When the Dead Speak

by Sheila Bugler

  Maybe it was for the best. After all, it wasn’t as if Ella and Jake were family. Ella had every right to widen her circle of friends. And of course she’d want to spend time with women closer to her own age. After everything she’d been through, Ella deserved some happiness and a chance to live a normal life. Dee would have to put her own feelings to one side and encourage Ella to spend as much time with her new friends as possible. Whether it was what Dee wanted, or not.

  From the diary of Emma Reed

  22 March 1961

  I have him. Finally. Months of trying to find something that will prove what I know, and now it’s happened. It didn’t take me long to work what he’d done. Once I realised he’d killed Graham, I started to question the reasons for it. Because if anyone knows what sort of man my son was, it’s Richard Partridge. He spent enough years of his life tormenting poor Graham and working out what made him tick. Richard always knew Graham couldn’t have killed Mary. Because it was Richard who killed her, wasn’t it?

  I’ve already laid out my reasoning many times here in this diary. I’m going to do it once more now, because I want to make sure I have my story straight when I go back to see Chief Constable Brown tomorrow morning.

  The signs had been there all along. In the months leading up to her death, Richard was always by her side. He wasn’t the only one, of course. There were a group of young men who constantly vied for her attention. My son was one of them.

  But Richard is different. He is arrogant and dangerous and a poor loser. Ever since he was a little boy, he hasn’t liked losing. I remember the temper tantrums, fits of pure rage, he would go into whenever he lost at a game. He’s still that same little boy, who’s grown up to be a dangerous, violent man.

  He wanted her, and Richard was used to getting the girls he wanted. But Richard’s family aren’t wealthy, and Mary Palmer had ambitions. She would never have settled for a man with no higher education, no prospect of a proper job and no ambition. No matter how important Richard likes to think he is, the truth is this: he’s a nobody from a family of nobodies.

  The problem is, I haven’t been able to prove it. I’ve spoken with so many people, but everyone treats me as if I’m a madwoman. James has told me he will no longer tolerate my ‘obsession’. Two people have been murdered – one of them is his son, his own flesh and blood. Yet James would rather we didn’t talk about it. Last night, he told me I was drinking too much. This, from a man who used to spend more time at the ‘nineteenth hole’ at the weekends than he ever did with his own family.

  The police have made it clear they don’t want to get involved. The chief constable’s words still smart each time I remember them.

  ‘Go home and try to move on with your life. You’re wasting your time and mine, Mrs Reed.’

  Speaking to me as if I was some foolish little woman with no brain or sense. It’s been clear all along that he thinks I’m making the whole thing up. He’ll regret that tomorrow when he hears what I’ve got to tell him.

  Because I’ve seen Richard’s fiancée. He’s living in London now, but he brought her home this weekend to meet his parents. Her name is Beth Mackie. She’s the daughter of the man who runs the engineering company that employs Richard. I’ve found this out by myself. I’ve asked questions and checked the facts, making absolutely sure I’ve not missed a single thing. It’s all about joining up the dots, isn’t it? That’s how a police investigation works, and Beth Mackie is the line connecting the dots.

  Most of the information I got from Miriam, who is one of the few people who still comes to visit me. I asked Miriam about the likeness, but she professed not to see it herself. When I pressed her about it, she admitted there was a vague similarity, nothing more than that. Not that Miriam’s opinion counts for much. I only tolerate her because any companion is better than none at all.

  The chief constable is a clever man. He’ll understand when I point it out to him. I may be forbidden from following Richard, or going anywhere near him, but there’s no law in the land that can stop me speaking to the police about him if I uncover evidence that he’s a cold-blooded murderer.

  I was in the living room, standing in my usual spot by the window, watching the street outside. Nicola was in the kitchen and she was shouting, asking why there was no bread in the house. When I told her to wait, she grew angry and stormed upstairs to her bedroom. She used to be such a good girl, but recently she’s been nothing but trouble. They were strolling down the street arm in arm, her head turned up to his, hanging on his every word, so I couldn’t see her face at first. But I saw her hair, long and wavy and auburn. Copper and gold highlights captured in the bright sunshine, creating a halo effect. They paused outside our house and Richard said something. I couldn’t hear the words but I didn’t need to. When she turned away from him to stare into my home, she was frowning, her pretty little mouth shaped into a circle of shock.

  I stepped away from the window, but my movements were clumsy. I stumbled against the side of the armchair and almost fell over. I’m sure they saw me, but I didn’t care. My head was spinning, thoughts coming too fast and colliding with each other as I tried to make sense of it.

  He’d made a mistake. He’d chosen a fiancée who looked like the woman he killed. They say all men have a ‘type’, and Richard is proof of this theory. His ‘type’ is a woman with copper-coloured hair and pale skin. A woman like Mary Palmer or Beth Mackie.

  I’ve thought of nothing else since. I’ve sat here, three nights in a row, going over and over it in my head, writing and rewriting it until I am absolutely certain. Richard killed Mary because she rejected him. Afterwards, he waged a campaign of gossip and rumour against my son, goading thugs into killing him.

  He knows I know. He saw it in my face that morning outside the church, and he’s been playing with me ever since. Calling the police, claiming I’m harassing him, when we both know which one of us is the real criminal.

  Twenty

  Dee stepped inside the hotel foyer. She hadn’t heard from Ed today, and was starting to think maybe that was for the best. She needed time to reassess their relationship and work out what she wanted to do. She’d spent the morning finishing the first of her articles for the Guardian. When that was done, she’d decided to pay Derek French another visit.

  Jaime was at the reception desk, looking a lot perkier than the last time Dee had seen her.

  ‘Hi.’ Jaime smiled. ‘How are you today?’

  ‘Good,’ Dee said. ‘You?’

  ‘Good days and bad days,’ Jaime said. ‘You know.’

  ‘Hang in there,’ Dee said. ‘You won’t always feel the way you do now. It will pass, I promise.’

  ‘I assume you’re not here just to check I’m okay?’

  ‘Not just that,’ Dee said. ‘I’m hoping for a chat with your boss. And I wanted to see how you’re getting on with Joana’s photo.’

  A red blush spread up Jaime’s neck and face. ‘I’m not sure, to be honest.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Derek wasn’t too happy about the photo being passed around. He’s told us not to get involved.’

  ‘I’m trying to find a young woman who’s gone missing,’ Dee said. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  Jaime wouldn’t look at her when she answered.

  ‘He says that’s a job for the police, not a journalist.’

  Dee rolled her eyes.

  ‘And you, Jaime? What do you think?’

  Jaime glanced up. ‘You’ve got to understand this is a really stressful time. Derek’s just trying to do what’s best.’

  ‘I know that,’ Dee said, not believing it for one second. Derek couldn’t stand the fact that something had happened in his hotel that he didn’t know about. And now he was trying to make sure that Dee didn’t find out either. ‘Listen, Jaime. If I gave you another copy of the photo, do you think you could show it to a few people without Derek finding out you’re asking?’

  ‘I don’t see what good it would do,’ Jaime
said. ‘Lots of people have already seen it and no one’s recognised her. I think Derek’s probably right and whatever happened to that girl, it didn’t happen here in the hotel.’

  ‘So what harm will it do to show the photo to a few more people? That way, I can be absolutely sure Joana was never here. And once I’m sure, I’ll stop coming here asking questions, and Derek won’t need to worry about me any more.’

  Jaime frowned, and Dee had to resist the urge to lean across the desk and shake her.

  ‘I don’t want to risk losing my job.’

  ‘Joana has a little boy.’ Dee took her phone out of her bag. ‘Look, here’s a photo. His name is Jakub. He’s four years old and he’s missing his mother so much right now.’

  She shoved the phone under Jaime’s face so she had no choice but to look.

  Jaime looked at the photo, then up at Dee. ‘Okay. Leave me another photo and I’ll ask around. But don’t keep hassling me about it. If anyone recognises her, I’ll call you.’

  ‘Brilliant.’ Dee beamed at her as she pulled the folder from her bag, extracted a copy of Joana’s photo and slid it across the desk to Jaime. ‘You’re a star. Thank you so much.’

  She was just trying to work out how she could ask Jaime where Derek was when she heard him, behind her, calling her name.

  Checking Jaime had hidden the photo, Dee turned and gave him her best smile.

  ‘To what do we owe the pleasure today?’ Derek asked. He was puffing slightly, no doubt from the effort of walking fast enough so he caught her before she left.

  ‘I was just passing,’ Dee said. ‘And I remembered how upset Jaime had been the last time I saw her. I wanted to check she was okay.’

  ‘Very kind of you. As you can see, she’s doing just fine. I take care of my staff, Dee. They’ll all tell you that.’

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ Dee said. ‘Actually, I’m glad you caught me. I wanted to speak to you about something.’

  ‘If it’s about your Romanian friend, I’ve already told you, she wasn’t here the night she disappeared.’

  ‘Polish,’ Dee said, pointlessly, because he was still talking, and didn’t seem to have noticed she’d spoken.

  ‘She’s done a bunk. They get restless, these foreigners. Can’t stick at one thing for too long. It’s why I don’t employ them.’

  ‘I saw Kyle yesterday,’ Dee said, taking a step back from the smell of his cologne and the stink of his racism. ‘He’s still pretty upset, isn’t he?’

  ‘He’ll be okay,’ Derek said. ‘The truth is, Lauren was far too ambitious for him. She would have got sick of him sooner or later. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a lovely kid. But if he had his way, he’d spend all his time surfing and hanging out with his surfing mates. I mean, it’s fine for a hobby, but no one’s going to make a living out of being a surfer these days, right?’

  ‘You think he minded that she was more ambitious than he was?’ Dee said.

  ‘I think she minded. She had big dreams – money, fame, that sort of thing. She was never going to achieve all that with our Kyle. She needed a different sort of man and she knew it.’

  ‘Someone like you?’

  ‘Are you serious?’ Derek’s face darkened. ‘She was my son’s girlfriend. I would never have touched her. You’re worse than she was, do you know that? Digging, digging, digging. Looking for a story even when there isn’t one. You can’t keep coming in here sniffing about, implying all sorts of shit and acting like you’re someone important. You’re not a detective. I’ve had enough. I want you to leave and I don’t want to see you inside this hotel again. You got that?’

  The sudden shift from smarmy to threatening was unexpected.

  ‘Hit a nerve, have I?’

  Derek leaned forward, pressing his face so close to hers their noses were practically touching.

  ‘Get the fuck out of my hotel. And keep away from my family too. If you go anywhere near my Kyle again, I’ll report you to the police.’

  ‘Thanks for your time.’

  Dee turned on her heel and left before he could say anything else. She’d got to him. But not for the reason she’d come here. His disgusted reaction to her questions about Lauren made her fairly sure he hadn’t been sleeping with his son’s girlfriend. Which meant there was something else Derek French didn’t want her to find out.

  * * *

  Back home, she finally cracked and called Ed. Her spirits, already low, sank further when she got his voicemail. She hung up without leaving a message, and poured herself a glass of wine. It was seven o’clock. The rest of the evening stretched out in front of her, an empty space that she’d have to fill somehow. She had a choice. She could either sit here drinking and feeling sorry for herself, or do something productive. After several sips of wine, she decided getting pissed wasn’t going to help her mood.

  So she opened her laptop and went onto Facebook. Earlier, she had requested to join the true crime group Kyle had told her about. Now, scrolling through her list of notifications, she saw that her request had been approved.

  Lauren’s murder was one of the major topics of conversation. Reading through the comments was an eye-opening, if sometimes painful, experience. Several of the group members were convinced Kyle was the killer. There were also a few comments about Ed, following the latest revelations in the press. Dee read the different comments, sickened by the way some people’s minds worked. One thread was devoted to the theory that Lauren had been having an affair with someone – possibly Ed – who was helping her with her investigation into Graham’s murder. When Kyle had found out about the affair, he’d killed her.

  Dee was about to leave the group when she noticed another thread, this one with the topic heading ‘What about Annabelle?’ The content here was far more interesting. The general gist of the conversations was that Mary Palmer’s aunt, Annabelle, had been the person with most to gain from her niece’s death. Annabelle and Mary’s father were brother and sister. There were no other siblings. George was a widow and Mary was his only child. With Mary out of the way, Annabelle was set to inherit George’s vast fortune. Which is exactly what happened, according to someone called Mike Dixon, who seemed to be an expert on every murder that had taken place in the UK over the last hundred years.

  Quickly, Dee ran back over what she already knew about Annabelle: George’s sister, who became Annabelle Shaw after her marriage. Nigel’s mother and Lauren’s grandmother. Dee took the bottle of wine from the fridge, poured herself another glass and called Philip Flint.

  ‘The second time in two days,’ he said. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘I was wondering if you’re free to meet for a coffee tomorrow?’ Dee said. ‘My treat. I’d like to ask you a few more questions.’

  ‘I’m not free tomorrow,’ he said. ‘But I could meet you the following day. Would the Hydro be a suitable meeting place? It’s around the corner from my apartment, you see, and I don’t like entertaining visitors at home.’

  ‘The Hydro would be lovely,’ Dee said. ‘Three o’clock? We can have afternoon tea.’

  She’d just hung up when her phone started to ring.

  ‘Ed?’

  ‘Sorry it’s taken me so long to call back,’ he said. ‘I’ve been busy. I’m working tomorrow as well, but I wondered if you’d like to meet for a morning walk first? If we head out early enough, I’ll be able to buy you breakfast in Nelson’s afterwards.’

  Nelson’s was Dee’s favourite place to have breakfast, and Ed knew it.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she said.

  ‘Please, Dee. I’d really like to see you.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘But make sure you do pick me up early. I’m not missing a free breakfast at Nelson’s.’

  ‘Great.’ She heard the relief in his voice and something inside her relaxed as well.

  Damn and blast you, Ed Mitchell, she thought as she hung up. She should have said no, told him she didn’t want to see him until he’d sorted himself out. But the truth was, she did want to see hi
m. She owed it to herself to make one last attempt at getting their relationship back on track. And if that didn’t work, well, then she’d just have to deal with it.

  Twenty-one

  At the top of the hill, Dee paused to get her breath back. A morning haze hung over the downs, shot through with shades of pink and pale grey as night turned to day. The green hills of the South Downs National Park rolled out before her, ending abruptly as land became white cliff at the start of the English Channel. Teetering at the top of the cliffs, Belle Tout lighthouse was a black silhouette against the brightening sky. When she turned the other way, Dee had a perfect view of Eastbourne town, laid out along the coast on the flat stretch of land at the bottom of the downs. The sun was rising over the sea, light moving across the town, pushing away the last traces of a long night.

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Ed said.

  ‘It really is,’ Dee agreed. ‘I’m glad you suggested this. It’s such a lovely way to start the day.’

  She hadn’t felt that way at five thirty this morning when her alarm went off. Then, all she’d wanted to do was roll over in bed and go back to sleep. Now, with her heart pumping fast and steady, and her body full of the good feelings you only get from physical exercise and being close to nature, she promised herself she’d do this more often.

  They turned right and walked along the ridge. The geography of this corner of England meant they had sea views on either side of them. With the sea and the rolling hills and the air full of birdsong, Dee couldn’t imagine there was anywhere lovelier in the entire world.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ed said.

  Dee stopped walking. ‘What have you done now?’

  The corners of his lips twitched and she felt a tug of her old feelings for him.

  ‘Nothing else,’ he said. ‘I mean I’m sorry for being so crap recently.’