by Thom Collins
Matt hated to lose any case. That was the only incentive he needed to work hard.
The room set aside for solicitors was basic. Just a few tables and chairs and one phone. No computers, laptops or facilities other than a watercooler. It was the perfect place to read through a case file. He’d often achieved more in an hour here than a full morning in the office where the phones were a constant distraction.
There was another lawyer waiting when he arrived. Danny Frost sat at one of the tables with a case file six inches thick open in front of him.
“Hi, Danny, how are you doing?”
The lawyer looked up and smiled warmly. “Hello, stranger.”
Almost forty, Danny had the verve and energy of someone fifteen years younger. He bore the deep tan of a recent holiday. His dark hair was rapidly turning gray. At the rate he was going, he’d be a full-on silver fox in another year or two.
Danny was the only other openly gay solicitor he knew in the area and they had always got along well. He was an outrageous flirt without overstepping the line, but Matt suspected that given just a hint of encouragement Danny would be all over him.
“Have you seen the news this morning?” Danny asked.
“The murder? Sure. Shocking isn’t it? To think that it’s happening right here in our community. If this was a big city, it would almost be expected, but not in Durham.”
“I knew him,” Danny said, putting down his pen and looking at Matt with wide green eyes. “Olly Raymond. The latest victim. He worked at the coffee shop on Sable Street. Just down from our office. I even asked him out last year.”
“Shit, Danny. That’s awful. I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
“Sure. I’m fine. We didn’t know each other all that well. Went out a couple of times but it didn’t really come to anything. He never said as much, but I got the impression after our first date that Olly thought I was too old for him. I think he only saw me again out of sympathy.”
Matt smiled softly. “Too old? You? Hardly. You’ve got more energy than I have.”
“There was about fifteen years between us. I think that was too big a deal for Olly. Still, he was a nice lad. A really nice lad. I can’t believe anyone would want to hurt him.”
“Any news of an arrest?” Like Trish at the office, Danny was always a good person to ask if you wanted to know what was going on.
“Fuck no. The police round here haven’t got a clue.”
“According to The Echo they’re playing down any connection with the other murdered boy.”
Danny’s eyebrows shot up. “They’re connected all right. It’s all over Facebook. Haven’t you seen it?”
Matt shook his head.
“What connects them,” Danny said, “is their sexuality. Olly Raymond and Conner Welsh were both gay. Those stupid plods are playing it all down but come on—both boys are gay, both are from Durham, they look so much alike they could pass for brothers and they’re found dead within a fortnight of each other.” Danny’s usually bright demeanor had taken on a serious expression. “Someone is picking up and murdering young men—gay men—in our city and the police are doing fuck all to warn the community. It stinks. It fucking stinks.”
****
Since the unexpected appearance of Annabel had spoiled his intention to chat up Matt, Dale’s day had not gone as planned. But Annabel’s unwanted intrusion was nothing compared with the shower of shit that rained down on him when he got to work.
The production was using the empty buildings of an old primary school as their temporary studio and offices. The building had a sad, gloomy feeling that worked perfectly for the show. It was due for demolition later in the year. Something local residents were dead set against. The solid structure was over one hundred and forty years old and loved by the community, many of whom had been educated there. Its current use by a TV company proved that it was not yet ready for the wrecking ball. Dale had even signed a petition by residents campaigning to save the old school buildings and agreed to pose for a photo for the local paper.
Arriving at the studio direct from boot camp, he saw half a dozen people gathered at the gate. They brandished homemade placards, which they waved at passing motorists, many of whom gave a blast of their horn as they passed.
He was all for saving the school but someone would have to ask these guys to turn it down. They couldn’t have those car horns blaring while they were trying to shoot a take.
It was only as he pulled into the car park that he noticed their placards had nothing to do with the proposed demolition. Stop the Bloodbath. Save Our Children. Violence Breeds Violence.
What the hell was that about?
By the time he had showered and changed into costume, the crowd outside had doubled.
Roxanne Maxwell was in the makeup room. She was already dressed in the black designer power suit of her DCI character and her luxurious auburn hair was being fixed into a businesslike wave around her face. Roxanne stared at a computer tablet while the hairdresser worked.
“What’s going on?” Dale asked, taking the chair beside her. “Are those guys outside extras or something? I didn’t notice any crowd scenes in today’s script. Have they changed the schedule?”
Roxanne raised her cool gaze from the tablet and regarded him in the mirror. “Haven’t you heard the news?”
“This morning? No, I listen to music on the way in,” he said. “It helps me to focus. All that noise on the radio—DJs and presenters—it’s all too distracting when I’m trying to get the lines in.”
“You know a couple of local boys have been murdered?”
He nodded. He had seen that story on TV last night.
Roxanne raised two finely arched eyebrows. “Remind you of anything?”
“What? Us? The show? How?”
“Good old social media,” she said. “Someone was quick to point out a similarity between the deaths and the TV show about a murderer currently being filmed on their doorstep. Rumors and hash tags filled in the blanks.”
Another round of horns blasted outside.
“Shit. What did Elton say? Have we put out a statement?”
“Elton is livid. Some of the comments posted online suggest the protestors have seen at least some of the script. They’re not one hundred percent off in some of the things they accuse us of. The publicity department is working on a statement right now. Hopefully they can defuse the situation before it gets worse.”
“Don’t count on it,” Dale said. “An old buddy of mine worked on a movie that angered some animal rights protestors. They heard a horse had been killed during the shoot. It was complete bullshit of course. No animals were ever injured. But word got out just the same and it spread like fire. It closed down the production for three weeks.”
The crowd of protestors grew over the course of the morning. As well as cars, they had started using whistles and bullhorns to add to the disturbance. Unlike a purpose built studio, working within the old school building was like shooting on location. Sets had been constructed in the gymnasium and assembly hall but none of them were sound proofed.
“Let’s just get the fucking scene shot,” Elton hollered. “If we get the visuals, we can re-record the fucking sound later.”
It was a fair suggestion but not easy to achieve. Nerves and tempers were frayed by the jarring noise outside. Lines were fluffed. Cues were fucked. Lighting, acting, cameras—everyone was off their game.
Between botched takes, Dale grabbed his phone and tried to get an idea of what was happening online. The profile of the murdered boys was tragic. They were both so young. It made his flesh prickle to look at their photos. It was no stretch of the imagination to see either of them as prey for his character Daryl Stone. They fitted Daryl’s victim profile exactly.
But it was nothing more than a deeply sad coincidence. Their show hadn’t finished filming, let alone been seen by any
one. The suggestion that it could influence a murderer was impossible—ludicrous. Not that he believed TV or film had an influence on people’s desire to inflict violence anyway. It was blood lust. People acted on their desire to hurt others because they wanted to.
By the time they broke for lunch, only a fraction of that morning’s work was complete.
“Why don’t we go out and talk to them?” Dale suggested. “Roxanne, Elton and me. Maybe we can calm things down. It’s got to be worth a try.”
“No fucking way,” Roxanne said flatly. “They’ve got TV crews out there now. It’s a damn circus. Publicity can deal with this. It’s their job. Not ours!”
Dale retired to his trailer to catch the local lunchtime bulletin. The murder investigation was rightfully the lead story with police still refusing to confirm a connection between the deaths of Olly Raymond and Conner Welsh. The bulletin then cut from a live broadcast at police HQ to the protest outside the studio.
There had to be forty people out there now, together with a live news crew. The reporter seemed to revel in the ignorance and scare mongering that had ignited the situation in the first place.
“Blood Falls on Stone is a violent thriller starring Roxanne Maxwell and American actor Dale Zachary. The series follows the investigation of a perverted serial killer praying on young students in a college town. The chilling similarities to events right here in Durham cannot be ignored. Protestors today are calling for production on the series to be stopped.”
The reporter turned to interview one of those protestors, a middle-aged woman full of indignation and anger.
“It shows an utter lack of respect for the victims, their families and our community,” the woman seethed. “It’s sick shows like this and their glorification of violence that has led to the deaths of two innocent men.”
Oh fuck. Dale shut off the TV. This was turning into a nightmare.
****
It was a long-running tradition on Wednesday night for Matt to get together for dinner with his best buddy, Conrad. The guys had been friends since school and the bond remained unbroken. Despite college, employment or any other responsibility, their friendship remained tight.
It was Matt’s turn to entertain. Conrad O’Brien was a much better cook than he was but Matt would never be presumptuous enough to expect his friend to do the hard work every week. Once a month they ate out, but tonight was just a regular evening at home.
It had been a good day for Matt. After his workout with Annabel and the gorgeous Dale Zachary, he’d got the result he wanted at court. Jenna McNab had been spared jail and given an order with the probation service to carry out one hundred and twenty hours of unpaid work. He’d spent the afternoon with three new clients and had a couple of hours to prepare his case for tomorrow. It was a pretty successful day.
By the time Conrad arrived for dinner he was ready to unwind with a few drinks and good company. They were in the kitchen of the comfortable two-bedroom semi he rented on the outskirts of Durham.
Conrad sat at the table, thumbing through news pages on his tablet, while Matt was at the cooker assembling the rice, chicken and curry sauce to make up that evening’s dinner.
Conrad was twenty-eight with short dark hair and a slender build. He hadn’t changed much since their school days. While exercise and genetics had caused Matt to broaden and thicken throughout his twenties, Conrad was as tiny now as he’d been at fourteen. It suited him, though for years he’d hated it. Matt remembered all the guys he’d brushed off when they had hit on him and called him cute.
“I think you might be barking up the wrong tree,” Conrad said, putting down the tablet to refill his wineglass. “It says here that Dale was married. He’s even got a kid.”
Matt stirred the pan of chicken. “Annabel said he was divorced.”
“Looks that way.” Conrad had the tablet again and was tapping at the screen. “Looking through some of these movie forums, there’s nothing here to indicate he’s gay or even bi. A few suggestions here and there but nothing you don’t read in discussions about any hot actor. It’s idle speculation with nothing to back it up. Sorry, sweetie. I think you’re out of luck.”
“Damn.” Matt finished his wine and poured another glass. “I feel like an idiot now. Giving him my card like that.”
“Guys must hit on him all the time. I’m sure he’s used to it. No big deal.”
“I wasn’t hitting on him. Just gave him my number. I didn’t make a move or anything. Thank God.”
“He is beautiful,” Conrad said. “Wow. Check out some of these galleries. You do have good taste.”
“Have you seen any of his movies?”
“Mmm. I’ve seen that one with the ax. And this pretty bad rom-com. Can’t remember what it was called, but he was the only reason I kept watching. He took his shirt off a lot in that movie.”
“I need to do some homework. Check out a few of the films he’s been in.”
“It won’t get you anywhere.”
“But I’ll get to see him with his shirt off.”
They both laughed. Matt plated up their food and they ate at the kitchen table. It was nothing special. The sauce was from a jar but it tasted okay and the chicken was moist. Good company mattered more than great cooking.
“Did I tell you I ran into Jamie the other night?”
Conrad’s eyes widened. “No. Where was he?”
“At work.” Matt told him about their unexpected meeting at the police station.
“How was he?”
“The same.” Matt sighed. “Serious. Businesslike. Until the end of the interview when he took me to one side to tell me he misses me.”
“For a smart cop, he can be very slow to get the message.”
Conrad was the best kind of friend—loyal, supportive, funny. He worked in the sales office of the art house cinema and theater in town. Working tirelessly for low pay in a job he loved. He was currently raising funds for a small theater group that supported actors with disabilities. The group wanted to stage a new, specially written play later in the year, but with the government cutting funds, it was going to be a struggle.
“I hope to have some charity nights at the theater throughout March and April. I also need prizes for the raffle we’re having a week on Saturday. Do you think your bosses might make a donation?”
“Free legal advice?” Matt asked. “It’s not the most exciting of prizes.”
“Maybe not.” Conrad chuckled. “What about your Hollywood friend? Do you think the lovely Mr. Zachary might consider donating a prize?”
“I don’t know.”
“Will you ask him?”
“Shouldn’t you approach him through the TV company?”
Conrad pulled a face. “It takes too long. Especially now that they’ll have sack loads of hate mail to open.”
“Poor Dale. I hadn’t thought of that.” The protest outside the studio had been all over the news when Matt came home. The shit had really hit the fan. Though the program itself was taking the hit, rather than the actors. For now, at least. Moral outrage had a habit of getting personal fast.
“So, you’ll ask him?” Conrad persisted.
Got to love him. When it came to a cause, Conrad didn’t quit. “Maybe.”
“Not maybe. Do it.”
“Okay,” Matt relented, laughing. “He’s got my number. If he calls me, I’ll ask him.”
If he calls me.
It was hardly likely to happen.
Was it?
Chapter Five
“The next cunt to blow a fucking horn will regret the day they were torn from their mother’s womb.” Hung-over and pissed off, Elton Weaver was an explosive ball of anger. His face was puce as he ranted.
“He’s going to have a heart attack if he doesn’t calm down,” whispered Aaron Oxford. He was standing with Dale at the side of the
set. Filming always involved a lot of standing around but today they had done little else.
Rather than looking better in the morning, an evening of news coverage and social chatter meant the crowd outside the studio had trebled in size. With the identity of the real killer unknown, the frightened community had come out in force to attack the one target they were able to—the TV company responsible for a fictional murder.
Adding to the tension on set, leading lady Roxanne Maxwell had called in sick. “Migraine,” her assistant had informed the director. “Roxanne’s migraines usually last at least two days.”
“Tell Roxanne to put some fucking painkillers down her scrawny neck and make sure she’s back on set tomorrow morning.” The assistant blanched under Elton’s venom. “We’re only two weeks in. It’s not too late to replace her and begin reshoots with a new actress on Monday. I hear that my first choice actress for the role has become available and she loves the script. See how Roxanne’s migraine feels after that.”
Roxanne’s absence put extra pressure on Dale. Without her, they had to concentrate on his scenes. With the bleating car horns and whistles reaching new levels of intensity, Elton wisely decided to focus on non-dialogue scenes that could easily be re-sounded later. Dale spent the morning climbing in and out of windows, skulking in dark alleys doing creepy, stalkerish stuff. Finding the right mood for the scene wasn’t easy. Still, with the constant racket outside, it was easier than delivering dialogue.
Nevertheless, it was a long, arduous morning.
“I still think we should put out a statement,” he told Elton while they waited for the set to be relit. “A few careful and compassionate words could defuse this whole situation.”
The stench of stale gin oozing out of Elton was stronger than ever. The old man must have hammered it last night. “Let the PR team handle it. They put out a statement first thing this morning.”