by Tara Lyons
“You expect me to lie down?”
Maria smiled. “Not if you don’t want to. Some patients feel more comfortable looking away from me when they talk. They prefer to admire the calming artwork on the wall.”
“No, thank you.” Grace fiddled with the button on her coat so furiously, it came loose from the thread. She sat down and dropped her hands into her lap. “I’m sorry. I just feel very nervous. I don’t know what I should be saying.”
“There’s no need to apologise. Please don’t put extra pressure on yourself.”
Maria’s charming smile and kind-hearted tones were inviting, and Grace relaxed her shoulders and took off her coat.
“Grace, I’m here to help you with all those emotions and hopefully guide you into feeling comfortable in this room. Now, let me hang your coat up. Relax, and I’ll make us a lovely cup of tea.” As the psychiatrist bounced from the chair, her large beads clashed together from the swift movement. Maria hummed a tune Grace was unfamiliar with, cheerfully bopping her head while she walked to a small alcove in the corner of the room.
She reminds me of my crazy, fun nana. She was such a kind woman. I’ll keep that image in my head. I can do this. I can open up to her.
Maria returned and handed her a mug decorated with a tabby cat playing with a ball of yarn. Grace felt warmth inside her and not just from the tea, but also from the kind stranger.
“On the phone, you told me your grandfather had passed away. I am so sorry for your loss. How did he die?” Maria asked.
“Cancer.”
“That is sad. It’s an awful disease that affects so many of us in different ways. What kind of a relationship did you have with him?”
“We were very close. He was a very influential person in my life.” Grace paused and closed her eyes. “I’m sorry. I can’t talk about my granddad. Not yet, anyway.”
“That’s absolutely fine. We’ll take this at your pace,” Maria said, retrieving a leopard-print notebook from the table.
“What’s that for? Will you make notes about me?” Grace asked warily.
“Just notes about our session, dear. No need to worry. It’s mainly so I remember subjects you don’t want to talk about, like you’ve just mentioned, as well as the aspects of your life you are willing to share with me. You also said you were having trouble sleeping. Do you want to discuss that?”
“It’s the nightmares,” she said, expecting Maria to ask more questions. The woman nodded but remained silent, so Grace continued and explained the full nature of her dreams.
“And how do these nightmares make you feel?”
“Maria, they scare me. I wake up feeling petrified after I’ve had one.” She stared hard into the mug, her fingers wrapped tightly around it. “I’ve dreamt of a dead body. A woman lying naked, covered in dirt and wet leaves. Screams echo in my ears; people beg for their lives.”
“And when did they begin?”
“I’m not sure. A few months ago.” She hesitated to continue.
“What is it, Grace? What are you thinking?”
“I think it all began after those young women were murdered. You see, Maria, I knew three of them,” Grace whispered the last sentence. “My God, could I be next?”
The psychiatrist’s eyes widened. “I’m not working on this case, so I couldn’t possibly profile the killer or speak about the connection between the women. But if you feel your life could be in jeopardy because you were friends with some of the victims, then you must contact the police.”
“They’re aware. It just makes me wonder, how do we escape from these nutters in society? How can I truly be sure that I’m safe? How do you know that you are? That any of us are?” Grace’s heartbeat increased.
“Calm down, sweetie. You’re safe here,” Maria said softly. “I have to believe that all of this could explain the nightmares you’re experiencing. Because you knew these women, you have a sense of connection to them. Their untimely and brutal deaths have more meaning to you than they would to, say for example, me. The feelings that are attached to your subconscious could be so vivid because you can see these victims as more than just women—you see them as friends with their own personalities, hopes and dreams.”
It made sense to Grace and changed her attitude. She was thankful for her mother’s suggestion to see Maria. The psychiatrist wrote more notes, and Grace was glad for the short break, which gave her time to compose herself.
“Did your dreams occur before or after information was released in the press about the victims and their murders?” Maria asked.
“I’m not sure. What do you mean?”
“Newspapers, interviews and press conferences give the public a lot of detail about the victims, the crimes and the specifics that surround those murders. It’s possible that your brain has picked out various points from all the information, but because it’s a traumatic experience for you, the brain locks it away, so to speak. There’s where your subconscious comes into play and brings it all into your sleeping state, when you’re at your most vulnerable. But that’s the problem with dreams—they’re subliminal, so images are misinterpreted, and messages are misunderstood.”
“I didn’t even think of that, Maria. I can’t remember when I had the first nightmare, but I found out about all the deaths from the newspaper or people telling me.”
“Grace, what I would like you to do is to start keeping a diary. Use it to keep track of your nightmares, if you do have any more. List the date, what you can remember seeing, and how it made you feel.”
“So will I see you again?”
“Yes, I would like that.”
“I think you could definitely benefit from further sessions. We can explore the nightmares you’re having and maybe talk about your grandfather when you’re ready. I’m going to book an appointment for the same time next week. Will that work for you?”
Grace nodded. “Yes, it will. Obviously, I was extremely nervous about coming, but I’m glad I did. Just that little insight into my dreams and subconscious has made me feel relieved slightly.” She stood up, and Maria fetched her coat.
“I’m delighted. Same time next week then.”
As Maria led Grace to the front door, the woman gently touched her shoulder. “Write that diary over the next week. Even if there are no nightmares, use it to explore how you’re feeling about everything in your life. And please, Grace, if you find yourself in a situation where you don’t feel safe, please contact the police immediately.”
“Of course. Thank you so much, Maria. I’m looking forward to next week already.”
Grace’s mood was lighter, and she felt confident Maria could help her through her immense amount of grief. The street was considerably quieter and darker than it had been before, and Grace determined a brisk stride was necessary for her return trip to the train station.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The team grouped together in the incident room, some perched on desks while others sat in their office chairs. DI Hamilton stood next to the whiteboard.
“I know you understand my frustration with this case because I appreciate you all feel it too. We’ve had four women brutally murdered in just two months, and there’s hardly any clues or suspects,” Hamilton said with disappointment in his voice. He rubbed his hand over his eyes and face. “Let’s share our updates.”
Fraser, who always seemed eager to please him, spoke first. “Unfortunately, I can’t find another Facebook account for Eric Dexter, sir. I was thinking, though, could he be using a completely different name?”
Clarke replied, “I don’t think so, Kerry. This guy gets off on the attention of women. If he used an anonymous name, they wouldn’t know it was him, Mr. Celebrity.”
“No, but that could be how he chooses his victims,” she argued back, and Clarke mock saluted.
“That’s an interesting theory, Kerry,” Hamilton interrupted. “The women were all murdered in the vicinity of his home or work. And I can’t shake the feeling that Vicky Lawlor’s red dress was
a clue.”
“Gov, while we’re speaking about our Lady in Red,” Morris interjected, “she worked at Cocktails and Dreams, a bar in Covent Garden. I’ve had a look on Google Maps, and it’s about a ten-minute walk from The London Theatre.”
“Of course it is.” Hamilton sighed.
“Kerry’s had a look, and there’s no online connection between Vicky Lawlor and Eric Dexter,” Morris continued. “I called the manager this morning, and he confirmed Vicky was working that night. She offered to work later than her usual shift because of the crowd for the New Year’s Eve party.”
Hamilton clicked his fingers. “Great progress, Sharon. I want you and Les to get down to the bar immediately and find out everything about that night. Who was working the shift with Vicky? Was anyone acting suspicious? Was she friendly with any customers?”
“Boss, how about we bring a photograph of Eric Dexter?” Wedlock said.
“Yes! Flash that around the bar. Good thinking, Les. If the theatre is just ten minutes away, they must have had after-work drinks in there at some point, right? Find out if anyone recognises him and, more importantly, remembers him talking to Vicky.”
Clarke flipped through his notebook. “When we questioned Dexter, we asked if he knew Vicky Lawlor. He paused for a nanosecond but replied in the negative.”
“That doesn’t mean it was an honest answer.” Hamilton raised his eyebrows.
Morris and Wedlock collected their coats and headed for the door, stopping briefly next to their superior.
“You think this Dexter is our guy, gov?”
Hamilton exhaled noisily. “The evidence is slim, Les, so I can’t give a resounding yes, as much as I’d like to. But there’s something there; I just don’t trust him. He’s caught up in this somehow—of that I’m sure.”
Clarke stood up from the table then added the team’s update and their new theory to the whiteboard.
“Lewis and Kerry, while the others are gone, I want you both to continue delving into our victims’ lives. My gut is adamant that Dexter is the killer or that there’s a link to the theatre at least, but I don’t want to shoot myself in the foot with this one. It’s imperative we’re one hundred per cent sure there’s no other connection between them. Dig as far as you can. I’ll be in my office if you need me.”
Hamilton walked away feeling confident. He relished the times when the team could ignite that spark inside him again and make him see an investigation from a different perspective or add a new concept to the mix.
He closed his office door and sat at his desk, surveying the mess that was his inbox. He decided progress in this murder case was of the utmost importance and pushed the pile of papers aside. He lifted the phone receiver and dialled a number imprinted in his memory.
“Hello, Laura Joseph—”
“Laura, it’s DI Hamilton,” he spoke before she had a chance to finish.
“Oh, Inspector, I’m glad you’ve called. It’s been on my to-do list to contact you, but I’m in demand here at the moment; six fatalities from a road accident on the North Circular.”
“That’s awful, Laura. In that case, I won’t keep you any longer than necessary. Please tell me you have an update from the clothes on our last two victims.”
“I do, but I’m afraid you’re not going to like it. Your killer is clever. There is no secondary DNA on either of the women’s clothing.”
Hamilton’s jaw tightened.
“I’m sorry, Inspector, I know it’s not what you wanted to hear. I must dash, goodbye.”
“Thanks, Laura. Bye.”
Hamilton returned the phone to its dock and slumped onto his desk. He knew he had to keep his mind busy, or he would explode inside with anger. How does he keep evading us? What the hell am I not seeing? He decided to rejoin Clarke and Fraser in the incident room; he was prepared to search through the case files in the hope of uncovering any missed vital evidence. He needed something that would give his team the real breakthrough they so desperately required.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Grace felt alone. She reached for her phone, opened WhatsApp, and scrolled to Natasha’s contact.
Grace: Hey hun, haven’t heard from u all week. How are u? X
She drummed her fingers on the phone screen and impatiently waited for the two blue ticks to appear, signalling that her message had been delivered then read by Natasha. They remained grey and ignored.
Grace: Fancy a drink? Come on, it’s Saturday night and I could really do with a catch-up over a glass of wine. Or two, ha ha! Have some news about what I got up to last night… nothing saucy, obviously, LOL. X
With no blue ticks alighting, Grace’s frustration grew. She threw the phone on her bed and made her way downstairs to the kitchen. She could feel her mother’s eyes burning into her back as she opened the fridge to grab a bottle of wine.
“So… how did your first session with the shrink go last night, love? I didn’t hear you come in and didn’t want to disturb you when I got home from work earlier.”
“Mum, she’s a clinical psychiatrist.”
“Yes, well, that’s a bit of a mouthful. Anyway, tell me all about it. Do you feel better now that you’ve spoken to her?”
“From one session? Gosh, Mum.” Grace poured herself a large glass of white wine.
“I don’t know how these things work. Why don’t you sit down and have your drink with me? Tell your old mum all about it. I’d really love to hear how it went.”
“I’m probably meeting Natasha. We can chat about it some other time.”
Grace returned the wine bottle to the fridge and left her mum in the kitchen. Her phone lit up the moment she entered the room, making her smile, and she quickly retrieved it to read the message.
Natasha: Sorry babe, I’m out with Ben. Another time for sure x
Her eyes narrowed at the screen. Who the fuck is Ben? Irritated further by her friend’s lack of interest, she downed the entire glass of wine and returned to the kitchen to replenish it.
“Jesus, love! You made light work of that drink. Do you really think you should have another one?” Valerie questioned.
“Don’t start, Mum. It’s been a long week. I’m just trying to unwind.”
Content once the glass was brimming to the top, Grace disregarded her mother and tapped the phone screen anxiously.
Grace: And who the hell is Ben? Can you rearrange your plans? I could really do with a chat tonight. U know, let my hair down as u keep telling me to, ha ha! x
Natasha: The guy we met at The Oak that weekend. He’s scrummy. Sorry no can do, I’m already out with him. Catch up tomoz chick. X
Grace threw her phone onto the kitchen table and gulped her wine as if she hadn’t enjoyed the taste for weeks rather than minutes.
“Well, I don’t think that’s going to solve your problems, love.” Valerie glared at her daughter.
“Really, Mum? Maybe it will. It clears my head.” She slammed the empty wine glass on the table.
“Alcohol does no such thing. If you think it does, it’s only a temporary fix because your head is so intoxicated.”
“Well, it’s working for me right now.” Grace reached for the bottle, intent on draining what was left of it, but Valerie whisked the glass from the kitchen table.
“Back off, Mum! I’m a grown woman! If I want to sit here and have three glasses of wine—or the whole flaming bottle, for that matter—I’m entitled to do so.”
“Not under my roof, you’re not. I have no intention of spending my Saturday night watching you get pissed and then cleaning vomit from your bedroom floor. Again! Grow up, for heaven’s sake, Grace.”
“Absolutely fine by me,” she roared at her mother. “I have other friends I can have a good time with. I don’t need you or Natasha. I’m going out.”
“What? You already said you were going out with Natasha tonight. Has the alcohol affected you so quickly that you can’t remember?”
“Well, plans change. She’s all loved up and shit.
No time for her friend who needs her.” Grace necked the remaining dregs of white wine straight from the bottle.
“Don’t wait up for me, Mum.” She laughed menacingly as she left the kitchen. With no destination in mind, but knowing she had to get out of the house, Grace grasped her jacket from the coat stand and walked out the front door without closing it behind her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Looking out onto the river at night was so peaceful. The darkness had taken over, but the twinkling lights were still visible in the distance, and the movement of the water was comforting. This city was so busy and hectic; no one stopped to soak up the culture or enjoy the view: The London Eye, Big Ben, or the nurse walking towards the bridge. The purple uniform peeked out from under her unzipped coat, and her hair was pulled back into a neat bun.
Too busy staring at her phone, she didn’t even notice me. That’s all they’re bothered about—their own lives—when they should be caring for others. She stole two minutes away from her screen and scanned the bridge. I was in the shadows, but she saw me, a lone figure looking down on her. If she were clever, she would have chosen to bypass the dark and quiet bridge and taken the long route round. I tingled inside. She chose to be brave—she chose to venture straight for me.
Hesitantly, she took the first step up. Too late to back out. I turned round so I was leaning on the bridge’s barrier, my back facing the direction she was coming from. I fixed the hood on my jacket to hide my face. The sound of her footsteps on the stairs quickened. She wants to run right past me. I’ll let her pass. Just.
I could smell her perfume, sweet and sickly. A few more moments, and she would be behind me. As still as a statue, I knew how to remain calm. Damn, it’s so peaceful here. I could hear her panting as she passed, and an excited shiver slid down my back. When she was within reach of the stairs that would take her to the other side of the riverbank, I knew she must have felt safe—almost free.
