Dee got her bag, took out one of the copies of Joana’s photo and handed it to Karen.
‘She’s very attractive,’ Karen said, after a moment. ‘Isn’t she?’
‘Do you recognise her?’
Karen shook her head. ‘Never seen her before. You’ve really got no idea where she could have gone?’
‘She left her flat one Saturday night in February,’ Dee said. ‘And she hasn’t been seen since. She told her flatmate she was meeting a man at the Aldrington. That’s all I know.’
‘Yet none of the hotel staff remember seeing her,’ Karen said. ‘Which means she was lying, surely?’
‘Or maybe something happened to her before she got to the hotel.’
‘Well.’ Karen handed the photo back. ‘I hope you manage to find her. It’s sad to think she could just disappear without a trace. But I really don’t think her disappearance could have anything to do with Lauren. Nigel’s relationship with Lauren, it wasn’t normal. Most of the time, he acted as if he hated her. Over the years, I’ve tried to understand why he was like that.’
‘And?’
‘I shouldn’t really say,’ Karen said, although it was clear she was going to. ‘I mean, it’s not as if I can prove it. But I’ve often wondered if Nigel really was her biological father.’
Dee opened her mouth to speak, then changed her mind, deciding it was better to let Karen finish.
‘I know how that sounds,’ Karen said. ‘And I hate to say anything, especially now. But if Nigel knew he wasn’t her father, it would explain the way he behaved.’
‘Have you told the police?’
‘Of course,’ Karen said. ‘But you know how things work in this town. Nigel’s a very influential man. He’s friends with the chief constable. The police aren’t going to treat him as a serious suspect, no matter what I tell them.’
‘You can’t really believe that,’ Dee said. ‘If he killed his daughter, it doesn’t matter who he’s friends with. I know the detective leading the investigation. She’s not going to let anything like that influence her.’
‘You can think what you want.’ Karen stood up. ‘But I’m telling you the truth. Nigel Shaw hated his daughter, and when he found out she was writing a story about his aunt’s death it tipped him over the edge. That’s why Lauren was killed, not because of some non-existent link with some Polish girl she hardly knew.’
‘How did you know she’s Polish?’ Dee asked.
‘Derek told me, of course. What a strange question.’
Karen thanked Dee for the wine and said she’d see herself out. As Dee listened to her leave, she ran back over the last conversation she’d had with Derek. He hadn’t remembered then that Joana was from Poland, and Dee doubted very much he’d remembered it later. Which meant Karen had lied to her.
From the diary of Emma Reed
3 October 1961
I’m confused and disorientated. The single belief that has anchored me and kept me going has gone. After today, I don’t know what to think. I’ve tried to make sense of it, but each time I think I’ve found an answer, it disappears again. It’s like trying to hold on to sand.
Richard and Beth were in Eastbourne again this weekend. She comes with him almost every time he visits. I wonder if he thinks that showing off his fiancée will stop people wondering why he no longer hangs around with his brother? If that’s the case, his plan hasn’t worked. It’s clear there’s a rift between Richard and David, and I can guess what’s caused it. I’ve tried speaking to David, but he told me he has nothing to say. I want to try again, but he’s not going to be around much after he starts university later this month. Miriam tells me he’s training to be a doctor, although neither of us can understand where his family have found the money for that.
I saw them this morning, as they passed my house. I assumed they were going to the station to catch the train to London. Nicola was in the kitchen having her breakfast. James had already left for work. I was doing my best to deal with Nicola’s bad mood, a messy kitchen and a thumping headache. Unable to bear Nicola’s sullen attitude any longer, I went into the living room and sat down on the sofa. I’d only been there a few minutes when they passed the window, walking arm in arm as if they didn’t have a care in the world.
Something snapped inside me. I ran out of the house and followed them down the street. I took care to stay well back so they didn’t see me, mindful of the chief constable’s warning the last time we spoke. Although he’s a silly fool if he thinks ‘consequences’ are going to stop me seeking justice for my son.
Despite the chill in the air, I’d worked up quite a sweat by the time we reached the station. My skin was clammy and my headache had intensified as I’d hurried along the streets after them. I’d promised myself I’d take it a little easier on the gin this evening, but the truth is I need something to help with the shock.
At the station, I expected them both to get on the London train. If that had happened, I would have come straight home again. Instead, only Beth boarded the train, while Richard waited on the platform, waving goodbye to his beloved (ha! He doesn’t love her! He’s not capable of loving anyone other than himself!).
Imagine my shock, dear diary, when I watched him skip away to the other platform a few minutes later, and board the train to Brighton. I had no choice, did I? I had to see what he was up to.
I had a mountain of washing to do, and a shepherd’s pie to make for supper, but all of that would have to wait. James wouldn’t like it, but there’s not much that makes James happy these days. His barbed comments about a messy house and irregular meal times are starting to bore me. Besides, it wasn’t going to kill him if his supper was served a little later for once.
I climbed onto the train and moved through the carriages until I saw him. He was sitting with his back to me, staring out the window. I slipped into a seat a few rows behind him and didn’t take my eyes off him as the train moved away from the platform. We were almost at Lewes when I remembered doing the same journey soon after the war. The details of that day escape me now, but I remember – as if it was yesterday – Graham’s childish excitement at being on a train for the first time. The memory caused a spasm of pain so bad I had to lean over in my seat until it passed.
People say time is a great healer, but it’s been a year now and the pain hasn’t eased. I cannot imagine a time I won’t feel like this. The grief has become part of me. If I lost it now it would be every bit as real as losing a limb or an organ. It’s who I have become.
We stayed on the train all the way to Brighton. The train was pulling into the station when I saw Annabelle standing on the platform. I thought it was a coincidence. It never occurred to me it could be anything else. But then she saw him and she waved. And as he stepped down from the carriage, she ran forward and threw herself into his arms.
My memories immediately after that are a blur, like trying to see inside a house through a dirty window. I know I got off the train and left the station, although I have no memory of doing either. I remember being on the beach, walking as if I was in a dream, with no clue where I was going. Later, I remember getting off the train at Eastbourne and walking home. But none of it felt real. I felt separate from the world around me, as if I were a ghost, not a real person.
James was home before me. He was angry and he shouted at me but I ignored him. Nicola was crying, I think, although again I barely noticed her tears. I feel bad about that now, but at the time I was incapable of feeling anything. While I was preparing supper, I stuck the tip of the chopping knife into the palm of my hand and watched the blood run out of me and still I felt nothing.
It was better like that. Sitting down tonight and writing about it brings it all back. Now I’ve started to feel, it won’t stop. Pain and anger and red raw grief that scrapes away at me until soon there’ll be nothing left.
Richard and Annabelle. I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I think I know what’s going on. He’s using her, whispering his poison into her ear, filling he
r foolish head with lies. That’s why she spread those rumours about Graham. Richard doesn’t love her. How could he? She’s older than him by several years, and she simply isn’t the sort of woman to drive a man so crazy with love he would kill for her. I wonder how she feels now he’s engaged to be married to someone else. I wonder if she hoped it would be her.
Twenty-four
Stepping inside the Hydro Hotel was like stepping into the set of a Poirot film. The elegant interior oozed art deco charm. Dee walked through the foyer into the large conservatory with stunning views over the hotel’s private gardens and the sea beyond. Philip Flint was already there, seated at a table by the window. Dee recognised him from the author photo at the back of his book, although he looked at least ten years older than he did in the photo. When she walked over and introduced herself, he pushed himself up and shook her hand.
‘A pleasure to finally meet you,’ he said. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of ordering afternoon tea, as you suggested. I do hope that’s all right?’
‘Perfect.’ Dee had skipped lunch in anticipation of this. She was looking forward to tucking into cake and sandwiches.
‘When we spoke the last time,’ Philip said, once they were both sitting down, ‘you didn’t actually tell me what your interest is in this story? Is there something specific you’re looking for, or is your interest more general than that?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Dee said. ‘I’ve been trying to find a young woman who’s gone missing. She was a friend of Lauren’s and I thought maybe that had something to do with why Lauren was killed.’
‘And now?’
‘Now I really don’t know. The more I find out, the more confused I get. I know Lauren was writing a story about Mary Palmer’s murder. Which is what led me to your book. And then, when I’d read it, I suppose my journalist’s instinct kicked in. Like you, I want to know who killed Mary and why.’
‘Fascinating,’ Philip murmured. ‘Ah look, here’s our order.’
Dee waited until the food and tea had been laid out in front of them before she continued speaking.
‘I know you don’t think Graham killed Mary,’ she said. ‘So I wanted to ask you who you think did kill her. And why you didn’t address this directly in your book.’
‘I imagine you’ve already worked that out.’ Philip smiled.
Dee took a cucumber sandwich from the cake tray and bit into it before replying.
‘Delicious,’ she said. ‘Why can I never make them like this at home?’
‘You need to peel your cucumber,’ Philip said. ‘And add white pepper. Never black.’
‘Thanks.’ Dee smiled.
‘So, tell me,’ Philip said. ‘Why didn’t I name the person I think killed Mary?’
‘Because you had no proof,’ Dee said. ‘And the person you think killed her was still alive when you wrote the book? If you named someone without any evidence to back up your claim, you risked being sued for libel.’
‘Marvellous.’ He clapped his hands, his blue eyes twinkling with a mischievous delight. Dee guessed he’d been a handsome man in his day.
‘You think Annabelle killed her,’ Dee said. ‘Why?’
‘It’s very simple. She was the person who had the most to benefit from Mary’s death. With Mary out of the way, Annabelle inherited everything.’
‘But that doesn’t make her a killer,’ Dee said.
‘I know.’ Philip frowned. ‘I spoke to a lot of people when I was writing this book. I couldn’t find anyone who had a good thing to say about her. By all accounts, she was a nasty, vindictive woman. Of course, being nasty and vindictive doesn’t make her a killer, either. But Graham Reed was neither of those things. And if Graham didn’t kill Mary, then someone else did. But I never found anything to prove it was Annabelle, so it’s possible I’m wrong. She was a tiny woman, you know. If she killed Mary, I doubt she’d have been able to do it without help. You know her son tried to stop the book being published?’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yes,’ Philip said. ‘He threatened me with legal action if I went ahead with it.’
‘But you didn’t let that stop you?’
‘Of course not. Although, as you’ll have observed, I was very careful not to name his mother as a potential suspect.’
‘Any regrets?’
‘Not really. The book was hardly a best-seller. I self-published and, quite frankly, I don’t know the first thing about how the publishing industry works. I only sold a handful of copies and they were mainly to friends and family. It’s likely sales will have increased over the last few weeks, but I can hardly celebrate the fact. A young woman has been murdered, after all.’
‘You said Annabelle would have needed help,’ Dee said. ‘Who would have helped her do something like that? And why?’
As she waited for him to answer, Dee took a slice of Victoria sponge and added it to the little pile of sandwiches and cake already on her plate. She was being greedy, but she’d always been a sucker for a proper afternoon tea.
‘Not her husband. She didn’t meet him until several years after Mary had died.’ Philip refilled his cup and helped himself to a sandwich. ‘There was a rumour that Annabelle had been seeing another young man around the time Mary was killed. But I looked into that and I don’t think there was any truth to it. The gentleman in question was several years her junior and, by all accounts, had a reputation as quite a ladies’ man. He was a flamboyant character and I doubt he’d have dated someone like Annabelle. By all accounts, she was a rather unattractive woman.’
‘What can you tell me about Nigel?’ Dee asked.
‘Not much, I’m afraid. The only dealings I had with him were when he was trying to stop me publishing my book. Based on that experience, I’d describe him as something of a bully. But I’m sure he’s capable of being quite charming when he wants to be.’
‘And his wife?’
‘Maxine?’ Philip’s face cleared. ‘A lovely woman. She contacted me, you know. After the book was published. Told me she thought I’d done a very good job and she’d make sure her husband didn’t overreact.’
Dee took a bite out of the Victoria sponge to avoid thinking of Ed’s ex-girlfriend.
‘I heard a rumour that Nigel might not be Lauren’s biological father.’
‘Utter nonsense,’ Philip said. ‘All you’ve got to do is look at the photos of Lauren and Mary to see they’re related.’
Of course. She should have asked Karen how she could explain that if she thought Nigel wasn’t Lauren’s real father.
When their tea was finished and they’d run out of things to talk about, Dee thanked Philip for his time and promised she’d keep in touch with him. As they stood up to go, he handed her a brown leather satchel.
‘My notes,’ he said. ‘All handwritten, so apologies if you struggle with my writing. But I thought they might be helpful. If you promise you’ll take care of them and return them when you’re finished.’
Outside, the sun was starting to set. Over the course of their time together, the sky had changed from deep blue to pale pink. Philip’s face was pale in the evening light. He looked, Dee realised, like a man who didn’t have much time left.
‘Thank you so much,’ she said, moved by his generosity.
‘I hope it helps,’ he said. ‘Who knows, Dee Doran? Maybe one day when all of this is over, we might write a book together on what really happened to Mary Palmer.’
Dee offered to drive him home but he insisted on walking. Deciding not to get into her car straight away, she crossed the road and walked down to the beach. The tide was out and the water was still and quiet. A row of cormorants stood on the rocks that appeared at low tide, their backs to the shore, guarding the coastline.
As the sun disappeared behind the downs, the temperature dropped. When she couldn’t stand the cold any longer, Dee walked back to her car. She’d been dreading this evening, having to spend it by herself instead of having pizza with Tom, Ella and Jake. But now she had Philip’s
notes to go through, she was quite looking forward to driving home and getting stuck into work for the evening. It had been a while since Dee had wanted to spend an evening alone without a bottle of wine for company. Another sign she’d moved on from the dark depression that had been her constant companion for too long after her mother died.
Each day, she was moving forward with her life, putting the past behind her and learning to be grateful for what she had now, not what she’d lost. It wasn’t always easy, but she was doing okay. Things with Ed were difficult right now, but – one way or another – she’d get through this. She would be okay.
Twenty-five
When Ed’s doorbell rang that evening, he knew before opening his front door who it was. He’d spent the day keeping out of her way, but it was inevitable she’d track him down sooner or later.
‘Rachel,’ he said. ‘What a surprise.’
‘Can I come inside?’ Rachel said. ‘I’m freezing to death out here.’
‘You want a cup of tea?’ Ed asked. ‘Or something stronger? I’ve got some beers in the fridge.’
‘This isn’t a social call,’ Rachel said. ‘You know exactly why I’m here.’
He led her into the kitchen and put the kettle on.
‘You put me in an impossible situation earlier,’ Rachel said. ‘What the hell were you playing at? I mean, I understand this case is personal. And I sympathise with that. But I’ve asked you more than once to keep clear of this. How do you think it’s going to look when I tell Sharon you’ve been speaking to Lauren’s mother?’
‘Maxine’s an old friend,’ Ed said. ‘What was I meant to do, Rachel? Not go and offer my condolences?’
‘You were meant to tell me about it before you went to see her,’ Rachel said. ‘What the hell were you thinking? Can’t you see that you are jeopardising this whole investigation? Let’s say we charge someone with Lauren’s murder. The first thing a defence solicitor will do is to try to prove it’s a set-up. Why? Because one of our detectives has been going around harassing the victim’s family.’
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