The secrets we buried, p.1
The Secrets We Buried, page 1
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
TRANSCRIPT: Video published 17/06/2022
Chapter One: Friday, 17th June
Chapter Two: Saturday, 18th June, 2022
Chapter Three: Sunday, 19th June
TRANSCRIPT: Video published 19/06/2022
Chapter Four: Sunday, 19th June
Chapter Five: Sunday, 19th June
Chapter Six: Monday, 20th June
TRANSCRIPT: Video published 20/06/2022
Chapter Seven: Monday, 20th June
Chapter Eight: Monday, 20th June
TRANSCRIPT : Video published 21/06/2022
Chapter Nine: Tuesday, 21st June
Chapter Ten: Tuesday, 21st June
Chapter Eleven: Tuesday, 21st June
TRANSCRIPT: Video published 22/06/22
Chapter Twelve: Wednesday, 22nd June
Chapter Thirteen: Thursday, 23rd June
TRANSCRIPT: Video published 23/06/2022
Chapter Fourteen: Thursday, 23rd June
Chapter Fifteen: Five Years Ago
Chapter Sixteen: Thursday, 23rd June
Chapter Seventeen: Friday, 24th June
TRANSCRIPT: The Todd Lane Show
Chapter Eighteen: Sunday, 26th June
Chapter Nineteen: Sunday, 26th June
TRANSCRIPT: Video published 27/06/2022
Chapter Twenty: Monday, 27th June
Chapter Twenty-One: Tuesday, 28th June
TRANSCRIPT: Video published 28/06/2022
Chapter Twenty-Two: Tuesday, 28th June
Chapter Twenty-Three: Tuesday, 28th June
Chapter Twenty-Four: Tuesday, 28th June
Chapter Twenty-Five: Tuesday, 28th June
Chapter Twenty-Six: Wednesday, 29th June
TRANSCRIPT: Video published 29/06/2022
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Wednesday, 29th June
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Wednesday, 29th June
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Five Years Ago
Chapter Thirty: Wednesday, 29th June
Chapter Thirty-One: Wednesday, 29th June
Epilogue: Two Years Later
Acknowledgements
The Girl Beyond The Gate
All Her Little Lies
About the Author
About Embla Books
First published in Great Britain in 2023 by
Bonnier Books UK Limited
4th Floor, Victoria House, Bloomsbury Square, London, WC1B 4DA
Owned by Bonnier Books
Sveavägen 56, Stockholm, SwedenCopyright © Becca Day, 2023
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
The right of Becca Day to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 9781471413810
This eBook is created using Atomik ePublisher
Embla Books is an imprint of Bonnier Books UK
www.bonnierbooks.co.uk
For my husband Sam, who will dutifully buy this book but won’t read it, so someone’s going to have to tell him about this dedication.
TRANSCRIPT
Video published 17/06/2022
Subscriber count: 128
Hello everybody, welcome back to my channel. Thank you for joining me for more true crime craziness. Now, I know I’ve been a little AWOL recently but you’re going to be glad you’ve stuck around as a subscriber. I’ve covered seven true crime cases so far since I started this channel, but do not make the mistake of assuming that this is going to be just like those, where I’m just reeling facts off the internet. There are many, many true crime YouTubers out there. I imagine you’re subbed to quite a few of them. But no one has done what I am going to do here on this channel before. This is going to be a true crime deep-dive like nothing you’ve ever seen.
We’re going to be investigating the murder of Copperdale Street soap opera star Geneva O’Connor, and when I say ‘we’, I really do mean that. You’re coming along on this journey with me. I want you in the Comments. I want to hear your theories and your suspicions. And when I say ‘investigating’, I really do mean that too, because Geneva O’Connor was murdered slap bang in the middle of Millionaire’s Row in Sandbanks, which just happens to be a fifteen-minute drive from the flat I am bringing this video to you from. That’s right. This murder happened practically on my doorstep exactly five years ago today. And while many a true crime YouTuber has covered this case, we’re not just going to be talking about the information that’s readily out there in the newspapers and online. No, no.
I’m taking you to the scene of the crime. We’re going to talk to her neighbours, her friends, her family. We’re going to walk her footsteps from that fateful night. We’re going to figure out what happened to Geneva. Because if you’ve heard of this case before, you’ve probably also heard that the husband did it, right? He was never convicted, but that’s what everyone says. Elliot O’Connor killed his wife. It’s always the husband. But what if it wasn’t? What if, in doing this, we clear an innocent man’s name? What really happened on the night of Saturday, 17th June, 2017?
Of course, we don’t have access to forensics or any of the information that the police likely have buried away somewhere, so we’re limited as to what we can actually find out. However, I believe someone knows something. Something they’ve kept secret all these years. And if we talk to the right people, we only have to discover enough to create a shadow of doubt. Maybe everyone jumped to the wrong conclusion. Maybe Elliot didn’t murder his wife. Maybe Geneva’s real murderer is still walking the streets just fifteen minutes away from where I live.
Are you as excited as I am? Be sure to smash that ‘like’ button to let me know, and subscribe to make sure you don’t miss a single moment. I cannot wait to get started.
Chapter One
Friday, 17th June
Frankie
Millionaire’s Row is on the farthest end of Sandbanks, as far as you can go without driving into the ocean. It’s not really called that. The road Frankie once lived on is actually called Panorama Road, but it gained the nickname Millionaire’s Row for obvious reasons. Everyone who lives there is minted. You have to be in order to afford one of the thirteen properties on the waterside street. It’s the most expensive stretch of coastal real estate in the world, mocking the likes of Miami and Monte Carlo, with breathtaking views of Poole Harbour, luxurious multi-million-pound mansions perched along the peninsula and the ability to boast that your home once belonged to a celebrity legend like John Lennon.
And Frankie can’t think of anywhere she’d less rather be.
She knocks her car into sport mode, the Mercedes letting out a gentle electric moan as it cruises down the tidy-looking dual carriageway. She’s driven this road hundreds of times, and it brings a foreboding sense of déjà vu, coming back here. The familiar salt in the air might prove comforting in any other situation. Had she left for another reason. Had her departure been simply due to life moving on. In that instance her return would feel nostalgic, as if she were coming home. But that’s not the situation, and she does not feel like this is home. Not anymore. Instead of the glamorous seafront welcoming her back with open arms, she’s overcome with the knowledge that she should not be here. She’s taking a huge risk in coming. The fact she’s got away with what she did for these past five years with barely a whiff of suspicion floating her way should have been enough to ensure she never, ever returned. If it hadn’t been for Eleanor passing away, she probably never would have.
As she drives past the road leading to the ferry port, the houses become grander, the driveways longer, the landscaping cleaner. Though no amount of money can change the fact that this road is still in rainy old England. If you google Sandbanks, you’ll be presented with glossy, sun-soaked images that look like they belong in an exotic paradise holiday brochure, but this is the reality. Grey and miserable, to match the day perfectly.
Each house in Millionaire’s Row is slightly different; unique pieces of architectural art. The plots of land here are long and surprisingly narrow, the houses crammed in against each other, though the lack of space either side of the buildings is more than made up for by the views each provides. Unlike the homes on the beach, where tourism saps any ounce of privacy, here on the harbour side the only thing you can see is the water, with clusters of boats and yachts sailing idly by.
Frankie slows her car and pulls up outside Zara’s house, gazing at the terracotta-tiled building. A shiver travels down her spine. The windows that once gleamed with the warm glow of wealth and luxury now seem ominous, telling her to turn the car around and speed off before it’s too late.
Zara’s driveway, like the others on this road, is long enough to fit a good ten cars, but already they are starting to spill out onto the street.
‘God help me,’ she mutters, as she tries to estimate just how many people might be inside. There were so many people at the church, half the mourners had to stand outside in the rain, peering in thr
As she clambers out of her car, Frankie checks her phone, half hoping there might be a text from Mike telling her the kids need her at home. But there’s nothing, just the beaming photo of her brood of six serving as her wallpaper. Typical. If she had decided to take a day for herself at a spa, she’d be bombarded by questions of what to feed them and how to get the baby down for a nap and where Louis’ EpiPen is, but when she really needs Mike to be a useless arsehole and beg her to come back, he becomes super-dad.
Mike was the one who wanted to leave Sandbanks. Frankie had a hard time letting go, even after everything that happened. For so many, Millionaire’s Row is the ultimate pipe dream, and it felt wrong, ungrateful, wasteful to abandon it all. They traded their harbour mansion for a townhouse in London, closer to the robotics development centre Mike owns but less family friendly in every way. Once there, however, Frankie realised how much she needed it. She couldn’t walk this street anymore, couldn’t pass that godforsaken beach without feeling physically sick. Even now, five years later, it’s like Geneva is still haunting this place, her memory imprinted in the very paving stones. Unwittingly, Frankie’s eyes flick from Zara’s mansion to the one two doors down, more modern in style with huge expanses of glass offering unobstructed views of the glistening Poole waters. For a split second, she thinks she can see her. Geneva. Standing in the window, gin and tonic in hand, smirking down at her. But, of course, there’s no one there. The house is empty, has been since Elliot left, or rather, was forced out. As far as she knows, he never sold the place. It’s just sat there like a morbid museum. A shrine to his dead wife.
Tugging at the hem of her black dress, the one she reserves for funerals, she gives herself a little shake and makes her way to the front door. It’s propped open by a potted bay tree, which Frankie is grateful for. She didn’t want to have to ring the bell and draw attention to herself. She is painfully aware that she is no longer ‘one of them’. The elite. The top of the social ladder. In these parts, you turn your back on lunchtime mimosas at the golf club and you’ve turned your back on acceptance. She doesn’t even have to meet anyone’s eye to feel the silent judgement and repressed sideways glances. As she shuffles deeper into the belly of the house, it’s like the walls are closing in, trapping her in a world of affluence and power she no longer has any desire to be a part of.
Luckily, it doesn’t take her long to spot one of her old friends. Nadine is instantly recognisable, with her sleek dark hair, tailored outline and black leather bag that she’s never seen without – a picture of impeccable elegance. Frankie’s heart starts to pound. She’d purposefully avoided both Nadine and Zara at the funeral, preferring to pay her respects to Eleanor at the back of the church in privacy, but here she’s going to have to speak to them.
‘Hi, stranger,’ she says, placing her hands behind her back so Nadine can’t see her wringing them.
There is a moment when Nadine doesn’t seem to recognise her, but it’s gone almost instantly and a sad smile crosses her lips.
‘Frankie.’ She pulls Frankie into an embrace, squeezing her tightly, and while Frankie initially stiffens, she’s quick to hug her back. There was a time she thought she’d never see Nadine again, not in person anyway. Of course they’ve sent the obligatory ‘Happy Birthday’ messages to each other when Facebook reminds them, but beyond that they’ve become practically strangers. It isn’t until she actually sees her, smells the familiar Jo Malone Pomegranate Noir perfume and feels the warmth of her embrace that she realises how much she misses her.
‘How’s Zara doing?’ Frankie says as they separate.
‘I’m not sure. I haven’t had a chance to speak to her yet.’
Frankie tilts her head to one side inquisitively. Nadine lets out a small sigh.
‘We’ve sort of grown apart since you left. It was just … too hard to not think about Geneva, you know?’
Frankie does know. It’s strange. You hear about murders happening all the time on the news, but until you’re actually part of one, until it’s your friend who is dead, it’s impossible to imagine just how all-consuming it becomes. There is no such thing as normal anymore, regardless of how hard she tries to make it so. The life she had before Geneva died is water cupped in her hands, trickling through the cracks in her fingers, and no matter how much she attempts to scoop it back up, there’s always a little less of her old self each time. That’s what guilt does to you, she supposes. Even having moved away from where it all happened, she’s never not thinking about it. With a different group of friends, they might have found comfort in each other, knowing they were the only other people who truly understood what it was like. But not for them. There were too many secrets sitting heavy like solid masses between them.
She offers a reassuring smile to Nadine that says I know just how you feel, and glances around the entryway. It looks exactly the same. Clean and minimal, with a sweeping staircase curving up to an interior balcony, from which Zara is peering down at them. Despite the tear-stained face and red-rimmed eyes, she still looks stunning as ever in a tight-fitting, undoubtedly designer, dress. Neither she nor Nadine have kids. Zara is all about the glam life. She didn’t really need to pay her way through her BA in biology, Doctor of Medicine degree and postgrad in plastic surgery by modelling for glossy magazines in her underwear – her mum would have happily forked out the cash – but even she admitted she enjoyed the attention. Now she owns a cosmetic surgery clinic promising her celeb clients plumped-in-all-the-right-places bodies, just like hers, and she’s starved slim and would never be seen dead out of stilettos. Nadine is all about her career; she’s a hotshot family solicitor specialising in high-profile divorce settlements. Frankie’s the one who opted for the mum route, and though she knows she picked the correct path and would rather have her four daughters and two sons over Zara’s weekly nail and hair appointments, she can’t help but feel intimidated by her appearance.
Zara makes her way down the staircase, her heels clicking on the marble floor, and steps towards them.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Frankie says once she’s close enough, which prompts Zara’s eyes to water. She swipes at them with the back of her hand. They hug, strange yet familiar, just like when she hugged Nadine, and Zara gives her a squeeze before they release.
‘Thank you for coming,’ she says.
Frankie nods. ‘Of course. The service was beautiful. Very Eleanor.’
‘Yes. Mum would have loved to see everyone together like this. I suppose it’s worth all the effort that goes into it.’
A knowing smile creeps onto Frankie’s lips and her eyes flick across to Ana, Zara’s housekeeper, who is flitting from person to person with a tray of canapés. She is fully aware that Zara will have played little to no part in her mother’s funeral or the wake, nor will she be the one to clean up once everyone has gone home.
‘Is your dad here?’ Frankie asks, scanning the crowd for any sign of Zara’s normally absent father, who’d dipped in and out of Zara and her sister’s lives after his divorce from Eleanor. Zara’s snort of derision is all the answer she needs.
