Closer by Morning (22 page)

“Wake up,” he growled, smacking the side of his face with his palm.

Conrad whimpered.

“Where is Matt?” he barked, shaking Conrad's head. “Answer me. Where is he? You'll talk if you know what's good for you. I don't want to hear none of that shit about him working late. Where is he really?”

Conrad's eyes were swollen shut but from the change in his breathing, Clint knew he was awake. Clint repeated his question. When Conrad tried to speak, blood and saliva bubbled between his bust lips. Clint smacked his face again.

“I can't hear you. Where is he? Tell me.”

Again, the answer was incomprehensible.

Shit. This was no good.

Clint let go, allowing Conrad's face to drop heavily against the tiles. He stood and left the office, returning a few moments later with a bucket of ice cold water. He tipped the whole lot slowly over Conrad's head. The little fucker was making plenty of noise now that he thought he was drowning. Screaming and spluttering, he tried to wriggle away from the downpour. Clint put a foot in the middle of his back, ensuring he went nowhere.

Conrad spat blood and water across the floor, gasping for breath. Clint was certain that his nose was broken. He leaned down and grabbed him by the hair again.

“Now listen,” he hissed. “I reckon if I stick my cock down your throat right now, with that bust nose of yours, you won't be able to draw breath. Is that how you want this to end? Eh?” He shook his head like a terrier with a rat for effect. “Now, I'll ask again and this is the last time I'm going to ask nicely. Where is Matt?”

Conrad made a strange mewling sound as he tried to speak. Clint realized that his jaw was as broken as his nose.
Shit.
He really had lost his temper. Still, the little fucker could speak. He smacked his face again.

“Daaarrr…” Conrad spluttered, blood dribbling down his chin.

“What was that? Say it again.”

“Daaaa…” He coughed, spitting more blood. “Daa. Daaale.”

“Dale? Did you say Dale? Is that where he is? With the fucking American?”

“Yeeeeth. Yeeths.”

Clint let go and sat back as a veil of cold fury descended over him. Matt was with the American. Damn it. He should have known. He banged a fist against the floor. For fuck's sake, why? What was so special about that bastard? From the day he'd arrived, the Yank had been nothing but an annoyance. One look and Matt had been smitten. First day at boot camp and he set his eyes on someone else. It was intolerable. Enough was enough.

Clint's plans for Matt were in jeopardy. No more games. There was no time. Suppose the fucker talked Matt into going to America with him. Where would Clint be then? Denied the ultimate prize. That couldn't be allowed. He always got what he wanted. He always had and that wouldn't stop now.

He rose slowly to his feet. Calm descended on every part of him. He put his anger in a tight compartment. There would be time to indulge it later. But for now, a clear head, void of emotion, was essential. After tonight, everything would change. In all likelihood his crimes would be exposed. He might have to leave in a hurry. Not just the city, but the country. He was prepared for that. There was a fake passport and plenty of money in the safe. It might not come to that. Not if he was careful.

Only one thing was certain. Matt Blyth and Dale Zachary had to die. Slowly. Painfully. Tonight.

Chapter Twenty

Dale was waiting at the open door when Matt pulled up in front of the house, high in the hills. The grin he'd been sporting all the way here widened farther. The sight of Dale was everything he'd been waiting for. It had only been a night, but it felt as if he'd been gone for weeks. It was so good to see him again. And damn it, if he didn't look great. Standing there, in a loosely fastened checked shirt, jeans, bare feet… He was the best-looking man Matt had ever seen.

Matt was out of the car and in his arms in seconds. “God, I've missed you,” he said, squeezing him tight and pressing his mouth to his lips. He slid a hand beneath the shirt to caress his bare skin, pushing his fingers through the hair on his chest.

Dale held him just as tight, letting his hands fall to Matt's ass and squeezing. “You look good in a suit,” he drawled. “I knew you would. You're the sexiest lawyer I ever saw.”

Matt suddenly realized they were standing in an open doorway. He stepped back from Dale and scanned the courtyard behind and the distant tree line for any sign of photographers. “Where are the press?”

Dale pulled him back into his arms. “Nothing yet. Keeley Rank knows where I live, but I don't think any of the others have caught on. But the phone's been ringing nonstop since I got back. Apparently the studio is under siege again, but none of them have found their way up here. I'm past caring. I've made things right with the people who matter. Everything else is bullshit.”

“I like this new attitude,” Matt said, sliding a hand to Dale's butt, helping himself.

“There's a whole lot about me you're going to like.”

They went inside and closed the door.

He knew the house was just a rental but it was impressive nonetheless. The hall was large and airy with plenty of light coming from the upstairs windows. There were several rooms leading off from the hall. He saw through into a large living room, which had a stunning view of the sweeping valley below. “Wow, this is some place.”

Dale grinned. “Yeah, I like it. I've never been keen on the town and city life. I much prefer living in the middle of nowhere. Come on, I want to show you something.”

He took Matt's hand and led him into a large kitchen. It was modern but totally in keeping with the traditional style of the house. Delicious aromas wafted from the cooker—chicken, garlic, tarragon.

“You had time to cook too? I'm very impressed. Smells better than any restaurant I know.”

Dale grinned. “Sorry to disappoint. That would be Mrs. Butterman, the lady who comes in to look after the place. She's a great cook. I called her to say I'd be back today and arrived home to find the slow cooker working its magic. She's a terrific lady and really spoils me. If it wasn't for our boot camp, and Clint whipping my ass into shape, I'd be twice the size I am now.”

“I need a Mrs. Butterman in my kitchen. Think she could fit me in?”

“I'm not giving her up. You'll have to share.” Dale picked up his tablet computer from the counter and gave it to Matt. “Take a look at this. I didn't want to send it till you got here.”

The tablet was open on Dale's Facebook page. He had typed a statement into the status update field.
The murders that have taken place in Durham are a tragedy, even more so that the victims
'
stories are at risk of being lost amid speculation surrounding a television show and my personal life. In order to devalue any further gossip I would like to confirm right now that I am gay. In our modern, tolerant world, the sexuality of a relatively unknown actor should not be such a newsworthy event and I only hope this statement will rob my “outing” of any sensation. Our thoughts and sympathies should be with the young men who have lost their lives and the families who grieve them. For their sake, I apologize for the scurrilous headlines they might have to read this weekend and I hope that attention quickly moves onto what is really important—finding their killer and bringing him to justice.

Matt handed back the tablet. “Is that how you're going to do this? Facebook, rather than a statement from your agent?”

Dale looked back the screen. “No. I've hidden enough. I'm not going to hide behind a third party now. This has to come from me. Anything else would just be…wrong. Do you understand?”

Matt put an arm around his shoulder, pressed a soft kiss against the side of his face. “Of course I do. Send it.”

Dale's finger hovered over the send icon, no more than a second, before he tapped the screen. The message disappeared before the screen refreshed and there it was—made public for the world to see.

“Done,” Dale grinned, shutting off the computer. “Let's celebrate.”

He opened a cupboard and lifted out two champagne flutes. From the fridge, he produced a bottle and set about opening it.

“Where's your phone? It's going to start ringing any minute now.”

Dale, midway through unwrapping the foil on the champagne bottle, stopped and pulled his phone from his back pocket. He turned it off. “You're right. No calls tonight. This is just about you and me.”

“How do you feel? Now that it's gone.”

Dale filled the glasses. “Wonderful, I guess. A little frightened, sure, but it's a relief.”

“You have nothing to worry about. Nobody is going to care. We have a saying here, you might not have heard it—‘Today's news is tomorrow's fish and chip paper.'”

Dale's brow furrowed. “I think I get what you're saving but I have no idea what fish-and-chip paper is.”

“Okay, then next weekend, when this really is old news, I'll take you to the coast and you can find out for yourself. Deal?”

“Can't wait.”

He handed Matt a glass and they clinked.

“Cheers.”

“And congratulations,” Matt said. “To a new beginning?”

“I'll definitely drink to that.”

They both drank. The champagne was cold and delicious. Matt moved closer to Dale. He put his hand on the back of his head and drew his mouth close. They kissed long and deeply. Lips lingering, tongues thrusting. Matt held him and kissed him and breathed in the heavenly smell of him.

“Want to see more of the house?” Dale murmured against his lips. “Take a look upstairs?”

“Lead the way.”

****

Jamie, who hadn't eaten a thing since the coffee and scones forced upon him by Barney Kilofer-James, stopped at a takeaway restaurant on Craddock Street, bought a steak pie and a portion of chips and ate them in the car outside. He was starving and too impatient to wait until he got home to eat. Something had been bugging him all day. Something he couldn't quite grasp. He didn't know what it was but…
something
. He hoped that, in satisfying his hunger, he would give his brain a chance to function better.

The food was mediocre at best. The chips were greasy and the pie was little more than salty gravy in a pastry case, but they filled his empty belly. He turned on the radio. There was a classical music concert on the BBC. Not his usual thing but the big orchestral sounds were strangely conducive to thought. Instead of heading for home, he turned the car back in the direction of the station. There was no point going anywhere else, not until he got a handle on what it was troubling him.

What the hell is it?

It had started mid-afternoon. Right after his visit to Barney. Something the old queen had said triggered the bug. But what? Jamie ran their conversation through his mind, trying to get a handle on that spark.

Come on, boy, what the hell is it?

The old man and his husband were screwing Aaron Oxford. No big deal there. Plenty of men and women met for casual sex. It wasn't something they were keen to share with family and friends but it happened. Aaron had visited the old boys a couple of times at their home. Again, no big deal. It was hardly enough for attachments to form. Besides the old guys just weren't that type. However much they liked Aaron, Jamie had a feeling he was lucky to get that second invite to their bedroom. He'd met men like them before. Once they'd had what they wanted, conquests were quickly discarded. Jamie rarely bothered with gay bars but when he did, he found the snatches of overheard conversation quite depressing.

‘
Had him. And him. And I had him when he was worth having.'

Barney Kilofer-James struck him as
exactly
that type.

So no, the old queens weren't out there killing young men through fits of jealousy. They were too busy searching for their next conquest.

The tech team had already run a search on Aaron's phone, computer and social accounts. He'd contacted a handful of people via a dating app looking for sex. So far none of those contacts had revealed anything suspicious. There was no evidence that he'd even looked at the profiles of any of the other victims. Dating sites always came under suspicion when there was a case of this kind, but Jamie had a feeling they weren't going to catch their killer on Grindr.

Barney had said he and his old man picked up Aaron and brought him to their house. They had met him once in town and once outside a gym.

A gym.

Of course. That was it. The bloody gym.

That was what had been bugging him. The previous victim, Olly Raymond, also had a gym membership card among his possessions. It was slight, very slight. Two good-looking gay guys, going to the gym. It was hardly out of the ordinary, and the chances of them both frequenting the same place were almost zero.

But good detective work was all about making connections. If only to rule them out.

Still driving, Jamie brought up Barney Kilofer-James's number. The old boy answered straight away.

“It's Detective Dench. Sorry to bother you again, especially at this hour, I just have one more question for you.”

“Detective,” Barney purred. “How nice to hear from you again. I was just telling Tony what a delightful young man you were. What can we do for you? Maybe Tony's memory is better than mine.”

“You told me you once picked up Aaron from outside his gym. Can you remember the name of that gym?”

“Oh God, now you're asking. Can't think of the name. It was on Dunston Street, just along from the butcher's and the hardware shop. Just a second.” There was the sound of conversation in the background before Barney came back on the line. “Dexter's. Tony says the place is called Dexter's. I don't know anything about it. It doesn't look like much from the outside. We prefer Bannatine's. The facilities are so much broader.”

“You've been a big help.” Jamie hung up before the old man could invite him to join them at their gym. No doubt the sauna and pool were their favorite facilities.

After pulling up to the station, he hurried straight to his desk. The incident room was empty. Even on a major case like this, the overtime budget did not stretch to Friday nights. Jamie didn't give a damn about overtime. He was onto something. He logged into his computer and brought up the evidence log of items taken from Olly Raymond's apartment.

He scrolled through the list, looking for one thing in particular.

There it was.

One gym membership card.

The gym was Dexter's on Dunston Street.

Jamie logged straight back out of the computer and raced for the door.

Shit. How did they miss that?

****

Keeley stared at the words she had written. This story was going nowhere. It was useless. Worse than useless. She had nothing.

“Fuck!”

Tomorrow morning every tabloid paper was going to run with a variation on the Dale Zachary story. Those hacks hadn't even cottoned onto the closet fairy until today, and now they were stealing the story,
her
story, right out from under her. She'd been here all week, routing around the set of that crappy TV show, and she had no more than the other papers to show for it.

What should have been an exclusive scoop was a scoop of dog shit. She'd had to make up eighty percent of what she'd written. Not that
that
was a problem, she'd put out stories before that were ninety-nine percent made up, but still, she had a little pride in what she did. It should have turned out better than this.

Most of the people she'd talked to on the show had no idea their leading man was a cock sucker. Idiots. Like those two greedy bimbos she took to lunch today. What a total waste of time they were. They gave almost nothing, and what little she did glean from them would have to be credited to ‘sources close to the actor'. She'd could hardly admit her sources where two stupid tarts from the makeup trailer.

She might be a gossip columnist but she had some standards. She'd be laughed out of the industry.

Maybe the problem was Dale. Other than the fact he'd been keeping his sexuality under wraps, and getting his dick sucked by one of the deceased, there was nothing to write about him. There was no scandal there. No drugs, no rent boys, no naked selfies to fans. The bastard was cleaner than Snow White, and that was no good to a writer like her.

Keeley saved the dismal file and shut the lid on her laptop, signaling to the hotel waiter that she was ready for another glass of wine.

Think, woman, think
.

She needed to save this story and make it her own by morning. Her Sunday feature was already shaping up to be old news, but there had to be
something
she could do to rescue it, together with her reputation.

The Sunday Edition was looking to get rid of her. It hadn't been said in so many words, but she knew it was coming. The current editor was less than enthusiastic about the stories she turned in and the bastard was already testing new writers. That feature on George Clooney last month should have been hers, but he had given it to some twenty-five-year-old airhead straight out of college. And he pulled the piece she did on Katherine Jenkins entirely. “We are not in the business of character assassination,” he had said, dropping her profile in favor of some shit about a flower show.