When the Dead Speak

by Sheila Bugler

  I stayed on the other side of the road, on the corner of Staveley Road and St John’s Road, hunkered down behind someone’s garden wall, hiding as best I could. Unlike everyone else in attendance that beautiful, sunny morning, I did not go to be seen. I went to see.

  I watched the slow procession of people dressed in black, their faces hidden beneath their hats or veils. As they disappeared inside the church, more people followed. They kept coming, long after the church was full, spreading out across the grounds like a black blanket.

  They made a lot of noise for people attending a funeral. The sound of their chatter carried across to me. They didn’t care, I realised. This was a day out, an adventure, a chance to say, ‘I was there when they buried her.’ A young girl has been murdered, her poor family ripped apart by this terrible tragedy, and all these people turned up, dressed in their best clothes, behaving as if this was a party they were attending, not a funeral.

  It felt like an age before the funeral cortège arrived. Four black horses, each one with a white stripe down the front of its face, pulling the black carriage. And poor George walking behind it, his face bent into his chest, his body heaving with sobs. His grief was like a mirror of my own. It was unbearable. My own sobs caught in my throat and I had to push my hand into my mouth to stop me crying out.

  He wasn’t alone, at least. His sister, Annabelle, was by his side. Holding her head high, no sign of grief or sadness on that woman’s face. A terrible thought occurred to me – she’ll have no problem finding a husband now. Because with Mary dead, Annabelle will inherit all of George’s money.

  As the cortège passed through the crowd into the church, I saw Richard Partridge. He was part of a group of young men and women huddled together outside the church. I scanned the group, searching for David, but there was no sign of him, which was odd because usually those brothers are inseparable.

  My back had grown tired of being crouched down. I stood up, realising no one was going to be looking across the road. They were all too focused on what was happening inside the church.

  But Richard must have felt me watching them, because he nudged one of his friends and they both turned to look at me. I stared back, not caring what they thought of me. Without taking his eyes off me, Richard leaned in and whispered something in his friend’s ear. The two men burst out laughing, and the sound triggered a memory.

  I’d heard that laughter before. The night Graham was killed. They walked past my house – Richard and his friends. Their footsteps loud and fast and full of vigour; their laughter mocking me as I waited for my son to come home.

  And in that moment, I knew. They killed him.

  They think they’ve got away with it. But I know, and I will make it my life’s work to make them pay for what they’ve done.

  Seventeen

  Ella dropped Jake over at six thirty. Dee spent the next half-hour building a Lego train track with him. When she’d had enough, she suggested they go down to the beach and look for foxes. After she’d helped him put his shoes on and wrapped him up in his coat and scarf, they walked over the shingle to the sea. Jake chattered the whole time, telling Dee about his trains and Spider-Man and his friend Max who had a big house.

  The clouds had cleared and a full moon hung low and bright, reflected in the still surface of the dark sea. In the moonlight, Dee could see the silhouettes of five foxes, walking towards them along the edge of the water.

  ‘Shh.’ Dee bent down and whispered in Jake’s ear. ‘Hold my hand, Jake. If you stay still, the foxes will come right up to us. They won’t hurt you, I promise.’

  Jake nodded and held on tight to Dee’s hand. The foxes took their time, sniffing and exploring as the gradually came closer. One of them saw the humans on the beach and stopped. The other foxes stopped too, all five of them staring at Jake and Dee.

  ‘Baby,’ Jake whispered, a rapt expression on his little face. The foxes started moving again, the smaller one running around Jake and Dee several times before chasing after the adult foxes, who had already moved past on their slow journey along the beach.

  Dee had no idea where the foxes lived during the day. She never saw them in daylight hours, but at night they roamed the beach freely. As a girl, her father had taken her out to see them and it had been years before she’d grown out of the thrill of standing here in the dark, letting them get so close you could touch them. She loved that she was able to give Jake the same experience.

  She hadn’t taken her phone out with her. When she got back to the house, she saw she had two new voicemails. One was from Louise, asking her to call when she got a chance. Making sure Jake was happy playing with his trains, Dee listened to the other message as she was putting the fish pie in the oven.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Doran.’ A man’s voice; frail, as if he was elderly. ‘This is Philip Flint. You asked me to get in touch.’

  He gave a phone number and told Dee he’d be happy to talk to her any time before ten thirty this evening. Dee checked the time. Seven fifteen. Ed would be here at seven thirty, which meant she just had time to call Philip back first.

  ‘Jake,’ she said. ‘Ed’s coming over in a few minutes. Let’s get you into your pyjamas and then you can stay up late as a special treat. How does that sound?’

  As expected, Jake was delighted with this news. Dee helped him into his pyjamas, then settled him in front of the TV while she returned Philip Flint’s call.

  She moved further away from the TV, peering out the windows onto the road that ran behind the house, impatiently waiting for Ed’s car to appear.

  ‘Eastbourne 324455,’ a man’s voice said as the call connected.

  ‘Is this Mr Flint?’ Dee asked. She knew it was; she recognised the polite well-spoken tone.

  ‘That is correct, yes.’

  ‘Mr Flint, this is Dee Doran. You left me a message earlier?’

  ‘I did,’ he replied. ‘You asked me to get in touch, so that’s precisely what I did. Unfortunately I got your recorded answering service. I almost didn’t leave a message. I hate those machines.’

  ‘Well I’m very grateful you did,’ Dee said. ‘And I’m sorry about the machine.’

  ‘You’re not the first person who’s contacted me about the book,’ Philip Flint said. ‘I’ve been very popular recently.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ Dee said. ‘Lots of people must be interested in any possible connections between the two murders.’

  ‘A few journalists have been in touch too,’ Philip said. ‘I haven’t spoken to most of them. You’re only the second, in fact. I decided to make an exception.’

  ‘That’s very kind,’ Dee said. ‘Can I ask why?’

  ‘I remembered the piece you wrote last year about the woman who was killed in the hit and run. Katie Hope, I think her name was? It was very moving. The story stayed with me, as did the name of the journalist who wrote it. When I received your email earlier today, I was intrigued.’

  ‘That’s very kind,’ Dee said, warming to him immediately. A bit of full-on flattery had that effect. ‘Is it all right if I call you Philip?’

  ‘Absolutely, my dear. In your email, you asked about Graham Reed, the boy convicted of Mary’s murder. What did you want to know about him?’

  ‘Reading your book,’ Dee said, ‘it struck me that people were too quick to assume Graham was the killer. Why do you think that is?’

  ‘Poor Graham was a bit of an oddball, really. These days, we’d probably say he was somewhere on the spectrum, but that wasn’t something people would have been aware of in those days. So he was simply labelled as being different. In my experience, people don’t like difference. I’m on the spectrum myself, you see, although this is something I’ve only come to realise late in life. This means I feel a certain empathy for poor Graham. He was an outsider, struggled to fit in, that sort of thing. But being an outsider doesn’t make someone a murderer, does it?’

  ‘It certainly doesn’t,’ Dee said.

  ‘That poor young woman came to see me, you kno
w,’ Philip said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Lauren Shaw. She was asking about Graham, just like you are. I sincerely hope that doesn’t mean you’re about to meet the same fate as she did. She was a determined young thing. A bit too pushy for my liking, but maybe that’s how young people are today. I must confess I was surprised to learn she was Annabelle’s granddaughter. She never mentioned the family connection, you see.’

  It took a moment for Dee to place the name. Then she remembered. Annabelle Palmer – Mary’s aunt.

  Outside, lights appeared at the end of the road. No one ever came out this way at night unless they were visiting Dee or Ella’s houses. The car had to be Ed’s.

  ‘Graham’s mother spent her life trying to seek justice for him,’ Philip said. ‘But she never succeeded. And I must say, Dee, after all my extensive research, I never found anything conclusive to prove my theory that Graham didn’t kill Mary. Which means I can’t prove he was innocent.’

  ‘But you still believe he didn’t do it?’

  ‘There was some speculation that Graham was in love with Mary,’ Philip said. ‘But she was, by all accounts, a beautiful young woman, so that’s hardly surprising. If all the men who liked pretty young girls killed them, there wouldn’t be any pretty girls left in the world, would there?’

  ‘I suppose not.’ Dee smiled. The more he spoke, the more she liked him.

  ‘It doesn’t seem as if the other members of Graham’s family shared his mother’s determination,’ Philip said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The impact on the rest of his family was catastrophic,’ Philip said. ‘His mother, Emma, took her own life eventually. Threw herself off Beachy Head, like so many other poor souls before and since. I think she simply lost hope of ever clearing her son’s name.’

  ‘What about the others?’ Dee said. ‘His father, brothers and sisters?’

  The car drew closer, stopping beside her house. She went and opened the front door, waving to Ed as he got out of the car and took his bag from the boot.

  ‘Graham’s father died of a heart attack shortly after his wife’s suicide,’ Philip said. ‘He had one sister, Nicola. She married and had two children. They’re both adults now. I contacted them when I was writing the book, but neither of them wanted to speak to me.’

  ‘And Nicola?’

  ‘Poor woman died a few years after her mother,’ Philip said. ‘Cancer, I believe.’

  ‘How sad,’ Dee said.

  As Ed came closer, Dee could see how tired he looked. Suddenly, her frustration towards him disappeared and all she wanted to do was wrap her arms around him and hold him tight.

  ‘Indeed,’ Philip said. ‘I’m sure her children want to keep themselves as far away as possible from this renewed interest in Mary’s death. Although it’s not going to be easy for them. Especially Nicola’s son, I would have thought.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Dee said.

  She smiled at Ed and gestured for him to go inside. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek, sending a shiver of electricity through her body.

  ‘Nicola married a man called Henry Mitchell,’ Philip said. ‘They had two children – a boy and a girl.’

  Dee closed the front door and walked back to the sitting room. Jake had dragged Ed to the Lego train set and was issuing instructions on what needed to be done. Ed must have sensed her eyes on him, because he looked up at her and smiled. She turned away from him without smiling back.

  ‘What year was the son born?’ she asked.

  ‘Edward Mitchell was born in September 1967,’ Edward said. ‘Which would make him, what? Fifty-three now. You can find him easily enough if you wanted to try talking to him. He’s local as well. A detective with the East Sussex force. Would you like me to see if I can find his contact details?’

  Dee looked out the window, at the moon, bright and white in the endless black sky, its perfect reflection shining back at itself from the flat, black sea.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘I think I know how to find him.’

  She hung up.

  Jake was pushing a plastic train around the track, making loud chugging sounds. Ed had another train and was pushing it in the opposite direction, orchestrating a collision between the two trains.

  Dee couldn’t bear it. She turned away, walked back down the corridor, pulled open the front door and stepped outside. She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the cool night air and tried not to think of the trauma in Ed’s family that she’d known nothing about. He’d carried this pain the whole time she’d known him and she’d never once picked up on it.

  She’d thought he was her soulmate. Now, she realised she barely knew him. And this new knowledge frightened her. For the first time since they’d got together, she didn’t know what to do.

  Eighteen

  ‘I wish you’d told me,’ Dee said.

  ‘Would it have made any difference?’ Ed asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Dee said.

  She’d always thought of Ed as remarkably grounded. Far more grounded than Dee herself. Yet all the time she’d been thinking she was the person with ‘issues’, poor Ed had had to deal with so much more. And he’d had to do it alone, because Dee had been too caught up with her own problems to think about what he might have been going through.

  ‘You don’t mind that I know now?’ she asked.

  She’d considered keeping quiet and not saying anything. But she couldn’t do that. She’d waited until Jake was in bed, and then she’d told Ed they needed to talk. She’d opened a bottle of wine, poured them both a glass, sat beside him on the sofa and told him what she’d found out. When she’d finished, he took her hand and told her he was sorry.

  ‘I’ve wanted to tell you for so long,’ he said now. ‘Then Lauren was killed and it became even more important to tell you, but it was harder too, because I hadn’t said anything before and I knew you’d be upset that I hadn’t felt able to talk to you about it.’

  He was right. She was upset that he hadn’t talked to her. And she couldn’t help wondering whether he’d ever have told her if she hadn’t found out.

  ‘Ironically, I was planning to tell you this evening,’ he said. ‘Except you got there first. Louise came to see me earlier. It’s the front-page story in tomorrow’s Recorder.’

  Dee remembered the message on her phone from Louise. If she’d returned the call, she would have heard all this from Louise first. She didn’t want to think about how she’d feel if that had happened.

  ‘Graham Reed was your uncle,’ she said. ‘And he was accused of killing Mary Palmer, Nigel Shaw’s cousin. That’s why you’re not part of the investigation?’

  ‘More or less, yeah.’

  ‘More or less? You mean there’s another reason?’

  He had he grace to look embarrassed. She would remember that later, when she tried to rationalise his behaviour.

  ‘Lauren came to see me,’ he said.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I didn’t tell you because, well, because I wasn’t ready to talk about Graham. She was writing about Mary’s murder and she wanted to ask me some questions. I told her I wasn’t interested, and thought that was the end of it.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘A few months ago.’

  A few months ago, and he’d said nothing. Not one word. Worse, she hadn’t picked up that anything was wrong.

  ‘What do you mean you thought that was the end of it?’

  ‘I didn’t hear from her again. And then, a week before she was killed, she sent me an email. She said she needed to see me. Told me it was important. I assumed she wanted to ask more questions, and I never replied to the email. I’m such a bloody idiot.’

  And a bloody liar, Dee thought. She took a sip of wine, but it tasted sour and she put the glass down again.

  ‘Ed,’ she said, when she was able to speak. ‘This is a lot for me to take in. Do you think you could start at the beginning and tell me everything that’s been going
on?’

  ‘I’ve just told you,’ he said. ‘Haven’t I?’

  ‘Not really. You’ve told me Graham was your uncle. And you knew Lauren. But you haven’t told me what it was like for you, growing up with all of this. Or what happened after your grandmother died. Or why you’ve never had any help dealing with all of this. Because, clearly, it’s had a profound effect on you and I really think it would do you good to talk to someone about it all.’

  ‘I don’t need to talk to someone,’ he said. ‘I’ve got you, haven’t I? But you’re right. You deserve to know more than I’ve told you. I’m sorry.’ He took a gulp of wine. ‘Okay. I haven’t spoken to you about this before because it wasn’t something we ever spoke about in my family. Well, my gran spoke about it – all the time – but everyone else preferred not to. My mother, especially. I was close to my nan, and I was very sad when she died. My parents tried to shield me from what had happened, and they did that by never talking about any of it. Nessa and I learned quickly that Graham’s death and Nan’s suicide were strictly off-limits.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘I don’t know, Dee.’ Ed ran his hands through what was left of his hair. ‘Over the years, I’ve tried to put it behind me, but I’ve never really been able to let it go. Then this happened. I’m not coping very well, to tell you the truth.’

  ‘You have been a bit of a grumpy git.’

  He smiled.

  ‘I know. Sorry.’

  ‘It must have been hard for your mum,’ Dee said. ‘Growing up knowing everyone thought her brother was a murderer.’

  ‘Graham’s death affected her a lot,’ Ed said. ‘She was depressed for most of my childhood, although that was something else we didn’t speak about. I know she hated me spending time with Nan, but she never tried to stop me from seeing her. In some ways, I was closer to my grandmother than I was to my own mother.’

  ‘What was she like?’ Dee asked.