by Tara Lyons
Grace pulled at her jumper sleeve and looked at her watch. They had run five minutes past the end of their session, and Maria hadn’t stopped her talking. She gathered her coat and bag, thanked the psychiatrist, and headed for the stairs.
At the front door, Maria tapped her gently on the arm. “As we’ve said, let’s use your diary as a tool. It will assist me, give me more of an insight, and from there, I’ll be able to formulate some more ideas about the way forward for our therapy.”
“Thank you, Maria. I look forward to next week.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Hamilton and Clarke waited anxiously in the car for the go-ahead signal, announcing the reinforcements’ readiness to storm in. Out in the bitter cold, the Specialist Firearms Command team moved into position around Eric Dexter’s apartment. They covered the front and back entrances so he couldn’t attempt to escape.
Harbouring mixed emotions, Hamilton grasped the arrest warrant in his hands. DCI Allen and his contacts had unmistakably rushed through the process of obtaining the affidavit. He was thankful for the speed, yet couldn’t shake the doubt that the swiftness of securing the warrant had nothing to do with his team’s hard work, and everything to do with the Met’s determination to keep the press on their side. Hamilton had decided Fraser would stay at the station while the arrest took place. He’d left her clear instructions to dig further into every aspect of Eric’s private and professional life. He wanted to ensure he was armed with as much information as possible during the arresting interview. Morris and Wedlock sat waiting in a squad car opposite the apartment.
The last Firearms officer took his place at the bottom of the porch steps, turned to Hamilton and gestured with his hand for them to approach.
“That’s our cue,” he confirmed. “SCO19 are in place and awaiting our lead.”
The two of them jumped from the car and signalled for their colleagues to follow suit. They all bolted up the stairs towards Eric’s apartment and halted at his front door.
“Mr. Dexter! Open up. It’s the police,” Hamilton’s voice bellowed through the wind. “If you don’t open the door, we’ll break it down.”
He stood aside and nodded to the Specialist Firearms Officer to his left, who positioned himself with the door breach in place.
“I would guess it’s too early in the morning for him to be out, so he might try and do a runner. Be on the ball,” Hamilton said, pointing to his team. “Clarke and I will head straight upstairs. Morris, I want you and Wedlock to search the ground floor.”
The officer made light work of cracking down the front door. Making straight for the stairs, both Hamilton and Clarke identified themselves as they climbed the steps two at a time. He noticed Eric’s bed had not been slept in. With every room thoroughly checked, the duo made their way back down to the rest of the team.
“Gov! You need to get in here, now!” Wedlock shouted.
He pushed past Clarke and raced into the kitchen. Stopping suddenly, he was greeted by a pool of blood saturating the white-tiled floor. His eyes trailed the length of the body, noting the knife and bruised face. Eric Dexter was dead. Furious, Hamilton punched the door frame and stormed back into the hallway.
When Laura and her pathology team arrived at the scene, SCO19 had already left, and his team had begun processing the murder investigation. Not wanting to lose momentum, Hamilton and Clarke knocked on the neighbours’ doors to determine if any of them had heard any disturbances from Eric’s apartment. Most were unhelpful and explained that residents on the street liked their privacy and kept themselves to themselves. The elderly man directly opposite Eric’s home, however, said he had conducted his normal neighbourhood watch duty before going to bed. He explained his neighbour had returned home the previous evening at approximately eleven thirty.
“It stuck in my head because he wasn’t alone,” Mr. Peters continued, and Clarke jotted down the man’s version of events. “Obviously, that’s not the strange thing at all. You know that man is in and out at all times with female guests. What I did think odd last night was that he was with a man. But then I suppose you get all sorts working in the theatre, or so I’ve heard.”
“You’re positive it was a man, Mr. Peters?” Clarke questioned.
“Of course, my boy. I may be getting on a bit, but I’ve no problem with my eyesight. Plus, they were quite noisy, so I could definitely make out two male voices.”
“Do you think you could give us a description of the other man or perhaps identify him in a line-up if need be?”
“Oh no, I’m sorry, Detective. I didn’t get a good look at him. In fact, I didn’t even see his face. I just knew it was a man by his voice, like I said, and his height. You know, that sort of thing.”
The pair gathered as much information from Mr. Peters as possible, but considering he called himself ‘neighbourhood watch’, Hamilton was disappointed with the lack of specifics. They returned to Eric’s apartment, which had been cordoned off as an official crime scene, and updated their colleagues.
“Well, it’s something to work on,” Morris said optimistically. “I wonder if they arrived in separate cars. It could be worth checking out the local CCTV when we’re back at the station.”
“Mr. Peters couldn’t confirm. Make that your number one priority, Sharon,” Hamilton replied.
“No problem, boss. While we’re here, do you still want us to do a search of the property, in connection with the women’s murders?”
“I don’t think there’s much point. From the scene in there, I think we can safely say we were wrong about Mr. Dexter. Forensics will handle everything else, and we can do a cross-check from that if need be. You two head back to the station, update Kerry, and start investigating that CCTV footage.”
The sergeants turned their backs to leave the apartment, and Hamilton walked slowly into the kitchen. The pathology team worked vigorously around Eric’s lifeless body heaped on the floor, and Clarke took notes while Laura dictated their findings.
“Inspector, I don’t want to give you any false information, so perhaps we should wait until after the post-mortem before I give you my prognosis. I know how important this case is,” Laura said.
Hamilton raised an eyebrow; he had worked with the pathologist long enough to know when she was trying to shield herself from being swamped by his questions.
“I would estimate that time of death is between midnight and four a.m., pretty much the same time frame as your last victim, Inspector. I wonder if that’s intentional, significant somehow. Anyway, I really don’t want to say any more to lead the investigation down the wrong path. However, I can promise you this will be my first post-mortem when I get back to the mortuary, and you’re more than welcome to join me,” Laura offered.
“Brilliant idea. Yes, Clarke and I will follow you there now.” He paused to study her face. What are you holding back, missy? “I’d like the results immediately… especially as I know there’s something you’re not telling me.”
She scrunched up her face. “Fine, you sussed me out. But you can’t use anything I say here as fact until after the post-mortem. You got that?”
He nodded a bit too enthusiastically, and she gave a half smile.
“I believe the knife was plunged into Mr. Dexter’s chest after he was killed.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
News of Eric’s murder spread quickly through the theatre. Actors and crew members gathered in the auditorium to share their colourful memories of their colleague and friend. Some sat alone in utter shock while others, mainly the women of the group, cried hysterically as they realised they would never spend a night with the lead actor again—in more ways than one.
Grace left them for the solitude of her office, buried her head in her hands, and sobbed uncontrollably. She regretted their last conversation had been bitter and heated after many years of friendship. She allowed herself to accept the fact that she wouldn’t see Eric again; the pain erupted inside her because she couldn’t remember exactly why s
he had been so angry with him. I knew he was a ladies’ man. Why did I take it to heart so much? Her thoughts forced the tears to flow faster, and her shoulders shook violently.
“Knock, knock! Can I come in?” Michael jibbed as he peered round the door.
Grace lifted her head but didn’t have the energy for much else. She was aware of her dishevelled appearance. Snot, tears and makeup all merged together, but she couldn’t move to help herself. Michael grabbed a handful of tissues from the box on her table and crouched down to give them to her. She accepted, letting out a sad and loud sigh. Although she dabbed the tissues along her face gently, no amount of tissues could remove the grief that felt so fresh to her once again.
“I can’t believe he’s gone, Michael.”
“I know. It’s come as a shock to us all.” He rested his hand on top of hers.
“But murdered! First Emily, and now Eric—it can’t be true. It seems this theatre is cursed.”
“Grace, don’t say things like that. Perhaps there’s a connection because the two of them were in a relationship. We can’t ignore the obvious link. But I most definitely think this theatre is not to blame.” Michael stood, perched his backside on the table, and interlocked his fingers with hers.
“What will we do, Michael? We’ll have to cancel the show.”
“I’m afraid we’ll do no such thing, my dear. We’ve already lost an abundance of performance time at the beginning of the year. Do you know how much money we’ll lose if we cancel more shows?”
She pulled away from him and rose from the office chair. Furious at his lack of sympathy, she walked towards the door, rubbing her hands together. “Michael, that’s unforgivable. Our lead actor has been murdered, and you want to go on with the show. What will our audience think of such callous behaviour? Not to mention our actual staff members who must be going through hell. The pain they will be suffering from losing a colleague, a friend. First, Emily’s life was snatched away, and we didn’t give them any compassionate leave—are you seriously suggesting we ignore that yet another employee has been murdered?” Her voice rose an octave.
Michael walked towards her and placed a hand on each of her shoulders. “Grace, darling, please don’t make me out to be the heartless one. I’ll allow everyone to have the rest of the day off. We will of course have to do some damage limitations with the press and the tickets purchased for this evening. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything after I’ve sent you all home.”
She was horrified at the thought of continuing as normal, but her stiff body eased, grateful that, albeit half-heartedly, Michael had taken on board her suggestion.
He continued, “However, I think you’re placing your own emotions onto the rest of the staff. So it will only be the one night we close the theatre. I want work to resume as normal tomorrow, with Blake playing the lead role.”
“What are you talking about?” Grace’s eyes widened in shock.
“I know you had a relationship with Eric. Please don’t try and deny it. I heard your confrontation on opening night. Don’t worry, I didn’t tell anyone. And actually, maybe you should keep that little to-do the pair of you had to yourself as well. I didn’t say anything because you are a valued member of my team, and I’d hate to lose you. I had hoped it was a one-off mistake on your behalf, and from what I heard that day, it seemed unlikely to happen again. Well, I think we can safely say it definitely won’t happen again.”
She felt faint, reeling from Michael’s revelations and his cold attitude. She threw on her coat, clutched her bag, and left the office.
“I think we should talk to the team together, Grace. Put on a unified front,” he said, following her out the door.
She spun round angrily. “There is nothing unified about the way we’re thinking at the moment. I’m mourning a colleague, and you’re thinking about money. You’re merciless, and should be ashamed of yourself.”
As Grace walked through the suffocating corridor, she heard Michael call out to her, “That’s show business, darling!”
****
The afternoon grew dark as black clouds grouped together, threatening to explode into a rainstorm over the quiet cemetery. Numb from the grief and alcohol, Grace couldn’t feel the coldness as she sat on frosty grass next to her grandfather’s grave. She unscrewed the red cap of the half-litre bottle of vodka she’d bought at the nearby newsagent and swigged back a mouthful.
The alcohol had the desired effect. The clear liquid burnt her chest as it slithered down her throat, but she welcomed its harshness because it dulled her thoughts. She slumped; staring idly at nothing, thinking of nothing in particular and totally unaware of her surroundings. Her statue state lasted a short while before a blast of liveliness ran through her.
“Why? Why has death filled my life since you left me, Granddad? And not just slow sad deaths like yours, but murdah,” she slurred. “Cruel individuals stealing innocent people’s lives. I hate this evil world. I feel so alone and confused. What can I do to stop all this loss in my life?”
Grace gulped more vodka, fast and aggressively. The sharp taste became warm and inviting. The cemetery was lonely and quiet, as it had been during most of her visits, and she wondered if the tradition of visiting departed loved ones had declined within society.
“I hope no one forgets about me when I die. I could never forget about you, Granddad, and I promise I’ll always come and visit to tell you what’s going on. I hardly ever see other mourners when I’m here. It’s so sad.”
She sat quietly for a long time, continued to ignore the damp seeping through her clothes and the red tinge her hands had adopted. When the bottle of vodka was finally empty, she threw it opposite her grandfather’s grave, rested her head on the ground, and curled up into the foetal position.
“I’m so scared, Granddad. I just want to run away and not feel the pain any more,” she said weakly, and fell asleep.
****
When Grace finally woke up, her neck was stiff, but she felt warm. She was lying on a soft sofa with a fleece blanket over her. She was no longer at the cemetery, and she rushed to sit up so swiftly that her head spun from the motion. She closed her eyes, allowing the alcohol-induced dizziness to slow down, before studying her surroundings. It didn’t take long to realise she was safe at home, in the living room. How the hell did I get here? I can’t remember a thing. Oh my God, did I fall asleep at the cemetery? No I obviously made it back here before passing out! The smell of coffee disrupted her musings—she wasn’t alone in the house. With the effects of the alcohol still in her system, she felt brave and ventured from the comfort of the warm blanket into the kitchen.
Grace opened the door and was greeted with a harrowing glare from her mother. She remained silent, wanting to gauge the mood and hopefully regain her memory. Saying nothing, Valerie turned her back to continue cooking. She found her mother’s reaction immature and sniggered while stumbling through the room towards the fridge.
“I’m afraid you won’t find any alcohol in there,” Valerie said.
“I bought two bottles of wine yesterday, so I think you’ll find I will.”
“The wine I poured down the sink half an hour ago, you mean?”
“How dare you?” Grace snapped, slamming the fridge door with such force, it shook against the cupboard.
Valerie dropped her cooking utensils and spun round. “I found you asleep at your granddad’s grave. Well, comatose would be a better description. There was an empty bottle of vodka near you, and don’t try and deny it, Grace—I know it was yours. I rang your father, he carried you to the car and placed you on the sofa. You didn’t stir once.” Valerie’s eyes welled up as she relived the experience. “I’ve not long come in from the living room. I just sat there, watching you sleep for ages. Every time I thought of my unconscious daughter lying on the ground of a public place, alone and in the dark, fear clenched my stomach, and I wanted to be sick. What if someone else found you, Grace?” Her mother slid down along the sideboard.
“Are you listening? What if it wasn’t me that found you? There is a murderer out there, killing women.” Valerie finally dragged herself from the floor and moved closer to her. “I heard about Eric on the news, and when you didn’t answer your mobile, I was worried about you. I rang the theatre, and Michael said you had left hours before. I knew there was only one place you would go. I just never imagined to find you in that state.”
Neither of them spoke for some time. Grace desperately wanted a way out, a solution to end the depressing atmosphere growing fierce in the small kitchen. Knowing her mother could never deny her a hug, she moved forward and embraced Valerie. As the hangover began to kick in, the comfort of a hug was a welcoming one.
“I’m sorry I made you worry like that, Mum. It wasn’t intentional. When I heard about Eric, the devastation took over. I should have just come home. I know that now.”
Valerie pulled from the embrace and looked deep into her daughter’s eyes. “Grace, I’m seriously concerned about the way you’re handling everything. I understand you’re grieving, more than most at the moment, and I can’t pretend to know what you’re going through—”
“Then don’t try to! Don’t start another lecture and don’t pour my wine down the sink. I’m a grown woman who doesn’t deserve to be treated like this!”
“You might be a grown woman, Grace, but you sure as hell are not acting like one. I thought your counselling sessions would help more, but you keep turning to the booze. I’ve had enough! Do you know how lucky you are? Anything could have happened to you out there this evening. Don’t you care about yourself? I can’t watch you do this any more.”
