When the Dead Speak

by Sheila Bugler

  ‘You hardly ever wear make-up,’ Dee said.

  Louise gave her a pitying look.

  ‘Of course I wear make-up. I just apply it carefully so it looks as if I’m not wearing any. Invisible make-up. Takes twice as long to apply and costs three times as much. But it’s worth it.’

  ‘If you say so.’ Dee wondered how it was possible to know someone as well as she knew Louise, and yet know so little about them.

  ‘What about Martin?’ she asked. ‘Does he know you’ve been seeing someone else?’

  ‘He knows something’s wrong,’ Louise said. ‘But I don’t think he’s worked it out yet. He keeps trying to get me to talk, but how am I meant to tell him something like this? He’ll be devastated.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell him,’ Dee said. ‘I mean, normally I’d say you shouldn’t lie, but if you’re planning to finish the affair anyway, then maybe it’s best to do that and keep quiet about it to Martin. Mark it down as a stupid mistake and move on.’

  ‘I can’t do that,’ Louise said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Nigel Shaw knows about the affair and he’s trying to blackmail me. He said he’ll tell Martin unless I help him.’

  Dee drained her glass and went to retrieve the bottle from the fridge. She’d replace it tomorrow, but right now she needed more wine.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, refilling both their glasses. ‘Rewind. Start at the beginning, and don’t leave anything out.’

  ‘He thinks Kyle is hiding something,’ Louise said. ‘And he wants me to find it for him.’

  ‘Hiding what?’

  ‘Apparently Lauren found a letter.’ Louise frowned. ‘It must have been written to Nigel’s mother. Lauren found it after she died. According to Nigel, the letter has private information about his family. He’s desperate to get his hands on it.’

  ‘Why did he ask you? Isn’t it up to the police to find it?’

  ‘He doesn’t want them knowing about it.’

  ‘It still doesn’t explain why he thinks you can find it.’

  ‘He knows I’m a journalist,’ Louise said. ‘Or maybe he’s so desperate he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Either way, it doesn’t matter, because I’m not going to do what he’s asked me to. It’s blackmail, pure and simple. Don’t get me wrong, I feel sorry for Nigel. He’s suffered a terrible loss. But he’s asking me to interfere in a murder investigation. I can’t do that.’

  ‘There’s something else,’ Dee said. ‘What is it you’re not telling me, Lou?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Louise did her best to look confused, but Dee knew her better than that.

  ‘Nigel knows the man you’ve been seeing, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Louise said. ‘Honestly, Dee. He’s just a guy I met a while ago at a local networking event. He’s not local to Eastbourne. He lives in Lewes, I think. Although I’ve never actually been to his house. We meet in hotels, normally. He’s got his own business and he does a lot of work across East Sussex. He’s nothing to do with any of this, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  It was funny, Dee thought, how some people never learned. Ever since she was a child, Louise had always tried to cover a lie by speaking too much. She’d lie, and then embellish the lie with a whole lot of useless information. The first time Dee had observed this, both girls were eight years old and Louise was trying to persuade Dee that she hadn’t taken Dee’s Barbie doll. Forty-two years later, she was still at it.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Dee asked, knowing better than to challenge Louise on the lie. That was another thing she’d learned that summer afternoon all those years ago: if you called Louise out on a lie, she wouldn’t admit it. Not ever. Dee was pretty sure Louise would still deny stealing the doll if she asked her about it today.

  ‘Tell Martin I’ve been seeing someone else, I suppose. And once I’ve done that, I’ll tell Nigel he can go to hell.’

  ‘What about the police?’

  ‘I need to tell them,’ Louise said. ‘Don’t I? They need to know he’s desperate to get his hands on this letter. I mean, it could be relevant to the investigation, couldn’t it?’

  Dee thought back over everything she’d learned about Mary Palmer’s murder. Different pieces of information, starting to fit together. She still didn’t know everything, but she could see now where the gaps were. All she needed to do was fill them in.

  ‘We need to find out what was in that letter,’ she said.

  Thirty-one

  The Boardwalk was one of several cafes and bars dotted along the seafront. Like the others, it had a decking area on the beach where customers could sit outside in warm weather and enjoy the breathtaking views. But this morning, the views were muted by the blanket of grey clouds hanging over the town.

  Dee arrived half an hour early. There was no sign yet of Charlie Steadman. The only other people in the cafe were three older men drinking coffees and arguing about Brexit.

  She ordered a coffee, sat at the window and called Miriam Anderson.

  ‘When we spoke yesterday?’ Dee said, once they’d got the pleasantries out of the way. ‘You told me Emma believed that Annabelle was behind Mary’s murder.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Miriam said. ‘Although she was never able to prove it.’

  ‘Is it possible she might have written to Annabelle about her suspicions?’

  ‘I think that’s quite likely, actually. Why are you asking?’

  ‘Lauren found a letter when she was clearing out Annabelle’s belongings. I’m trying to find out who sent it.’

  ‘I told you Emma could be quite impulsive after a few drinks,’ Miriam said. ‘I wonder if that’s why Annabelle came to see her the night she died?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  The idea that had started yesterday was back. Clearer now. Refusing to be ignored. While Miriam continued to talk, Dee zoned in on the idea, trying to see whether it made sense or not.

  ‘What if Emma found proof?’ she said.

  ‘Proof of Annabelle’s guilt? Then why would she kill herself?’

  Unless she didn’t, Dee thought.

  A young man and woman came into the cafe and looked around. Saying a hurried goodbye to Miriam, Dee ended the call.

  ‘Charlie?’

  He nodded and walked over to her table.

  ‘This is Marnie,’ he said, introducing his companion. Dee presumed she was the girlfriend he had mentioned on the phone. ‘We don’t have long. I start work at nine thirty.’

  ‘That’s fine.’ Dee smiled. ‘Thanks for agreeing to see me. Can I get either of you a drink?’

  ‘I’ll have an espresso, please,’ Marnie said, pulling out a chair and sitting down. ‘Charlie will have a cappuccino. You like a cappuccino, don’t you mate?’ She had a strong Australian accent and gave Dee a cheeky grin as she issued her request.

  Dee went to get the drinks. When she came back, Charlie and Marnie were huddled and Marnie was saying something Dee couldn’t catch.

  ‘Thanks for this,’ Marnie said. ‘So, Dee. Before Charlie speaks to you, we need to know why you’re asking about Joana.’

  ‘She’s been missing for almost seven weeks,’ Dee said. ‘Her friend has asked me to see if I can help find her. The police have looked into it, but they can’t find any evidence something bad has happened. They think she’s simply packed her bags and moved on.’

  ‘Cops don’t give a shit about folk like Joana,’ Marnie said. ‘Same where I come from. I’m part Aboriginal. Guess you worked that out? On my mum’s side. People like us, we’re invisible to the police unless someone commits a crime. Then the police are all over us like a bad case of crabs. Know what I mean, Dee?’

  ‘I know exactly what you mean,’ Dee said. She was starting to like Charlie’s girlfriend.

  ‘Go on then.’ Marnie nudged Charlie. ‘Tell her. I reckon you’ll feel better if you get it off your chest.’

  ‘You know Joana?’ Dee asked him.

  ‘We both do,’
Charlie said. ‘Sort of. There’s a group of us who are into surfing. She joins us sometimes when the waves are good. She’s only been a few times, so we don’t know her well. But she seems cool.’

  ‘Did you see her at the hotel the night she disappeared?’

  Charlie looked down at his coffee and didn’t reply.

  ‘He doesn’t want to get the boss into trouble,’ Marnie said. ‘That’s Charlie all over, always thinking about other people.’ She smiled at Dee, a big, happy smile that brightened up the whole room. ‘I’m a sucker for a nice guy, Dee. Can’t help myself.’

  ‘Why would you be getting Derek in trouble?’ Dee asked.

  ‘I’m not saying he’s done anything,’ Charlie said. ‘You understand that, right? Derek’s been good to me. He gave me a job when I came out of prison. Helped me get back on my feet again. He’s a good man.’

  ‘If he hasn’t done anything wrong,’ Dee said, ‘you’ve got nothing to worry about, have you?’

  ‘She was in the hotel,’ Charlie said. ‘I only saw her for a second. She didn’t know I’d seen her. No one did. There’s a suite on the top floor. We had a private dinner there. I was doing the catering. Some rich dude’s birthday. I’d never heard of him, but him and his mates were okay.’

  ‘You’re saying Joana was at this party?’

  ‘No.’ Charlie shook his head. ‘It was later. I’d just come out of the suite and I was waiting for the lift. There’s a row of four lifts, you know? Two of them arrived at the same time. I had a trolley and I was pushing it into one of the lifts when she came out of the other one. I only saw her out of the corner of my eye. I thought it was some mistake, because no one except guests goes up to that floor. You need a special room key to get the lift to take you there. Which is why I assumed it was just someone who looked like her, you know? Because I know Jo doesn’t have much money. She’s always scrabbling around for any work she can get. I did a sort of double-take. I turned to get a better look, and she was standing outside one of the rooms. I saw her face in profile and I realised it wasn’t someone who looked like her. It was her. Joana.’

  ‘And?’ Dee said when Charlie stopped speaking.

  ‘She knocked on the door and a man opened it. He whispered something in her ear and then he took her hand and they went into the room together. The man was Derek. Joana was there to see him.’

  ‘When was this?’ Dee’s mind was racing, going back over all the encounters she’d had with Derek French, trying to work out exactly how many times he’d lied to her.

  ‘I checked the work calendar yesterday,’ Charlie said. ‘The private dinner was Saturday the eighth of February.’

  Bile rose at the back of Dee’s throat. On the eighth of February, Joana had told Eliza she was going to meet someone at the Aldrington Hotel. She’d said goodbye to her flatmate, left the house at seven fifteen, and she hadn’t been seen since.

  From the diary of Emma Reed

  7 May 1966

  James and I had a terrible row tonight. He thinks I’ve lost my mind. I was late home and I made the mistake of telling him where I’d been. I should have kept quiet, but my head was so full of it all that I had to tell someone, and who else should I talk to if not my husband?

  He was already upset when I came in. He’d been ‘home for hours’ apparently, with ‘not a scrap of food to eat’, because I hadn’t prepared anything. As if, just because he’s a man, he’s incapable of boiling a few potatoes and frying up some mince and onions.

  It didn’t help that Nicola was out with Henry, so James had come home to an empty house. He doesn’t approve of Henry, although he’s too much of a coward to tell Nicola to her face. Instead he grumbles about it to me, and drops heavy hints that I should be the one to tell her she could do better for herself. The problem is, I’m not sure she could. She’s a surly, difficult young woman. If you ask me, she’s lucky to have found any man interested in dating her. But no one ever does ask me, do they?

  I hadn’t planned to arrive home so late, but the journey across London took longer than I’d expected. I’d only been on the Underground a handful of times before. I’d forgotten what distances it covers. I travelled on the District Line all the way to Mile End, where David Partridge has his doctor’s surgery.

  When I heard he had his own practice, I expected something quite glamorous. The truth, I’m afraid, is rather different. His ‘surgery’ occupies the ground floor of a terraced building on a grimy backstreet five minutes’ walk from Mile End station. The neighbourhood is like nowhere else I’ve ever visited. Immediately outside the station is a wide road and the first thing you notice is the noise. From the buses and the black cabs and the cars. So many cars, it’s difficult to imagine where all these people can be going to.

  Then there’s the people. I don’t know how many different nationalities live in Mile End, but I imagine it’s a lot. Many of them, judging by their appearance, from India or Pakistan. Women in black robes that cover their faces, and men with turbans on their heads. The air stank with cooking smells and I had to cover my face as I pushed my way through the bustling street market, men and women shouting things in their Cockney accents that were so strong I had no hope of making out their words.

  I had an address, but no idea how to find the place I was looking for. I’d imagined it would be easy to stop a stranger and ask for directions, but I was too scared to speak to anyone. I must have looked very lost because an older woman approached and asked me if I needed help. Her name was Angie, and she gave me very precise directions, which led me to David Partridge’s surgery less than five minutes later.

  I thought at first that Angie had misled me. But then I saw the brass plaque, almost invisible beneath a thick layer of grime, with David’s name on it. I gave my name to the receptionist (an overweight woman wearing too much make-up) and told her I was a family friend. She instructed me to take a seat while I waited.

  It was a deeply unpleasant experience, sitting alongside all the sick people. They were mostly elderly, and the majority looked as if they might keel over at any moment. There was an air of poverty and desperation about the place that made me want to run out of there. But I’d come this far and I was determined to stick it out.

  I waited for over an hour and a half. Several times, I asked the receptionist if she’d told him I was here. Each time, she assured me ‘the doctor’ knew I was waiting, but I had to understand he was a very busy man.

  I’d almost given up when he finally came out of wherever he’d been hiding. By this time, I was the only person left in the waiting room. He didn’t look as I’d expected, and I realised it was several years since I’d last set eyes on him. He’d aged and lost weight. In truth, he looked haggard. As he walked towards me, I saw his features more clearly and I recognised the little boy who used to come knocking at my back door asking if Graham could come out to play.

  I stood up.

  ‘Mrs Reed.’ He took my hand and held it for a moment. ‘It’s lovely to see you. Although I’m a little confused. Was I meant to know you’d be visiting me this morning?’

  I asked if there was somewhere we could go and talk. He hesitated, as if he was trying to think of an excuse.

  ‘I’ve still got my home visits to do,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a very inconvenient time. If I’d known you were coming, I could have made arrangements.’

  I had no idea what arrangements he might have made, and I didn’t care. I told him I wanted to talk to him about Annabelle Palmer. He frowned and said he didn’t understand.

  ‘I know what she did,’ I said. ‘And I know your brother helped her.’

  Several expressions passed across his face – shock, embarrassment and fear.

  ‘You knew Graham couldn’t have killed that girl,’ I said. ‘All this time, you’ve known, yet you kept quiet. And for what, David? To end up working here in this horrible, dirty place? Is that all my son’s life was worth to you? And what about Mary? Don’t you think she deserves to see just
ice done too?’

  He stood there, in the empty waiting room, saying nothing at all. Not even trying to defend himself.

  ‘You could have stopped it.’ I was angry and my voice was too loud for the small room. ‘Those savages killed my son and you could have stopped it all by telling the truth. But you didn’t, because she promised you money if you kept your mouth shut. How much, David? How much did she pay you to stand back and do nothing while my son was beaten to death?’

  He started moving away from me and I grabbed his arm, shouting that it wasn’t too late. All he had to do was tell the truth now and Annabelle would pay for what she’d done. But he shook me off and shoved me away from him, so hard I almost fell.

  I ran after him but he was fast and by the time I was outside on the street, there was no sign of him. I tried to go back inside to ask the receptionist where he’d gone but she had locked the door behind me. My heart was beating too fast and I was finding it difficult to catch my breath.

  David knew what they’d done and he’d kept quiet about it. In return for his silence, Annabelle gave him the money he needed to train as a doctor. Which means there are three people who know the truth: Richard, Annabelle and David. Two of them killed Mary, and the other one kept quiet about it.

  Thirty-two

  Louise had an umbrella, but the wind kept blowing it inside out. Eventually, she gave up and hurried along the pier, battling her way through the pounding rain and the howling wind.

  Nigel was already there, sitting under the cover of one of the benches. His hair was lank and greasy. He was wearing the same clothes he’d been wearing yesterday. He looked like an old man. She remembered a party he and Maxine had hosted in their house last summer. A blazing hot day. Their garden full of Eastbourne’s great and good. Liveried waiters and waitresses moving smoothly through the crowd carrying trays of champagne and bite-sized canapés. And in the middle of it all, the golden Shaw family: Nigel, Maxine and Lauren.