You were always mine, p.1
You Were Always Mine, page 1
You Were Always Mine
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Thirty-nine
Forty
Forty-one
Forty-two
Forty-three
Forty-four
Forty-five
Forty-six
Forty-seven
Forty-eight
Forty-nine
Fifty
Fifty-one
Fifty-two
Fifty-three
Fifty-four
Fifty-five
Fifty-six
Fifty-seven
Fifty-eight
Fifty-nine
Sixty
Sixty-one
Sixty-two
Sixty-three
Sixty-four
Sixty-five
Sixty-six
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Canelo Crime
About the Author
Also by Sheila Bugler
Copyright
Cover
Table of Contents
Start of Content
For my brilliant agent, Laura Longrigg. This one’s for you!
One
It was a Friday afternoon in August when Cassie MacNamara walked out of her job in the middle of her shift without telling anyone why she was leaving or where she was going. Cassie’s sudden disappearance was a worry for her boss, Jennifer, but not a surprise. Because in the days leading up to that Friday, Cassie’s behaviour had become increasingly erratic. Jennifer had tried speaking to her about what was going on, but Cassie had brushed off her concern. Shutting down the conversation and withdrawing further into herself as the week progressed.
On the Friday in question, Jennifer had been putting a colour on Marge Hall’s stringy grey hair, trying to pretend she was interested in Marge’s incessant chatter while also keeping an eye on Cassie.
‘Did I tell you Ruby’s going to be an actress? She’s got her heart set on it and, according to her drama teacher, she’s got the talent to go all the way. She could even win an Oscar one day if she puts her mind to it. We’re so proud of her, I can’t tell you.’
Marge’s eyes in the mirror bored into Jennifer, daring her to contradict this bold statement.
‘I can imagine,’ Jennifer replied, choosing not to say what she was really thinking. Namely, that becoming an award-winning actress seemed a slightly ambitious aspiration for Marge’s four-year-old granddaughter.
On the other side of the salon, Cassie was cutting Selma Wetherwick’s hair in total silence. More than once, Jennifer had watched Selma try to make small talk but she’d clearly given up and was now flicking through the pages of a magazine while Cassie sliced off chunks of her thick black hair.
Fridays at the salon were always a busy time. Along with Cassie, two of the other girls were working and there was a steady stream of clients coming in to get their hair sorted in time for the weekend. With the radio playing through the wall-mounted speakers and the hum of different conversations taking place between hairdressers and clients, it would be easy not to notice there was something wrong with Cassie. But this was Jennifer’s salon and she noticed everything.
If it was Sonia or Charlee or Maya acting like that, they’d be on a warning by now. But Jennifer had always treated Cassie differently, giving her the easiest clients and letting her take time off at short notice even if it meant moving appointments around. The other girls didn’t like it, of course. Jennifer was sure they bitched about it behind her back. Not that Jennifer cared. If Sonia or Charlee or Maya didn’t like the way Jennifer ran her salon, there was nothing to stop them getting a job elsewhere.
‘Of course, not having children of your own means you can’t understand what it’s like to be a grandparent. The thing is, Jennifer, grandchildren are an exceptional gift. Take my little Ruby, for example…’
Marge was right. Jennifer couldn’t understand what it was like to be a grandparent. But she doubted it was very different to the all-consuming love Jennifer felt for her own child, taken away from her when he was only a few hours old.
‘All done,’ she said, interrupting Marge mid-flow as she wrapped the final piece of foil around a clump of coloured hair and peeled off the latex gloves she’d been wearing. ‘Can I get you something to drink?’
‘A cup of tea would be lovely thanks, Jennifer. Milk and two sugars. Two bags and leave them to stew for a bit before you add the milk and sugar.’
Jennifer walked away as Marge continued giving instructions. She’d been taking tea orders from Marge Hall every second Friday for the last five years. If she didn’t know by now how the woman liked her tea, chances were she never would. Normally, Jennifer would ask one of the girls to make the tea. But they were all busy and it was a relief to get away from Marge into the peace and quiet of the little kitchen at the back of the salon.
The sounds from the salon muted as Jennifer closed the door and put the kettle on. A new song came on the radio. Dusty Springfield, ‘Son of a Preacher Man’. As the opening guitar chords started up, Jennifer was transported back to 1977. A Brighton nightclub. Slow-dancing with a man Jennifer had briefly believed was the love of her life. Forty-something years ago but Jennifer could still remember, as if it was yesterday, every detail of that night they’d shared in Brighton.
Alone in the kitchen, Jennifer gave herself a few precious moments to remain in the memory of that night. As the final chords of the song faded away, she reluctantly dragged herself back to the present and set about making Marge’s cup of tea. On the radio, the news had come on. A round-up of local stories, including the discovery of a young woman’s body washed up on the beach near Beachy Head.
‘Police have confirmed that the woman is seventeen-year-old Grace Parker from Eastbourne. Grace, niece of businessman turned TV celebrity Joey Cavellini, has been missing since last Friday. Her family have issued a statement, thanking everyone for their support and asking for privacy as they come to terms with their loss.’
Jennifer poured water from the kettle over the two teabags she’d placed in the cup, noting the slight tremor in her hand. Over the last week, Grace Parker’s face had seemed to smile out at Jennifer every time she opened a newspaper or switched on her TV. Until this moment, the dead girl’s friends and family would have been holding out hope that she would be found alive. A hope that was now well and truly crushed.
Grace Parker’s disappearance had been dissected in endless conversations between the salon staff and their clients over the last week. All that would start up again now, everyone greedily going over the details of the girl’s fate, speculating about how she’d died, whether it was from natural causes or something more sinister. It was the sort of salacious gossip that Jennifer found distasteful, although she would never say that. Women didn’t come to her salon just to get their hair done. They came to share secrets about their husbands, to whisper stories about their neighbours and their friends. They came for the chat – that special form of gossipy, giggly conversation that only happens when groups of women are together without the censorious presence of men.
Leaving the cup on the counter, Jennifer walked back to the salon. Cassie’s face in the mirror above Selma Wetherwick’s head was greyer than Marge’s hair before Jennifer had put the colour in. And her eyes, when she turned to look at Jennifer, were wide and haunted.
‘You should take a break, Cass,’ Jennifer said.
But Cassie didn’t answer. The scissors in her hand dropped to the floor. As the metal blades clattered onto the tiles, Cassie turned and walked past Jennifer into the kitchen.
‘Cassie!’
Jennifer hurried after her, moving as fast as her formidable bulk would allow. Cassie wasn’t in the kitchen when Jennifer got there, but the back door – the one that led to the alley running along the back of the salon – was open. Jennifer ran into the alley, scanning left and right, trying to work out which way Cassie had gone. She ran the length of the alley and onto the street. But there was no sign of Cassie anywhere.
Back in the salon, a sea of faces turned to look at her. Selma was still in her chair. Her half-chopped hair hung in damp strands down her shoulders; her mouth was opening and closing like she had things she wanted to say but she didn’t know how to get the words out. And Sonia, breathless and pink-cheeked, was gesturing to the two women standing at the main entrance to the salon.
‘The police are here,’ Sonia whispered. ‘They’re looking for Cassie.’
Two
Dee Doran was driving her new, cherry-red Mazda
It was a perfect summer’s day. A warm breeze brushed against Dee’s skin as she followed the road up towards Beachy Head and the Belle Tout lighthouse, perched on the top of the cliffs. A clear blue sky spread out over a matching blue ocean. To the west, Dee could see the jagged outline of the Seven Sisters, a series of white cliffs that ran from Beachy Head to the Cuckmere Valley.
A helicopter appeared, flying along the edge of the cliffs. Despite the warm sunshine, Dee shivered. Anyone living around here was familiar with this sight. Beachy Head, world-famous for its beauty, also happened to be the country’s number one suicide spot.
Two police cars were parked on the grass at the top of the cliffs behind a line of yellow and black police tape. No ambulance, which meant whatever poor soul had been found, they’d already been taken to the hospital. Or, more likely, straight to the morgue. Without realising she was doing it, Dee slowed as she drove past, thinking of the ripple effects of a tragedy like this. Because death was never just about the person who’d died, it was also about all those left behind.
The sound of her phone ringing distracted her. She knew it would be Louise, calling to see why Dee wasn’t already at the Tiger Inn. Unlike Dee, Louise was never late for anything. This was because she planned her days in minute detail. She would have set aside one hour, exactly, for her lunch with Dee and would be in full rant mode when Dee showed up fifteen minutes later than scheduled.
With Beachy Head behind her now, Dee sped past Belle Tout and on to Birling Gap, where the road curved inland towards East Dean, the picturesque village which Sherlock Holmes had supposedly moved to in the latter years of his life. As she pulled into the village car park, her phone started ringing again. Ignoring it a second time, she concentrated instead on finding a parking space. The car park was almost full; tourists and locals using it as a starting point for a walk over the Downs to the white shingle beach at Birling Gap.
Grabbing her bag, Dee got out of the car and hurried towards the pub. Situated on the village green with tables outside, the Tiger Inn was something of an East Sussex institution. Established in the sixteenth century and once popular with smugglers, the pub’s idyllic location in the heart of the rolling South Downs meant it was always busy. To Dee’s dismay, all the outside tables were occupied. The pub’s oak-beamed interior was lovely, but she’d been looking forward to eating in the sunshine.
At the entrance, she pushed open the heavy wooden door and walked inside. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust after the bright sunshine. When they eventually did, it was clear that Louise wasn’t in here.
Back outside, Dee checked the tables and the surrounding area once more. Still no sign of her cousin. Remembering the phone calls she’d received earlier, she took her phone out of her bag and scrolled through her call log. Two missed calls and a voicemail. She was about to listen to the voicemail when her phone started to ring again, and Louise’s name flashed up on the screen.
‘Lou, where are you?’
‘I could ask you the same question,’ Louise said. ‘I was waiting for you for almost fifteen minutes. I don’t understand why you’re incapable of being on time for anything.
‘Did you get my message?’
‘I haven’t had a chance to listen to it yet.’
‘I can’t make lunch,’ Louise said. ‘Something’s come up at work and I had to rush off. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay. These things happen.’
As editor of the local newspaper, Louise often had to drop things at short notice when a story broke.
‘It’s Grace Parker,’ Louise said. ‘They’ve found a body.’
A man and a woman in late middle age were eating lunch at one of the tables on the grass, sharing a bottle of white wine that glowed pale green in the sunlight. A fat chip dropped from the woman’s fork and a white seagull swooped down from the sky and caught it as it hit the ground.
‘Dee?’
‘I’m still here,’ she said, remembering the helicopter and the police cars she’d passed earlier.
‘She was washed up off the coast near Beachy Head,’ Louise said. ‘You know what that means, right?’
‘I’ve got to go,’ Dee said.
‘Dee, there’s nothing you could have done.’
Dee hung up, without replying. The heat of the sun suddenly felt intolerable. As she looked around for some shade, Dee noticed people were watching her. It was only when she lifted her hand to brush a strand of hair out of her eyes that she noticed her face was wet. Tears for a young woman she’d only spoken to a handful of times.
‘Are you okay?’
A middle-aged woman, wearing her hair tied back with a colourful scarf, was standing in front of Dee.
‘Fine,’ Dee said, wiping her face with the sleeve of her shirt. ‘Just got a bit of bad news, that’s all.’
‘Oh I’m sorry, dear. Is there anything I can do?’
Dee shook her head. There was nothing anyone could do. It was too late for that.
Three
Dee lived in a modern, glass-fronted house situated on a quiet stretch of beach between Eastbourne and Pevensey Bay. The house, designed by her architect father, had been her childhood home. She’d moved back when she left London seven years ago, following the break-up of her marriage. At first, coming home had felt like an admission of defeat. Gradually, however, she’d fallen back in love with her childhood home and now she couldn’t imagine ever wanting to live anywhere else. There was something magical about waking up in the morning and watching the sun rise over the horizon and pour its red light across the flat, black sea. Or sitting on her deck in the evenings, letting the stress and worry of a difficult day slip away as night crept in across the wide open sky.
As she pulled up outside the house, she saw another car was here already. The car was empty but, when Dee walked around to the back of the house that faced onto the beach, she saw two women standing on the deck. One of them was peering through the bifold door that separated the inside of the house from the outside. The other was standing with her back to the house and seemed to be taking in the view.
‘Can I help you?’ Dee said.
She recognised the woman who was trying to see inside her house. She was Detective Inspector Rachel Lewis of East Sussex CID. Until recently, the partner of Dee’s on-off boyfriend, Ed Mitchell.
‘Hello, Dee,’ Rachel turned away from the house to look at Dee. ‘You got a few minutes?’
‘What were you doing back here?’ Dee asked.
‘We rang the doorbell,’ Rachel said. ‘But there was no answer, so we came around the back to see if you were out here.’
‘You were looking through my windows,’ Dee said, ‘like you thought I was in there and was ignoring you.’
‘We didn’t think anything of the sort.’ The other detective smiled warmly at her. Taller and younger than Rachel, she was a vision. Ebony skin, eyes the size of plates that shone like polished stone and a smile that made you want to step right into the warmth it promised. ‘DC Ade Benjamin,’ the vision said. ‘Beautiful place you’ve got here.’
‘Thanks.’ Dee recognised she was being charmed but didn’t mind, because how could she when someone this gorgeous was doing the charming? She imagined Ade Benjamin was the sort of detective who was adept at getting suspects to tell them exactly what she wanted to hear. ‘I assume you’re here because of Grace Parker,’ Dee said.
‘Any chance we could do this inside?’ Rachel asked. ‘I’m melting out here.’
‘Sure.’ Dee stepped onto the deck, lifted the plant pot beside the back door and took up the key she kept there.
‘You’re practically asking to be burgled keeping your key there,’ Rachel commented as Dee unlocked the door and stepped into the welcome coolness of the house.
‘Can I get you anything to drink?’ Dee asked, choosing not to point out that her family had kept a key in the same spot ever since the house had been built when she was just ten years old and the house had never been burgled.
‘I’d love a coffee,’ Rachel said. ‘If it’s not too much trouble.’
