by Tara Lyons
She could see the depth of concern in her mother’s eyes. Valerie was sensitive, and the last thing Grace wanted was a quarrel, not when her mother was being so considerate towards her.
“Mum, I love you, but please don’t fuss over me so much. I’m not going back to work exactly. I just want to pop in and see how the performance is progressing. It will give me a chance to tell the crew about Eric’s service, and I’d like to find out how Michael is. I’ll be fine, I promise.”
After a light-hearted debate, which Grace knew her mother could never win, Valerie reluctantly gave in to her request and drove into Central London.
Once at the theatre, Grace had only made it as far as the office corridor before she heard a commotion coming from the auditorium. She ran onto the stage, shocked to be greeted by men wielding weapons and rushing around. Voices bellowed around her, but she couldn’t understand what was being said. It was loud and confusing, and she struggled to focus on one single thing. There were screams, loud bangs, and people shoving each other. She looked in every direction, desperate for an answer. Her gaze stopped on a familiar face, and she pushed violently through her trembling colleagues.
“Detective Inspector Hamilton! Tell me what the hell is going on here,” Grace demanded.
But before he had a chance to explain, a message crackled through the radio that hung from his stab vest. Again, Grace couldn’t make out everything that was said, but she definitely caught “suspect has been seized in his office.” The two detectives gave no indication as to the reason for their intrusion, but just raced past her. Determined not to miss any vital information, she sped off in hot pursuit.
Hamilton and Clarke stormed into Michael’s office as Grace caught up with them. Her boss sat calmly behind his desk, and that calmness washed over her too. They must have made a terrible mistake. Two burly men who resembled bodyguards stood on either side of Michael while another manned the door and attempted to stop her entrance. Hamilton, the considerate detective, waved his hand, and the brute allowed her into the room. Almost as if he had waited for her, Hamilton gave her a quick glance before addressing her superior.
“Michael Sparks, I am arresting you on the suspicion of the murder of Eric Dexter.”
“What the fuck?” Grace screamed, unable to control herself.
The men in the room ignored her, and Hamilton continued to read Michael his rights as Clarke cuffed him. That calm feeling quickly vanished as she watched in horror while the men in stab vests, guns placed on their hips, dragged Michael to his feet and escorted him from the office. Michael’s head remained high, but he refused to look in her direction.
“Take him to the station, boys. We’ll be right behind you,” Hamilton grunted.
Grace stumbled. She placed her hand out to steady herself and perched on the desk as the inspector explained they had DNA evidence against Michael, and were confident with the arrest she had just witnessed. She felt queasy as he spoke, unable to absorb the information.
“This can’t be real. I only popped in to tell Michael about the funeral. Now you want me to believe it was actually him who killed Eric? No, I won’t believe that. But he didn’t even say anything. Didn’t deny it, argue against what you said. He just walked out casually. Why didn’t he tell you that you’re wrong? Why didn’t he defend himself?” Grace rambled in a muddled haze.
But the inspector ignored her questions. “I’m sure it has come as a shock, Miss Murphy. I hope you understand that you’ll need to escort everyone from the premises.”
“What? No, I don’t understand. Why?”
“We have a warrant to search the theatre. Everyone needs to leave immediately. A small team will stay behind to ensure nothing is tampered with. DS Clarke and I must get back to the station straight away, so please, can you cooperate with our team and get your staff out of the building?”
Grace nodded, unsure she could rely on herself to construct a sentence. The two detectives left the office, and she slumped to the ground, cross-legged. I trusted Michael. We all trusted Michael. He is our boss and our friend. When granddad died, he was so patient and understanding. How can this be true? It can’t be. Frustrated by her conflicting thoughts, she took a few deep breaths and summoned the energy to return to the stage. The scene was manic, and everyone looked to her for answers—answers she wasn’t sure she could give.
“What the hell just happened back there, Grace? These guys wouldn’t let any of us leave the auditorium. Actually, they’re still saying we can’t.” Aaron, the sound assistant, jumped at her first with the questions.
She stared off into the distance, her head dizzy from everything that had happened already. Her lack of answers prompted Aaron to step forward and nudge her shoulder.
“Erm… sorry.” She shook her head, hoping it would clear her mind. “I might as well tell you all now because I’m sure the press is going to have a field day with this… Michael was just arrested for Eric’s murder.”
“What?”
“No way, that can’t be true.”
“I always thought there was something off about him.”
“He wouldn’t have done that. This theatre is all he cares about.”
Grace couldn’t tell who had said what—too many voices and opinions that she was not ready to deal with. She held both her hands up, silencing them all.
“That’s all I know, and frankly, I’m not in the mood to start gossip and rumours. You’re allowed to collect your belongings from the green room or your lockers, but the police will escort you to make sure you don’t touch anything else. Then we all must leave the theatre.”
“Excuse me, we have a performance tonight,” Blake cried out.
“At a theatre where the managing director was just arrested in front of us all. For murdering the lead actor,” Aaron’s reply was stained with sarcasm.
She squeezed her eyes shut, unable to deal with the dramatic personalities in front of her, and rubbed her temples to ease the pressure.
“Please just get your things and leave.” Grace glared at them now. “There’ll be no performance tonight or any night in the near future, I’m sure. I’ll contact Michael’s boss, update him on the current situation, and request he call you all personally to let you know where you stand.”
“Has no one ever heard of innocent until proven guilty? He could be out in a few hours, demanding an apology.”
“That may be the case, Blake, but for now, the police have a search warrant. And I’m not entirely sure, but I think the theatre just became a place of interest to them. There will be no performance tonight. I’m going home. I suggest you all do the same.” Grace ended the conversation, despite the grunts and chatter in her wake.
Before leaving the theatre, she told a policeman, who seemed to be in charge of the situation, where everyone would need to be escorted to in order to collect their personal belongings. He said he was happy to continue without her assistance and permitted her to leave the building. As she stepped onto the street, the bright daylight made her squint. The exhausting events of the day had taken their toll, making it feel as though it should have been midnight, not only two in the afternoon. She debated if she could actually go straight home and share the news, fretting it would only add to Valerie’s growing concern for her. No, I don’t have the energy to deal with my mother’s neurotic behaviour. Grace understood it came from a place of love, but she also knew being locked in the house was something she could not deal with.
Without thinking, her feet automatically walked away from the theatre and underground station. Even on a bright afternoon, the lights and sounds from Soho’s bars and restaurants were difficult to ignore. She chose somewhere she had never visited before. A place where no one would recognise her and engage her in conversation. A place where she couldn’t be distracted from her ultimate goal: to get uncontrollably drunk.
CHAPTER FORTY
When Hamilton and Clarke arrived at the station, Michael’s solicitor had already been contacted. The desk sergeant
explained that he had read Mr. Sparks his rights and that Michael had insisted on his own representation being present during the interview. Luckily, they didn’t have to wait long; thirty minutes later, the man’s solicitor, Miss Holten, arrived from Forde and Partners, demanding to see her client. Feeling smug and overjoyed with the arrest, Hamilton granted her a ten-minute conference with the suspect.
Once they were together in Interview Room One, Clarke set up the recording machine and gave the obligatory information: time, date, and names of those present. Hamilton stared at Michael, silent and stern-faced. After all his years of policing, he had a certain way of discovering people’s tricks and tells. He liked to use the moments before an interview to gauge the suspect’s character. Michael was clearly not intimidated by Hamilton’s glare. A grin was fixed firmly on the man’s face, and his eyes bored back into Hamilton’s.
He’s an arrogant bastard, then. The tension intensified quickly.
“Mr. Sparks, do you understand the charges against you?” Hamilton finally asked.
Michael exchanged glances with his solicitor before replying. “No comment.”
“Where were you the night of February ninth, Mr. Sparks?”
“No comment.”
“We found your DNA at the murder scene and on the victim, Mr. Eric Dexter,” he continued.
Michael hesitated while Miss Holten jotted down notes on her notepad.
“No comment.”
“You see, Mr. Sparks, you can say ‘no comment’ as many times as you like. I’m sure that’s what your solicitor here has advised you to do. But let me just share with you what I’m thinking. If you aren’t willing to cooperate with us or give yourself an alibi for the time of the murder, it makes you look guilty, like you’re holding something back from us. It really is as simple as that.” Hamilton raised his eyebrows and leaned back into this chair.
The room descended into a frustrating silence, except for the humming noise from the recording machine.
Hamilton jumped forward and caught everyone off-guard. He pointed his finger at Michael and smiled calmly. “I mentioned your DNA was found on the murder victim, didn’t I?”
The atmosphere in the room shifted. Michael was losing his composure. His nostrils flared, and he clenched his jaw. Hamilton felt triumphant.
The solicitor looked uncomfortable, twiddling her pen between her fingers. “Okay, and what DNA have you gathered, Inspector?”
“Miss Holten, thank you for taking part, and you pose a very interesting question,” he said, relaxing into his chair again.
She pouted but held his gaze.
“We’re confident that Mr. Sparks and the victim, Mr. Dexter, had some sort of scuffle moments before the murder took place. Both men landed punches on each other. Oh, I’ve already noticed the marks on your knuckles, Mr. Sparks, so please don’t feel the need to cover them now. And that, I have to say, was your downfall. You see, when you battered Mr. Dexter, you left behind some of your own blood. Thanks to the naughty little soliciting charge you received a few years ago, your DNA was already in our system. That alone is enough to get you to court.”
“We will be applying for bail, Inspector,” Miss Holten said. A red blush rose from the neck of her pristine white shirt.
Hamilton shrugged. “That kind of information is for the court. I’m here to make sure murderers are arrested and justice is served, for the victims and their families.”
He turned his attention back to Michael. Infuriated with the man’s lack of response, he was determined to entice a reaction. “I think we’re finished for now. But just so you are aware, another interview will be conducted in due course regarding the other victims.” Hamilton threw the bait as he gathered his notes together.
“Other victims?” Michael shouted, his resolve broken.
The man’s solicitor shot him a warning look and shook her head.
Hamilton’s excitement bubbled inside. That was easier than I thought. He gazed at Michael. “Yes, Mr. Sparks, the other victims. There have been six murder victims in our investigation. Mr. Dexter was just one of them.”
The solicitor touched her client’s shoulder. “So you’ve found my client’s DNA at all the crime scenes, have you, Inspector?”
“No, Miss Holten, but our pathology team believe the same murder weapon was used on all six victims,” Hamilton lied to coax the suspect further. “So you’ll understand why we need to establish Mr. Sparks’s whereabouts when the other murders took place.”
“You’re having a fucking laugh if you think you’re pinning this on me.” Michael’s face contorted in anger.
“Mr. Sparks, I urge you to say nothing further in this interview,” Miss Holten said.
“Shut up! What use are you to me? You’re happy to just sit there and listen while they accuse me of murdering all those women. No, I won’t have it.”
“But you haven’t denied murdering Mr. Dexter,” Hamilton snapped eagerly.
“Very good, Inspector. I can see what you’re trying to do here. I will not be a fool to your games. I am an innocent man.” Michael’s tone had calmed significantly.
“Mr. Sparks, we know that is not true. Your DNA was found on the victim—you will go to prison for his murder. And believe me when I tell you I will do everything in my power between now and the court hearing to connect you to all of the victims and prove you murdered them. You will never step foot in your precious theatre again.” Hamilton’s tone was low and deep, and he leaned forward on the table, his face inches from Michael’s.
“Inspector, I request a break in this interview to consult with my client further,” Miss Holten interrupted.
Hamilton nodded at Clarke, who stated the time before he stopped the recording.
“Advise your client wisely, Miss Holten. We’ll be back shortly.” Hamilton bundled his papers together and left the interview room.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Grace staggered along the street to her home, occasionally holding on to a fence to steady herself. The sky was a sheet of blackness with the odd twinkling star, and she was relieved for the streetlights that illuminated her path. The air was bitter cold, but her coat, draped over her handbag, dragged on the ground beside her. She was vacant and uninterested in the disapproving glances from passers-by.
Rubbish from the small brown recycling bin had blown into the middle of Grace’s front garden, and she tripped, grazing her hands on the ground. Lying face down on the wet grass, she almost laughed at herself and the state she was in. A whistle echoed through the trees, forcing her to turn over and sit up. She held her breath and peered around the quiet neighbourhood, back down the street she had just walked. Nothing. She exhaled, but the thump in her chest quickened as she fumbled in her handbag for her keys, never taking her eyes from the road. Once she had them tight in her grasp, she awkwardly lifted herself from the ground and stumbled to the front door, leaving her coat where it had fallen.
With the door shut behind her, Grace shook her head and laughed at herself. For fuck’s sake, pull yourself together. But the crushing pain erupting in her skull made things difficult. Motown tunes blared from behind the kitchen door, Valerie’s harmonies keeping up with each lyric. Although she tripped up the stairs twice, Lionel Richie covered her drunken blunders.
She sat motionless on the edge of her bed for half an hour, her mind incoherent. The alcohol sped through her system, the bedroom spun, and she desperately tried to ignore the queasiness simmering in her stomach. In an attempt to keep her mind from the sickly feeling, she finally shed the depressing funeral clothes and pulled on a baggy T-shirt and leggings. Without thinking, she retrieved the diary and pen from under her pillow, opened to a blank page, and started scribbling.
I don’t even know what day it is any more… can it really still be the same day that Eric was cremated? The same day that his murderer was arrested? Wait! Not just any ‘murderer’ either. Michael!!! My boss. Eric’s boss!! This shit can’t be real. Ha ha, ha ha, ha ha!! I’m so stupid�
�� I thought my bad dreams meant something. That I could help. Help who? Her or him? I can’t even help myself. A psychic!! I couldn’t even “see” that the man I loved was sleeping around or that he was murdered by someone I trusted. Someone I saw every day and thought of as a friend. But someone is watching me. I know it. During the night, when the streets are dark and quiet. What if it’s the ghosts of the people I knew? What if they’re watching me from the shadows??? OMG what is wrong with me? Paranoia central!!!! Grace, no one is watching you!!!!! Why would they? I’m useless. A pathetic waste of space who doesn’t deserve the life I’ve been given.
She closed the book and flopped back onto the bed, allowing sleep to take her.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Hamilton returned to the interview room with a confident attitude. The tension had eased away, and the knots in his shoulders had relaxed. He knew the solicitor had called for a break in the interview to encourage her client to make a full confession, and the miserable look on Michael’s face confirmed that. He wanted the suspect’s admission on tape so he could get home to his wife and give her the attention she deserved.
“Miss Holten tells me you’re ready to cooperate with us now, Mr. Sparks,” Hamilton said once Clarke had recorded the necessary details.
Michael lifted his head to meet Hamilton’s glare. “On the condition that you understand I will not be stitched up for crimes I did not commit, Inspector.”
“You’re not in any position to stipulate conditions or strike up deals at the moment, Mr. Sparks. We’re waiting to hear what you have to say.”
An uncomfortable silence filled the room once again, and Hamilton worried the man was considering retaking the ‘no comment’ route. He needed to bide his time—he didn’t want to put too much pressure on Michael. He narrowed his eyes, glaring directly at his suspect. Michael only lasted a few moments before peering down at the table. When he finally lifted his head, his face was ghastly pale.
