When the Dead Speak

by Sheila Bugler

  When the Dead Speak

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  From the diary of Emma Reed 22 March 1960

  Four

  Five

  From the diary of Emma Reed 11 April 1960

  Six

  Seven

  From the diary of Emma Reed 14 April 1960

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  From the diary of Emma Reed 24 April 1960

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  From the diary of Emma Reed 6 May 1960

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  From the diary of Emma Reed 22 March 1961

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  From the diary of Emma Reed 3 October 1961

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  From the diary of Emma Reed 4 October 1961

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  From the diary of Emma Reed 6 April 1966

  Twenty-nine

  From the diary of Emma Reed 30 April 1966

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  From the diary of Emma Reed 7 May 1966

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  From the diary of Emma Reed 10 October 1978

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  From the diary of Emma Reed 12 October 1978

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  Cover

  Table of Contents

  Start of Content

  To Sean, Luke and Ruby – lockdown with you guys has been a gift

  Prologue

  I dream about her. Each night when I fall asleep she’s there, waiting for me. Laid out on the church altar, like an offering. She would have looked beautiful, even in death. An angel. I wonder if Vicar Rawlings thought she was beautiful when he found her. Or if the horror of it all came too fast and he didn’t have time for thoughts of beauty and angels.

  Of course, I never saw her body, but that hasn’t stopped me imagining it and dreaming about it. The details of the dream merging with my own memories of that night until I cannot untangle it all. I dream that I’m running through the streets, searching for my son, but he’s nowhere to be found. Then I see the church and I know: that’s where I’ll find him.

  The doors are closed. But when I push one of them, it creaks open and I step inside, ignoring the voice in my head telling me to turn around and run far away from this place. My son is lost and I have to find him.

  It’s cool inside the church. Cool and peaceful. My heart, racing so fast moments earlier, slows down. The door shuts behind me with a gentle click and I am alone. Outside, daylight has broken. Sunshine streams through the stained-glass windows. Something is dancing in the air. Shades of amber and copper, captured in the light. When I put my hand out, some of it lands softly on my palm. The texture reminds me of the barbs of a feather, but this thing in my hand is no feather.

  I let the strands fall, watching them drift down to the stone ground. A gust of wind blows through the church, stirring it all up again. The pieces whip through the air, brushing against my face and clogging the inside of my nose and throat when I try to breathe.

  Hair. Lots of it. All around me now, covering the floor of the church like a carpet of gold confetti, sticking to my skin.

  I open my eyes and I see her. She’s lying on the altar. Her eyes are closed and her hands are folded neatly across her stomach. She’s captured in the sunlight, tinted the same colours as the glass. Shades of red and yellow and green dotted across her body.

  I move closer, until I’m standing over her, so close I can see the scatter of freckles across her nose, and the gaping red gash across her white neck. And her hair, her beautiful hair, is gone. Hacked away from her head and scattered around the church. It’s tragic. A beautiful young woman with her whole life ahead of her, killed in such a brutal manner. The fear and the pain and the horror of her final minutes are beyond imagination.

  And yet… In my dreams, as I stand over her and breathe in the smell of her death, I don’t feel sad or angry about what’s happened. The only thing I feel is relief. Because now she’s dead, she cannot cause any more trouble for my family.

  One

  Dee Doran was having a good morning. She’d experienced a moment of pure joy when she’d woken up and realised she wasn’t alone. Ed Mitchell had spent the night. It wasn’t the first time he’d stayed over. In fact, it was becoming something of a habit. Ed was becoming something of a habit. Which wasn’t a situation she’d ever have envisaged when she first met him seven months ago.

  They’d spent the last hour lying in bed, curled against each other, looking out Dee’s bedroom window, watching the shifting colours of the light moving across the sky and sea and beach.

  ‘It’s so beautiful here,’ Ed said, his breath warm and comforting against Dee’s neck. Dee didn’t say anything. Ed already knew how she felt about this place. The house, on a deserted stretch of beach on the eastern edge of Eastbourne town, was her childhood home. Dee had moved back here from London after the break-up of her marriage to nurse her widowed mother through the last few, painful months of her incurable cancer. Now, she couldn’t imagine ever living anywhere else.

  Dee’s father, an architect, had designed the house when Dee was a child. She’d spent most of her teenage years yearning to get as far away from Eastbourne as she could. It was only when she moved back a few years ago that she started to appreciate just how special it was.

  ‘You should move in.’

  The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. She tensed, waiting for Ed’s excuses. Unsure whether she’d even meant it. They’d only been dating for five months. They were still getting to know each other. Things were pretty good at the moment, so why change that? They both enjoyed the independence of living alone, not having to do something just because the other one wanted to. They didn’t even like the same TV programmes. There were so many reasons why it was a bad idea. The only excuse Dee had for mentioning it was the sense of security she’d felt lying beside him. That weird feeling that, just for once, life was exactly as it should be. Why she had to wreck it by saying something so stupid was beyond her.

  ‘Really?’

  There was a softness in his voice that made her turn around so she was looking at him. He smiled and – God help her and forgive her but she couldn’t help it – she smiled back.

  A piece of her hair had fallen across her cheek. Ed brushed it back, his hand lingering on her face.

  ‘Dee Doran,’ he said. ‘Did you just say you’d like us to live together?’

  There was a lump in Dee’s throat that made it impossible to answer. She swallowed, thought of the many different ways she could apologise for saying something she didn’t mean to say. Opted instead for something simpler:

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In that case…’ But before he could finish his sentence, his mobile phone started to ring. He groaned, rolled onto his back and groped for his phone on the bedside table.

  ‘It’s Rachel,’ he said, frowning, when he looked at the screen. ‘Why’s she calling on my day off?’

  Rachel Lewis, Ed’s colleague. Th
ey worked together as senior detectives with East Sussex Police. If Rachel was calling Ed on his day off, it could only mean bad news.

  ‘You’d better call her back,’ Dee said.

  ‘Nah.’ Ed pressed a button and the phone stopped ringing. ‘I’m sure it can wait.’

  He put the phone down and turned back to Dee.

  ‘Now then,’ he said, wrapping his arms around her. ‘Where were we?’

  Dee started to speak but her words were lost as the ringing started again.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Dee said. ‘She wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t urgent. We both know that.’

  While Ed took the call, Dee slipped out of bed and went into the bathroom. Through the closed door, she could hear the low rumble of his voice. The phone call went on long enough for her to know this was the end of their day together. Which meant the conversation about moving in together would have to wait. Part relieved, part disappointed, Dee reached into the shower and turned the water on.

  * * *

  Forty minutes later, Dee was in the passenger seat of Ed’s car as he drove west along the seafront.

  ‘I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about,’ Dee said.

  ‘You’re probably right,’ Ed said. ‘Although it’s difficult not to worry when Rachel wouldn’t tell me why she needs me there.’

  ‘Tell me again what she said?’ Dee asked.

  ‘A body has been found,’ Ed said. ‘In St Mary’s church. I thought she’d forgotten I was on leave today, but she hadn’t. She said this was important, and I’d understand when I saw the crime scene.’

  ‘Not the victim,’ Dee mused. ‘But the crime scene. A funny way to put it, don’t you think?’

  Ed didn’t reply, but Dee knew he was worried. Rachel was more than capable of dealing with the initial stages of an investigation. Which meant there was something unusual about this case. Something she wasn’t willing to tell Ed over the phone.

  Dee had already called her cousin, Louise, to check she and her family were okay. But Louise hadn’t picked up. As Louise was a journalist and editor of the local newspaper, the chances were that she was already at the scene. And even though Dee tried to tell herself she didn’t need to worry, she was relieved when Ed finally pulled up outside the church in Old Town and she saw her cousin’s blond head among the group of people clustered behind the black and yellow police tape blocking the entrance to the church.

  ‘I have no idea how long this will take,’ Ed said. ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘I’ll catch up with Lou first,’ Dee said. ‘And maybe I’ll have a coffee in the Lamb. After that, if you’re still not ready I’ll head home.’

  Ed leaned over and kissed her.

  ‘I haven’t forgotten our conversation this morning,’ he said. ‘Why don’t I come over later and we can continue where we left off?’

  ‘That would be lovely.’ Dee patted his knee and smiled. ‘Right then, detective, see you later.’

  They got out of the car. Dee watched as Ed approached the uniformed policewoman standing at the entrance to the churchyard.

  ‘Any idea who she is?’

  Louise’s voice at her shoulder made Dee jump. She hadn’t seen her cousin move away from the crowd and come over to where she was standing.

  ‘Not a clue,’ Dee said.

  She looked at Ed, still chatting comfortably with the policewoman instead of getting his skates on and going inside the church to view the victim. ‘Apart from Rachel, I don’t know any of Ed’s colleagues.’

  ‘Not her,’ Louise said, waving her finger in the direction of Ed and his companion. ‘The victim.’

  ‘How do you know it’s a woman?’ Dee said.

  ‘Everyone knows it’s a woman,’ Louise said.

  Everyone except Ed, Dee thought.

  ‘Although that’s about all we know,’ Louise continued. ‘Ed didn’t say anything else, did he?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Dee decided not to tell Louise that – by rights – Ed shouldn’t even be here. ‘God Lou, your lips are blue. How long have you been standing out here? And where’s your coat?’

  It was a chilly day. Yesterday’s clouds had disappeared but there was no warmth to the early March sunshine and a wind was whipping in over the downs, bringing icy temperatures with it.

  ‘I came straight from the gym,’ Louise said. ‘Left my coat in the locker by mistake.’

  ‘Well you can’t stay out here any longer,’ Dee said, hooking her arm with Louise’s. ‘I’m taking you to the Lamb and buying you a hot drink.’

  ‘I need to stay out here,’ Louise said. ‘Sooner or later, someone’s going to come out and tell us something.’

  ‘There’s no good them telling you anything if you’re so cold your ears have stopped working,’ Dee said.

  It didn’t take much to persuade Louise to leave the freezing outdoors for the cosy warmth of Eastbourne’s oldest pub. The two women settled by the open fire, warming their hands on the flames while Natalie, the landlady, served up a pot of coffee and a plate of bacon sandwiches.

  ‘You look like you need feeding up,’ Natalie informed Louise. She smiled across at Dee. ‘And I’ve never known you to say no to a bacon butty, my love.’ She nodded at the window that looked across to the church. ‘Heard the vicar found her when he opened up this morning. Poor bloke’s in a right state, apparently. I made some sandwiches earlier for the coppers they’ve got standing outside. One of them told me it’s definitely murder. No doubt about it, he said.’

  ‘Do they have any idea who she is?’ Dee asked.

  ‘Suppose we’ll find out soon enough,’ Natalie said. ‘Difficult to imagine, isn’t it? Some poor family will have woken up this morning not knowing the tragedy that’s about to hit them.’

  Dee thought of Trevor and Billy. Two men she’d loved – one her ex-husband, the other a dear friend – who had both died in the past year. Once again, she felt the overwhelming sense of disbelief that two people could suddenly cease to exist. Despite his faults, which were many, her ex-husband had always seemed full of life. There were times, even now, when that desperate longing for something impossible – to see him one final time – almost broke her. At some point over the next few days, everyone who had known and loved the dead woman inside the church was going to know exactly what that felt like. The thought was so sad that, for a moment, Dee wished the dead woman was a person without friends or loved ones. Someone whose passing wouldn’t trigger a wave of grief that would affect so many people.

  * * *

  Ed had seen the body the moment he’d pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside. Impossible to miss it, really. Laid out on the altar like some sort of sick offering. He’d been too far away to make out any of the detail, or even if the victim was male or female. Normally, he’d have asked Rachel. But something about the way she’d looked at him when he first arrived – a question in her face that he didn’t have the answer to – prevented him from doing that.

  He was aware of Rachel walking beside him as they made their way up the aisle towards the altar, their footsteps loud on the stone floor. Walking side by side through the church, like two people following an ancient religious tradition. He was more than halfway along the aisle before he was able to see her properly. Her, because there was no doubt the body lying on its back on the altar was that of a woman. Something was scattered on the ground near the altar. Confetti, he thought at first. Although he’d never seen confetti this colour.

  He stopped walking. Not confetti. Something else.

  ‘You okay, Ed?’ Rachel’s voice sounded far away, although she was right beside him.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he said.

  ‘You see why I needed you to be here?’

  Ed didn’t answer. He couldn’t stop looking at the dead girl, at the chunks of her hair, scattered across the ground. Trying to find the crucial piece of information he knew he was missing. Flashes of memory rushed towards him. His childhood, his grandmother. The dark secret at the he
art of his family that he’d learned it was better never to speak about. Something only a handful of people outside his family knew about. Two of them here in the church. One standing beside him; the other lying dead on the altar.

  ‘Her name’s Lauren Shaw.’

  The words came out of his mouth, but he had no control over what he was saying. Because even though he knew the victim’s name, he knew she couldn’t be lying here like this. That had happened to another woman. A woman called Mary Palmer, who’d had curly auburn hair, blue eyes and a smattering of freckles across her nose. Just like Lauren.

  Sixty years ago, Mary Palmer’s throat had been cut open, her auburn hair had been hacked short. And when the killer was finished doing those things, he’d laid Mary Palmer’s body on the altar of this church. Exactly the way Lauren Shaw’s body was laid out today.

  Two

  Details of the body in the church trickled through on social media and news websites all afternoon. By early evening, Dee had read everything she could about the murder and was no closer to understanding why Rachel had needed Ed to see the scene for himself.

  At six thirty this morning, the vicar of St Mary the Virgin had discovered the body of a young woman when he’d unlocked the church. According to rumours on social media, the victim was a twenty-three-year-old local woman called Lauren Shaw. The police hadn’t confirmed this yet. Dee knew, from her years working as an investigative journalist in London, that formal identifications didn’t happen this quickly. There was no information on how the killer had managed to get the body inside the locked church, or whether the vicar – or anyone else – was a suspect at this stage in the investigation.

  Several times throughout the day, Dee had tried to call Ed. Each time, she’d got his voicemail. She hadn’t bothered leaving a message, knowing he’d call when he could. But she couldn’t shake off the nagging anxiety that had been with her since he’d got the phone call this morning.