by Thom Collins
Dale told Clint as much as they reached the end of the course. He had pushed them to the point of collapse and it felt so damn good. “Man, you’re amazing.” He was bent over, hands on his knees, gasping for breath. “Don’t know how you do it, but where other trainers promise results, you actually get them. One hour, three times a week. That’s truly remarkable.”
“What matters is how you use that hour,” Clint said flatly. “Work to the max and an hour is all anybody needs.”
“In times of trouble that’s the kind of man you’d want on your side,” Matt said as Clint walked away. “Nothing fazes him. He’d bat your enemies aside like a fly.”
“Yeah, he’s a real terminator.”
They both laughed.
They said goodbye in the car park. Dale wanted to lean in and give Matt a passionate parting kiss on the mouth. He sensed Matt wanted it too, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. A lifetime of repression could not be undone in a few short days.
Instead, he softly said, “I love you.”
****
Dale drove directly from the park to the studio. He would shower there and get straight into costume. He was expected to give face time to Keeley Rank today, but even that could not spoil his mood as he drove along the quiet country lanes in the welcome haze of a low morning sun. Despite all the shit in the last two weeks, there was a lightness in his heart, because through all of that he had found love in a most unexpected place. He was no romantic—quite the opposite—but, like the song says, love changes everything. It changed everything for the better.
The happy vibes lasted exactly as long as it took him to drive to the studio. There was the usual crowd of placard-carrying protestors at the gate, but their mood was subdued. Dale immediately saw why. The car park was filled with police cars.
“What’s going on?” he asked the first officer he encountered, a serious-looking WPC who looked swamped by her uniform.
“Do you work here?” she asked.
“I do. Dale Zachary, I’m one of the actors.”
The WPC consulted a list of names on a clipboard before directing him inside. The narrow corridors were teaming with police. What the hell? Had one of the protestors broken in overnight? Sabotaged the set? Even if they had, the police presence seemed excessive.
Dale pulled out his phone and called the producer’s number. Nicola Donahue’s phone went straight to voice mail. He tried Russell Jones next, who answered immediately.
“Russell, I just got to the studio. There are police everywhere. What’s going on?”
“We’re in the production office. Come straight away.”
“I just got back from boot camp. I’m a sweaty mess, should I wash and change first?”
“No,” Russell said anxiously. “That doesn’t matter. Come as you are.”
He found Russell in his office with Elton Weaver. They stared at him, grim-faced, as he entered. He knew, just from the look of them, that something major was afoot.
“What the hell is going on? What are the police doing here?”
Elton opened a window, lit a cigarette, and dragged fiercely on the stick. Russell, who would normally go apeshit over such a blatant breaking of the rules, seemed not to notice. Dale had never seen the producer in such a numb state.
“Haven’t you heard the news? It’s all over the TV and radio.”
“What? No. I left early to work out. I haven’t seen any news today.”
“Oh,” Russell said slowly, looking blankly at Dale. “Sit down then.”
“Tell me what’s going on.”
“They dragged another body out of the river last night,” Elton said, making no attempt to blow his smoke out of the window. “Our killer has done it again.”
“Shit,” he said, finally taking the seat. “But what does that have to do with us? Why are the police here? They can’t seriously think there’s a connection between our show and the murders. This is all make-believe.”
“That’s just it,” Russell’s voice was hollow. “This time, there is a connection—a real connection. It’s Aaron Oxford.” His voice cracked. “The body they pulled from the river. It was Aaron. Our production runner. The murdering bastard has killed one of our own.”
The room around Dale seemed to shrink. The walls and ceiling were caving in. He repeated what Russell had told him in his mind, changing the order, trying to make some sense of it. Aaron—dead. The only words that mattered. It just couldn’t be.
Then he remembered… Aaron didn’t show for work yesterday. An invisible fist seized his insides in a ruthless grip. “Aaron… He did call in sick yesterday? Didn’t he?”
Russell shook his head. “Everyone assumed he had a hangover but he hasn’t been seen since the reception at the hotel on Monday night.”
“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 a
ppearance, 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.