When the Dead Speak

by Sheila Bugler

  ‘I can understand that,’ Rachel said. ‘But there’s probably nothing to worry about. She does a lot of evening work, doesn’t she? Chances are she’s got caught up in something and has forgotten to tell her husband.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Dee said. ‘Martin’s tracked her location with Find my iPhone. She’s in Charlton in West Sussex. It’s a tiny village. She wouldn’t be doing anything work-related there at this time.’

  ‘If you know where she is then she’s not missing, is she?’

  ‘Nigel Shaw was trying to blackmail her. Louise went to meet him this morning to tell him she wasn’t going to do what he wanted. No one has seen her since. She didn’t go to work, and she hasn’t come home.’

  ‘Okay,’ Rachel said. ‘Can we step back a bit? What exactly did Nigel ask her to do?’

  As quickly as she could, Dee gave Rachel a summary of what Louise had told her last night, concluding with Martin’s account of seeing his wife getting into a white Mercedes.

  ‘He couldn’t see the driver,’ Dee said. ‘But he’s pretty sure it was a man.’

  ‘All right. I’ll send someone around to Nigel’s to have a word. There’s not much else I can do for now, Dee.’

  ‘You’ll let me know how you get on?’

  ‘Of course.’

  As Dee hung up, a taxi pulled into the driveway and Ella climbed out.

  ‘Sorry,’ Dee said. ‘I forgot you didn’t drive. I’ll pay you back for the taxi.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’ Ella pulled Dee into her arms and hugged her tight. ‘After all you do for me, I’m only too happy to be able to do something for you. Is everything okay?’

  ‘I hope so,’ Dee said.

  But she couldn’t shake the feeling that Louise was in trouble. Because she knew her cousin, and she knew that whatever turmoil was going on in her personal life, she’d never disappear without making sure Martin and her children knew where she was and that she was okay.

  * * *

  Something was wrong. Louise opened her eyes but couldn’t see anything. She was blind. Or dead. She tried to sit up but her head smashed into something hard and she fell back down. Panic rose inside her. A huge wave of fear that she couldn’t control. She started banging on the roof that was too close to her body. She screamed, her voice bouncing off the walls of this tiny, confined space. Flashes of colour, red and black and purple and then black again. Her body jerked and rolled and banged against the sides. Pain shot up her arms and shoulders. Her hands were trapped behind her back, but when she tried to move them something cut into her wrists.

  And then she remembered.

  She thrashed her body against the hard metal walls, screaming louder. She was inside the boot of a car. Her car. She could feel her iPad, pressed against the side of her face. She’d put it in the boot a lifetime ago. When she’d gone to meet Nigel on the pier.

  The car was moving. Driving fast and screeching around corners, throwing her body against the hard edges of the boot. Her mind travelled back to earlier in the day, and she knew who had hit her and put her in the car.

  She forced herself to breathe slowly, focusing on each breath – inhaling, exhaling, over and over. Not allowing her mind to travel anywhere else, concentrating on this one thing: the gradual rise and fall of her chest as she breathed in, slowly, and then released the breath, slowly.

  It worked. To a point. The panic gradually subsided, but as her mind and body lowered their defences, she was unable to stop the sadness that rushed in to replace the panic. Tears rolled down her cheeks, sobs shook her body. She curled over on her side, keeping her mouth shut to muffle the sound because she would not let that bastard hear her crying. The first wave passed, and she forced down any further sobs. There would be time for crying later, when she got herself out of here. Because she was going to get out.

  And after she did that, she was going to make Derek French pay. He had already killed Lauren. Louise didn’t know why he’d done it, but she knew – absolutely – that he had. How could she have been attracted to a killer? She pushed the thought away. He thought he’d got away with it. He almost had. If it hadn’t been for one, stupid throwaway comment this afternoon in Brighton. But now Louise knew. He knew she knew. And he was going to try to kill her. But she wouldn’t let him. One way or another, Louise was going to find a way out of this.

  She was going to survive.

  From the diary of Emma Reed

  12 October 1978

  David died early this morning. His housekeeper, a large Jamaican woman called Claudette, told me she’d phoned my house first thing but I’d already left for London by then. I could barely take it in. It seemed impossible to have got this close to the truth, and then for it to be taken from me at the very last moment. At least, that’s what I thought. Until Claudette handed me the letter he’d left for me. She didn’t know what was in it, she said, but he’d made her promise she would give it to me.

  It’s a relief to finally know the truth. But the anger and the need to take action are making it impossible for me to focus on anything. I went directly to the police station when I arrived back at Eastbourne but no one was available to see me. I informed the officer on reception that I wanted to report a murder. He seemed interested until I told him the murder had happened eighteen years earlier and if the police had done their job first time around, the murderer would have been caught a long time ago. He took my name and phone number and made an appointment for me to come into the station the day after tomorrow to give a statement.

  But I can’t wait until then. I want to look her in the eye and tell her that I know everything. I want her to know the damage she has done to my family. She is an evil, despicable woman and I want her punished.

  If James was here, he’d tell me not to do anything foolish. But there’s three more days before the golf trip finishes. I tried calling the hotel earlier but the person who answered the phone wasn’t able to track him down. At least without him, there is no need to hide the bottle I bought on my way back from London. He thinks I have a ‘problem’. He’s right, but the problem isn’t gin. The problem is Annabelle Palmer and Richard Partridge.

  Perhaps I’ve drunk too much tonight, but who wouldn’t in my situation? I’d hoped it would calm me, but it’s having the opposite effect. It’s sharpening my resolve, giving me the strength and clarity I need. I’ve waited too long and I won’t wait a minute longer. I’m going to walk across to her big, fancy house and ring the doorbell until she answers. And when she’s standing in front of me, I’ll her that I know what she did. I want to watch her crumble before me, broken and sobbing as she realises she’s lost. I will destroy her. Just as she destroyed my family.

  To whom it may concern,

  This is a true statement of the events surrounding the murder of Mary Elisabeth Palmer in Eastbourne in 1960. Mary’s body was found in the church of St Mary the Virgin in Old Town on Saturday 5 March 1960. It was widely assumed that her killer was a local man called Graham Reed, but Graham never harmed her. The people who killed Mary were my brother, Richard, and Mary’s aunt, Annabelle Shaw (née Palmer).

  Richard and Annabelle met at a garden party hosted by Annabelle and her brother, George. Despite the difference in their ages, they soon became close friends. They were similar in their characters and this is what formed the basis of their unusual friendship. Like my brother, Annabelle is sharp-witted, greedy and used to getting her own way.

  Unlike Annabelle, our family were not wealthy. My father was a drinker who could never hold down a job. He was also a violent man who used to beat his wife and children. He liked to tell his sons that we would never amount to anything. In our different ways, Richard and I were both determined to prove him wrong.

  Richard, in particular, had an insatiable desire for status and wealth. His new friend Annabelle was the same. They both felt angry at the hand life had dealt them. In Annabelle’s case, she was jealous of her niece. George was a hugely successful businessman, as well as a devoted father.
He provided well for his only sibling, but he’d always made it clear that Mary would inherit his fortune one day. This wasn’t good enough for Annabelle. When George was diagnosed with heart disease, Annabelle must have known she was almost out of time.

  I don’t know who first came up with the idea. All I know is that they both saw it as the solution to their problems. With Mary out of the way, Annabelle would inherit everything. All she needed was someone willing to do her dirty work. In return, she would make sure that person was well-rewarded for this one, abominable act. I say ‘this person’, but of course I mean Richard.

  There were so many ways they could have done it, but they chose something dramatic and spectacular. Something no one who’d ever met Mary would forget in a hurry. They wanted to make it look like crime of passion, and they succeeded.

  I didn’t know what they were planning. Richard and I normally went out together on Friday nights, but that night he told me he already had plans. I was relieved, truth be told. I’d started to find his company difficult. He was becoming like my father, embittered and using alcohol as a means of drowning whatever darkness lay inside him.

  We shared a bedroom, so I always knew when he came home after a night out. I woke with a start just after five in the morning and his bed was empty. I knew the time because there was enough light in the room for me to see the hands on my watch.

  I was wide awake, and worried. Richard never stayed out this late. He had girls, plenty of girls, but he didn’t spend the night with any of them. Once they’d given him what he wanted he didn’t care for them, or want to be anywhere near them.

  I got dressed and went outside. Part of me just wanted to walk in the early morning light and watch the sun rising over the town. Another part of me hoped I’d find him and he’d tell me all about the night he’d had and we’d walk home together, the way we’d done so many nights before.

  I hadn’t known, until that morning, that his relationship with Annabelle was more than just friendship. They were huddled together on one of the benches in Manor Gardens. I almost walked past them, but I recognised my brother. I smiled to myself, thinking I’d been right. He’d picked up some girl and was, no doubt, in the process of trying to extricate himself.

  ‘Hey!’

  At the sound of my voice, he looked up, and it was only then that I got a proper look at his companion. I didn’t know what to think. I knew the sort of girls Richard went for, and Annabelle was nothing like that. She was from a respectable family, and whatever people say about the Swinging Sixties, girls from respectable families didn’t stay out until five o’clock in the morning with men like my brother.

  I walked away, feeling oddly embarrassed by what I’d witnessed. I didn’t want to talk to him about it, but he gave me no choice. He came running after me and told me it was nothing. He said they were friends who sometimes had sex and where was the harm in that? I knew there was more to it. He’s my brother and I can always tell when he’s lying.

  I didn’t challenge him, though. I didn’t care enough. By then, I’d already grown bored of listening to the lies he told and the made-up stories he recounted as if they were facts. I’d long ago learned it was easier to go along with it all and pretend I believed him.

  His shirt was streaked with rust-coloured stains that I recognised as blood. When I asked him about this, he said he’d been in a fight. I believed that, all right. Richard liked to fight when he’d had a few drinks. I remember feeling sorry for Annabelle, having to embrace a man who stank of another man’s blood.

  I didn’t give it another thought, and probably would have forgotten about it altogether. But then the news started trickling through. My first reaction, like everyone else’s, was shock. Mary Palmer, beautiful Mary, had been killed. That was all the information we had in those first few hours. But then our mother came home from the shops and told us, with breathless excitement, that Mary’s body had been found on the altar of St Mary the Virgin. The vicar had discovered her when he’d gone into the church that morning.

  I knew immediately. The convergence of too many things at the same time was more than coincidence. The blood on Richard’s shirt. His unlikely dalliance with Annabelle. Their presence in the park, directly across the road from the church where Mary’s body was discovered.

  Richard tried to deny it, but not for long. In fact, once he started telling me what they’d done and how they’d planned it and why, he couldn’t stop speaking. He was eager to share his good news and he promised me, if I kept my mouth shut, they would make it worth my while.

  God forgive me, but I let my greed get in the way of doing what was right. I promised to keep quiet in return for the money that Annabelle was only too happy to give me. I used the money to pay for my university education, something I would never otherwise have been able to afford. If I’d been less hasty, if I’d waited just a few more years, I’d never have had to make such a choice. But by the time university grants became available, I’d already taken the money and there was no turning back.

  I’ve tried to make up for it in the years since. But the truth is, there’s no way to do that. I know now how impossible it is to live a life that’s rich and meaningful when you carry a dark secret around with you. Ever since my illness was diagnosed, I’ve wondered if this is my punishment for not doing what was right and proper. For putting my own greed before that of a grieving father and an innocent young man.

  It was Annabelle’s idea to start the rumours about Graham. And it was Richard who stirred up a group of drunks in the Prince Albert that night and helped them chase Graham through the streets of Old Town on 11 April 1960 and beat him to his death.

  I am ashamed and sorry for my part in these terrible events, and my subsequent silence. I know my apology is too little, too late, but it’s all I have left.

  I will leave this statement with Mrs Emma Reed and she can do whatever she feels is right. More than anyone, she deserves to know the truth.

  David Partridge, 11 October 1978

  Thirty-nine

  Graham was innocent. And now, after all this time, Ed was able to prove it. There were things he needed to do, so many things. But he couldn’t do anything until he’d processed what this meant. He was at home, on the sofa in his sitting room. The letter in one hand, a glass of whisky in the other. Each time he finished what was in the glass, he topped it up from the bottle on the table beside him. But the whisky wasn’t doing its job. It wasn’t helping him manage the rush of emotions coursing through his body – relief, regret, anguish, joy. And anger. A rage that was threatening to overwhelm him if he couldn’t find a way to keep it in check. Because he knew there was only one reason why Annabelle Palmer would have had his grandmother’s diary.

  He’d found the letter tucked into the back of the diary. The diary entries covered the last year of her life. He’d read all of them. There were references to the other diaries – things she’d written earlier, events and encounters she’d chronicled. But those earlier diaries were long gone. If his grandfather had bothered to read them – which Ed doubted – the diaries would have merely confirmed his grandmother’s deteriorating state of mind as her obsession with clearing her son’s name increased over the years. Helping to explain why, eventually, the stress became too much and she took her own life.

  Except that’s not what happened.

  Ed drained the rest of the whisky and refilled the glass. The whisky burned his throat and warmed his stomach, fuelling the red-hot rage.

  Emma had done exactly what she’d written in her diary. She’d gone across to Annabelle’s house that night, and told her about David’s letter. So Annabelle killed her, and made her death look like suicide. Adding further pain to a family that had already endured so much.

  Ed didn’t know how she’d done it. Maybe he would never learn the exact details of what happened. But he had enough evidence to cast doubt over the suicide verdict. More importantly, he had cast iron proof that Graham was innocent. Finally, he was able to finish what E
mma had started and make sure the world knew the truth.

  He drank more whisky, holding the glass so tight his hand hurt. When he realised what he was doing, he put the glass down beside the bottle. He needed to calm down. He closed his eyes, breathing slowly and counting his breaths the way he’d been taught on some stress management course he’d been forced to attend a few years ago. But the breathing and the counting didn’t work.

  Little granny’s boy has lost his granny.

  ‘Bastard.’

  Nigel knew. Maybe not back then, but he knew now. It explained the row he’d had with Lauren. He knew, and he’d decided that protecting his family’s reputation was more important than the truth coming out. Even after his own daughter’s murder.

  And suddenly it hit him. The reason why she’d been killed.

  He fumbled around on the sofa until he found his phone. The screen was blurred and when he tried to navigate the menu, his thumb kept hitting the wrong icons. But eventually he got the number he needed and called it.

  ‘Rachel, it’s me.’ He could hear his voice slurring. He tried to speak slowly but it didn’t seem to make any difference. ‘I need to tell you something.’

  ‘It’ll have to wait,’ she said. ‘I’m up to my eyes at the moment. Can we speak tomorrow?’

  ‘Tomorrow’s too late. I know who killed Lauren. I have proof.’

  He was vaguely aware the letter wasn’t proof exactly, but it was a bloody good lead.

  Rachel said something, but he missed it. He asked her to repeat it.

  ‘I asked you if you’d been drinking,’ she said.

  ‘Not really. Maybe a drop, but I’m fine. Swear to God, Rach. This is important. Nigel did it. He killed her because she was going to tell people what happened. I’m coming over to the station now. You need to see what I’ve found.’

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ she said. ‘You’re pissed, Ed. You’re slurring your words and I can barely understand what you’re saying. Do yourself a favour, go to bed and sleep it off. We’ll speak in the morning.’