Chapter 3 : The Producer''s Secret

The BBC headquarters in London gleamed under a steel-grey sky. Liam stood beside Victor on the pavement, watching media professionals stream in and out of the glass-fronted building. They were here to interview Marcus Mendoza, television producer and, according to Sebastian''s calendar, someone he''d seen three times in the month before his death.

"Remember," Victor said, adjusting his cufflinks with that precise movement Liam had come to recognize. "He''s a media professional. He''ll be charming, cooperative, and entirely untrustworthy."

"You''ve met him before?" Liam asked.

"By reputation. He produces true crime documentaries. Has a talent for making complex cases seem simple. And for getting people to say things they later regret."

They entered the building, passing through security with their badges. The reception area was all polished concrete and minimalist furniture, the air smelling of expensive coffee and ambition.

Marcus Mendoza met them in a conference room on the fifth floor. He was exactly what Liam had expected—mid-forties, impeccably dressed in a suit that probably cost more than Liam''s monthly salary, with the confident ease of someone used to being in control.

"Detectives," Marcus said, rising to shake their hands. His grip was firm, his smile practiced. "Please, sit. Can I get you coffee? Tea?"

"We''re fine, thank you," Victor said, taking the seat opposite Marcus. Liam sat beside him, pulling out his notebook.

"I was sorry to hear about Sebastian," Marcus said, his expression shifting to one of appropriate solemnity. "A terrible tragedy. He was a brilliant man."

"You knew him well?" Liam asked.

Marcus spread his hands. "As well as one can know someone after a few dates. We met at a gallery opening last month. Had dinner a couple of times. He was fascinating company—so knowledgeable about history, about architecture."

"But?" Victor prompted, his tone neutral.

Marcus''s smile tightened slightly. "But nothing, Detective. It was a pleasant acquaintance. Nothing more."

Liam leaned forward. "Sebastian was investigating something. A historical case. Did he mention that to you?"

For a fraction of a second, Marcus''s eyes flickered. "He mentioned he was working on something. Research for a book, I think. But he was rather secretive about the details."

"Secretive how?" Victor asked.

"He''d change the subject if I asked too many questions." Marcus''s smile returned, but it didn''t reach his eyes. "I assumed it was academic rivalry. Historians can be possessive about their research."

The interview continued for another twenty minutes, but Marcus revealed nothing new. He was polished, plausible, and utterly unrevealing. He expressed appropriate concern, offered appropriate condolences, and provided exactly zero useful information.

As they stood to leave, Marcus said, "If there''s anything else I can do to help, please don''t hesitate to ask. Sebastian deserved better than this."

Outside, the sky had darkened, and a light rain had begun to fall. Liam and Victor stood under the building''s awning, watching the rain slick the pavement.

"He''s lying," Liam said flatly.

"Of course he is," Victor replied. "The question is about what."

"About his relationship with Sebastian. About what Sebastian was investigating. About why he''s so carefully not saying anything useful."

Victor turned to look at him. The rain cast a soft, grey light that softened the sharp lines of his face. "You''re learning. Media professionals are experts at telling the truth without revealing anything."

"What now?" Liam asked.

Victor checked his watch. "It''s nearly six. We should get a drink. Discuss the case somewhere less... corporate."

It wasn''t quite an invitation, but it wasn''t a dismissal either. Liam nodded. "There''s a pub around the corner. The King''s Head."

"I know it," Victor said. "Lead the way."

***

The King''s Head was everything a London pub should be—dark wood, brass fittings, the smell of beer and old books. They found a table in a corner, away from the after-work crowd.

Victor ordered a single malt Scotch, neat. Liam asked for a pint of bitter. When their drinks arrived, Victor raised his glass.

"To Sebastian," he said quietly. "And to finding the truth."

Liam clinked his glass against Victor''s. "To the truth."

They drank in silence for a moment. The whisky seemed to relax something in Victor, the rigid set of his shoulders easing slightly.

"You were right about Marcus," Victor said eventually. "He''s hiding something. But it may not be what you think."

"What do you mean?"

Victor swirled the amber liquid in his glass. "Media people have secrets. Affairs. Financial irregularities. Professional rivalries. It may have nothing to do with Sebastian''s death."

"But you don''t believe that," Liam said.

Victor looked at him, his expression unreadable. "No. I don''t."

The admission surprised Liam. It was the first time Victor had acknowledged that his professional skepticism might be wrong.

"Why not?" Liam asked.

"Because Sebastian was investigating the Lister case. And Marcus produces true crime documentaries." Victor''s fingers tightened around his glass. "That''s not a coincidence."

The rain had grown heavier, drumming against the pub''s windows. Liam finished his pint, feeling the alcohol warm his blood. He was acutely aware of Victor beside him—the scent of his cologne mixed with whisky, the solid presence of his body in the confined space.

"We should go," Victor said, standing. "Before the rain gets worse."

Outside, the rain was indeed coming down in sheets. Victor produced an umbrella from his briefcase—black, sturdy, large enough for two.

"Come on," he said, holding it out.

Liam hesitated for a second, then stepped under the umbrella. They were close, their shoulders brushing with each step. The sound of the rain on the fabric was loud in the quiet street.

They walked in silence for a block, the umbrella creating a private world around them. Liam could feel the heat from Victor''s body, could smell the rain on his coat mixed with that clean, sharp scent that was uniquely his.

"It''s strange," Liam said, his voice barely audible over the rain. "Working with you."

Victor glanced at him. "Strange how?"

"I don''t know." Liam shook his head. "You''re... not what I expected."

"And what did you expect?"

"A typical homicide detective. Cynical. Jaded. Maybe a bit rough around the edges."

Victor''s mouth quirked in what might have been a smile. "And I''m not?"

"No." Liam met his eyes. "You''re precise. Controlled. Like everything about you is... considered."

For a moment, Victor didn''t respond. They had stopped walking, though Liam wasn''t sure why. They stood under the umbrella, the rain pouring down around them, the rest of the world blurred and distant.

"Control is important in my line of work," Victor said softly. "Emotions cloud judgment."

"Is that what this is?" Liam asked, gesturing between them. "A clouding of judgment?"

Victor''s gaze dropped to Liam''s mouth, then back to his eyes. The air between them crackled with tension, electric and dangerous.

"I don''t know what this is," Victor admitted, his voice low. "But it''s... complicating."

Liam''s heart hammered against his ribs. He wanted to close the distance between them, to test the boundaries of whatever this was. To see if Victor''s control would break.

But then Victor stepped back, just an inch, breaking the spell. "We should get out of the rain."

He started walking again, and Liam fell into step beside him. The moment had passed, but the memory of it lingered, humming in the space between them.

At the tube station, Victor folded the umbrella. "I''ll see you tomorrow. We should look into that private investigator. J.S."

Liam nodded, his throat tight. "Tomorrow."

He watched Victor disappear into the station, then turned toward his own way home. The rain had eased to a drizzle, but he barely noticed.

His mind was full of other things—the look in Victor''s eyes under the umbrella. The admission that whatever was between them was "complicating." The way Victor''s control had slipped, just for a moment.

And beneath it all, the nagging suspicion that Marcus Mendoza knew more than he was saying. That the polished television producer was hiding secrets that might lead to Sebastian''s killer.

But as he walked through the damp London streets, it wasn''t the case that occupied his thoughts. It was the memory of standing close to Victor under the umbrella. The heat of his body. The scent of his skin.

The dangerous, thrilling possibility that the investigation into his friend''s death was becoming entangled with something far more personal.

And the even more dangerous possibility that he didn''t want it to stop.