Ethan had been missing for forty-eight hours before his body was found slumped behind some bins in an alleyway, in Borough. It was a dustbin collector who discovered him; a tall and lanky man, no more than twenty-one, with a shock of blonde hair and a gaunt face. His skin was white as he delivered his condolences to Maria on her doorstep a week later.
The police had arrested a forty-nine year old man, Mattius Gopaul, on suspicion of murdering Ethan. They believed that Mattius had stabbed Ethan twice in a drunken rage on his way home from the local pub - once in the side and a fatal blow to the back, puncturing his lung. Mattius had pleaded guilty. The officer who'd spoken to Maria the day after Ethan was found had been softly spoken with a kind face, and he'd sat on her sofa with his hands in his lap, assuring her that Ethan wouldn't have felt much at all. Maria was thankful for his sympathetic tenderness.
Maria had seen Mattius' face on the news, the same still image each time – his mug shot. It had been shown alongside a picture of Ethan on holiday in Croatia. Ethan's brilliant smile, glowing skin and bright eyes were a sharp contrast to Mattius' dull, dark expression. She supposed that was the point – show the most menacing picture of the murderer against an unquestionably beautiful picture of their innocent victim. Maria found herself squeezing her eyes shut and decreasing the volume whenever his picture materialised on the TV screen. It was too painful to think about.
The neighbours on either side of Maria's house had told her it was a terrible tragedy. Maria's friends and Ethan's friends had gathered together at a pub on Portobello Road to commemorate him. The cast at the theatre had offered Maria support too, even though they didn't know Ethan personally. The hardest people to talk to in the aftermath of his passing had been his parents. His mother, Dawn, had been inconsolable. She sat with her head in her hands the whole time Maria was at her house, bawling. Peter, her husband, was equally as upset but he didn't cry. Ethan had always said he was 'tough as nails'.
Now Maria padded quietly on her kitchen floor to the fridge. It had just passed eight thirty and the dark evening had drawn in with lashings of rain. Ethan would have called her at around this time usually. She opened the fridge, the yellow light flickering on with the pull of the door. It was empty, save a carton of milk and half a red pepper. Maria's eyes pricked with tears. She didn't have any money to buy herself more supplies.
She had lain defeated on the sofa, tracing lines across her concave stomach, when there was a knock on the door. Three hard hits, a rhythm she'd become familiar with in the past few weeks – the police.
The faces that she answered the door to were familiar, but not whom she had been expecting. Sherlock and John stood alongside a man who was only marginally shorter than the consulting detective, with short silver hair and a long waxed coat. All three had rain dripping off their shoulders.
"Maria," John began. He forced a sympathetic smile. "How are you?"
"Fine. All fine. Thank you."
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but John interrupted with, "Would you mind if we came inside for just a moment?"
Maria moved behind the door – Sherlock stepped past her, with John close at his heels. The third man paused beside her and reached into his pocket for an ID card.
"Detective Inspector Lestrade – Scotland Yard," he said. His voice was not proud or imposing in any sense – he announced his name as if it were merely customary. "I know it's late but we think we've found new information on Ethan. Well – Sherlock's found new information."
He smiled at Maria and rolled his eyes. She couldn't help but smile back as she shut the door behind him and followed the trio into the living room.
"Take a seat," she said. "I'm sorry it's such a mess. Things have been a little hectic recently."
"More than understandable," replied Sherlock. He stayed standing as John and DI Lestrade settled themselves upon the only sofa. "They've got the wrong man."
Maria stared at Sherlock blankly.
"Mattius Gopaul. He didn't murder Ethan."
"How do you know?" Maria asked.
"A number of factors involved," Sherlock said. "No weapon was found – not with Ethan or with Mattius. A knife wound, clearly, but Mattius wasn't carrying a knife and he didn't have one in his possession at home either. There were no DNA traces that Mattius had been anywhere close to Ethan when they ran forensics. No blood at all on Mattius clothes and judging by Ethan's internal injuries there would have been a lot of blood-"
"Spare her the gory details Sherl-"
"CCTV also. There's a CCTV camera outside the pub Mattius was in on the night they think he murdered Ethan. The footage shows that he came out of the pub and turned left towards Potier Street, instead of right where Ethan was found-"
"Wait." Maria rubbed her eyes, overwhelmed by the speed in which Sherlock spoke. "Mattius pleaded guilty. He admitted it. They must have some solid evidence to prove that he did it, or why would they have arrested him in the first place?"
"That's what's interesting. One of many things the police missed." Sherlock rolled his eyes scornfully. "Somebody set him up. Somebody clever."
Maria leant against the radiator, massaging her temples with her fingertips. Her head had begun to ache. She knew that it wasn't uncommon to grieve and be in denial – Ethan had only passed away a few weeks ago and she still hadn't fully come to terms with it. It wasn't that it didn't matter who his murderer was, but she felt too tired, too hungry, too strained, to process anything Sherlock said. She trusted him. She trusted John. She was sure she'd come to trust the kind and sensitive DI Lestrade. She trusted that, together, they'd bring Ethan's murderer to justice.
If Sherlock was right (and Maria had deduced that he was rarely wrong), a man was being held a prisoner for a crime that he did not commit. There was still somebody out there, a man with more malice than she could ever have imagined Mattius had, that had brutally murdered her boyfriend.
She shuddered at the thought. DI Lestrade explained that his police team, with Sherlock, would be taking charge of the investigation and appealing for Mattius' release as soon as they knew who the real criminal was. Sherlock said that he had an idea, his lips curling into an icy, distant smile as he folded his hands behind his back and paced to the window. John had glanced nervously at Maria and DI Lestrade had told him firmly not to disclose anything that they had no proof of yet.
They left half an hour later, stepping out into the driving rain again. John put a hand on Maria's shoulder. "Sorry. Sorry that you've had to go through all of this."
Maria smiled resignedly. "Thank you for your help. I really mean that. And thank Sherlock, too."
John looked towards his companion who was making his way down the street, his elegant outline blurred by the rain, and smiled back. "He'll sort this out, you know. Take care."
Take care, Maria repeated in her head as she stumbled over her lines for the umpteenth time that morning.
She looked up at the director, a tall, middle-aged man with a stern face. He straightened his glasses on his nose and frowned at her. "Try again, one more time."
Maria took a deep breath and tugged at the hemline of her dress, ignoring the exasperated sighs from the rest of the cast. The cameraman was leaning across his equipment, chin slumped on his hands and his eyes half-closed as she toyed with her clothing. Maria flushed red, desperately trying to recall the black lines that had been written on her script.
After a moment, she sighed. "I don't know. I'm sorry. My mind's gone blank."
The director ran his hand down his face and fiddled with his glasses again. "Let's take a break. Everyone back here in ten."
Maria intended to make a beeline for the dressing rooms, to avoid the disapproving stares from the other performers, but the director caught her arm as she rushed past him.
"What's your name again?"
"Maria Glynn."
"Well, Miss Glynn - you seem to be having a spot of trouble with your words?"
The director had tired, pale blue eyes. Maria toyed with the idea of telling him that she was the girlfriend of the young man who'd been on the news – she'd overheard him talking to another actress the same morning about what a tragedy it was – but promptly decided against it. She didn't want his pity, even in her tired and hazy state. Instead, she decided on, "I'm feeling a little under the weather at the moment."
Arching his brow, the director looked at his watch. "Yes. Well. Perhaps you should go home and get some rest." He tilted his chin down and muttered, "If you don't mind me saying, you're… holding us up slightly."
Maria muttered a reluctant apology and bowed her head, feeling her cheeks heat up again. Swiftly collecting her coat and bag from the lockers by the door, she left the room. She could feel the director's eyes boring into her – he probably thought she was entirely inept. Sometimes, she felt that way herself.
The tube line back to Borough was hectic, sweating the Saturday rush of families, tourists, businessmen and businesswomen. Maria savoured the outside air when she emerged from the underground and made her way to Potier Street, unzipping her coat despite the cold.
At home, she stopped dead in front of the door. A white, laminated sign had been stuck upon it. Her eyes began to water before she'd even had a chance to read it – she knew exactly what it was.
Miss M Glynn… Please take notice…. Pay rent or vacate notice… We regret this notice… 3 business days…
Eviction.
She slowly unpinned the letter and let it float to the floor as she stepped inside her house. Her mind raced as she leant up against the wall in the darkness.
She knew there was only one person who could sort this out for her.
