by Tara Lyons
“The first appointment is tailored exactly for that. It gives us a chance to meet each other and decide whether or not this is the right thing. For both of us. Let’s give it a go on Friday, and you can decide after that. As I said, it’s a very informal chat. Please don’t worry about it. Get a pen, and I’ll give you my address.”
Grace scribbled the psychiatrist’s address on her notepad and ended the call. She contemplated her writing and daydreamed, completely unaware she wasn’t alone any more.
“Penny for them.”
Grace jumped, startled by the voice. She looked up from the notepad and saw Michael leaning against the doorframe, staring at her.
“Fuck! You scared me. How long have you been standing there? I thought I shut the door!” Grace ripped off the piece of paper and slipped it into her pocket.
Michael’s eyes widened. “I did knock. There’s no need to be rude.”
“I’m not being rude. I just don’t like people creeping up on me. I said, how long have you been standing there?”
“Well, not long. You must have been on the phone when I knocked. I opened the door, and you were staring off into space. You looked very pretty. But then, you always do, of course.” He smiled.
“Don’t give me that bullshit. It’s polite to wait until the person says ‘come in,’” Grace growled.
The pair glared at each other for a few seconds. “I hate to remind you, Grace, but I am actually your superior. I am the director of this theatre, not you. Yes, I let you have the upper hand around here mostly, because I respect you. You’re a talented lady. But I think you should show me that same respect. I do not appreciate being spoken to like this.”
“It’s been a stressful few months.”
Michael continued to scowl at her, and Grace knew he expected an apology. Keep waiting, mate.
He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Fine, if that’s how you want to play it, Grace. I just came to tell you that Eric has called in sick again today. Can you believe that? Doesn’t he care what this means for us? He’s the star of the show. We’ve already had one setback! This is all we need.”
“Michael! He’s grieving. Do you have no compassion? Plus, that’s what we have understudies for,” Grace replied sarcastically.
“Ha! Grieving! They were shagging each other, not engaged. He probably sleeps with every woman he meets.” Michael paused, and the tension intensified. “Except you, of course. You’ve got class, right?” He moved closer and leaned his hands on the desk. His face edged nearer to hers.
A rush of heat scorched her cheeks, and she cursed herself for relenting, giving Michael the reaction he desired. Shit! No, he can’t know what happened between me and Eric… can he? She stood up from the desk, and he copied her actions, their eyes locked on one another’s.
“All that attention is part and parcel of being the star of all the shows, I guess,” Grace mumbled, ignoring the personal comment.
“Well, he’ll be no star of this show if he continues to call in sick,” Michael mocked. “I’ve been watching his understudy, Blake, with some interest, and I like what I see from him. Maybe he’ll be the lead in my new show. I don’t want the risk of any more controversial press with this one, either.”
Grace headed for the office door. “Let’s not worry then. If you say Blake is showing promise, I’m sure it’ll be a success. Shall we get the morning meeting started?”
“Of course it will be a success, Grace. We’re working together.” Michael smirked as Grace turned and walked away.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The two detectives sat in the same position they had the previous day in Eric’s lounge, and Hamilton scanned the room. He spotted two wine glasses on the corner unit, and Eric was dressed in the same outfit as he wore when they’d first met him.
“Mr. Dexter, we wanted to let you know that Ms. Murphy corroborated your alibi for the night Emily Donovan was murdered.”
Eric cringed, no doubt at his cold and informative tone.
“We’re just unsure as to why you didn’t mention Kate Wakeman?”
“What? Who the hell is Kate Wakeman?”
“She was recently murdered, Mr. Dexter. It would appear that the two of you were also friends, and you neglected to share that information with us.”
“What! No, we weren’t. I’ve never met anyone called Kate Wakeman.”
“Not according to Facebook.”
“Facebook?” Eric’s eyes darted back and forth between the detectives, then he frowned. “I don’t know half the people on my Facebook page.”
Hamilton sighed. “Care to elaborate, Mr. Dexter?”
“I’m a stage actor, Inspector. I regularly get Facebook friend requests after a show. I like the attention from my fans, so I accept them. It doesn’t mean I’ve met them. Or that we’re friends. Or that I even bloody know them, for that matter. To be honest, I hardly reply to any of their messages. Have a look through my account. You’re welcome to my password. You won’t find much interaction with my fans.”
“We will be looking at everything in detail, thank you. Did you have company last night, Mr. Dexter?” Hamilton asked, nodding in the direction of the wine glasses.
“I don’t really think that’s any of your business. But as I have nothing to hide, I’ll tell you. Hayley came over. I think we both needed a shoulder to cry on.”
“Emily Donovan’s sister?”
“Yes,” Eric replied. “But nothing happened! We had a few glasses of wine, shared our memories of Emily, and she left. Honest!”
“Don’t feel like you have to convince us. The grieving period is a difficult one, even more so in circumstances like these. Just one last question before we leave, Mr. Dexter: do you know a young lady called Vicky Lawlor?”
Eric paused for a moment. “No.”
“Okay, well, thank you for your time. We’ll be in touch if we need any further information.”
Eric followed the detectives to the front door and closed it behind them.
As they drove away from Eric’s apartment, Clarke said, “I think I believe him, boss. The fact that he likes the public attention on Facebook anyway. Not sure about just a glass of wine with the sister.”
Hamilton pursed his lips. “Hmm, yes. He does come across as quite the ladies’ man. There’s still something about him though, Lewis. I can’t put my finger on why I don’t trust him. Let’s get back to the station, pronto.”
The incident room was quiet when the detectives returned, a sign of deep concentration. Hamilton barged through to his office, calling for Fraser.
“Is there something wrong, sir?” she asked gingerly, once she had caught up with him.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so abrupt out there, Kerry. Please understand when we’re in the middle of a frustrating case like this one, I sometimes get a bit tense. Especially when I feel like I’m on a bloody goose chase. But please don’t always take it so personally. It won’t do you any favours in this office.”
The athletic blonde sergeant pulled her shoulders back in response, and he smiled.
“Yes, sir. Understood, loud and clear.”
“Good, take a seat. Now we’ve just been to see Eric Dexter, and he swears blind that his Facebook account is filled with adoring fans, most of which he doesn’t know at all,” Hamilton explained, as Fraser pulled a small notebook from her pocket.
“I made a few notes that I thought were important, sir. Eric Dexter is friends with Kate Wakeman and Emily Donovan on Facebook. However, I can see what you mean about them being fans. He has over two thousand friends, mainly women. And he’s not very active on the account at all.”
“What do you mean?” Hamilton frowned, wondering if he was the only person left in society who was not a fan of social media and the stress it constructed in people’s lives.
“Every account has a Facebook wall, sir. Active members post their own statuses, photographs, and likes onto that wall. When I took a look at Eric’s, there are mainly posts fro
m other people. So fans have congratulated him on a performance or an interview. Friends have tagged him in their photographs from parties or at the theatre. But in regards to him actually posting things himself, he hasn’t done so for at least six months. He also doesn’t have any security set up, so you can look at anything on his profile.”
“That’s interesting, Kerry. I’m no expert, as you know, but I would think someone who admits they love the attention would be more interactive with their fans. Or even their friends.”
“I’m not sure. Maybe he uses this account solely to pump his ego.”
“You mean he could have another account?”
“Of course! It’s easy to do. All you really need is a different e-mail address. There are plenty of other Kerry Frasers on Facebook,” she said with a smile.
“Could you do some more digging? See if Eric Dexter has another account?”
“Definitely, sir. I can search his friends list again and see if any of them have any other Erics or Dexters on their list. I’ll find out if he has a middle name. He may have used that to create a different account. And with your permission, I’ll try and get into our victims’ accounts, see if they had any personal communication with him.”
“Brilliant!” Hamilton punched his left palm. “Of course you have my permission, Kerry. Get right on it. Give Sharon a holler if you need any help. And report back to me the minute you find something.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
A white feather fell slowly in the breeze and landed at Grace’s feet as she entered the cemetery. She collected it from the ground, smiled, and placed it in her pocket before making her way to her grandfather’s grave.
“Hi, Granddad,” she said, kneeling on the grass to tidy the flowers. “Sorry I didn’t bring any fresh ones today. I came straight from work. I know you’re not bothered about flowers anyway, probably hate me spending money on them. They look pretty, though.”
She smiled when she thought of her grandfather’s stern but loveable character. Finally, content with their appearance, Grace stopped playing with the arrangement, pulled her scarf and coat collar closer to her face, and tucked her hands in her pockets.
“I had a bad day. Well, it was okay. I was proud of myself for booking an appointment with the psychiatrist. Which I know you’ll be rolling your eyes at. Why do I need to tell a complete stranger my business? What could I possibly gain from it? But like Mum says, I have to be honest with myself. I miss you terribly, and it is affecting my everyday life. My moods are… I don’t even know how to explain them. I completely snapped at Michael today. You remember my boss? I can’t believe I had the nerve to speak to him like that; I could lose my job. But it just came out, and I’m not entirely sure why. To be fair, he gave as good as he got. I think. The whole conversation seems like it happened days ago now, not just a few hours.”
She glanced around the cemetery. Nearby a young couple were placing a bunch of bright lilies, her favourite flowers, on a grave. Tears streamed down her face. Grief overtook her, as it always did when she visited the cemetery, the last resting place for so many people, so much so she had become oblivious to her own weeping.
“I’m so scared, Granddad. Four women have been murdered. And I knew three of them! Can you believe that? What does that mean? Is it safe for me to be out right now? Is it safe for any woman to be out on her own? Well, no, obviously not with what’s going on. Do you think there’s a connection? Am I being watched? No, I’m being paranoid. Natasha told me there was a local stabbing; a young lad died. What a waste of a life. This city is not safe any more. It wasn’t like this when you came over from Ireland to live here. I bet there were so many more stories you didn’t get a chance to tell me.”
Grace sat silently as the sun set below the horizon, leaving an orange glow in its wake. She looked forward to the brightness of spring because something as simple as the weather could enhance her mood. The last reflection of colour drained from the sky, and the sudden chill made her shiver. She hadn’t noticed the young couple leave and quickly worried about the length of time she had sat there alone. God, I don’t want to get locked in the cemetery at night. She pulled the white feather from her pocket and rubbed it between her thumb and fingers, hoping it would bring her safety. “I think I better go, Granddad. I’m sure you wouldn’t be pleased if I stayed out in the dark much longer. I just had to talk to you.”
Once she was home, Grace decided to spend time with her mother. They enjoyed a few hours watching comedy DVDs and sharing their favourite treats of chocolate, biscuits, and popcorn.
“You gave him the easy ones. Hip-hop, hip-hop…” The pair erupted in fits of giggles before Valerie could finish one of their favourite lines from the movie.
“But I wipe my own ass,” Grace added, her eyes closed in amusement.
“I don’t care how old I am, Big Daddy gets me every time.” Valerie wiped joyful tears from her cheeks.
They continued to laugh together. Grace was forced to hold her stomach. Her muscles clenched from her hysterical laughing, and the pain was unbearable yet enjoyable. She realised it was the first time in weeks that she did not have the urge to reach for a bottle of wine.
“I had completely forgotten we could have this much fun.” Grace bent down to kiss her mother’s cheek.
“Really? Oh, I didn’t, darling. I knew you’d be ready to laugh again soon enough. I just had to be patient with you. As always, you stubborn minx.”
Valerie’s smile was infectious, and Grace was delighted that, for a change, she was part of the reason her mother looked happy.
“Thanks, Mum. I think it’s exactly what we both needed tonight.”
The pair shared a hug before Grace climbed the stairs to her bedroom, where she enjoyed a calm and peaceful night’s sleep.
****
Grace knocked on Michael’s office door and patiently waited for an answer before she entered.
“Morning, Grace,” Michael greeted her coldly.
“Morning, Michael. May I sit down?”
He gestured with his hand to the chair opposite him.
“I wanted to apologise for yesterday.”
Michael finally made eye contact with her and smiled.
“It was extremely rude of me to talk to you like that. My language was not suitable, nor was my attitude. You’re my manager, and it won’t happen again.”
“Oh, Grace!” Michael raised his hands in the air, stood up, and made his way around the desk. He perched on the edge of it so their legs were just inches apart.
“Yes, it’s been an emotional time for me lately. And yes, we have some stressful situations arising here at the theatre, but that does not condone my outburst or give me the right to speak to you the way I did,” Grace continued.
“You have no idea how glad I am you’ve apologised. Let’s forget it happened.” Michael clicked his fingers and placed his hand on Grace’s shoulder. “It’s already in the past.”
Grace was glad that the apology had panned out so smoothly. She would have hated the thought of Michael holding a grudge against her and making life difficult at work. The London was a great escape from reality, or at least it had been before the New Year. The day continued with an upbeat momentum. She and Michael were working in their usual unison in preparation for opening night.
Later that afternoon, Grace turned off her computer and gathered her bag and coat. She decided to finish work early to ensure she was on time for her first session with Maria.
As she walked to the underground station, her nerves kicked in, and she fiddled with her angel pendant for comfort. The Transport for London online route planner revealed it would take her forty minutes from Covent Garden to Wembley Central Station, followed by a ten-minute walk to the psychiatrist’s office. Once settled in a carriage, she took out her book, Tammy Robinson’s Charlie & Pearl, and delved into someone else’s world.
Mingled with the crowd, all restless to exit the train station, Grace fished her iPhone from her bag and opened th
e Maps app. She copied the postcode from her screwed-up piece of paper into her phone and chose the person symbol to get directions by foot. She turned left and watched her fellow commuters rush by, eager to get to the pub or home to their families after their working week.
After ten minutes, she found herself in a quiet, well-lit cul-de-sac. She stopped outside number twelve then slowly walked up the path to the front door; the nerves tingled inside her. Shaking, Grace put her phone back into her handbag and looked at the two doorbells. The top one was labelled with just the letter A, while the bottom label had gold-embossed lettering: Maria Lee, Psychiatrist & Clinical Hypnotherapist.
Her finger trembled as she outstretched it above her head and pressed the second bell.
A curvaceous white woman in her late fifties, with tight, curly, short blonde hair, opened the front door. Grace stepped back slightly. The woman’s buoyancy surprised her, but she couldn’t help but warm to the huge smile greeting her. It was contagious, and Grace was compelled to return the grin. The woman’s eccentric taste was plain to see, and although the woman wore a modest dress that didn’t show off too much cleavage, the mixture of purple, orange, and green colours screamed for attention. Large, vibrant beads adorned her neck and chest, adding to the jovial character.
“You must be Grace! I’m Maria, obviously.” She laughed, and they shook hands. “Please, come in.”
While Grace followed her up the stairs, Maria jabbered on about how she had converted the house into two apartments, keeping her home downstairs, where she had access to the garden, and transforming the upstairs into an office. Grace barely heard a word the woman said; her mind was cloudy with the decision she had made to enter a complete stranger’s house. Maria led her to a large lounge at the front of the apartment, where the walls were covered in pretty paintings of puppies, kittens, oceans, sunsets, and a cornfield in the countryside. Her attention was drawn a deep-purple, rich velvet reclining chair. The type she had only seen in fashion magazines. Maria gestured to it.
