Page 62 of The Quarterlands (Dark Water #4)

“Ooh, it’s that sexy detective who wears the fancy suits.

He should have his own show,” Elliot declared, patting Alex’s arm as they sat together on the sofa.

“Did you know his husband was murdered a few years back?” He lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper.

“They say the husband bled out in his arms. Awful. So tragic.” He shook his head sadly, but Alex could see that Joe’s tragedy was no more than another interesting titbit of gossip for him to enjoy.

The fact that Joe was also gay meant that Elliot viewed him as one of his tribe, and therefore, of special interest.

The murdered politician dominated the news cycle for weeks, and therefore Joe was frequently in the headlines.

“That sexy Raineman is back,” Elliot squealed every time Joe made an appearance, his burly frame a familiar sight in their lounge now. “He’s become quite the celebrity, hasn’t he? I wonder if he’d like to come to one of my parties?”

Alex almost choked on his tea, but then he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

He was fairly sure that Joe would not want to attend any of Elliot’s sleazy events, but he fantasised about what it would be like to meet him again, to take his hand and lead him away to a quiet spot, and reveal to him that he was Ben Smith.

The next time Joe appeared in the news, he looked exhausted and dishevelled, which was unusual because he was usually so well groomed. His shirt was ripped and covered in blood, and he had a large purple bruise under his eye.

“I can confirm that, tonight, we’ve charged Ryan Strutt with Sir John Marcham’s murder,” he announced.

“Strutt was Marcham’s indie, wasn’t he?” Elliot said. “Good lord. The Raineman really does hate indies, doesn’t he? Not surprising, given what happened to his husband. ”

Alex leaned forward, gazing at Joe intently.

He looked cold and closed off, as if he was suppressing a vast reservoir of anger.

There were none of his usual gruff putdowns, which had become legendary.

Alex shivered. He wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of this Josiah Raine.

Was Elliot right? Was Joe conducting some kind of personal vendetta against indentured servants?

The media certainly seemed to think so and reported on it gleefully.

Alex was aware of a new mood sweeping the nation.

Indies were being reported about more negatively and a few high-profile cases of pilfering, escape, and violence caused big splashes.

The IS system, which had once offered a way for both servants and houders alike to benefit, had turned ugly.

Houders no longer trusted the people who shared their homes and workplaces, and indies were tired of a system that was becoming more oppressive with each passing day.

As Alex watched an exhausted Joe being interviewed, it suddenly struck him that his fantasies of being helped by this man were childish.

He had no way of knowing if Joe would aid him in bringing Tyler down.

He barely knew the man. He certainly didn’t know this icy, wary, unsmiling figure, this… indiehunter.

After that, Alex stopped fantasising about meeting Joe again. There would be no more stupid high-speed chases across the lost zone to Inquisitus, no dreams of telling Joe his true identity. He would have to find a different way to bring down Tyler.

One night, at one of his parties, Elliot introduced him to a grey-haired man with a paunch.

“This is Jeffrey Mead,” he announced. “Do be kind to him, Chris, darling. He’s such a good friend.”

“Do be kind” was Elliot’s code for “sleep with”. Alex wasn’t remotely attracted to Mead, but that wasn’t important. He hung on to the man’s arm, offered him drugs, and then led him to the little bank at the bottom of the garden to follow Elliot’s orders.

“So, how do you know Elliot?” Alex asked as they both inhaled some croc.

“He’s an old friend,” Mead replied with a sly expression. “An old friend who owes me a favour.” Mead leaned forward and caressed his cheek.

Alex allowed Mead to push him down on the grassy bank and undress him. He lay back and listened as Mead sucked on his cock, making weird squelching sounds.

Later, Mead held on to him tightly, as if he was frightened he’d disappear, and fucked him. Then they lay back on the grass and snorted some more croc.

“God, that was good. I’m going to ask Elliot if I can have you for a weekend. You’re so gorgeous.” Mead trailed a finger over Alex’s bare chest. “I’d ask to take you home tonight, but I have to work tomorrow. Another time.”

“What work do you do?” Alex asked absently, not remotely interested. The croc kicked in and he began to revel in the mellow high.

“I’m an investigator with Results Inc,” Mead said, puffing out his chest proudly. Alex felt his heart skip a beat.

“That must be interesting.” He snuggled up against Mead, gazing at him sycophantically through his tears. “Do you know that Investigator Raine who’s always on the news? The hot bloke in the fancy suits?” It was worth a try. They both worked in the same line of business, after all.

“No, I don’t know him,” Mead snapped irritably.

“But I do know he’s a bloody great show-off.

Wearing those expensive suits and pushing himself into the media all the time.

” Mead sounded extremely put out that a gay investigator that wasn’t him had become famous.

“That’s not what being an investigator is about at all.

Josiah Raine just wants the bloody limelight, instead of putting in the hard work that true investigation requires. ”

“Do you investigate murders and stuff?” Alex asked nonchalantly.

“I have in the past, yes, but mostly I’m involved in tracking down drug gangs,” Mead replied, which was rich given the crocodile tears flowing freely down his face.

“How would you report a murder, hypothetically speaking?” Alex asked casually. “I mean, supposing you had information. Would you call the police, or contact an IA? Who would you speak to?”

“Police are first port of call, usually, for murder,” Mead replied, looking delighted to be able to show off about his profession.

“They make a decision about the most appropriate IA to hand it to. Inquisitus currently holds the government’s primary homicide contract, with a remit to investigate a few other areas like fraud and major drug gangs.

My firm deals mostly with escaped indies and street drugs, as I said. ”

“Right. So, you’d call the police?” The chances of him being able to do that were almost non-existent, but he stored the information away in his head.

“Yeah. Why? You got a murder to report?” Mead asked, chuckling.

“Nah. Just been watching a ton of those crime dramas and wondering if they get it right,” Alex replied, and then he changed the subject.

Mead became a frequent visitor to the house after that.

Elliot never allowed him to take Alex away with him, but the man often stayed over, and it was taken for granted that Alex would sleep with him.

Alex toyed with the idea of telling Mead about Solange, but in the end, decided against it.

He only had one shot at this so he had to get it right, and he both disliked and distrusted Mead.

The man was sleazy, for a start, and corrupt.

Alex soon figured out that Mead had been given a tip-off about all the drugs at Elliot’s parties and was blackmailing him into giving him Alex for sex.

At first, Alex had the impression that Elliot disliked Mead, but over time, the two seemed to grow close, and their acquaintance morphed into a weird kind of friendship.

It wasn’t one Alex welcomed, but he had no say in it.

They shared a sense of humour, both loved to gossip, and Mead provided Elliot with a degree of protection, against both other blackmailers and other investigation agencies.

Alex had to figure most of this out for himself because, oddly, for a man as indiscreet as Elliot, when he wanted to he could play his cards very close to his chest. He certainly never confided in Alex.

He made it clear that he wanted Alex to play a very specific role in his life, and while he expected Alex to look and behave like the dead Christopher, that didn’t confer the intimacy one might have expected of a substitute husband.

Alex was Chris only as far as Elliot wanted him to be, and no further .

After one workout session at the gym, Alex returned to the changing room, removed his bag from the locker, and opened it to find a familiar face staring back at him. His knees almost gave way, and he held on to the locker for support.

It was Solange, gazing at him sadly, as if judging him for his failure to bring her killer to justice.

It took him a few moments to pull himself together and realise that it wasn’t actually Solange in his bag, but a photo of her.

A very familiar photo. It had been so long since he’d seen this picture that it was shocking.

He’d almost forgotten the shape of her face, the depth of her brown eyes, and the sweet wistfulness of her expression.

How had the picture come to be in his gym bag?

It definitely hadn’t been there when he’d placed his bag in the locker and locked the door earlier.

He looked around, but nobody else was in the changing room.

He knew that only two people had a copy of this photo: Ted and Gideon.

Which one of them had left it here? It could be Ted, but he thought it unlikely.

It seemed far more likely to be Gideon, but why?

Alex’s guilty conscience filled in the blanks.

Gideon was clearly wondering why he hadn’t fulfilled his mission, and so had sought him out and placed it in his bag to remind him.

The photo felt like a reproach. Look at her. You said you loved her, that she was your best friend, but you’ve done nothing to bring her killer to justice.