by Tara Lyons
“Then I won’t stick around and force you to watch it.” Her temper escalated again, and she charged through the kitchen out to the front door. The quick search for her handbag was a disappointing one.
Valerie leaned against the doorframe, her arms folded and eyebrows raised. Grace hated the knowing glint in her mother’s eyes.
“You won’t find your things, Grace. I’ve hidden them and locked the front door. There’ll be no frantic escape for more alcohol tonight.”
“So you’re keeping me prisoner?” She looked her mother up and down, furious at the confident posture on show.
“If that’s how you want to look at it, go ahead. I’m doing this for your own benefit. I don’t want you to think the answer to your problems is to get drunk. You’ll do something stupid or, God forbid, leave yourself vulnerable and asking for trouble. I will never be able to erase today’s image of you from my mind, and I refuse to go through that again.”
With no fight left in her, Grace admitted defeat and climbed the stairs to her bedroom. She knew she had to at least try to sleep off the sickly feeling that was rising in her throat. And although she could hear her mother’s sobs behind her, for the second time that day, she could feel nothing but a numb sensation.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The two detectives strode through the incident room, eager to update their colleagues on Eric’s post-mortem. The team stopped what they were doing immediately and, while Clarke carried out his usual task of updating the board, Hamilton relayed the details.
“Laura confirmed that Dexter’s knife wound was not the cause of death; the killer did in fact stab him once he was already dead. And not with much force either.”
“So you think we already have a copycat killer on our hands, gov?” Morris called out from where she sat behind her computer.
“Mmm… I don’t know about a copycat, Sharon. We have to remember that Dexter had connections with the other victims. I know I was an advocator of his guilt, but I’m prepared to hold my hands up and say my gut instinct may have been wrong this time. We need to dissect this one carefully. Lewis, you go over the other aspects of Laura’s report.”
Clarke returned the black marker to the board and faced the team. “Blunt-force trauma to the head is what killed Eric Dexter. Pathology have confirmed the glass object was hefty and thick; fragments remained in the victim’s skull, so if we can find the murder weapon, Laura will be able to match it.”
“There was nothing at the scene. Forensics conducted a thorough search,” Wedlock offered.
“I know, Les, but that’s not to say the killer didn’t take it with him.” Clarke glimpsed back at his notepad and recovered his train of thought. “Okay, what we do know is that the murderer left the knife impaled in Dexter’s chest. A knife that was taken from his own kitchen, and the incisions do not match the other victims’ wounds. This took place in his home with no sign of forced entry, and from his defensive wounds, we know he put up a fight. It’s likely that our killer has some contusions of his own. Lastly, we can’t ignore that he’s male; so the dissimilarities with this victim are apparent.”
The team digested all the information before firing ideas amongst each other. While Morris stuck with her copycat theory, believing it was someone who had cobbled together information from the media, Fraser suggested that they were still looking for the same killer, and that Eric had been the connecting factor between the dead women.
“These could have been rage killings,” she explained. “All the women were linked to Eric in some way and our murderer was jealous. Perhaps he wanted them for himself and was livid that he couldn’t have them. Then when he discovered Eric could, he saw red. But this time, he came across some difficulties. Maybe he’s not as strong or as tall as Eric, hence the struggle between them. The use of a glass object could have been used in panic, but he wanted everyone to know it was him, so he still struck the knife into his chest anyway.”
Hamilton nodded at the sergeant’s suggestion. “Kerry, it looks like you’re on the same wavelength as us. It’s exactly what Lewis and I surmised during the car journey over here. Also, I’m pleased to say that my competent partner has left the best nugget of information for me to share with you.”
Clarke sniggered, shaking his head, and Hamilton savoured the moment. Smirking in silence, he watched the team waiting eagerly for him to continue. “Our killer left his DNA all over this crime scene. It’s in the process of being checked against the database right now. If he’s got form, we’ll have him. Finally, some concrete evidence that he murdered Dexter, and possibly our other five victims.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Grace’s hands trembled as she reached for the glass of water on her bedside table. She hadn’t seen her mother since the altercation about the locked front door, so she knew Valerie had slipped in undetected during the night to leave the drink for her. Overjoyed the feeling to throw up was not bubbling in her stomach, she retrieved the diary from under her pillow to capture all she could remember about what had woken her.
Early hours of Friday morning – I’m hungover!
This nightmare was the worst; it was more vivid. More real somehow. I feel sick inside, and not from the drink. It was cold and dark, and I was alone. This time there was blood. Lots of blood, everywhere. But what I can’t forget was how it gushed down her face.
Grace stopped writing to take another sip of water, trying desperately to control her shivering hands. She wiped her eyes vigorously, wanting to force herself away from the nightmare, to feel safe in her bedroom. But she knew she had to concentrate long enough to write it all down. She had to do it for Maria. She squinted as she picked up the pen again.
It was a dead woman’s face. Her body was motionless and naked, covered in blood. But that’s all I can see clearly and, actually, even as I write, the image is fading. It’s becoming distant. Like they’re pulling away from me and I can’t hold on to them. Fucking hell, there’s no way I can go back to sleep now. I thought yesterday’s drink would help me. Save me even. But it’s made me feel worse. I can’t think straight right now, and I can’t be sure if that’s because of the dream or the hangover. It’s not just the nightmares I want the alcohol to rescue me from. I want it to help me forget my life too. Eric is dead. Shit! I can’t believe I just wrote that. He’s dead. Murdered like Emily. And Michelle. And Kate. Maybe like me too if Mum hadn’t found me first in the cemetery. There has to be a connection!!! Christ, my tongue feels enormous, and dry… maybe I will throw up. This hangover is pure evil. It’s building in momentum. What did I drink? Too bloody much, whatever it was. It’s probably a blessing that Mum bolted me in last night. I’m asking for trouble. But sometimes I can’t help myself, it blocks the pain. For a few hours anyway, I forget how much I’m hurting. It numbs the aching.
I can’t believe I’ll never see Eric’s perfect face again.
This has to stop. I’ll talk to Mum and to Maria. I’ll get some help.
Grace lowered her knees, where she had been resting the diary, and dropped the book onto the bed. She stared into space for a few moments, thoughts of the loved ones she’d lost ran through her mind. Are there clues that I can find a connection to? She surveyed the room, spotted her bag hanging on the door handle, and was overjoyed her mum had returned it. She threw off the covers, bounced across the room, and returned to the warmth of her duvet with her handbag. Once she’d retrieved her iPhone, she searched through the contacts list, stopping at Michael’s name and selected the text message option.
Michael, I’m sorry, but I won’t be coming in to work today. You may be right, the team might not be affected by all this tragedy, but I am. I need to grieve for my friend. Feel free to take it out of my holiday leave, I know I have plenty. I’ll be in contact next week. Grace.
Once the text was sent, she held down the power button to switch off the phone. Grace had decided she didn’t want to be disturbed, and despite it being only five in the morning, she wrapped herself in the flu
ffy white robe draped at the bottom of her bed and switched on her laptop. Somewhere deep inside, a part of her wasn’t ready to give in to the alcohol and pity, and that spurred her on. She wanted to discover what had really happened to her friends and why they had been murdered.
****
Valerie almost dropped the mug of tea after she opened the bedroom door and absorbed the sight before her. Her daughter energetically worked over her laptop, oblivious to her presence. Grace’s brunette locks were loose and wild; they had evidently been pulled through by her fingers quite a few times. The shadows dulling her skin gave a clue to her lack of sleep, but her eyes were wide and frantic. Discarded papers were tossed all over the floor, some with Grace’s handwriting on them, others obviously printed from the Internet. Without her glasses, Valerie couldn’t read the information on them.
As she walked farther in the room, it became clear that the paperwork wasn’t confined to the floor—it was spread out over the desk and bed. Grace continued to tap away, ignoring Valerie’s attempts to gain her attention. Printouts were highlighted in different sections, an array of coloured pens lay on the desk without lids, and sticky notes had been placed all over the wall above the laptop. She had never witnessed such chaos in her daughter’s room. It wasn’t like Grace to work in such a disorganised mess, and Valerie’s already-growing concern for her daughter made her shudder at the scene.
“What are you doing?”
Valerie was startled by the sound of Grace’s voice, not realising she had stopped typing. “Well, I was going to ask you the same question, dear.”
Eyeing her daughter suspiciously, she placed the mug of tea on a stack of papers.
Grace frowned, removed the mug from where her mother had put it and placed it on the floor. “I’m doing some research, Mum. I think I can help my friends who were brutally killed.”
“How can you, love? I’m so worried about you. Should I call for the doctor?” She was in turmoil, thinking about whom she could ask for help.
“I don’t need a doctor! I can find their killer. I can help the police catch this evil monster.” Grace’s excited eyes widened as she collected pages and shoved them into Valerie’s hands.
“These nightmares I’m having could be some form of psychic ability, Mum. At first, I thought they could be premonitions, but I’ve realised that’s foreseeing the future. I’ve dreamt of dead bodies, so that obviously can’t be the case. But what if I’m having clairvoyant visions? Some research even suggests that in our dreaming state, we’re more open to communication from the dead. As I’m finding it difficult to piece the memories of all of them together, this could be a possibility. But I need to do some more research. Did you want something?” Grace spoke so quickly that it took Valerie a few moments to register all the information.
She stood gawking at her daughter in silence. Her anxiety hit a new high as she struggled to comprehend Grace’s state of mind. Together, they had watched many TV programmes about people claiming to be psychic, or to possess the ability to talk with dead people, but neither of them had believed it. She thought of times when the two of them had chuckled at the outrageousness of these people’s claims, adamant it was all concocted for TV entertainment. She was dumbfounded that Grace had come to not only believe it, but to think it was something she could do. Maybe the loss of her granddad has affected her much more than I realised.
“Mum! Seriously, I’m busy. Can I help you with something?” Grace’s aggressive tone snapped her from her thoughts.
“I’m just a bit shocked, if I’m honest, darling. I thought we both felt the same about all this nonsense.”
“That’s the thing, I don’t think it’s nonsense at all any more. I know we’ve both said you can never be sure if those people are just out to make money, but now it’s happening to me, I can understand it. All this information on the Internet is brilliant too, Mum. You should read it. There are groups of people, including scientists, that have conducted assessments into the reality of clairvoyance, mediums, and other psychic abilities. Also the significance of different dreams or nightmares and the meanings behind them.”
“Well, that is interesting,” Valerie said with a fake smile. “But shouldn’t you be at work? I’m sure Michael is worried about you. It’s ten a.m.”
“Don’t be silly; I sent him a message when I woke up, about five hours ago. That’s when I knew I could help them. I’ve been delving into all this ever since. I know now that my visions are a sign that I’m supposed to do something, that I have to help. Please, Mum, just let me get on.” Grace’s eyes bulged, filled with an intensity Valerie had never witnessed before.
She feared that any disagreement could alter her daughter’s mood further and create an argument between them, so she decided not to exacerbate the situation. She smiled sweetly and wished Grace luck with the research.
“Darling, I’ll be downstairs if you need me, or if you want to have a chat about anything you find out, okay?” she called from the bedroom door.
Apprehension seeped through her mind as she watched Grace work between her laptop and notebooks in a frenzy. Although she was glad her daughter had no interest in reaching for the wine bottle, she couldn’t help but worry that her attraction to paranormal activities was just another unhealthy distraction.
Grace didn’t take her eyes from her work and called out, “It’s fine, Mum. I have a session with Maria this evening. I’m going to discuss it all with her.”
With a deep sorrowful feeling, Valerie shut the door on her daughter.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Maria sensed a change in Grace’s mood immediately and was eager to find out why. Regardless of the fact that they had conducted only two sessions together, they had clearly formed a close bond. She could tell her patient was excited to discuss something with her, which made her feel proud of the progress that was taking place. She couldn’t help but smile to herself as she watched Grace like an eager puppy on the reclining chair, desperate to start their session. But Maria was a lady of routine. In her twenty-odd years as a psychiatrist, she’d come to understand the importance of patience in these situations and didn’t want to rush anything. She wanted to control the setting and conjure a calmer atmosphere, and a calmer Grace. Maria set about her normal routine of boiling the kettle—she believed that a warm cup of tea could bring tranquility to any scenario.
“I’ve really been looking forward to today’s session,” Grace blurted out, obviously unable to sit in silence any longer.
Maria turned and gave her usual warm smile but continued making the tea instead of indulging Grace in discussion. She wanted to fully examine Grace’s mood, and she always preferred to receive information without asking too many questions, as much as she sometimes wanted to.
“I think I finally understand why I’ve been having these nightmares, and I need your help.”
“Of course. You know that’s what I’m here for: to help you.”
As Maria sipped her tea, Grace divulged the day’s activity of research. Hearing her patient talk so enthusiastically and sound so positive about her ideas gave Maria a pleasant feeling. However, Grace had left her cup of tea untouched on the table—a first for her.
“I know I don’t have diary entries from when the ordeals began, but I thought back to when I suffered the most awful ones. There was the time after I slept with Eric, and then again when I had that argument with him on opening night. It’s made me wonder now if those dreams were warning me that Eric was the next victim. What do you think, Maria?”
“I believe that exploring the inner workings of our minds can uncover a lot. The brain is an intricate organ that determines what we remember, what we process on a day-to-day basis, and then how we decipher that information in order to just make it through the day. And each individual does these tasks and copes with these things differently. It’s an amazing thing. I haven’t studied premonitions or clairvoyance, so unfortunately, I can’t comment on that, but there may be another way I can help.
If you’re open to it.”
Grace clapped her hands together in excitement. “Yes, I thought the same. It was foolish of me to not think of it sooner really, and it wasn’t until today during my research that I suddenly remembered the details on your business card. You’re a clinical hypnotherapist!”
“That’s correct.” Maria couldn’t contain her smile as she watched the excitement pour over Grace’s face. “It could definitely be an avenue we discuss and consider for your future sessions, as you’ve described a reoccurring theme to your dreams that’s affecting your everyday life. Hypnotherapy may be able to help us unmask the true meaning behind them, because the process takes us into our subconscious minds, while having the benefit of being awake and alert.”
“Please, Maria, I want to do it as soon as possible,” Grace said as she shuffled to the edge of her seat, hunger in her eyes. “Like you said, it is affecting my everyday life. I called in sick at work today, and that’s very unlike me. The disturbed sleep is gruelling. But the most frustrating thing is not being able to fully remember the images that are causing me to feel such panic when I wake up. If these are some form of psychic visions, then I have to be able to help myself and the police. I’ve been through so much death and pain lately, I so badly want to turn these horrific nightmares into something positive. And even if there is absolutely no connection, and they’re just a cruel coincidence, I have to uncover them so I can rid myself of them. I have to move on.” Grace caught the teardrop on her finger before it slipped off her chin.
Maria admired the young woman’s determination, and resolved that she would use her expertise to help Grace unmask the internal demons.
****
On the bus journey home, Grace was eager to share her excitement and could think of only one person to contact. She reached into her bag for her phone, opened WhatsApp, and brought up the previous conversation with Natasha. Pleased to see her friend’s status was ‘online’, she began typing.
