by Tara Lyons
She could sense Michael’s annoyance, and despite the makeup crew’s fantastic job covering her external tenderness, her head was still throbbing.
“Why don’t we invite some of the actors to join us? It might help take the attention off the recent news articles and redirect it to their personal characters,” Grace suggested.
“No! I’ve never seen Blake interact with the press, and this is not the time for slip-ups.” His sharp retort startled her.
“What? Blake is still in the lead role? I was sure Eric would have returned by now, especially for the matinee performance. He loves attention from the locals.”
“Please, Grace, don’t even get me started on that man! I’ve had it up to here,” Michael said, raising his hand above his head. “I’m beginning to think he’s more trouble than he’s worth.”
She chewed her bottom lip for a few seconds. “Have you spoken to him?”
“Of course I have! We decided Blake would perform the matinee show and Eric would use today to pull his bloody act together. He’ll be back with us tomorrow for opening night. I just hope he doesn’t mess up because of the time off he’s had.”
“Good. That’s a relief.”
Michael’s nostrils flared, and his eyebrows knitted together.
Oh God, did that make it sound like I’m desperate to see Eric? “And by relief, I meant that I’m up to speed with everything. I’m sure the press will be eager to know where he is,” she quickly added.
“Yes, I suppose.” His face relaxed. “We’ll just say he’s been having some personal time and he’s all set for opening night. End of.”
Grace was eager to get home and crawl into bed. “I’ll leave you to take care of all the answers, Michael. I’m happy to stand on the sidelines for support, though.”
Michael slipped his arm around her waist and led her down the corridor towards the bar. “Don’t be daft, young lady. In this theatre, you’re just as important as those on the stage, and I need you right there next to me where you belong. Now, let’s go tackle the hounds.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Energy buzzed through the incident room as keyboards were drummed and telephones rang, despite it being Sunday evening. Fraser was glued to her computer, Clarke was on the phone, and Hamilton was concentrating on the post-mortem reports, desperate to pluck something new from them.
“Boss, that was the desk sergeant,” Clarke called out. “They’ve got Dexter downstairs waiting for us.”
“Brilliant. Have you had any news from Sharon and Les?”
“They’re on their way back from the mortuary. From what they said on the phone, Laura prioritised the latest victim to assist us with our investigation.”
“Good, we need all the help we can get. Kerry, any luck with the CCTV footage from the front desk?”
“Not really, sir. I have found a woman who I believe to be Carly on our cameras, but there’s no angle giving me a full image of her face. I’ve captured a screenshot, the best I could manage anyway.”
Fraser got up from her desk and retrieved the photo from the printer. She gave the copy to Hamilton and Clarke, who stared at the grainy image.
“Like I said, sir, best I could do. She was only there for four minutes, so we’re lucky we got the information we did from William. And he was right: she swayed about around the reception area the entire time she was there. Despite that, she never once looked directly at the camera, sorry.”
“It’s better than nothing. We can see what she was wearing that night and guesstimate her height. I’ll show this to Dexter during the interview anyway, see what his reaction is.”
Morris and Wedlock entered the incident room with huge grins on their faces, much to Hamilton’s delight.
“Gov, we’ve got the identification of our latest victim,” Morris explained, throwing her bag and coat on the table. She reached for the notebook inside her blazer pocket. “Miss Chloe Ronald, aged twenty-five, working at the Soho Centre for Health and Care.”
“Bloody hell! That’s brilliant, Sharon. But how did you find all that out so quickly?” Hamilton asked.
Wedlock answered, “Well, when we got to the mortuary, the team explained they had found the victim’s belongings after all. Although they believed a complete sweep of the area had been conducted, as they left the bridge, one of the team spotted her bag and clothes. It looks like our killer tried lugging them over the bridge, but he missed the river and they landed a few yards further up the bank. Can you bloody believe that?”
Hamilton screwed up his face. “I’m not sure what to make of it, Les. That type of behaviour isn’t the norm for our guy. He doesn’t make mistakes. And why didn’t he want us to have her identity, like he has with the others?”
“It also means this Carly girl is still out there,” Clarke added, pointing to the photograph. “Plus, we can’t even be sure that Eric Dexter is the same Eric this drunk woman was talking about. It could be a coincidence, boss.”
“I take your point on board, Lewis. But I don’t want to discount the fact that Dexter knew three of the victims and was in a relationship with one of them.” Hamilton rubbed his hand up and down his face for a few seconds. “What else could Laura tell you from the post-mortem, Les?”
“Similar setup, gov. No rigor had set in, so time of death was no more than three hours before she was discovered. That gives us a window of roughly two a.m. to five a.m. Cause of death was the stab wounds to the heart, made with the same murder weapon used on the other victims. She also confirmed that this victim took a violent beating, and although she would have been unconscious by time the knife attack actually happened, she suffered greatly. Still no traces of DNA and no obvious signs of sexual assault. Frustratingly, all the information we’ve had already.”
“That’s another thing that bugs me, boss. Eric Dexter is blatantly a ladies’ man, so it strikes me odd that there’s no sexual aspect to these crimes, if he’s our guy,” Clarke observed.
Hamilton pursed his lips and groaned. “Well, he’s here now, so no harm in questioning; we can gauge his reaction first-hand to the news of this victim. But I want to make him stew just a little longer; let’s see what that tells us about his character. Oh, and don’t get comfortable, you lot. Sharon and Les, I want you to inform Chloe Ronald’s family while Lewis and I interview Dexter. Kerry, delve into her life to build a picture of who she was, and that includes any connection to theatres or our only suspect downstairs.”
The two detectives entered Interview Room One to find Eric huffing loudly and pacing the small room.
“Finally! I’ve been in here for almost an hour. You can’t treat me like this. What about my rights?” Eric shouted.
“Mr. Dexter, you’re here of your own free will. We thank you for coming in to help us with our enquiries and sincerely apologise for the delay you’ve had.” Hamilton forced a smile he hoped looked genuine.
“My own free will!” Eric’s voice rose. “That’s not the way I was made to feel by your officers. They practically pushed me into their squad car outside my home. What the hell will my neighbours think?”
“Then it’s my duty to apologise again, Mr. Dexter. I would hate to think that anyone helping us with our enquiries would be made to feel so disrespected. DS Clarke, please find out who the attending officers were so we can take this matter further.” Hamilton caught the grin on his partner’s face as he looked down to make a note for Eric’s benefit.
“Fine, Detective. What is this all about anyway? I’ve waited long enough.”
“Please take a seat, Mr. Dexter, and we’ll get started. We just have a few more questions regarding our murder investigations.”
Eric sighed, pulled out the chair, allowing the metal legs to screech against the tiled floor, and plopped into the seat. Hamilton had already instructed Clarke not to record the interview. He wanted it to remain informal, to entice the suspect to talk. He had, however, requested detailed notes from his partner. He shuffled a pile of papers, stopping to look
at a few notes, and sighed. It was how he created tension; he didn’t want the suspect thinking he was a pushover. As Eric’s groans became louder and more exaggerated, Hamilton’s mouth curved into a slight smile. One-nil to me, sucker.
“Mr. Dexter, where were you last night, between the hours of midnight and five a.m.?”
“At home, of course,” he answered swiftly.
“Can anyone corroborate that for you?”
“No. I was home alone, going over my lines. I’ve missed a lot of rehearsal time, and it’s opening night tomorrow.”
“Do you know a Chloe Ronald?”
“No.”
Hamilton noted the quick response. He flicked through another file and retrieved a photograph Fraser had printed—Chloe’s Facebook profile picture. Hamilton slid it across the table towards Eric, who didn’t touch it but looked at it briefly.
“Well, I don’t know her.” Eric scowled.
Hamilton pushed another photograph across the table, quietly observing his suspect.
“Yeah, she looks familiar. I think she works in a bar near the theatre.”
“That’s Vicky Lawlor. When we questioned you at your home, you said you didn’t know her,” Hamilton said.
“Well, I don’t know her, obviously. Otherwise, I would have recognised her name when you mentioned it. She served me my drinks, but I never really spoke to her. I only knew her by her face. A pretty face too.” He winked at Clarke.
“She’s a murder victim, Mr. Dexter. Do you think this is funny?” Clarke barked.
The suspect quickly wiped the smile from his face, looked down, and shook his head.
Hamilton eyed his partner and winked. “Do you know anyone by the name of Carly, Mr. Dexter?”
Eric snapped his head back up. “No, I do not, and if you’ve found another woman who is my friend on Facebook, don’t try and use that against me again. I’ve told you I don’t know them all.”
“Just one last photograph we’d like you to have a look at, Mr. Dexter. See if anything is familiar to you, please.” Hamilton handed over the grainy image taken from the CCTV footage, forcing the man to take hold of it.
Eric studied the photograph for a few moments before throwing it onto the table with the others. He pushed them all back to Hamilton. “This image is awful. What exactly are you expecting me to tell you? Why are you asking me these questions?”
“I apologise for the quality of the image, but do you recognise the outfit she’s wearing or anything else about her?” Hamilton replied, ignoring Eric’s second question.
“No. I recognise nothing about her. To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t have even been one hundred per cent sure it was a woman if you hadn’t told me. Now, what the hell is this all about?”
“Would you mind giving us a DNA swab, Mr. Dexter?”
“What? No way! This has got to be some kind of joke. Are you accusing me of something? I think I want my solicitor present.” Eric stood with such force that his chair crashed to the ground.
“Calm down and take a seat, sir.” Clarke also rose from his chair.
“Please, Mr. Dexter, this will actually benefit you,” Hamilton added.
“And how do you work that out?” Eric whined as he retrieved the chair but refused to sit down. Clarke remained standing too.
“I can completely understand your frustrations, and you’re welcome to have your solicitor present whenever you wish, of course.” Hamilton’s calm voice defused the heated situation, and Eric returned to his seat, followed by Clarke.
He continued, “You have to understand our constant need to question you, Mr. Dexter, as you were in a relationship with one of the victims in our murder investigation.” Hamilton held up his hand to stop Eric from interrupting. “By voluntarily agreeing to a DNA swab now, you’re proving you have nothing to hide from us. It also allows us to exclude you from any future enquiries, meaning less of an inconvenience for you.”
Eric glanced up at the ceiling, running his hands through his dark hair. Silence drifted through the room, and finally, Eric locked his eyes on Hamilton. “Of course I have nothing to hide, and of course I want to help. It just seems a lot to ask of me when I’ve done nothing wrong.”
Hamilton returned the stare with a smug countenance. Concluding there was a selfish streak in Eric’s personality, he was confident he knew exactly what decision his suspect would make.
The man held his hands up. “Okay, fine, Inspector, you win. If giving you my DNA sample means you’ll leave me alone and spend your time tracking down Emily’s killer, then I’ll do it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dexter, we appreciate your cooperation. Right, that’s it from us then. Stay right here, and someone will be along shortly to take your sample. Then you’re free to go home,” Hamilton explained.
Clarke leaned towards Eric as he rose from his chair. Hamilton cleared his throat to gain his partner’s attention. He knew the wink from Eric had bugged Clarke, but in all honesty, he knew it was a remark Clarke was also likely to make about a pretty woman. The detectives made their way back to the front desk, and Hamilton requested a DNA sample to be taken from Eric.
“What did you think of his reaction to the request, boss?”
“Well, it was either very clever because he knows we’ve found no DNA on the victims and this move paints him as a law-abiding citizen, or he really does have nothing to hide. Come on, I sent the team home before we started the interview. Let’s bloody well follow suit.”
Clarke nodded, and the men walked outside the station to the car park.
“Do you still think Dexter is guilty?”
Hamilton used the key fob to unlock the car and opened the driver’s door. With one foot inside, he looked over the car roof. “I think he’s guilty of something, and I’ve got to trust my instinct, partner.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The full moon shone brightly through a black sky. Grace sat at her bedroom window, peering out, lost in her thoughts. A sudden clatter disturbed her, and she stood up to get a better look at the pavement. A dark figure flashed by lightning quick, and she wasn’t sure what it was, or if in fact it hadn’t been a figment of her imagination. She held her breath, listening intently as she scanned the front garden. There was nothing. She exhaled deeply but found it difficult to tear her eyes away from the window. The wind whipped the trees, forming shadows on the road that danced aggressively under the streetlamps. The eerie darkness made her shudder, and she forced herself to walk away.
Grace thought of Maria’s suggestion to make notes in a diary. She felt guilty that she had neglected to do as she had been asked thus far. She reached under her pillow and retrieved the pink notebook she had purchased specially for that purpose. She took one last look out of her window. Content there was nothing out there, she settled on top of the bed and began writing.
Sunday 31 January 2016
I haven’t had any nightmares recently. Thankfully. But for some reason, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m not always alone. What if someone is watching me? I’m just on edge most of the time. Even now, there was a rattle in the street, and I automatically think there’s something sinister happening. Like someone is watching me or spying on my home. But that’s ridiculous, and now I’m actually writing it down, I feel like an idiot. Sheesh, I’m glad I haven’t voiced this to anyone. They would think I’ve gone crazy. Of course I’m going to get spooked, what with everything that’s happening at the moment, but surely I’m not alone in that reaction. I am not the only person who knew these women. I have to remember that. We live in a devastating world of sick people who harm and destroy its innocence. Maybe my university friends had the right idea when they upped and moved out of London. Into the countryside where it’s safe and peaceful. But that’s never been me, never been what I wanted from my life. I can’t let the bullies of this world force me into feeling scared at every noise I hear. Yes, I’ll be extra vigilant of course, but come on, Grace, pull yourself together.
She laughed, ripped the
pages from the book, and threw them into the bin. She didn’t want Maria thinking she was vulnerable and possibly postpone her bereavement sessions. However, she also worried the psychiatrist would chastise her for ignoring the advice to introduce the diary into her life.
Sunday 31 January 2016
I’ll see Eric tomorrow. Jesus, it hasn’t even been that long, but I feel so nervous. I made a stupid mistake with him, and now that so much has happened in between, how will I put things right? He’ll be emotional and grieving, that is undisputable, but I must ensure that I remain professional when I’m around him. I’ll sing it like a mantra to myself tomorrow: stay professional, stay professional! Do not attempt to comfort him.
Grace slipped the diary back under her pillow, satisfied that she would have at least one entry written for her next session with Maria. Once she’d dimmed the lights, pulled back the duvet and got into bed, sleep greeted her swiftly. She drifted off, exhausted.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Opening night at The London was always a hive of activity: thespians performing, costume crew helping with mid-act changes, and sound designers organising pre-show and intermission music mixes. As assistant director, Grace had planned the schedule for the performance and, therefore, had no choice but to interact with Eric.
“Here’s the updated segment timings for tonight. Will you be able to handle it?” she said, handing him the film.
He avoided eye contact. “I’ll have to be. It’s opening night, my time to shine.”
“Blake has rehearsed with these timings; he could open if it’s too much for you.”
Eric snapped his head up. A flash of anger glinted in his eyes.
“This is my play, goddammit! How could you even suggest that, Grace? Yes, I’ve missed a few weeks, but technically, we should’ve opened in January. I was ready then, and I’m ready now.”
“I’m sorry, Eric.” She shifted her gaze away from him, feeling uncomfortable. “I’m just aware, as your superior, that you’re going through a lot at the moment. Plus, you look like you’ve hardly slept. With everything that has happened in the past few months, this opening night is extremely important for The London.”
