Before You Were Gone Read online

  Before You Were Gone

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  One

  Two Two months later

  Three

  Four Two months earlier

  Five Two months later

  Six

  Seven Two months earlier

  Eight

  Nine June 1997

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve One month earlier

  Thirteen

  Fourteen One month earlier

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen June 1997

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five June 1997

  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 June 1997

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Forty-five

  Forty-six

  Forty-seven

  Forty-eight

  Forty-nine

  Fifty Three days later

  Fifty-one

  Acknowledgements

  An Eastbourne Murder Mystery

  Canelo Crime

  About the Author

  Also by Sheila Bugler

  Copyright

  Cover

  Table of Contents

  Start of Content

  This book is dedicated to a very special group of women who all live in the same little corner of SE London: Anna Pattenden, Bridget Morrison, Helen Cunningham, Moira Cuthbert and Ursula Gaffney. I love you all and am so lucky to have you in my life. And remember girls, what happens in Brighton, stays in Brighton…

  One

  It happened on the last day of her trip. Emer was on the London Underground, travelling back to her hotel to pick up her bags before heading to the airport. The Tube was packed, just like every other time she’d travelled on it, and she was squeezed into a corner near the door, trying not to inhale the smell of bodies.

  She had her earphones in, listening to her latest music crush, Lana Del Rey. Lana’s haunting voice, singing about big American skies and empty landscapes. Immersed in the music, Emer closed her eyes and tried not to think about her mother, or the row they’d had on the phone earlier.

  She should have expected it. If she’d thought about it for more than a few seconds, she’d have realised Ursula was never going to approve of Emer’s plans to move to London. Because if Emer was living in London, how could Ursula continue to control every aspect of her daughter’s life?

  Let’s face it, Emer. It’s not as if you’re going to get the job, is it? I’m sure the only reason you got called for an interview is because you’re Robert’s stepdaughter.

  Then, when Emer had pointed out that although her stepfather was quite well-known in Ireland, it was unlikely many people in London had ever heard of him:

  That’s so typical of you. You’re never able to give Robert the credit he deserves. He has achieved so much, and he works so hard – every single day – to keep you in the manner you’re accustomed to. And what thanks does he get for that? His ungrateful stepdaughter, spending his money on a trip to London for an interview for some job she hasn’t a hope in hell of getting because she hasn’t worked for so long she’s practically unemployable by now.

  Besides, we all know the real reason you’ve gone to London. It’s nothing to do with any job. You’ve gone there chasing after her, haven’t you?

  The train came out of the tunnel at Barbican, and Emer’s phone beeped with a text.

  Despite what you think, I’m not trying to be difficult. I simply want what’s best for you. Is that so hard for you to understand?

  Emer deleted the text, without replying.

  It had been raining when she left the hotel that morning and she’d put on a jacket. She regretted that now. It was too hot on the Tube, but she was packed in so tight, there was no room for her to take off the jacket. She pulled down the zip and flapped her T-shirt a few times, for all the good it did. Not for the first time since coming to London, she wondered how people did this journey every day of their working lives.

  The Tube stopped at Moorgate and she looked up at the map, counting the stations to Victoria. Twelve more stops. She’d read somewhere that the average time between Tube stations was three minutes. Which meant she had thirty-six more minutes stuck inside this burning furnace trying not to inhale the stink of body odour and wet clothes.

  At Liverpool Street, the carriage emptied out and Emer grabbed a free seat before anyone else could take it. Like everyone else on the train, she surreptitiously scanned her fellow passengers while, at the same time, avoiding eye contact at all times.

  Eleven stops. Thirty-three minutes. A group of Italian tourists were standing by the door, talking loudly to each other, their voices cutting through Lana’s singing. Emer had lived in Italy for a bit, teaching English, and she listened out for the familiar phrases, regretting how quickly she’d forgotten the language after she left.

  There was a girl in the group, tall and dark haired and so shockingly, perfectly beautiful it took all of Emer’s self-control not to stare. As the train slowed down and entered Tower Hill station, the group prepared to get off the train, gathering their bags off the floor and reassembling once more by the exit.

  Emer dragged her eyes away from the Italian bombshell, focusing on a woman standing a few feet further along the carriage. She was reading a book and, although Emer twisted her neck, she couldn’t quite see the cover. The woman had short, bleached blond hair and she was wearing the most amazing, hand-painted silk dress. Emer knew the dress was silk, and knew it was hand-painted, because she’d done little else last summer except browse images of hand-painted silk dresses, trying to find one she wanted to get married in. Before her wedding plans were cancelled when Nikki walked out on her.

  Emer lifted her phone, thinking she’d take a photo. She still held out hope of getting back with Nikki. That hope was the only thing keeping her going. If that happened – when it happened – then this was the dress she wanted to get married in. She switched the camera on and was getting ready to take the photo, when the woman looked up from her book.

  The shock of recognition was instant. The eyes. She’d know them anywhere. But it was more than that. The shape of her nose, the way she tilted her head sideways as she stared back at Emer.

  Memory after memory slammed into her. So many memories she was drowning under them. Her throat closed and she couldn’t breathe. She clawed the collar of her T-shirt, pulling it away from her neck as if that might help. A buzzing sound inside her head blocked out Lana’s voice and all the other noises around her.

  Somehow, she became aware that the train had stopped and the woman in the dress was putting her book into her pale pink leather rucksack and was stepping off the train.

  ‘Stop.’ Emer’s voice was hoarse and the word was no more than a whisper. Forgetting about the plane she had to catch, she stood up and pushed her way through the crowds of people getting onto the train.

  On the platform, a blast of air hit her as the train sped away to the next station. Looking around, Emer tried to locate the woman, but there were too many people and she couldn’t see her amongst the crowd. She started to think she’d made a mistake,
remembering all the other times, too many to count over the years, when she’d seen someone and thought – for a split second, sometimes longer – that the person was Kitty.

  But this was different. She could feel it, a certainty deep inside her. The woman she’d just seen was Kitty. No doubt about it.

  A memory from earlier. Sitting across from the two women interviewing her. Ursula’s voice screeching inside her head, telling her she was useless and unemployable and a waste of space. Her voice blocking out everything else until Emer had found it impossible to focus on the questions she was being asked.

  A flash of blond hair at the end of the platform. Emer pushed her way through the crowd, following the woman as she disappeared into the tunnel that led up to the exit. She walked with a faint limp, easy to miss if you didn’t know to look for it. The result of an accident when she was four years old. She’d fallen off a pony at the horse fair and broken her leg. Ever since, she’d walked with a slightly lopsided gait.

  ‘Kitty!’

  Several people turned to look at her, but not the woman limping into the tunnel. She was moving faster now, as if she’d heard her name and didn’t want to be caught. As if she knew the person calling out to her was the same person who’d spent the last twenty-three years blaming herself for what had happened the day Kitty died.

  Two

  Two months later

  Gordon’s Wine Bar on London’s Embankment. A nineteenth-century, candlelit underground haven. This was where Dee had come on her first date with Billy, her dead ex-husband. Over the course of their ill-fated marriage, they’d spent many more nights here. Drinking wine and talking shite with people Dee had once considered her closest friends.

  Today was her first time back in the wine bar since she’d left London three years ago. She’d worried it might feel overwhelming to be here again. But as she’d walked down the steps into the cave-like space below, it had felt a little like coming home. She’d spent so long trying to move past her divorce and everything else that had driven her from London, she’d almost forgotten there had been a long time – most of her adult life, in fact – when she’d been happier here in the city than anywhere else.

  It was late afternoon when she arrived. Late enough to order a glass of wine without feeling guilty; early enough to find a free table. Her drink ordered, she settled at one of the wooden tables and waited. And waited. Forty minutes later, her glass empty, she was still waiting.

  By now, the buzz she’d had since leaving the TV studio had faded. She’d been recording a ten-minute slot for a frothy, early evening programme that most people Dee knew would never watch. She’d been asked to come on the programme to discuss the government’s plans to reduce the flow of immigration into the UK. Following a series of articles she’d written on immigration, Dee was increasingly asked to comment on the issue in different media. This had been her first TV appearance, and she’d been nervous as hell. But the young man and woman presenting the programme were great fun, and Dee had enjoyed herself more than she’d expected. At the end, they’d asked if she’d like to come back another time and she’d said yes straight away.

  She checked her phone for messages but, so far, nothing. She was trying to decide whether or not to order another glass of wine when a young woman came into the bar and, after scanning the room, approached Dee’s table.

  ‘Emer?’ Dee stood up, smiling.

  ‘Dee? Oh thank goodness. I’m so sorry. I got on the wrong Tube and ended up heading east instead of west. I didn’t realise until I looked up and saw I was already in Mile End. I might not know my way around London, but I know Mile End is nowhere near here.’

  ‘Well you got here eventually,’ Dee said. ‘Sit down and let me get you a drink. What would you like?’

  ‘Soda and lime, if that’s okay?’

  At the bar, Dee ordered another glass of wine for herself, along with the soda and lime. As she carried the drinks back to the table, she took the opportunity to take a good look at the woman she’d come here to meet.

  Her name was Emer Doran. She was Dee’s cousin but, until today, the two women had never met. And probably never would have, Dee reflected, if Emer hadn’t contacted her last week out of the blue. She’d sent an email, saying she’d just moved to London and asking if Dee would like to meet up. Emer’s father and Dee’s father were brothers who had fallen out when Dee was a child. Her father had always refused to talk about his brother. As a result, Dee knew very little about her uncle and his family, who lived in Ireland in the same town Dee’s father had lived in until he emigrated to England in the sixties.

  ‘I’d never have guessed we were related if I’d passed you on the street,’ Dee said, putting the drinks on the table and sitting down. ‘You don’t look anything like my dad’s side of the family.’

  ‘I’m more like my mum, I guess,’ Emer said.

  Unlike Dee, who had inherited her father’s height and stockiness, Emer was like a delicate doll. With porcelain skin, pale blue eyes and a dancer’s body, she couldn’t have looked less like Dee if she’d tried.

  ‘I’m so glad you got in touch.’ Dee took a sip of her wine, thinking about all the other things she wanted to say. This should be a big moment for her. Since her father’s death five years earlier, Dee had resigned herself to never getting to know his side of the family. When she was younger she’d tried to convince her father to rebuild his relationship with his brother, but he’d always refused. After his death Dee had made a few attempts to contact her uncle, but without any luck.

  ‘I should have done it a long time ago,’ Emer said. ‘It doesn’t seem right that we don’t get to see each other just because of some stupid argument our fathers had years ago.’

  ‘I know your parents separated,’ Dee said. ‘Our mothers kept in touch a little, I think. Before she died, my mum gave me your mother’s address and telephone number. I called her a few times, even wrote to her at one point, but she made it very clear she didn’t want anything to do with me.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Emer said. ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Dee said, although she’d been upset at the time. After her father’s death, the need to connect with his remaining relatives had been strong. But over time, she’d grown to accept that the reunion she longed for was unlikely to happen.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘You’ve just moved to London?’

  ‘A three-month contract,’ Emer said. ‘I’ll be heading home again when it’s finished.’

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘IT project management. It’s not the most interesting job in the world but it pays well, and when the chance came up to spend a few months in London, I thought, why the hell not? Once I was here, it made sense to reach out to you and see if we could meet up. I’ve read some of the stuff you’ve written, Dee. It’s really good.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Dee’s face flushed at the compliment. She would never tire of people telling her they liked what she wrote.

  ‘On your website it says you’re writing a book,’ Emer said. ‘That’s impressive.’

  ‘You’ve done your homework,’ Dee said. ‘I feel embarrassed you know more about me than I do about you.’

  ‘You don’t mind, do you? I was interested to know more about you, that’s all.’

  ‘Of course I don’t mind,’ Dee said. ‘There’s not much point having a website if no one’s going to look at it, right?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Emer smiled, and Dee realised it was the first time she’d done so since she’d got here. She seemed nervous. Which was normal, Dee supposed. Meeting up like this for the first time was a weird situation for both of them.

  ‘Anyway,’ Dee said. ‘Enough about me. Where are you living in London? How did you get into working in IT project management? Do you like it? Are you in a relationship? What sorts of things do you like doing?’

  Realising too late she was turning this into an interview, not a conversation, she stopped with the questions.

  ‘Sorry,�
� she said, smiling. ‘I didn’t mean to give you the third degree. I’m excited to meet you, that’s all.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Emer said, ‘To tell the truth, Dee, I’m not great at talking about myself. I’d love to know more about the book you’re writing. Looking into a double murder, right?’

  ‘It was one of those stories that captured the public imagination,’ Dee said. ‘I happened to be in the right place at the right time, and I got to write the inside story. Later, a publisher got in touch with a proposal for a book. It seemed too good an opportunity to pass up.’

  In fact, several publishers had tried to sign Dee up and she’d been in the lucky position of getting to choose which publisher she wanted to work with.

  ‘You got to solve the case,’ Emer said. ‘I read all about it. You don’t need to be modest, Dee. It was amazing.’

  ‘Well.’ Dee took a sip of wine, uncomfortable with the way the conversation was going. She might be good at taking compliments about her writing, but anything above that always made her squirm. ‘I can tell you what’s not amazing – trying to write a book.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Dee frowned, trying to find the right words to explain it.

  ‘It’s such a different format to anything I’ve done before. It’s longer, of course. And you have to think about structure and form in a way you don’t have to do so much when you’re writing a piece for a paper or magazine.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll get there,’ Emer said.

  ‘I hope so. And now I really am done talking about myself. I’m a journalist and I’m used to being the person asking the questions, not answering them.’

  ‘I’m not very good at talking about myself,’ Emer said. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘There’s something I wanted to ask you,’ Dee said, ‘if that’s okay?’