Page 57 of Deep Waters

He thought about Gemma Payne and the sex clips she had found on Niko’s phone. Maybe she had drawn the wrong conclusion after all, and the girls on Niko’s phone were other models rather than his girlfriends. He wasn’t about to tell Marie what he knew. It was too personal. Gemma didn’t need to hear the theory on the early evening news.

“And what about Ike Meeker?” he asked. “Any connection to online sex work?”

“Not that I’m aware of. He wasn’t really the type. You know, a little overweight, kind of average looking.”

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” he said. “What’s unattractive to one person is a turn-on to another.”

“It’s possible. He could have been posting stuff online, but I haven’t heard anything to suggest it yet.”

“Why take his laptop, then? What’s the connection?”

Marie’s expression darkened. “I don’t fucking know. Maybe there isn’t one. Maybe it was a robbery, pure and simple.”

“I’ve not heard anything about Tom’s phone or computer being stolen, either,” he said. “So, there’s even less to connect him than the first two.”

“Apart from his participation in the rescue of Niko Jasinski…just like you.” Her eyes bore into his.

“The thought has already occurred to me,” he told her. “Is that it, then? Cause it doesn’t sound like you know more than anyone else. Gossips about town have been spouting the OnlyFans theory for most of the week, but it doesn’t fit with the other murders.”

“All right, smart arse. Well, I don’t know how much you know about these fan-based porn sites, but I always thought it was people charging for their naked selfies and nudie pics. Apparently, that’s amateur time. The serious content creators, and the ones who make the biggest money, are the most professional. They use proper photographers and beautiful models to film their stuff, usually in posh hotels or studios.”

His eyes widened. “So, someone could know what he was filming and with whom?”

Marie grinned. “Exactly. If he made as much money as people are saying he did, there is every chance Niko hired a professional photographer, and that person knows something about his secret life.”

* * * *

Antoni had sent several texts to Harry in the last twenty-four hours, none of which had been answered. He didn’t bear a grudge, not after what Harry had been through. Antoni wouldn’t be surprised to learn he had switched his phone off completely. Following Tom’s murder, Nyemouth was once again buzzing with talk of serial killers.

Antoni had spent the morning at the gallery, and it was all anyone who came in wanted to talk about.

Have you heard what happened? Do you know any of the victims?

The gale force winds coming from the sea, with even worse conditions forecast for this evening, would usually have kept the tourists away, but the gallery had seen its busiest morning since the summer heights of July and August. Murder, it seemed, was great for business.

Antoni had answered the questions with a non-committal shake of his head. He would not pander to the morbid thrill seekers. They would draw their own conclusions, anyway.

He was more concerned about Harry. His ex-boyfriend was a tough one. It took a lot to get him down. He had barely turned a head when they’d broken up after all their years together. Harry didn’t allow his emotions to get in the way of his work. But this was different. He and Tom had always been close. His cousin’s death was bound to have hit him hard.

Antoni was desperate to talk to him. Even if he had the writer to comfort him, what good could a man like that be? He was a stranger. They had known each other for less than a week.

That man couldn’t help Harry the way Antoni could.

When Roger took over the gallery at one p.m., Antoni grabbed his coat.

“You’re going out in this?” Roger questioned.

“It’s still dry, despite the wind. I need some air to clear my head. You’ll be all right. Things have quietened down a lot.” Which was true. The tourist trade had slackened off around midday. They had no doubt got bored with the lack of news and had disappeared to the pubs or gone home to stuff their faces with Sunday lunch.

The streets were quiet as he crossed the bridge to the North Side. The wind was cold and strong in his face, though the rain was not due until later this afternoon. The conditions at sea were wild. Beyond the pier heads, he could see tumultuous waves crashing on the shore. That would only get worse at high tide this evening.

When he arrived at Harry’s door, Antoni was unsure of what to say if his new boyfriend answered. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that and knocked before he changed his mind. When there was no answer, he knocked again then walked along to the front window. The living room was empty. There were no lights on. No TV.

Damn.

He should have known he wouldn’t be there. Harry was probably with Tom’s wife or his parents.

Antoni knew where they lived, but he couldn’t go there. What he had to say could not be done in front of others.

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