When the Dead Speak

by Sheila Bugler

  The couple – Sherri and Shaun – travelled with them all the way to the top floor. When the doors opened Derek put his hand out, gesturing for the Americans to go in front of him. He stepped out next, holding the lift doors open for Dee. He led her along the corridor, more low lighting and tasteful decor, to a door accessed by a keypad. He entered a code and the door swung open.

  ‘This hotel’s been a labour of love,’ he told Dee as they walked. ‘I bought it ten years ago. Invested everything I had into it.’

  ‘You’ve done a beautiful job,’ Dee said. ‘I remember coming here as a teenager. It was very different back then.’

  ‘It was a dive,’ Derek said. ‘Now, I’m proud to say, it’s one of the UK’s most successful hotels. Ah, here we are.’

  He stopped outside a room at the end of the corridor and pushed open the door.

  ‘My office.’ He stood back to let Dee go into the room ahead of him.

  ‘Wow,’ Dee said, walking into the room. ‘You kept the best space for yourself.’

  Situated at the corner of the building, the room had views across the Channel and, to the right, the start of the South Downs. Even on a wet day like this, it was a spectacular sight. A polished black desk and matching chair took up one corner of the room. There was a slimline MacBook Air on the desk, and nothing else. In the opposite corner, there were two black leather couches with a glass coffee table in between them. The walls were painted white and hung with several pieces of modern art by an artist Dee didn’t recognise.

  ‘How do you take your coffee?’ Derek asked, switching on a complicated coffee machine plugged into the wall behind his desk.

  ‘Black, no sugar,’ Dee said. ‘Thanks.’

  As the room filled with the smell of freshly brewed coffee, Dee wandered to the window and looked down on the seafront. Despite the weather, there were lots of people out and about. Mostly tourists, she guessed, taking advantage of some of the cheap hotel deals that kept the town busy even out of season.

  ‘Coffee’s ready,’ Derek said after a few minutes. ‘We can sit here,’ he gestured to the leather couches, ‘while we drink it.’

  ‘How did you know I was a journalist?’ Dee asked when they were both sitting down. ‘I’ve barely written anything in years. Even at the height of my career I was hardly a household name.’

  ‘Eastbourne’s a small place,’ Derek said. ‘I read the piece you wrote last year about your husband. Very moving. If you don’t mind me saying so.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Dee said, wondering if she’d misjudged him. On first appearances, everything about Derek French screamed flash bastard. The hair that was a shade too blond, the tan a shade too orange, and the three-piece suit more than a little OTT. He’d struck Dee as the sort of man more comfortable reading the sports sections of a tabloid than an in-depth piece on the devastating ways alcohol addiction can ruin a life.

  ‘My old man was a drinker,’ Derek said. ‘What you wrote resonated with me. Although I have to admit, I’m not quite sure why you’re here today. Lauren’s death is tragic and we’re all bloody devastated, but if you think I’m going to speak to you about it for some story you’re writing, you can think again.’

  ‘I’m not here because of Lauren.’

  ‘No?’ Derek leaned forward, and stared at her intently.

  ‘I’m writing a piece about Polish workers in the UK,’ Dee said. ‘I’m particularly interested in a young woman called Joana Helinski. She was due to meet someone here at your hotel on Saturday the eighth of February. She hasn’t been seen since.’

  As she spoke about Joana, Dee’s guilt resurfaced. She’d called Eliza several times this morning, but all her calls went straight to voicemail. Dee had left a message, apologising – again – and asking Eliza to call back. So far, Eliza hadn’t called, and Dee didn’t blame her.

  Derek dropped eye contact so he could take a sip of his coffee. When he looked back up, he was frowning.

  ‘You say the eighth of February?’ he said. ‘That’s over a month ago, Dee. Is there any reason I’m only hearing about this now? If someone went missing here in my hotel, then I shouldn’t be the last person to know about it. Have the police been notified?’

  ‘They’re not doing much to find her,’ Dee said. ‘Apparently it’s quite common for Polish nationals to move around a lot. They think the most likely explanation is that Joana’s simply moved on somewhere else.’

  ‘And you? What do you think, Dee?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Dee said. ‘Her friends say there’s no way Joana would leave Eastbourne without letting them know. I came here last week and showed a photo of Joana to some of your staff. It never occurred to me to speak to you as well. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’ Derek dismissed her apology with a wave of his hand. ‘I’m guessing none of them told me because they didn’t think there was anything in it. I’m assuming none of them recognised her?’

  ‘No,’ Dee admitted. ‘Although Eliza – that’s Joana’s friend – she came to see me yesterday and she thinks Joana and Lauren knew each other. So, of course…’

  Derek shifted in his chair and drank some more of his coffee.

  ‘I’m not very comfortable with this conversation, Dee. If you think there’s some connection between your missing girl and Lauren, shouldn’t you be talking to the police instead of interrogating me?’

  ‘I didn’t realise I was interrogating you.’ Dee took out her phone, opened the photo she had on there of Joana and slid the phone across the desk. ‘This is Joana. Do you remember ever seeing her hanging around the hotel?’

  Derek looked at the photo for a full five seconds before shaking his head. When he looked back up, his expression was neutral, not giving anything away.

  ‘Never seen her before in my life. You’re barking up the wrong tree with this, Dee. I know my hotel and I know my clientele. If something bad happened to that girl, it didn’t happen in my hotel. And I hope you’re not insinuating I hire illegal workers? All my staff are on the books, I can assure you. Now then, I’m afraid I’ve got a conference call in just under five minutes. If I walk you back as far as the lift, are you okay making your way back from there? Unless, of course, you have any other questions you’d like to ask me?’

  Dee did have another question, but it could wait. She could easily find the information she wanted elsewhere. She thanked him for his time, and left. Something about the encounter hadn’t felt right. He’d been charming enough, but there was something odd about the conversation that she couldn’t put her finger on. Maybe it was way he’d kept repeating her name when he spoke to her. Filing this as something to think about later, Dee took the lift back down to the ground floor.

  On her way out of the hotel, she noticed that Jaime was back at the reception desk. She was checking in a group of Italians; Dee waited until they’d all been dealt with before approaching the girl.

  ‘Just wanted to make sure you’re okay?’ Dee said.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Jaime said. ‘Well, not fine exactly. But I’m not going to start crying again. Thank you, by the way.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Dee said. ‘Actually, Jaime, can I ask you something?’

  ‘Sure,’ Jaime said.

  ‘Derek French,’ Dee said. ‘Is he related to Lauren’s boyfriend, by any chance?’

  ‘Related?’ Jaime gave Dee a watery smile. ‘Kyle’s his son. Why?’

  ‘No reason,’ Dee said, although she thought it was odd that Derek hadn’t mentioned his son’s relationship to the dead girl. Something else to think about later.

  She had crossed the lobby and was trying to build up the courage to step outside into the rain when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Turning around, she saw Jaime standing behind her.

  ‘The girl you were asking about,’ Jaime said. ‘She’s Polish?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Dee said. ‘Why?’

  ‘It might not be anything,’ Jaime said. ‘But there’s a bar in town, it’s really popular with a lot of the
Eastern Europeans. The Anchor in Seaside. You know it?’

  Dee nodded. She knew the Anchor. She’d already been there and asked about Joana, but hadn’t found anyone who could tell her where the girl might have gone.

  ‘I don’t drink,’ Jaime said. ‘So I don’t go out to bars that much. But I know some of the other staff here, they’re friends with a lot of the people who drink in that pub. I’ll show them the photo of Joana if you like?’

  ‘That would be brilliant,’ Dee said. ‘Thanks so much.’

  She doubted it would make any difference. It didn’t seem likely that Joana and Lauren’s paths had ever crossed, but it was worth a shot. And at least she’d be able to tell Eliza that she tried.

  ‘Lauren loved that place,’ Jaime said.

  ‘The Anchor?’ Dee said.

  ‘She used to go there at least once a week,’ Jaime said. ‘It was her favourite bar in town.’

  ‘You think it’s possible she knew Joana?’ Dee asked.

  Jaime frowned.

  ‘I guess. I mean, she was friends with lots of the people who went there. Well, not friends exactly. More sort of acquaintances, I suppose.’

  ‘Make sure you show them that photo,’ Dee said. ‘Thanks so much, Jaime.’

  She pushed her way through the revolving door and ran into the pouring rain. It was starting to sound like Eliza had been right. Joana and Lauren knew each other. Dee wasn’t sure yet what that meant, but she was going to find out.

  From the diary of Emma Reed

  22 March 1960

  I’m ashamed of how I feel in the dreams. It’s not something I’d ever admit apart from here, within the pages of my diary. Despite the trouble she caused, I never wished her any harm. Naturally, I hoped Graham’s infatuation with her would pass. And yes, I would have liked her to have behaved a little more sensibly. She led him on. I don’t think she did it maliciously, but it’s the truth nonetheless. She was young, and young people think differently. Particularly this generation, untouched by war and tragedy. They haven’t had to grow up the way we did. In some ways, they’re still children; children with adult bodies and adult needs and desires. It’s a dangerous combination.

  I think she was fond of Graham in her own way. But it was never more than friendship, and he couldn’t see that. A girl like that was destined to be with a successful man, not someone like my son.

  Her murder has rocked our community. There are times I wonder if we’ll ever find a way to move past it. Because it’s not just the murder, which is terrible in its own right. There’s the aftermath too. That brings another form of horror. The suspicion and the rumours. The whispered conversations in shops and on the street, that seem to stop abruptly as soon as I appear. The sly, side-eyed gazes; the sheer endlessness of it all. I know what people are saying, and I know my son did not kill her. Graham might not be the best or the brightest, but he’s not a murderer.

  I confess, it crossed my mind. At the very beginning, when I heard she had been murdered, I wondered if he could have done it. In my defence, he’d been gone all night and I was already half out of my mind with worry, wondering where he was and what trouble he’d found himself in this time. The fear grew inside me as each minute passed. I knew something bad had happened. How could I not, after the terrible argument that had taken place in our house earlier that same evening?

  I didn’t write about it then. It was too painful and my mind was too distracted with worry to sit down and write. But I want to write about it now. I started this diary as a record of my life. Proof that I was more than just a mother and a wife. I was a woman, too, with my own mind and my own opinions.

  So, the night of the murder…

  Graham had gone to the pub in the early afternoon and he was late home for supper. I’d suggested that we wait a few minutes, but James wouldn’t hear of it.

  ‘This is my house and we eat when I say so,’ he said. It’s always ‘his house’, despite the fact it was my parents’ money that paid for it.

  James, Nicola and I had been at the table for about ten minutes when I heard the fumble of Graham’s key in the front door. My spirits sank. Until that moment I’d hoped he might come back sober. But as I listened to him trying to fit his key into the lock, I knew. James knew too. His body stiffened, his mouth turned down and his frown deepened until his face looked as if it might split in two.

  He blames me for Graham. Naturally. My husband has many shortcomings but when it comes to blaming other people, he excels. According to James, it’s a mother’s job to teach her child how to behave. I’ve tried telling him that both parents have a role to play in raising a child, but he refuses to listen. There was a time, when we first got married, I believed our opinions were of equal value. Experience has shown me how foolish I was to ever think such a thing. Opinions in a marriage are like every other part of the union – the wife’s feelings, thoughts and desires are of no relevance whatsoever.

  It was like watching a disaster unfold in slow motion. It reminded me of those awful days during the war when families were waiting to hear the fate of their sons or husbands and you knew that one day soon they would receive the news that would shatter their lives for ever.

  Nicola and I sat between them, silent and scared, as they shouted across the table at each other. I wanted to do something but I was frozen, incapable of moving or speaking or thinking. It was only when Nicola started to cry, sobbing silently in her seat, fat tears rolling down her lovely face, that I sprang into action. I jumped up, told them both to stop it, please, please stop it.

  My words had an effect. They fell quiet, and the silence was such a relief. I sat down, my whole body shaking. It should have ended there. It would have ended too, if James had stayed quiet. But he had to have the last word.

  ‘Look at what you’ve done to your mother and your sister,’ he said, his voice low and cold and icy with anger. ‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself. I never thought I’d live to see the day when a child of mine behaved the way you do.’

  I swear that I felt those words shoot across the table and enter my son’s heart, wounding him. He pushed his chair back, stood up and reached across the table for the teapot. He swung his arm back and, with a roar that sent shivers of fear through my body, he hurled the teapot across the room, aiming for James’s head.

  I want to pretend it never happened, but if I look up from my diary now I can see the brown stain on the wall where the teapot crashed and broke. My mother’s teapot. One of the few things I had left that belonged to her.

  I’m not sure if James ducked his head in time or if Graham’s aim was off. Either way, the teapot didn’t hit its mark. Which is how I’ve ended up with a stain on the wall – but that’s infinitely better than my husband ending up in hospital. Or my son ending up in prison.

  I’d never seen that side of Graham before. Yes, he could be difficult, but he’d never exploded like that. It chills me to think of it. He stormed out immediately after the incident, and didn’t come home until the following morning. I know because I stayed up all night, sitting here in the kitchen, unable to write my diary, waiting. Several times, I went outside and walked up and down the street, as if the simple act of looking for him might make him suddenly appear. But it made no difference and, in the end, I gave up searching and stayed inside. Eventually, when I’d almost given up hope, he staggered in and went straight up to bed. He still has no idea I was sitting up, waiting for him.

  Ten hours he was gone. Ten hours of his time unaccounted for. And at some point, during those ten hours, she was murdered. I haven’t told a soul, not even James, that Graham didn’t come home that night. I know what people will think if they find out. They’re already thinking it, and if they know he wasn’t at home, their suspicions will rapidly turn into misplaced certainty.

  So it’s my job to make sure no one finds out. I know my son. He can be volatile and he loses his temper too easily. He has problems interacting with people and he gets things wrong a lot of the time.

 
; But he’s not a killer.

  Four

  Dee pulled up outside the row of Victorian terraced houses on Motcombe Road. When she took the key out of the ignition, she noticed the slight tremor in her hand. She was nervous. She’d called Ed’s mobile and, when she got his voicemail, she’d tried his work number. One of his colleagues answered the phone and told Dee that Ed wasn’t at work today. Dee knew he was meant to be on leave this week, but she’d assumed his leave would have been cancelled. She thought he’d be leading the murder investigation.

  When he opened the door, he looked surprised to see her.

  ‘It’s Friday,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d be with Ella and Tom.’

  Most Friday evenings, Dee and her neighbours got together to eat pizza and catch up.

  ‘They couldn’t make it,’ Dee said. ‘We’re doing breakfast tomorrow instead. Sorry for coming over without calling first. I wanted to check you’re okay.’

  ‘You didn’t need to.’ Ed smiled, clearly making an effort. ‘But I’m glad you did. Come in out of the rain.’

  Dee held up the shopping bag she was carrying. ‘I brought wine and some food from Waitrose. Thought we could have dinner together?’

  ‘Good idea.’ He pulled her towards him and kissed her. His breath smelled of beer. Which was unusual, because he wasn’t the sort of person to sit and drink alone.

  ‘You okay?’ she asked.

  ‘Better for seeing you,’ he said. ‘Come on, let’s go through to the kitchen. Place is a bit of a mess, I’m afraid. If I’d known you were coming over I’d have tidied up.’

  Ed’s definition of mess wasn’t the same as Dee’s. Apart from an unwashed plate and mug in the sink, she thought his kitchen looked pretty tidy.