by Tara Lyons
“Tell them exactly what you told me,” Miss Holten said.
“Okay… I admit that I killed Eric Dexter, but it was an accident, and I had nothing to do with the deaths of any of those women.”
Hamilton and Clarke exchanged glances. He understood the look of disappointment in his partner’s eyes.
“Continue, Mr. Sparks. We need to know everything, all the details from the night of Mr. Dexter’s death.” Hamilton could hear the downhearted tone in his own voice.
“I’ll be honest with you, Inspector. Although I didn’t particularly like the man, credit where it’s due, he was a superb actor, and a lot of fans followed him to my theatre. However, I overheard Eric and Grace having a small altercation on opening night. From what they said, it was obvious they had slept together. While Emily was still alive, I might add. Disgusting behaviour, if you ask me.”
“We have all of this information, Mr. Sparks.”
Michael screwed up his face but continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “Well, it was blatantly clear he had just used Grace to pass the time. That man cared about no one but himself. And the way he spoke to her that evening… it was appalling. Grace is a beautiful and exceptional woman, and I was infuriated when I heard him.”
“So you murdered the man because you were jealous?” Clarke interjected.
Hamilton could sense the anger emanating from his partner, but he saw no need for aggression while the suspect was speaking freely.
“It wasn’t murder! I’ve told you already, it was an unfortunate accident. And I was not jealous of that man—ha! But did I like the way he behaved or the way he spoke to my colleague? No, I bloody well did not.”
“Unfortunate accident? You killed a man! And the way you’re talking about Miss Murphy implies to me that you thought more of her than just a colleague,” Clarke shot back.
Michael threw his hands up in the air and sighed. “Fine, I’ll say no more.”
Hamilton had dreaded that reaction and was infuriated that the confession had ceased mid-flow. Michael folded his arms across his chest and stared at the wall to his left. Clarke looked vexed and Hamilton shoved his knee against Clarke’s thigh in warning. His partner grunted submission.
“Mr. Sparks, this is your chance to tell your side of the story. We already have your murder confession on tape, and that’s enough for us. So, if you don’t want to say any more, then we’ll have you taken back to your cell.”
Michael slowly turned to face the detectives again. Hatred oozed from his cold blue eyes, and his upper lip curved as though he were preparing to growl. “Yes, I’ll have my say, Inspector.” His face relaxed, and he inhaled dramatically through his nose.
Hamilton was surprised by his sudden change in character.
“Well, now you’re ready to listen. During opening week, the crew and I visited a local bar for a few drinks after the performance. As I had driven in to work that day, I only had a few virgin martinis, of course. True to style, Eric enjoyed the attention and all the cocktails and shots people bought him. He missed the last train, so I offered to give him a lift home. I think he sobered up during the journey, or perhaps he had been putting on a show in the bar. I don’t know, but I wanted to make sure he got home all the same—I’m not a monster. Anyway, once we were inside his apartment, he took a beer from the fridge and insisted that I stay for one. But then that foul mouth reared its ugly head again. He bragged about all the women he had slept with, taunted me for living with my mother, and called me hurtful names.” Michael paused and looked down at his trembling hands resting on the table.
Hamilton silently urged the man to continue.
“You know, it’s true when people say they see red. I never really believed it before. But that night, the red mist descended, and I punched him in the face,” Michael lifted his head and glared directly at Hamilton. “I’ve never punched anyone before; it was liberating. But the size of Eric compared to me—I didn’t think it had done much damage, especially when he charged at me. By the grace of God, my face was spared, but he did get a few jabs into my ribs. He pinned me up against the kitchen table, and I feared for my life. The glass fruit bowl was in reach, so I grabbed it and whacked it over his head. I just wanted to get free from his hold. It didn’t smash but he slumped down in a heap. The blood poured from his head… I told you it was an accident.”
“What about the knife you struck into his heart, Mr. Sparks?” Hamilton questioned.
“I panicked. I couldn’t be sent to prison, with all those grimy delinquents, because of a stupid mishap. I had read all the details about the other murders, that the women had been stabbed through the heart. I thought if I stuck the knife into his chest, you’d assume it was the same killer and I’d be free. But I am not responsible for the women that were killed.”
“Well, for Eric Dexter’s sake, thank heavens for the DNA database, eh?” Clarke huffed, checked the time, and terminated the recording.
Hamilton turned to the uniformed policeman standing guard at the door. “Take this man down to the cell, officer.”
“That’s it? What happens now? What about a deal for my cooperation?” Michael fired questions at them, a look of terror cast over his face.
“We didn’t promise any deal. Did we say anything about a deal, Sergeant?”
Clarke turned down his lips and shook his head in reply to Hamilton’s question.
“You can’t do this to me. I have rights. I told you the truth—I didn’t murder those women.” Michael continued to shout as the officer escorted him from the room, and Miss Holten silently followed them.
“Mr. Dexter had rights too, and you’ve just confessed to his murder. Your solicitor can explain the logistics of what will happen now,” Hamilton countered as he walked away with his partner towards the front desk.
“Gov, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so disappointed during a murder confession.”
Hamilton sighed heavily. “I hear you, Lewis! Something awful tells me we’re back to square one with this investigation.”
****
The team listened intently while Clarke informed them of the results of Michael’s interview and relayed the fear that it bore no significance on the other murders.
“That must have been bittersweet, Lewis. Kudos on getting the confession for Dexter’s murder, but it pretty much leaves us up shit creek again with this case,” said Wedlock, the first to make his opinion heard.
“Don’t I know it?” Clarke pulled his hands through his jet-black hair in frustration. He was still vexed by Michael’s blasé attitude about murdering a young man, accident or not.
“Maybe this doesn’t lead us directly back to square one,” Morris said. “What if Eric Dexter actually was our killer all along? I mean, we were about to arrest him before he was murdered, and there’s been no female victims since his demise. What’s not to say we were right?”
Clarke contemplated his colleagues’ observation. “You could have something there, Sharon. But I can’t help but wonder, did we really have enough evidence to make that stick? Despite what the boss thought, his hand was forced by the DCI to make that arrest.”
“But that’s exactly it—the boss did have doubts about Dexter, his gut was telling him there was something dubious about him,” she continued to challenge him.
Spurred on by the debate, Fraser chimed in. “We can’t make arrests on the boss’s gut feeling, but you do have to admit that Dexter knew most of the victims. He was a prolific ladies’ man.”
“Christ! Being a ladies’ man doesn’t automatically make you a murderer, Kerry. And you have to remember there’s been no sexual assault aspect to these crimes. I can’t see it being Dexter’s MO.” Clarke found himself jumping to Eric’s defence, mainly because their flirtatious personalities were starkly similar.
“Sounds like we’ve got a good debate going on in here.” Hamilton startled the team, and Clarke wondered how much he had overheard.
“It’s brilliant. I’m proud with how we
’re working as a team on this. We won’t always agree, but if someone’s theory leads us to a piece of evidence, a suspect, or even an arrest, then I’m happy to trash out suggestions all night.”
Clarke prayed silently that his partner didn’t actually mean that night. “What did the chief have to say?”
“He’s already left for the day, so Betty booked me in to see him first thing.”
The pause made Clarke groan—he knew exactly what was coming next.
“I know you’re eager to get home, but I’m encouraged by what I’ve just heard from you all. If we crack on for another hour or so, I’m sure it’ll help with my morning meeting. The last thing we want is for DCI Allen to file this investigation in the unsolved cases. Think of those women and their families,” Hamilton said.
Clarke rolled his eyes at his partner’s blatant endeavour to pull on their heartstrings. It had worked, though; he would never abandon Hamilton, so he jumped on the wagon to rally the team.
“The boss is right—we have to remember today was a victory. We’ve caught a killer. Granted, he wasn’t exactly the one we wanted, but we shouldn’t let that dishearten us. Let’s use it to spur us on and find this son of a bitch.”
Hamilton winked in his direction, and Clarke was glad that their combined effort had the desired effect. Within minutes, the team turned to their computers, the whiteboard and their case files, trying to unearth any vital clues they had missed.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Valerie worried for her daughter. She watched her sleeping, curled up like a small child on a king-size bed, and wondered if Grace could be saved from the self-destructive road she was walking. She was pained to discover Grace had found comfort, yet again, at the bottom of a bottle rather than turning to her.
Her daughter’s body was thinner than it had ever been, and her naturally rosy cheeks were sunken and pale. Valerie couldn’t remember the last time they had shared a meal together. She felt like crying, but she knew once those floodgates opened they might never close again. The sight of her vulnerable offspring motivated her to be the strong one, but she was desperate for someone to help her.
She hoped exposing Grace’s feeble state wouldn’t be seen as an act of betrayal, but she couldn’t ignore the downward spiral any longer. She crept out of the bedroom and down to the living room. She picked up her mobile phone and thumbed through the contacts, stopping at Natasha’s name. Sometimes help could only come from a close friend, someone who didn’t judge, patronise, and create useless arguments. Natasha was a go-getter, her positivity shone through her attitude, and Valerie knew only this friend could deliver the kick up the arse her daughter needed. She was deflated when the call went to voicemail, but comforted to hear Natasha’s voice and not the standard automated one. Valerie left an urgent message.
A banging noise from upstairs startled her, but she bounced up the stairs instantly. She paused briefly outside Grace’s bedroom to catch her breath. Facing her daughter head-on had never worked—Grace was stubborn and defensive, and would raise her guard the moment she thought anyone was instructing her how to behave. Valerie needed to be calm, so she gently knocked on the bedroom door, then again, a bit louder. Nothing. The loud racket from inside the room had stopped, and she could hear the faint sound of whimpering.
“Grace, can I come in?” Valerie asked as she turned the handle.
It moved in her hand, but the door remained closed. She continued to twist the doorknob, using her other hand to knock on the door. Her agitation grew.
“Why have you locked the door? Are you okay? You better not be drinking in there, Grace Murphy.” She cringed at her utter lack of patience, but her temper grew the more she was ignored. “I’m telling you now, young lady, if you don’t open this door, I’ll find a way into that room. Do you hear me?”
“I just want to be on my own, Mum. Please go away!” Grace screamed.
“Don’t push me away. I want to help you. Don’t barricade yourself in. I won’t even mention last night or the drinking.”
“You just did!”
“Are you drinking now?”
“No!” Grace yelled again.
She closed her eyes and sighed. “I just want to help you.”
“Well, I don’t need your help.”
“It’s very frustrating talking to a piece of wood, Grace. Can you please just open it?”
“I don’t want to see you, Mum. I can’t bear to see the disappointment in your eyes, and I don’t want a lecture about drinking, or my state of mind, or blah, blah, blah.”
Valerie was exhausted and angry in equal measures. She couldn’t argue with Grace. She was disappointed and saddened by her daughter’s choices, but also furious with the lack of respect she was shown. She slid down to the floor, pulled her knees up, and let her head rest on the wall. No one spoke for half an hour.
“Don’t you have an appointment with your psychiatrist today?” Valerie broke the silence. “Why don’t you have a refreshing shower, something to eat, and I’ll drive you there.”
“I missed it. Overslept.”
“Shall I call her and explain for you?”
“No.”
“For crying out loud, Grace!” Valerie jumped up and yelled towards the door. “Pull yourself together and stop wallowing in self-pity. When are you going to realise you’re not the only person grieving? I know you’re having a rough time of it, but I’m trying to help. Stop feeling sorry for yourself.”
“I’m not asking for your help,” Grace whispered.
Valerie slumped her shoulders. She could hear the change in her daughter’s tone; the façade had been dropped. “It’s okay to accept support.”
She was ignored again, but was confident this time it was because of sadness, not rage. Had she pushed Grace too far? Should she have stayed away? Would it be best to leave and let her daughter make her own mistakes? The questions mounted, and she scraped her fingers through her hair, feeling confused. Grace sobbed, sounding clearer and closer than before. In that moment, all of Valerie’s questions were answered. She sank to the floor again, sat cross-legged, and stared at the door—beyond it, her daughter was breaking down. She just waited. She would wait until Grace was ready to let her in.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Hamilton cleared his throat to grab Betty’s attention.
“Oh! Denis, I’m sorry I didn’t hear you come in.” She’d been working between the computer and a pile of handwritten notes.
“It’s only eight a.m. but you look like you’ve been at it for hours already.”
“Well my boss is DCI Allen. I don’t have time to sit here filing my nails.” She laughed at her own joke.
Hamilton chuckled. He couldn’t help but like the woman. Though he was unsure of her age, he guessed she was easily a decade older than he was, maybe two. So she could have been anywhere from forty-five upwards; he was useless at guessing women’s ages. Grey strands ran through her hair, threatening to overtake the once-jet-black locks, but she hadn’t succumbed to the vanity of covering them up with dye. She always smelt of musk, a scent his mother had loved dearly.
“You can go straight in, Denis. He’s waiting for you,” she said with a smile then hurried back to her paperwork.
“Thanks, Betty.” He returned her smile and walked through the grand oak door.
Hamilton hoped his face wouldn’t betray the nervousness he felt inside. He was content with his team and the effort they had made, but he was worried Allen would not extend the same encouragement.
“Morning, Denis. Take a seat and give me an update.”
Hamilton noted the unfriendly tone in his boss’s voice. He sat in the chair opposite Allen and recounted the interview with Michael Sparks, as well as the determination and hard work his team had demonstrated before leaving the station the previous evening. He was pleased the DCI listened without interrupting.
“It seems you and your team have a catch-22 situation, Denis. If the murderer doesn’t strike again, you’re at a
loss. And if he does, it sounds like you would need him to slip up considerably and leave DNA, which seems out of character for him.” The DCI frowned and rubbed his temples with his index fingers—that was never a positive sign. “I think you can guess where I’m inclined to go with this investigation. It’s not like other cases aren’t piling up.”
“Chief, you’ve heard the effort everyone put in after Sparks’s interview. It hasn’t deterred them from wanting to catch this lunatic. We owe it to the victims’ families to give it one last try. The team have worked hard on this plan, and it may just lead to some viable leads. Let us see it through,” Hamilton said with a desperation in his tone.
“My superiors won’t like this one little bit, Denis. The exposure in the media has died down, and that’s the way my boss wants to keep it. There’s already been an outcry about the Met’s lack of suspects and convictions with this one.”
Allen swiveled his chair round and glared out the window for a few moments. Hamilton said nothing but was eager to know what his boss was thinking.
As though Allen read his mind, he turned back with a grave expression. “Denis, let me share something with you. Many years ago, I was involved in a case where two young boys, just ten years old, went missing. There was no evidence, and the leads were slim. Some people were adamant they had been kidnapped, while others said they had just upped and run away. We never found them. The file slipped into the unsolved cases, and I’ve hated myself ever since that day for not bringing justice, or peace of mind, to their families. Their little faces still haunt me.”
Hamilton was taken by surprise; his DCI had never divulged anything personal to him in the three years they had worked together. He was contemplating a reply, but Allen continued speaking.
“Therefore, I’m inclined to agree with you. If this is the one last push we can give to the case, then you have my backing. Not only for the families involved, but also for you and your team, so you can all sleep at night with the knowledge that you did everything in your power.”
