. The second take was far more disturbing and mean-spirited than the first. Rory fought back. Coughing, spluttering, fighting for his life. The more he struggled, the harder Dale played it, pressing down with all of his strength and weight.

When the director called “Cut” again he was shaken. He pulled off the mask and gasped for breath.
Shit, that was intense.

Elton rushed forward, delighted. “Perfect,” he roared. “Just perfect.
That
is going to be the watercooler moment for this show. Twitter will go into fucking meltdown and everyone will talk about it. Fuck
Broadchurch
and
The
Fall
. We'll give people nightmares for weeks. They'll sleep with the lights on the night this goes out. Ha.”

Dale wasn't so sure. He had a suspicion they had crossed a line and the TV company would insist on using the other version, but kept his opinion to himself. Elton was the director. His job was to give the director what he wanted. Besides, Elton's track record was impeccable. His last show had won a slew of BAFTAs and Emmy awards. He had the respect of the entire industry. He hadn't achieved that by playing things safe.

Rory didn't look quite as bright-eyed as he had before. He face, neck and chest were flushed and blotchy. He was out of breath.

“Still hanging in there?” Dale asked.

The boy raised his thumb and smiled.

“You did good,” Dale said, patting his shoulder as he got off the bed.

They spent the rest of the afternoon shooting close-up and insert shots. Dale's hands around the cord as he throttled the boy. Rory's legs thrashing about the bed. Dale's eyes, narrowed with hatred, through the balaclava slits. Hard work, but not as grueling as playing the scene in its entirety.

Around five Dale was released for the day. His scenes were over. Rory was not so fortunate. Filming would continue until late, covering the aftermath of the murder. The discovery of his body by his girlfriend and the ensuing crime scene investigation. Standard cop show stuff. But, as the killer, Dale was no longer needed.

He walked gratefully back to his trailer. A rare early finish. It was just what he needed after a tough day. Early morning boot camp probably wasn't the wisest way to kick things off when he had so many tough scenes to film, but he was glad he'd made the effort. Keeping fit was a mandatory part of the job for an actor like him and he hated every minute he spent at the gym. Boot camp was the perfect solution—get in early, train hard and get it over with. Job done.

Meeting hot men, like that guy Matt, was a bonus.

He was already looking forward to the next session and another encounter with the dreamy Matt. He was some looker all right. Tall, dark and handsome—the perfect English gentleman. The kind who only seemed to exist in movies—until now. Dale smiled. He was no romantic. Odd that Matt should arouse those kinds of feelings. With his strong, angular face, straight nose and wide mouth, he was better looking than any Hollywood pretty boy.

Wednesday, Dale resolved, he would make the effort to get to know him better. Find out who he was, what he did, whether he was straight, gay or bi.

Preferably one of the last two.

Not that any of it mattered. Dale had no time in his life right now for the complication of romance.

They were two weeks into a three-month shoot for
Blood Falls on Stone
. Serial killer Daryl Stone was the role of a lifetime, but playing him wasn't easy. Dale had worked too hard to win the part to lose focus now. The casting process had dragged on for months as the British producers searched for a recognizable American face to star in their thriller. Of all the names rumored to be under consideration, his was the least known. Several TV stars and movie actors were in the running. There was also competition from talented British actors with an American profile. While Dale had a sizeable list of IMDb credits that could match any of those guys, most of what he'd done was shit. Lousy rom-coms, cheap horror movies and a string of uncommissioned pilots.

Being based here in the UK while the producers were casting was a big plus. He was also generating excellent reviews for a play in London when the director came to see him. Elton Weaver was impressed enough by his stage performance to arrange a screen test with
Blood Falls on Stone's
leading lady, Roxanne Maxwell, a glamorous powerhouse of talent. Roxanne had made her name in her late twenties as a film actress. Now in her mid-forties, she had spent the last decade carving out a career on TV and stage. Pairing Roxanne with an award-winning director like Elton ensured
Blood Falls on Stone
would be a TV event.

Dale was determined to be part of that.

He smashed it in the screen test, giving everything he had.

The producers wanted a bigger name but Elton said they didn't need it. They already had Roxanne Maxwell. Of all the actors he'd tested there was no one as good as Dale Zachary. He was the man they needed to play the sexy, charismatic and terrifying killer Daryl Stone.

He was cheaper than all the others too. A fact, Dale had no doubt, that went in his favor.

Dale entered his trailer. He might be cheap but at least they'd provided that.

He took off his costume and hung it up for the wardrobe assistant to collect later. Daryl Stone was a tough nut to play and took him to some disturbing places, especially on days like this when they were shooting a murder scene, but he was no method actor. The character came off with the costume. Daryl Stone did not go home with him.

As Dale stepped into his own jeans, there was a knock at the door. “It's open,” he called, pulling on a black T-shirt.

Aaron Oxford was a production assistant on the series. He was thirty-two but looked younger. His brown hair was thick and lustrous, falling heavily across his brow, above friendly brown eyes. He wore a full beard, chocolate brown without a hint of gray.

Dale, known through his career for his fresh-faced, clean-cut good looks, had grown a beard at the request of Elton for the role. He was still getting used to being a man with a beard. His was shorter, more trimmed than Aaron's, but the most shocking thing about it was just how much gray it contained. He was only thirty-four, less than two years older than Aaron, and yet his beard was so much more aging. As soon as the shoot was over, this thing was history.

“You were great today,” Aaron said, stepping into the trailer. He was tall, rangy and heavily tattooed. He smelled good too, wearing a fresh, citrus scent. It suited him. “You going straight home?”

“Yeah. It's not often I get to leave early. Got to take advantage. I'm going to take a long hot soak, learn my pages for tomorrow, then an early night.”

Aaron closed the trailer door. “Lucky you. I'm stuck here till the end.” He took a purposeful step toward Dale.

They had known each other a couple of weeks. There was nothing in it, besides physical attraction. Two lonely people working together far from home.

“I thought you might like me to take care of something before you leave.” Aaron smiled, rubbing a hand across the front of Dale's jeans.

“I'm pretty beat,” he protested weakly.

“Don't worry. I don't have much time.”

Deftly, Aaron undid Dale's belt and fly and shoved his jeans and underpants to mid-thigh. His cock thrust forward, ascending rapidly to full hardness. Despite good intentions, a man's dick will always betray him. Aaron dropped to his knees and took Dale's cock into his mouth.

****

Dale Zachary, the middle of three brothers, had been born in Pennsylvania, popular with girls from a young age. All of the Zachary boys had been, inheriting their blond, blue-eyed good looks from their Danish mother. As his body had developed through puberty, muscles growing and balls dropping, the girls had really started to notice him. The Zachary brothers, each a year apart, had been a handsome bunch, but Dale, who had the least interest in girls, always had seemed to be the favorite.

He had been more interested in sport than chasing girls. Happier on the track than hanging around the arcades and cinema. Running, jumping and wrestling, he'd excelled at them all. It hadn't been just natural talent that'd brought him success, but hard work—lots of it. From an early age, he hadn't been a slacker.

Dale's first crush had been Danny Segal, captain of the school wrestling team, but it was Danny's cousin Susie who'dd claimed his virginity. With her soft blonde hair and overly developed boobs, fifteen-year-old Dale had known what he should fancy, rather than the hot jock in the wrestling singlet.

“Don't worry,” Susie had said. “I know what I'm doing.”

They had been in the spare bedroom of Danny's house during a party for his sister's eighteenth birthday. Susie had been two years older than Dale and he had no reason to doubt her claim. She'd said she knew what she was doing and he'd believed her. It had been exciting—and frightening—as she had led him away from the party and wedged a chair against the unlocked bedroom door. Susie's tits had been the talk of the locker room. The guys on the team would have all settled for a glimpse of those unfettered breasts, but she had been there on top of him, pushing those massive boobs right in his face. Dale had wanted to laugh but doubted Susie would see the funny side. With steely determination, he had followed her lead.

Susie's polished fingers had guided his hard manhood between her legs and Dale had been enveloped by her warm, sticky pussy. It hadn't felt too bad. Hell, it actually had felt pretty good. Normal even.

He had read that crushes on members of the same sex were a common part of growing up. It was something most guys went through. Susie's welcoming, voluptuous body had convinced him that his feelings for her cousin had been nothing more than that—a phase. He'd grow out of it soon enough and, when he did, he'd be as normal as any other guy.

He'd had a lot of girlfriends after Susie. Through high school, as he had excelled on the wrestling team and in the drama group, he had become one of the more popular boys. His easygoing nature and wholesome good looks had put him at the top of many girls' fantasy lists.