Page 63 of Deep Waters

Up ahead, he saw a figure in a black waterproof jacket walking down the bank towards them.

Who the hell wants to come out in conditions like this?

As the figure grew closer, he made out their features.

“Oh, shit.”

“What?” Antoni looked up, catching sight of the man for the first time.

“It’s Stew Wallace, Reece’s dad. He must be trying to find him before the police do.”

Harry couldn’t recall when he’d last seen Stew without his flat cap on. He wore it everywhere, even in the pub, but conditions were too wild for a hat today. Stew’s thinning, grey hair was whipped back from his face. There had always been a dourness about Stew. Harry had heard him use racist and sexist language about the harbour. He’d also heard rumours that his wife was terrified of him and would often sport bruises on her arms and legs. As far as he could recall, he’d never heard Stew make any homophobic comments, but it would not surprise him. Stew was not the kind of bloke who would take the idea of his son starring in gay-for-pay videos lightly.

Harry raised his hand in an awkward greeting as they came level. “Stew, there’s no one out there,” he gestured behind them to the pier. “It’s getting worse. If you’re looking for Reece, he hasn’t gone that way.”

The fisherman did not seem to hear him. His gaze was fixed straight on Antoni, the anger was evident in his expression and movement.

Oh, shit. He’s heard about the videos. He blames Antoni.

Stew marched straight up to Antoni and put one hand on his shoulder. Harry was aware of a sudden, jerking motion of his other arm. A violent jolt as his elbow moved back and forth. Harry knew what had happened before he saw for sure. Antoni tumbled forward, clutching his abdomen.

Stew straightened. The long, narrow knife he used to gut and fillet fish dripped with Antoni’s blood.

In a fraction of a second, everything snapped into focus. The police were searching for Reece Wallace, but it was his father they really wanted. Bigoted Stew Wallace was responsible for the murders.

Antoni rolled onto this back. Stew stepped straight over him, coming straight at Harry with the knife.

Harry turned and ran headlong into the wind, back onto the pier.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Christian battled against the elements on South Bank. The wind drove straight into his face, and by the time he had crossed the river, a cold rain had started to fall. It was an abysmal evening. With his head down, he powered across the cobbles, which were now treacherous and slippery. The streets were deserted, though he noticed that several of the bars were full of people taking shelter from the storm.

He kept his phone in his hand the whole way, checking every few minutes to see if there were any more messages from Harry. There had been nothing since his text about being on the pier. Christian headed towards the gallery, hoping that was where Harry and Antoni were making for.

His nerves were still jangling. The brisk pace of his walk didn’t help, but he would not relax until he knew Harry was safe. The malignant feeling that the killer would target Harry would not leave. Christian knew he was probably overreacting, but he couldn’t silence the fear. Three men were dead already. He couldn’t let Harry become the fourth victim.

It had also made him appreciate just how strong his feelings were. They had known each other for less than a week, but the connection they had formed was powerful. Christian couldn’t deal with the thought of something happening to Harry now.

He was out of breath when he reached the door of the Northumberland Art Gallery. The lights were on in the window display, but the shop beyond was dark. Christian knocked on the door. Maybe they were out the back somewhere. There had to be more to the premises than the public spaces he had seen. He pressed his face to the glass, shielding his eyes to see further back. When there was no reply, he knocked again, harder this time.

No one came.

The sign on the door said the gallery closed at five on Sunday.

He tried Harry’s number. After six rings, it went straight to voicemail.

Shit.

He left a message anyway. “Hey, it’s me. I’m outside the gallery now, but there’s no answer. If you guys are there, can you let me in?”

He hung up and waited for a call back.

None came.

He wondered if they might have gone directly to the police station. It was located in one of the back streets on the north side of the river.Surely not. Harry would have had to pass him. He couldn’t have got all the way from the pier to the bridge in the time it had taken Christian to rush down from Dominic’s place.

So, where is he? Still at the pier?

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