Let the Dead Speak: A gripping new thriller

‘We’ll come back and talk to you tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Try to get some rest, Chloe.’

‘I don’t want to rest. I want to go home. I need to go home. I need some stuff from home, and I need to go there, right now.’

‘That won’t be possible, not at the moment,’ I said. ‘But we can get things for you if you give us a list.’

She was shaking her head, tears starting into her eyes. ‘I know where it is. I need to get it. I need it.’

‘What is it?’

Chloe caught her lower lip between her teeth, stopping herself from answering. She shut her eyes for a long moment, then relaxed. ‘Nothing. It’s nothing.’

I exchanged a look with Georgia, who gave a tiny shrug.

‘I can’t help if I don’t know what I’m looking for. What does it look like?’

‘My medication. And …’

‘And?’ I prompted.

‘An envelope. With my name on it.’ She had gone back to looking out at the garden. The agitation had disappeared. She seemed detached.

Withdrawn.

I’d lost her.

‘If I see it, I’ll make sure you get it,’ I tried, and got no response at all. With a nod to the FLO I left her alone.

‘That didn’t go very well,’ Georgia observed, having shut the door behind us.

I whipped around. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘Well, she’s upset.’

‘That’s normal when someone you love is missing.’

‘And she didn’t tell us much.’

‘I thought she told us a lot. Much more than she knew.’

‘Like what?’

‘Think about it,’ I said, and started down the stairs wondering if it was promotion that made people unpleasant, and if I’d be as nasty as Derwent by the time I was a detective inspector myself.

Assuming I made it that far.

4 (#uca7c8fc2-7de6-5dff-a549-b9edd58ca220)

The hall was empty when I came downstairs. I followed the sound of voices to the kitchen at the back of the house. It was narrower than the one on the other side of the road, and full of people. Eleanor Norris was standing by the sink twisting a tea towel in her hands. A teenage girl sat at the table leaning against a man with short dark hair and a golden tan, who was deep in conversation with a second, white-haired man. A third man sat on a chair he’d pushed away from the table, balancing on the two back legs. He glanced up as we came in.

‘Look out, it’s the filth.’

‘Morgan,’ the tanned man snapped. ‘That’s enough.’

‘Just a joke.’ He let the chair slam back onto the floor and stood up. ‘Morgan Norris. I’m Oliver’s brother.’

‘For my sins. I’m Oliver.’ The dark-haired man stood too, glaring at his brother. I’d have known they were related without being told. They had the same quick way of moving, the same tilt of the head, the same light eyes. Oliver was darker and handsome in a square-jawed, rugby-player way. Morgan was leaner, more like a runner. He was looking at me with frank curiosity which I ignored. I got a lot of that, one way or another. I didn’t look like a murder detective, I’d been told. Too pretty, they said. Not tough enough. Too tall.

Such nonsense.

‘I need to speak to you, Mr Norris. I need to ask you some questions about what you saw this afternoon. Is there somewhere we can talk?’

‘Of course.’ He started to detach himself from the teenage girl who clung on to his arm more tightly.

‘No.’

‘Bethany, I have to go.’

‘Let go of him, Bethany.’ The white-haired man stretched out his hand but didn’t touch her. He didn’t have to. She let go of her father instantly and dropped her hands into her lap.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,’ I said to him.

‘Gareth Selhurst.’

He said it as if I should recognise him, his voice resonant, his barrel chest inflating with pride. An actor? I didn’t know and couldn’t ask. I’d never seen him before.

‘Are you a neighbour? Or family?’

‘I live nearby.’ He gave a vague flourish, not indicating any particular direction. ‘And we are all family here, my dear. All part of God’s family.’

‘Amen.’ Eleanor Norris had whispered it.

‘Gareth is the lead elder of our church,’ Oliver Norris said. ‘He’s here to support us.’

Not an actor: a preacher.

‘I wanted to offer my help,’ Selhurst said. ‘In case there was anything I could do. Sometimes prayer is a great comfort.’

‘Do you know Kate Emery and Chloe Emery?’

‘Yes. Not well.’ He smiled blandly. ‘They don’t worship with us, but the door is always open.’

Not worth interviewing, I thought, and immediately wondered if that was what I was supposed to think.

‘I’ll try not to take too long, Mr Norris.’

‘I want to come with you. I want to hear what happened,’ Bethany said. She sounded like a spoiled brat and looked like a child. Fifteen, her mother had said, but I’d have guessed she was thirteen at most. She was tiny and thin, with heavy, squared-off glasses that hid most of her small face. Like her mother she wore a long-sleeved top. No make-up. No nail varnish.

‘You can’t come, Bethany. The police need to speak to me on my own. Anyway, you don’t want to hear about what happened.’