Closer by Morning Page 2

  “Yeah? Me too. I thought I was fit until this morning. This guy has destroyed me.”

  “I doubt anyone is fit enough for this.”

  The American laughed. “You could be right. I’ve had personal trainers in the past. Let me tell you, none of them worked me half as hard as this dude. Not ever.”

  “Think you’ll do it again?”

  “Absolutely. A month of this and we could compete as Iron Men.”

  “You might be right. If we survive a month. My heart might not be able to take it.”

  “I’m Dale,” he said. “Hi.”

  “Hello. I’m Matt.”

  “Nice to meet you, Matt,” Dale said cheerily.

  Matt was struck again by just how good-looking Dale was. God, his eyes—they were as blue as a cloudless August sky.

  As he stretched his tired muscles, Matt tried not to be affected by the proximity of Dale, but it wasn’t easy. It wasn’t just the way he looked, it was his manner and the confidence he exuded. Even the smell of him, the sweat from all that hard work, was an aphrodisiac. It was a long time, if ever, since a man had had such a devastating effect on him. When Dale bent over to touch his toes and gave Matt the full benefit of his glorious rump, he had to turn away. Tenting the front of his pants with a hard-on was not the kind of first-day impression he wanted to make.

  The sun finally put in an appearance, breaking weakly through the clouds above the jagged tree line.

  “I’ve got to beat it,” Dale said, straightening up and thrusting a hand at Matt. “Will you be here for the next session?”

  Matt took his hand and was transfixed by those eyes. This must be how a rabbit feels as he’s about to become road kill. “Wednesday? Yes, I’ll be here.” Truthfully, he hadn’t been sure he had more than one early start a week in him, but that was before he met Dale. If he needed a reason to drag his tired butt out of bed, this was as good as he’d find.

  “Great. I’m glad to see I’m not the only new guy. We’re in this together now. Got to give those regular guys a run for their money, don’t you think? So I’ll see you Wednesday. Bye for now, Matt.”

  Dale jogged toward his car, giving Matt one final glimpse of his beautiful bouncing butt.

  What was that? Matt felt as though he’d been picked up, spun around and dropped back down again. Had Dale been flirting? Or was that just American friendliness? Probably, Matt reasoned. He was so used to British reserve and surliness that he’d misread the signs. Dale was being friendly, that was all.

  He shouldn’t hope for more.

  ****

  Two hours later, showered, dressed and breakfasted, Matt walked through the doors of Benedict and Taylor, the long-established law firm where he’d worked since finishing college, ready to face the day. He really was ready. Despite the early start and punishing routine in the woods, he felt amazing. More energized for a Monday morning than anyone had a right to be. Maybe it was worth it and those people who worked out before the rest of the world had had their first cup of coffee weren’t as crazy as he’d always thought. Exercise did have its benefits, besides meeting sexy strangers, and this early feeling of energy was a previously undiscovered one.

  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 d
ay. 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.