When the Dead Speak

by Sheila Bugler

  Then, before Dee could ask her what the hell she meant by that, Louise had hung up. Putting her phone back in the pocket of her jeans, Dee decided the Recorder’s home page could wait and she turned her attention back to Jake.

  They stayed outside until Tom and Ella came to join them on the beach.

  ‘We need to head back,’ Ella said. ‘Tom’s got some work to do, and I promised Jake I’d take him to the cinema. Why don’t you come with us?’

  ‘I’ve got work to do,’ Dee said. She could barely wait for them to go so she could get online and read the latest news about the murder.

  She hugged each of them and said goodbye before going onto the deck and watching them walk back across the beach, the crunch of footsteps on the shingle loud in the silence of the crisp spring morning. When she could no longer see or hear them, she stayed where she was, looking out at the vast expanse of sky and ocean and thinking about the many ways her life was good right now.

  Two years ago, if you’d told Dee she’d still be living in Eastbourne and actually enjoying it, she would have told you where to get off. Right before slugging down a large glass of wine and refilling it to the brim. Wine and loneliness had been her sole companions after the death of her parents and the break-up of her marriage.

  She’d fallen into a depression so dark and deep it seemed impossible to imagine she’d ever find the strength to crawl her way out of it. But somehow, she’d managed it. Thanks in no small part to little Jake.

  When Dee first got to know Ella and Jake, Ella had been living under an assumed identity. She was running away from a haunted past but, as she’d discovered, the past has a way of catching up with you.

  A lot had changed since then, including Ella and Tom getting back together. Over the last few months, Dee and her neighbours had settled into a way of being together that suited all of them. They saw each other regularly, without living in each other’s pockets. Dee babysat Jake any chance she got, they met up most Friday nights and, at least once a week, she and Ella would get together for a walk or a coffee or a glass of wine. Somehow, Dee had lulled herself into believing things might carry on this way indefinitely. But Tom’s throwaway comment earlier had got her worried. She didn’t want to lose them, but she couldn’t see a way of making sure that didn’t happen.

  She went inside, made some coffee and sat by the window while she opened her laptop and found the home page for the Eastbourne Recorder’s website. Louise was right. Once Dee had read the story – several times to make sure she’d got all the details correct – her mind was buzzing.

  The first part of the story gave the shocking details of how Lauren had been killed. As Dee started to read it, she wondered why the police had released this information so quickly. It was only when she reached the next part of the story that it made sense. There was no way of keeping something like this hidden.

  Lauren Shaw’s body had been found on the altar of St Mary the Virgin church. There was still no detail on how the killer had got inside the church, but plenty of information on the damage done to poor Lauren. Her throat had been cut open and, bizarrely, the killer had cut off all her hair. This in itself was shocking enough. But what came next was the bit that Dee couldn’t get her head around. Because the article went on to talk about another murder that had happened in Eastbourne sixty years earlier.

  The victim was a young woman called Mary Palmer. According to the Recorder, and every other news site Dee visited, Mary Palmer had been eighteen years old at the time of her murder. On 5 March 1960, Mary’s body was discovered on the altar in the church of St Mary the Virgin. The same church where Lauren’s body had been found yesterday morning. The similarities didn’t stop there. Like Lauren, Mary Palmer had long auburn hair and a smattering of freckles across her nose. Dee could just make out the freckles in the grainy black and white image accompanying the story. Mary’s throat had been cut open and all her auburn hair had been cut off.

  But the thing that stood out about this story, over and above everything else, was this: Lauren Shaw and Mary Palmer were related. Lauren’s father and Mary Palmer were first cousins.

  ‘What the heck?’ Dee said when she called Louise back.

  ‘Ed hasn’t mentioned this?’ Louise said.

  ‘I’ve barely seen him,’ Dee said. ‘He’s been so busy.’

  ‘Busy doing what?’ Louise said. ‘Why isn’t he part of the investigation? Did he know Lauren?’

  Dee’s stomach churned. For a moment, she thought she was about to throw up. She looked at Lauren Shaw’s photo on her laptop. The girl was undeniably beautiful. A few days ago, Dee would have said her relationship with Ed was rock solid. Now, she was starting to doubt what they had together. Could she have got him that wrong?

  Then she got a grip. Ed Mitchell was straight as die. It was one of the reasons she’d let down her guard and fallen in love with him. Because, unlike her alcoholic ex, Ed was someone she could trust. Yes, there was something he wasn’t telling her. But it certainly wasn’t that he’d been having an affair with a girl young enough to be his daughter.

  ‘It can’t be the same killer,’ Louise said, jumping from subject to subject the way she always did when she was fired up by something. ‘Mary’s killer died soon after she did.’

  ‘It looks as if whoever killed Lauren deliberately recreated Mary’s murder,’ Dee said. ‘Maybe it’s… I don’t know, some kind of warning?’

  ‘To the family? That’s possible, I guess. I was hoping to go and see them today but there’s not a chance of that happening now. They’ll be inundated by journalists trying to talk to them.’

  Dee looked at the images of the two dead girls on her computer screen. The physical similarities were obvious, despite the poor quality of Mary’s photo.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ Louise said. ‘Martin’s just come back from golf. He’ll be looking for something to eat.’

  ‘Have fun,’ Dee said. ‘Oh, and Lou?’

  ‘Don’t,’ Louise said. ‘I know he’s more than capable of getting his own food, but I like doing it for him, okay?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  Dee said goodbye and hung up. There were things she needed to do. Like try to speak to Ed and ask him what the hell was going on. But she didn’t move, transfixed by the images of the two women. Both dead, killed by a monster. No. Dee shook her head. Not one monster. Two.

  From the diary of Emma Reed

  11 April 1960

  There’s a sick feeling that never leaves me these days. Fear. It sits in the pit of my stomach, burning like acid. It’s with me when I fall asleep at night, and it’s there when I wake up each morning. Fear for my family, for what will happen to all of us if this campaign of hate against my son continues.

  James has stopped playing golf. There’s no point, he says, if you can’t find anyone who’ll play with you. Golf is more than a game for him. It’s a way of meeting people, making connections and ensuring he has all the contacts he needs to further his career. He’s spoken about moving to a different part of the country, making a fresh start. But we can’t consider something like that with this terrible cloud of suspicion hanging over all of us.

  Earlier this week, Nicola came home from school in tears. The other girls have been ignoring her. When she tries to join in their conversations, they taunt her, telling her terrible things about her brother. Lies they’ve heard from their parents that they repeat, in their ignorant way, in the brutal world of the playground. Teenagers can be so cruel. I tried speaking to the headmaster but he made it clear that, while Nicola was living under the same roof as a ‘suspected murderer’, there wasn’t anything he could do. The man is an incompetent fool.

  The weather is warm and humid, much as it was this time last year when we attended the Palmers’ garden party. Such a beautiful afternoon. I was so thrilled we’d been invited, knowing how important it was for James to be seen there. And yes, I confess to feeling a little smug too, knowing others hadn’t been so lucky. Anyone who’d got on the wrong
side of Annabelle, for example. As George’s sister, Annabelle is a powerful ally and a dangerous enemy. A spinster, she’s lived with George ever since his own wife passed away. Now that her poor niece is dead, she is likely to inherit all of George’s fortune one day. Which will further strengthen her position within our community.

  But why am I writing about this now? In the hall, the grandfather clock continues its relentless tick-ticking. A constant reminder of the minutes and hours that have passed while I’ve sat here, waiting for Graham to come home. Another night of worrying and waiting.

  I shouldn’t have let him go out. It’s not safe for him at the moment. People are angry about Mary. They want someone to pay for the crime and, increasingly, Graham is becoming the target of all this anger and desire for retribution. Each time I leave the house, it’s there. The hostility in people’s faces, the whispered conversations that stop when I draw close. Worst of all are those who greet me with fake smiles, pretending they haven’t been gossiping about me moments earlier. Hypocrites the lot of them.

  Graham has already been questioned by the police, and released without charge. You’d think that would be enough to stop the gossips but if anything, it’s made things worse. People think that James’s friendship with the chief constable is the only reason Graham isn’t already behind bars.

  The grandfather clock chimes five times. Through the curtains, fingers of grey morning light are trickling into the room. Twenty minutes ago, I heard footsteps outside. I ran to the front door, my heart filled with hope, relief already flooding every part of me as I imagined opening the door and taking my son into my arms. Prepared to hold him tight and never let him go again.

  But it wasn’t Graham. It was Richard Partridge and two of his friends. Despite the early hour, the men’s spirits were high. They seemed animated, arms over each other’s shoulders, wide smiles on their faces as they wound their way along the street. I stepped back inside the house and shut the door before they could see me. But the sound of their laughter, loud and careless, chased after me. Taunting me.

  James and Nicola are asleep upstairs. I don’t know how James will react if he gets up and Graham still hasn’t come home. He’ll be angry, I expect, and he’ll want to blame someone, so that will be me. He’s angry all the time these days. As if it’s my fault that people are gossiping about us and no one wants to play golf with him. I’ve tried talking to him about it, but he’d rather be angry than talk.

  I need to stop writing. I thought it would help, but putting it all down like this has made everything worse. The fear spreads through me until I can taste it, sour metal coating the inside of my mouth. It’s got a substance to it that makes it every bit as real as my heart and my lungs and my kidneys. And like those vital organs, I can’t rip it out or pretend it’s not there.

  Four words are pounding repeatedly inside my head:

  Something bad has happened.

  Six

  Ed sat in the kitchen of his sister’s house, nursing a cup of instant coffee.

  ‘Want a top-up?’ Nessa asked, nodding at the empty cup.

  ‘Not unless you’ve got any proper coffee hiding in those cupboards,’ Ed said.

  ‘Sorry,’ Nessa said. ‘Since Javi and I gave up caffeine we’ve stopped buying real coffee. I keep a jar of instant for visitors but, truthfully, most of our friends don’t drink it, either. That jar’s probably been there for years.’

  Which explained why it tasted so dreadful. Along with caffeine, Nessa and her partner had given up most foods and drinks Ed considered essential to a happy life, including all alcohol, meat and dairy products. Not for the first time, he was grateful he’d found a partner who enjoyed the finer things in life every bit as much as he did.

  ‘So,’ Nessa said. ‘If you don’t want coffee and you’ve run out of small talk, do you want to talk about why you’re here? Not that it’s not lovely to see you. The kids are so excited you’re here. But I know my big brother.’

  ‘Maybe I just wanted to see you,’ he said.

  ‘And maybe those pigs in my back yard will fly one day,’ Nessa said.

  ‘Have you decided what you’re going to do with them yet?’ Ed asked. ‘I’m not sure what you’re meant to do with pigs if you’re not planning to eat them.’

  ‘That’s disgusting.’ Nessa leaned across the table and whacked his arm. ‘They’re lovely, intelligent animals. We’re keeping them as pets. Cielo and River adore them.’

  Ed arranged his face in a smile and kept his mouth shut. The thought of his beloved nephews frolicking around in Ness’s overgrown garden with two pigs wasn’t something he wanted to dwell on. The only problem was, now the image was in his head he couldn’t get rid of it.

  ‘Gloucester Old Spots are known for their gentle nature,’ Nessa continued. ‘If you ever bothered spending time with them you’d see just how adorable they are. And I promise, you’d never want to eat bacon again.’

  ‘It would take more than two cute pigs to make me give up bacon,’ Ed said.

  Nessa rolled her eyes.

  ‘So?’ She took a sip of her mint tea and looked at Ed, waiting. He took a deep breath, unsure where to begin. Part of him didn’t want to tell her. It was so nice just being here, spending time with her. He always forgot, when he was away from her, how relaxed she made him feel.

  It hadn’t always been like this. When she was younger, Nessa had been wild, unmanageable. As a teenager, she’d got into all sorts of trouble. Drugs, bad boyfriends, a few visits to A&E to have her stomach pumped. Ed had always been the steady, sensible sibling while his sister ran wild.

  For a long time, their lives had diverged. Ed became a detective; Nessa moved to Spain, working as a hostess in dodgy nightclubs and going out with a string of successively dodgier boyfriends. Then, when her father and brother had almost given up on her, she completely turned her life around. She moved back to the UK with her Spanish boyfriend and trained as a Reiki healer. Within a few years, Nessa was earning more money with her healing than Ed could ever hope to earn as a detective.

  Ness and Javier moved to Norfolk, bought this rambling old house on the coast and started a family together. To date, this family included two children, the two pigs, four cats and a sloppy St Bernard. The animals had all come from the animal rescue charity where Javier worked. In Spain he’d had a job as an investment banker, but he’d given up all of that to start a new life in the UK with Ness. An act of spontaneity and faith that Ed had never been able to match in his own life.

  ‘You know why I’m here,’ he said.

  Nessa sighed. ‘Yes I do. You want to talk about Lauren. But what if I tell you I don’t want to talk about it?’

  ‘How can you not want to talk about this?’ Ed asked.

  ‘Because it won’t make any difference,’ Nessa said. ‘We know what happened, and we know the terrible damage it caused. I don’t want to dwell on that. I just want to get on with my life, Ed. Don’t you want to do that too?’

  ‘There’s something you don’t know,’ Ed said.

  But Nessa put her hand up, stopping him.

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘No way, Ed. Please don’t do this.’

  ‘Do what?’ Ed asked.

  ‘Dig it all up again,’ Nessa said. ‘It’s history. Bad history. Can’t you leave it alone?’

  She was getting angry. She wasn’t the only one.

  ‘Leave it alone?’ Ed said. ‘How am I expected to do that? Lauren’s murder was a message. You can’t expect me to ignore that.’

  ‘I don’t believe this,’ Nessa whispered.

  ‘Ness.’ Ed reached across the table and squeezed his sister’s hand. ‘There’s something else. I knew Lauren. That’s what I want to talk to you about.’

  Nessa pulled her hand away. For a long time, she didn’t speak.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said eventually. ‘I don’t want anything to do with it. I don’t want to know how you knew Lauren, or why. Everything that happened, it messed us up, and I’m sick to
death of being messed up.’

  ‘Are we messed up?’ Ed asked.

  ‘You’re not,’ Nessa said. ‘Although for a long time I thought your inability to commit to a long-term relationship might be connected to our childhood. But since you’ve met Dee I’m not so sure about that.’

  ‘I just never met the right person,’ Ed said.

  ‘Until now?’

  A series of images played through his head. Walking on the beach with Dee. Watching her as she moved around her kitchen, preparing one of her chaotic dinners that never seemed to follow any recipe but, somehow, always ended up tasting delicious. Being in bed with her; sex with her. The odd feeling he’d had ever since he’d got to know her, that something monumental had changed in his life.

  ‘Until now,’ he agreed. Although even as he said it, he felt a pang of guilt. Because he hadn’t been honest with Dee, and he knew how important honesty was to her. He didn’t want to think about how she’d react when she found out he’d been keeping secrets from her.

  Nessa smiled. ‘You’ve changed since you’ve been with her. You’re more relaxed these days. Happier.’

  ‘What about you?’ Ed said. ‘You’re one of the least messed-up people I know. How can you say our childhood affected the way your life’s turned out?’

  ‘I wasn’t always like this, though,’ Nessa said. ‘You know that.’

  ‘You were young,’ Ed said. ‘Nothing unusual about experimenting with different lifestyles while you try to work out what sort of person you really are.’

  Nessa shook her head, frowning.

  ‘It was more than that,’ she said. ‘And you know it.’

  ‘I thought you’d want to know,’ Ed said. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘Well I don’t. The past is the past, Ed. And that’s how I want to keep it. Of course, it’s terrible what’s happened to that poor girl, but I’m telling you now, you’re not to try to involve me in this. Okay?’

  ‘Nessa, you don’t understand. The press already know half the story. What will we do when they work out the rest of it?’