by JANICE FROST
He had met Gray on the set of a horror movie. They were both playing zombies, awaiting their turn to have their heads ripped off by the hero. Leon and Gray had spent their breaks drinking herbal tea, and appreciatively watching the hero push his beautiful body through a punishing routine of calisthenics. By the time their scenes had been wrapped up, Leon and Gray were an item. “I was yours the minute you opened your mouth,” said Gray, referring to Leon’s English accent. For Leon, it had been Gray’s gentle manner and his kindness and generosity towards his fellow actors. “Keep your ego in proportion to your talent,” Gray was fond of saying. Unlike Leon, he had been cured early on of all hubris.
It had taken them a while to work out what else they could do. Leon’s career had been slightly more lucrative than Gray’s in the early days and he had invested wisely. “Let’s face it; we’re a pair of old has-queens,” he said to Gray one day. “What we need is a complete change.” Moving back to England had been on his mind, but he had not confessed as much to Gray. He hadn’t needed to. “I’d move to England with you in a heartbeat, you know,” said Gray.
“The weather’s crap,” Leon warned.
“You can get tired of the sun,” said Gray. They were lying on the beach watching a group of golden-tanned youths playing beach volleyball.
London had been the obvious choice. Then, Leon had come across some pictures of his home city, Stromford, in one of the movie magazines. When Gray saw the beautiful Gothic cathedral at the city’s heart, he fell in love.
The idea for the ghost tour business had arisen during a visit to England to look at properties. Before travelling up to Stromford, they had done the touristy thing in London, including sightseeing from open-topped buses. They had been standing in the rain, listening to a man dressed in Victorian garb describing Jack the Ripper’s antics in salacious detail. “We could do this,” Leon had whispered to Gray.
Leon and Gray had bought a sprawling turn-of-the-century house close to the cathedral. Before moving to the States, Leon had played a part in a British sci-fi series which had obtained cult status over the years. Sometimes he wondered if his acting career might have gone better if he’d stayed on this side of the pond. Another member of the cast was now acting in a soap that had been going strong for thirty-five years. Leon had written to him, inviting him on the ghost tour. The press had come along and that had provided some useful publicity. They were thinking of branching out to include medieval tours. Shame Laurence Brand was already doing the Roman one — they could have done a beautiful job of that. Leon had fond memories of his time as a Roman legionary on the set of Gladiator. He had been trampled to death by a horse seconds after the opening titles. Russell Crowe had even offered him a hand up. His signed, framed still as Maximus Decimus Meridius — surely his finest role — had pride of place amidst the many other photos on the ‘wall of fame’ in the hallway of Leon and Gray’s new home.
The eccentric Laurence Brand had been a tad hostile at first, no doubt concerned that the ghost tour would steal punters away from his tour. In fact, it was quite the reverse. Leon and Gray recommended Laurence’s tours and put quite a bit of business his way. Now it was quite common for people to turn up for a ghost tour saying Caius had recommended it to them. Laurence and Maxine had become their friends. They often joined Leon and Gray, along with some of the others in their little social circle, at what Leon rather pretentiously referred to as his ‘soirees.’
Leon had accepted that in moving back to the town he had grown up in, sooner or later he would encounter people from his past, acquaintances from his schooldays who had never moved away. Some of them Leon would have preferred not to see again. Back in the eighties, as a teenager questioning his sexuality, Leon had been a target for bullies. He’d seen one of them in Marks and Spencer’s a couple of weeks ago with a teenage kid. Leon had stood behind him in the queue at the men’s department checkout. This man still made him feel like a frightened fifteen-year-old.
Gray too had suffered bullying as a teenager. He’d seen a therapist of course, that’s what people did in L.A. The therapist had told him to let go of his negative feelings. Leon disagreed with this philosophy. He had resolved to confront the man, but as it turned out, it was Gray who lost it on their next encounter.
Leon opened the door and called into the long, empty hallway. “Honey, I’m home!” Then again, “Gray, where are you?” No Gray. But no message and Leon felt a surge of relief. At that moment his phone rang. Maxine’s number. Disappointed, Leon ignored it. It rang again. This time he took the call. Maxine’s voice was shaky, so he knew instantly that something bad had happened.
“Leon, there’s been an accident. You need to come to the cathedral right now.”
Chapter 2
Dozens of early-morning commuters must have walked right past the snowy mound near the west-front entrance. It was not the only thing that had been blanketed by the heavy snowfall the previous night. Like furniture draped with dust sheets in a country house, everyday objects had all become formless shapes. Joe Hemswell, the cathedral caretaker, had almost walked straight past it.
Joe wanted nothing more than to hurry inside and put the kettle on for a quick cuppa before he began his morning duties. Instead he veered off the path to the left, the frozen grass crunching beneath his feet. As he drew closer to the mound, his heart began to race. Close up, the mound of snow was looking more and more like the form of a person lying outstretched on the ground. All week there had been reports about the plight of the homeless. A man in Sheffield had been found in a shop doorway, frozen to death.
Joe looked at the mound. It was undeniably human and when he knelt to brush away the snow, he touched something hard and smooth, like leather. He scraped a little more snow away and saw the toe of a man’s boot.
Joe stood up and looked around. Not another living soul about. He reached into his pocket and then hesitated. He needed to be sure before he called the police. He moved to where the head ought to be and scraped away the freshest layer of snow. Underneath, he saw pink slush, as if a red drink had been spilt over the snow. But this was no drink. Intermixed with the pink were blobs of grey, like cold porridge or tapioca. Joe deliberated. He brushed more snow away, just to be sure, looking just long enough to see what it was.
He had not expected what was left of the dead man’s face to be familiar. He was shocked to recognise Gray Mitchell. Joe took a few steps backwards and vomited into the snow. After a couple of moments, fingers trembling, he called 999.
* * *
Maxine Brand was in the cathedral café kitchen with her business partner, Helen Alder, and their two staff, Hilda Prentis and Chloe Maitland. They were busy preparing for the day ahead. Hilda was spreading margarine from a huge catering tub over slice after slice of bread. Chloe, the work-experience girl, was preparing the fillings. Helen and Maxine were unpacking the morning order from the local baker’s, a sumptuous supply of cakes, pastries and savoury snacks. It was a full hour and a half before opening time but there was still a lot to do before their first customers started drifting in. The stonemasons would be in for their morning break. Maxine opened up early for them.
For the past half hour, they had heard police sirens wailing nearby. Helen had tuned the radio to one of the local radio stations to see if there had been an accident on the roads. They were unaware of the drama unfolding outside the west entrance to the cathedral.
Joe Hemswell walked in from the cloisters. His face was white. It was not unusual for Joe, or another member of the cathedral staff to wander in first thing for a chat, or to buy a sandwich or drink to take away. Joe’s entrance was usually pretty low-key. But today everyone turned to look at him. It was immediately obvious that something big had happened.
“Joe Hemswell, you look like death warmed up,” Hilda said.
“What is it, Joe? Is it Laura?” Maxine asked.
Joe shook his head. The women waited. Work had stopped. Only Chloe carried on mixing mayonnaise into a bowl of tuna. She w
as sixteen years old and in love for the first time, with a boy called Harry. She hummed along to a song on the radio.
Maxine turned the radio off. “Sit down, Joe. I’ll bring you a cup of tea.”
Joe nodded and pulled a chair around so that he could sit with his back to the radiator. Maxine placed a mug of tea in front of him.
Joe put his hands around the warm mug. “I found Gray Mitchell lying out front near the west entrance. He was in the snow,” he said.
“Oh God! Is he okay?” Helen asked.
Joe shook his head slowly.
Even Chloe was listening. Maxine asked if Gray had had a fall. Helen muttered something about his heart.
Joe cleared his throat. “Suicide,” he said.
Maxine and Helen stared at him, then at each other. No one spoke for a moment.
“How?” Helen asked. “Hypothermia?”
“They think he might have jumped from the roof.”
Joe’s words prompted a stream of ‘Oh my Gods.’
“All those sirens — it was Gray,” said Maxine, distraught.
“I don’t believe it,” Helen said. She looked defiant. “Gray wouldn’t commit suicide. He wouldn’t do that to Leon!”
Maxine stared at her friend, speechless.
Then Chloe said, “Well, if he didn’t jump, someone’s got to have pushed him then, haven’t they?”
Hilda shushed her.
“I’m calling Laurie,” Maxine said, expecting a look of disapproval from Helen. But for once, her business partner didn’t chide her for telling her husband everything.
At forty-six, Helen was recently divorced after twenty years of marriage. She was finished with men for the foreseeable future, so she said. Her ex, aptly named Dick, was now living with a twenty-eight-year-old and they had just had a baby girl. Maxine suspected that Helen’s man-hating phase was temporary. She had noticed the way Helen eyed up the male stonemasons.
“I’m a sucker for men in uniform,” a drunken Helen had once confessed. “Especially paramedics — those green trousers and shirts . . . all that rushing around with life-saving equipment.” The trouble with Helen was that she liked men too much to hate them. Equally, and not unimportantly, men liked Helen.
So Maxine had called her husband. Laurence Brand arrived to see Joe looking less ashen-faced, revived by the heat from the radiator and the attention of the women still gathered around him.
“What’s happened?” he asked.
“Oh, Laurie! Gray Mitchell’s dead. They think it’s suicide.”
Laurence gaped at her. “I don’t believe it. I saw him yesterday morning at the farmer’s market. He was looking forward to Leon coming back, planning a special meal to celebrate. He was happy.”
“We’re all saying the same thing,” said Helen. “None of us can believe he would take his own life.”
“It must have been an accident. It’s the only possible explanation,” said Laurence.
“But what on earth was Gray doing on the roof?” Helen asked.
“How did he even get up there? It’s all locked up at night, isn’t it?”
“Those kids found a way, didn’t they?” Heidi was referring to the two lads who had climbed up the scaffolding and taken pictures from the cathedral roof. After that, the scaffolding had been secured and signs put in place giving dire warnings about the dangers of attempting to climb the dangerous structure.
“Gray’s certainly capable of scaling it. He is — was — a fit man. He used to do the odd stunt in his films,” Laurence said.
“Someone could have let him in,” Chloe said.
Joe shook his head. “There aren’t many people with access to keys for the west tower. I’m one of them and the tower’s locked at night. It was still locked up this morning. Climbing the scaffolding’s the only way anyone could have got up there after hours.”
“Someone needs to tell Leon. He should hear about this from friends, not the police,” Maxine said. “He’ll be home now, wondering where Gray is.”
For a moment, they were all silent.
“They were so sweet together,” Maxine whispered. “Leon will be heartbroken.”
“Alright, I’ll do it,” Maxine finally said. She tried twice before she heard Leon’s voice. Was it her imagination or did he sound worried already? She couldn’t tell him over the phone, but she did want to prepare him a little for the news. She found herself saying, “Leon, there’s been an accident. You need to come to the cathedral café right now.” She’d tried to keep her tone neutral but she knew Leon would pick up on the fear in her voice.
Chapter 3
Detective Inspector Jim Neal strode over to join the team assembled by the body. One of the cathedral staff had identified it as Gray Mitchell, an American who had settled in Stromford fairly recently, with his English partner. Neal’s head was thumping and he wasn’t in the best of moods. He’d stayed up half the night drinking with his old friend Jock Dodds, never expecting an early-morning call about a fatality. Then again, he was a copper. Of all the bloody luck. It wasn’t as if he and Jock had much time to catch up these days. Both had demanding jobs. They managed a couple of weekends climbing in Scotland each year, but other get-togethers were few and far between. Jock had stopped off on his return from a conference of cardiac surgeons in London and Neal had been planning to take him to the train station later in the day. The early-morning phone call had put an end to that. Luckily his sister Maggie was free to take him, and Jock wouldn’t complain. He’d always had a bit of a thing for Neal’s younger sister.
Despite his hangover, Neal was pleased to see Ava Merry back on the job. It was her first day back after she had been injured on their previous case. She had also had some time off to recover from an operation on her Achilles tendon. At Neal’s insistence, Ava had attended a few sessions with the police counsellor. In Neal’s opinion, Ava had not fully confronted the feelings that emerge when you nearly kill a person. She had been far too upbeat when he had visited her in hospital after the event. Neal had been annoyed at the way she had handled the Amy Hill case, carrying out her own investigation alongside the official one. But his DS had got results, and results mattered. More to the point she had put a dangerous man out of circulation and for that he was ready to overlook her unprofessional behaviour. Nevertheless, much as he liked Ava, Neal felt that it would take time to trust her again.
Ava had her notebook out and was questioning a rather shocked looking man — probably the caretaker who had discovered the body. She gave no sign of being aware of Neal’s approach. The interview appeared to be coming to an end and Ava was putting her pen away. Poor bloke looks frozen as well as shocked, Neal thought. Ava turned round and greeted Neal. Perhaps she had been aware of him after all.
“Morning, sir,” she said.
A little guardedly, he felt — or was he just being over-sensitive? This first day back on the job together was always going to be a bit awkward. It was going to take time to get into a working rhythm with each other. They’d never really had a chance to find one last time around.
“Morning, Sergeant. Good to see you back on the job. How’s the foot?”
Ava jogged on the spot for a couple of seconds. Her injury was a hundred per cent better, she said. She was a fitness fanatic, always out running, or clocking up lengths at the pool. Ava was also beautiful. Even this early in the morning, dressed in jeans, purple polka-dot wellies and an oversized parka, she looked radiant.
“What have we got, then?” He winced slightly.
“You alright, sir? Look a bit peaky this morning.”
Neal grunted. Thank goodness it’s still half dark, he thought, remembering the bloodshot eyes he’d glimpsed in the bathroom mirror. The very thought of sunlight glinting off the snow made his head twinge.
“I’m fine. Fill me in.”
“The bloke I was just talking to is one of the cathedral caretakers. He spotted an oddly shaped mound of snow on the paving stones as he was making his way round the cathedral this
morning. He went over to take a closer look, scraped away the snow and discovered the body. He reckons it’s a bloke called Gray Mitchell. He’s American. Lives uphill with his partner, Leon . . .” Ava searched back through her notebook, “Leon Warrior.”
Neal looked up at the twin towers of the cathedral, their spires shrouded in early-morning darkness and freezing fog. He’d been up there shortly after he moved to Stromford. The view from the top was spectacular, but it was a long way down.
“We don’t know exactly where he fell from,” Ava said, also looking up. “Most likely it was from the parapet near the tower.”
“We’ll need to get up there, see if we can piece together what happened. The most likely scenario is suicide, but we’ll need to treat this as a suspicious death until we know otherwise. How’s your head for heights?” Neal asked.
“Okay, I think,” Ava answered. “Did a bit of rock climbing when I was doing my Prince’s Trust gold medal.” Then she added more truthfully, “of course, Brimham rocks aren’t exactly the Monros.”
Neal smiled, thinking of the oddly shaped rock formations in Yorkshire’s Brimham Moor. The popularity of outdoor climbing had mushroomed in the past few years thanks to the ubiquity of indoor climbing walls. You could hardly pass a scar or rock face nowadays without seeing a group of school kids dangling off it. He wasn’t sure he liked the trend. Climbing for him meant the vast emptiness of the Scottish Highlands and his own or Jock Dodds’s company. He could do without clusters of middle-aged thrill seekers or corporates on team-building exercises. Then again, his ten-year-old son Archie loved indoor climbing walls.
“Let’s take a look at the body, then,” Neal said. He grimaced. A body that had hit the ground at high velocity was not going to be a pretty sight. Even from a distance, it was obvious that there was brain matter all over the snow.