When the Dead Speak

by Sheila Bugler

  In fact, the opposite was true. If Ed knew Dee was offering to try to prove Kyle’s innocence he’d have a fit. But right now, Dee didn’t care what he thought. She’d woken up this morning every bit as angry with him as she’d been the previous evening. If he didn’t like what she was doing, that was his problem.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Karen said, but Dee sensed she was wavering.

  ‘What’s the harm?’ Dee asked. ‘We both know Kyle is innocent, right?’

  ‘So what do you suggest?’

  ‘Let me speak to him,’ Dee said. ‘Once I’ve done that, I can think about how best I can help.’

  ‘Why?’ Karen said.

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘What do you get out of helping him? Because you can’t write about this, you know. I’m not letting you into my house if that’s why you’re here.’

  ‘If Kyle is innocent,’ Dee said, ‘then helping him is the right thing to do.’

  ‘Call me cynical,’ Karen said. ‘But I don’t believe someone like you would be willing to help someone just because it’s the right thing to do.’ She used her index fingers to make speech marks as she said this.

  ‘Maybe it’s better if I leave then.’

  Dee turned to go, but Karen called her back.

  ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘This isn’t easy for me. My family is everything, you see. And right now, the police are threatening to rip us apart and I can’t stand it. I simply cannot endure what’s happening to us.’

  ‘It must be very difficult,’ Dee said. Although she couldn’t help thinking of Lauren’s family. However bad this was for Karen, it was nothing compared to what Lauren’s mother must be going through right now.

  ‘It’s a living nightmare,’ Karen said. ‘I truly don’t know what we’ve done to deserve this. I do wish Ed had sent someone else, but you’re here now. You can speak to Kyle on one condition.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I don’t want you asking him about that girl who’s missing.’

  ‘Even if I believe her disappearance might help prove Kyle’s innocence?’

  ‘It won’t,’ Karen said. ‘We all know who killed Lauren and why. And that’s got nothing to do with that other girl.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Her father did it,’ Karen said. ‘I know it. The police know it, and your friend Ed certainly knows it. But Nigel’s an influential man and the police are too scared to do the right thing and arrest him.’

  All of this was news to Dee and she felt another surge of anger at Ed for keeping this from her as well.

  ‘You might as well come in,’ Karen said. ‘But remember, you speak to him about Lauren and nothing else, understood?’

  Dee opened her mouth to answer but Karen was already speaking again.

  ‘I’ll take you into the kitchen. You can wait there while I go and get him.’

  Dee followed Karen down a wide corridor into a big, modern kitchen with doors leading onto the garden. It should have been a light, airy space but the black fixtures and fittings made the room seem gloomy despite the sunshine.

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ Karen said, leaving Dee alone.

  True to her word, a few minutes later Dee heard the murmur of voices in the hallway.

  ‘Just remember what I told you,’ Karen whispered before she opened the door and ushered her son into the kitchen.

  ‘This is Kyle,’ she said.

  He was a handsome boy. Or he would be, if grief hadn’t washed all the colour from his skin and left him hunched up as if he didn’t have the strength to support his own body. He was tall, like his mother, with his father’s sandy-coloured hair and blue eyes.

  ‘And this,’ Karen said to her son, ‘is Ed’s friend. She’s going to help prove you didn’t kill Lauren.’ Then, before Dee could explain that wasn’t exactly true, Karen asked if she wanted coffee.

  ‘Coffee would be lovely,’ Dee said. ‘Kyle? It’s good to meet you. I’m so sorry about Lauren. Is there somewhere we could go and chat?’

  ‘What’s wrong with the kitchen?’ Karen asked.

  ‘I’d like to talk to Kyle by myself,’ Dee said. ‘If that’s okay with you, Kyle?’

  She didn’t want to talk to him here, with his mother beside them listening to every word the boy told her.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Sure.’ And then, when his mother started to protest, ‘It’s okay, Mum. I don’t need you with me every second of the day making sure I’m okay. Let me talk to Dee by myself.’

  ‘Just be careful,’ Karen said. ‘She’s a journalist. We both know what they’re like.’

  ‘I’m sorry about my mum,’ Kyle said as they left the kitchen. ‘She can be a bit funny when she’s upset, that’s all.’

  Funny was one way of describing it, Dee thought. Downright rude was another.

  ‘We can talk in the den,’ Kyle said. ‘It’s just down here.’

  He led her into a large room at the side of the house that was clearly his space. Unlike the rest of the house, this room was bright and light and full of colour and mess. Posters of rugby teams on the wall. Brightly coloured cushions, sofas and several beanbags scattered across the floor.

  ‘My ex-husband was murdered last year,’ Dee said, when they were both sitting down. ‘I don’t think you ever really get over something like that. But time does help, Kyle. I promise.’

  ‘She wasn’t my ex,’ Kyle said. ‘Everyone keeps telling me time is a great healer. But I know in here,’ he punched his chest, ‘I’ll never stop loving her and I’ll never stop grieving.’

  Dee wanted to tell him both those things were true but also that he’d find a way to move on with his life. That one day, he would fall in love again, maybe even marry and have kids of his own. But she didn’t say anything because she knew that, when you are in the grip of a great grief, those sorts of sentiments are meaningless.

  ‘What was she like?’ she said instead.

  ‘Beautiful,’ Kyle said. ‘Clever, funny. Not perfect, of course, because no one’s perfect. But better than perfect, in a way. More interesting, if that makes sense.’

  Dee smiled. ‘I’ve always thought perfect people are the most boring sort of people.’

  Kyle nodded and looked as if he was about say something, but Karen came into the room before he could speak. She was carrying a tray with two mugs on it and a plate of chocolate biscuits.

  ‘Coffee,’ she said brightly. ‘And some biscuits in case anyone’s hungry.’

  She placed the tray on the coffee table and handed a cup to Dee.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ she asked.

  ‘Fine,’ Dee said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Kyle? Would you like me to stay?’

  ‘I’m okay,’ Kyle said. ‘Really, Mum. Stop worrying. I’ll come and find you when we’re finished, okay?’

  She looked like she was going to refuse, but instead she sighed and said: ‘At least I know I’ve tried. Don’t forget to tell her about Nigel. She needs to understand what he’s like.’

  And then, before Dee or Kyle could respond, Karen left the room.

  ‘Do you really think you can help find out who killed her?’ Kyle asked.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Dee said honestly. ‘But I’d like to try, at least.’

  ‘You promise you’re not going to write about this?’

  ‘Cross my heart.’

  ‘I keep thinking my phone’s going to ring,’ Kyle said. ‘Or someone’s going to call around to the house telling me this is all some terrible mistake.’ His voice wobbled. ‘But then I realise that’s never going to happen. She’s actually… dead.’

  He stopped speaking and Dee could see he was struggling not to cry. She had to fight down the urge to cross the room and wrap her arms around him.

  ‘Tell me about the last time you saw her,’ she said.

  ‘We had a row,’ he said. ‘That’s why the police keep questioning me. We argued and lots of people saw us. The police seem to think that because we rowed,
that was enough for me to do that to her.’

  He looked at Dee, as if she might be able to explain the unexplainable to him.

  ‘What did you row about?’ Dee asked.

  ‘She’d changed,’ Kyle said. ‘A few months ago, she decided she was going to write about Mary Palmer’s murder. You know Mary was her dad’s cousin?’

  Dee nodded and Kyle continued speaking.

  ‘They didn’t know each other. Obviously. Lauren wasn’t even born when Mary was killed. But I suppose if you grow up knowing about something like that, it affects you. Lauren wanted to be a journalist. Like you. She’d tried writing a few pieces but didn’t have much luck. She started thinking about what else she could do, and she came up with the idea to write about Mary. She was really excited about it, at first. And I was happy for her, because I knew how much it meant to her. But one day it all changed. She’d gone to her grandmother’s house to look through her things. Research, she said. And she found something. I don’t know what, because she wouldn’t tell me. But after that, she stopped talking about Mary’s murder. Any time I asked, she changed the subject. And then, that night, I asked her about it again, and she lost it. I mean, she went mental. We had this huge row and she stormed off. That was the last time I saw her.’

  He broke off, unable to hold off the crying any longer.

  ‘I didn’t kill her,’ he sobbed. ‘I swear to you, I would never have hurt her. I loved her. I loved her so much and now she’s gone I’ll never be able to tell her how much she meant to me.’

  This time, Dee did cross over and sit beside him. She held him while he cried, letting him sob until there were no tears left. His pain was so raw it was all she could do not to cry herself.

  ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled after a while. ‘It’s all I do these days. I sit here in this house crying and thinking of her. It’s like a really bad nightmare, except it’s worse than the worst nightmare because I know I’ll never wake up.’

  ‘You’ve no idea what she found?’

  ‘She wouldn’t tell me,’ Kyle said. ‘But whatever it was, it caused friction with her dad. They’d always been really close and suddenly – bam. She refused to have anything to do with him. I wanted to help, but how can you help someone if they won’t talk to you?’

  ‘Do you think Lauren’s dad killed her?’ Dee asked.

  ‘Maybe,’ Kyle said. ‘It’s what my mum thinks. I mean, part of me can’t imagine him hurting her like that. But I can’t imagine anyone doing that. Yet someone did, didn’t they?’

  He trailed off and Dee didn’t push him any further. She’d wanted to show him a photo of Joana and ask if he recognised her, but she was worried his mother would come back in and catch her in the act. She would have to find another time to ask him about Joana.

  Kyle looked exhausted and ready to burst into tears again. Dee promised she’d do some digging around, took his phone number and asked if it was okay to call him again in a few days’ time.

  As she was getting into her car, she glanced back at the house and saw Karen standing at one of the upstairs windows, watching her. She was still watching as Dee drove away, a dark shadow in the rear-view mirror, fading to grey and then disappearing entirely as Dee turned out of the long driveway onto the road.

  From the diary of Emma Reed

  24 April 1960

  Yesterday, we buried him. Today, I want to write about him. This diary is for him now. One day, someone will read what’s written here and they will know. My son was innocent. He was a victim, just like poor Mary. There’s an evil in this town. It festers beneath the surface and it’s not immediately apparent. But once you’ve seen it, you can’t unsee it.

  Graham Reed, my son. Born 2 February 1942. A war baby. It was a difficult birth, worse than anything I could have imagined. Later, as he got older and we realised there was something wrong with him, I wondered if the birth had damaged his brain in some way. I wanted to ask someone, but there was no one I could speak to because James would never admit there was a problem.

  He was a lovely baby, cherubic almost, with his rosy red cheeks and big brown eyes. We thought he was perfect. It was only after he started school that we realised there was a problem. They were little things, at first. He was behind with his learning. His teachers said it was insolence, that he could learn if he put his mind to it. After all, it wasn’t as if Graham came from one of those families whose parents are barely able to read and write. We are educated people and there was an expectation that our son would excel in his academic life.

  But he didn’t excel, not in anything. He didn’t make friends easily. The other children teased him and there were too many days when poor Graham would come home in tears because of some incident that had taken place. Nine times out of ten, when I’d sit him down and try to find out what had caused him to be so upset, Richard Partridge’s name would get a mention. Richard and, sometimes, his brother David.

  David wasn’t a bad boy, but he was too easily led by his older, nastier brother. I suspect he still is. Too often when Richard stared teasing Graham, David joined in. I tried to tell Graham he needed to stand up for himself, but he didn’t seem to know how. I should have spoken to someone about it, but I never did. I was reluctant, I think, to be open about my son’s weakness. I regret that now, along with so much else.

  Graham was a handsome boy, and a handsome young man. As he grew older, I would notice the way girls looked at him. In those moments, I was proud to be his mother. I should have been proud all the time, but I was too shallow to see that the things I thought were important – our standing in the community, our desire to live vicariously through our children’s successes – counted for nothing.

  If Graham had been a girl, no one would have cared that he wasn’t clever. A pretty girl can go a long way on her looks alone. But being handsome isn’t enough for a man. Men have to be clever as well, because they have to get an education and a good job so they can support a wife and a family. There are plenty of women who would be more than capable of supporting a family if they were allowed to get an education and a good job. But that’s not the way society works. We thought it would change after the war. We were foolish.

  Graham got through school, but his options after that were limited. Even if you come from a good family, no university’s going to take a man who can barely read and write. I worried for him, but I held on to the hope that things would come right for him eventually. He had his whole life ahead of him and I was confident that, with time, he’d find his path.

  I should have stopped worrying. I should have been content to simply let him be. Why wasn’t it all right for him to live with us and let us take care of him the way he needed and deserved? Why did I, his mother, who should have protected him and kept him safe, feel the need to keep pushing and pushing?

  Because I was jealous. There. I’ve said it. I was jealous of other parents, who had ‘normal’ children who led ‘normal’ lives and didn’t cause their parents endless problems and worry. Dinner parties were the worst. The men puffed up with their self-importance, and the women preening and twittering like birds. Inevitably, the conversation would turn to our children, all of them vying to prove how brilliant and successful their offspring were. As if their children’s successes in life were proof of their own brilliance.

  I hated all of it, but James insisted, and I had no choice but to go along with what he wanted. At least now, I won’t have to pretend. No one will be inviting us to dinner parties any time soon. We are pariahs.

  People say my son is a murderer, but these people are ignorant and small-minded and they don’t know what they are talking about. He wasn’t clever, but that doesn’t make him a killer. A person can be stupid and good, just as they can be clever and evil.

  An evil person killed poor Mary. And evil people killed my son. I will not rest until those people are found, and made to pay for what they’ve done.

  Thirteen

  Ed sat in the canteen with Rachel, drinking bad coffee and trying not to th
ink about Dee. He still didn’t understand why she’d got so angry yesterday. Trying to prove that Lauren’s murder had something to do with the missing girl was a complete waste of time. Sooner or later, Dee would work that out too. In the meantime, all he could do was wait until she’d calmed down and was ready to speak to him.

  ‘Are you actually listening to a word I’m saying?’ Rachel’s voice dragged Ed back to the canteen and the dreadful coffee.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I was miles away.’

  ‘I could see that,’ Rachel said. ‘What’s got you so distracted?’

  He told her about the row with Dee, expecting her to understand. Instead, when he’d finished her lips were twitching and she looked suspiciously like she was trying not to laugh.

  ‘You think it’s funny?’ he said.

  ‘Telling Dee she was wasting her time and her job lacked discipline?’ Rachel grinned. ‘I’m not surprised she wasn’t too happy about that.’

  ‘I was only telling her the truth,’ Ed protested. ‘It would be worse if I lied, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘There are different ways of telling the truth.’ Rachel shook her head. ‘Why do men find it so hard to understand that?’

  He had no idea what she was trying to tell him, and no inclination to talk about it any further, either. If Rachel couldn’t see things from his perspective, what was the point?

  ‘How’s the investigation going?’ he asked, getting to the real reason he’d come in early and asked her to go for a coffee with him.

  ‘Not very well,’ Rachel said. ‘The only possible suspects we’ve got are Kyle and Nigel. Both are reported to have argued with Lauren, which serves as potential motive. They both have alibis – Nigel’s wife and Kyle’s mother – but we don’t know if they’re telling the truth or lying to protect their loved ones.’

  ‘Nigel’s a bully. I wouldn’t put it past him to make Maxine lie for him.’

  ‘You know I can’t talk about that.’ Rachel looked at her watch. ‘I’ve already said more than I should have. I need to go. I’ve a busy day ahead of me.’