Dying To Tell Read online

  Her messenger pinged. It was from Elliot and she glanced at his suggestion to pick up a takeaway curry on his way home from work. Lila replied with a thumbs-up emoji then grabbed her crutches and hobbled through to the kitchen for a bottle of lager.

  As she took a swig, she spotted the bag next to the toaster, knowing it contained the things the hospital had returned to her. After getting back home, she had retrieved her keys, purse and ruined mobile phone, before setting it to one side, figuring she would sort the rest later. Grabbing the bag, she hopped over to the sofa, dumping the crutches and setting down her lager, before emptying the bag on the coffee table and sifting through the bangles she had worn for her date, her tiny handbag and compact mirror, lipstick and a packet of chewing gum.

  A delicate chain caught her eye and she snatched it up, the silver locket that hung from it looking unfamiliar. It wasn’t hers, so how had it ended up with her stuff? She opened the locket, studied the black and white photo inside. It was of an older woman with greying hair. Engraved on the locket was the letter S.

  Stephanie Whitman? It had to be. Their personal effects must have gotten mixed up.

  She would have to find out an address for the Whitmans, knew they would want their daughter’s locket back. Maybe she could send a sympathy card with it.

  She stared at the locket; thought of Stephanie’s smiling face from the news articles, and, deep in thought, Lila slipped it in her pocket. She would figure out the right thing to do.

  * * *

  The right thing to do probably wasn’t to turn up at Stephanie Whitman’s funeral, but it had seemed a good idea when Lila had thought of it.

  Elliot told her she was crazy to go, but Lila felt it was something she had to do. Of course he thought he had talked her out of it and didn’t realise she had headed to the bus station after he had gone to work.

  Stephanie Whitman had lived with her parents in the village of Cley next the Sea, on the North Norfolk coast and Lila had read in the papers and online about her funeral, knew it was taking place at the local church. The journey from Norwich took over an hour, involving a change of bus. Although she was familiar with the coastal road, recognising the windmill with its white sails that she had photographed many times, usually at sunset in skies of gold or pink, she had never seen the church on her visits, knew that it was on a road that led further inland.

  The bus dropped her in a narrow street of pretty terraced houses that sat a stone’s throw away from open fields of green. The village was set back from the sea, but as she made her way along the country lane that led to the church, the salty scent clung to the air. For an able-bodied person, the walk was only ten minutes, but with the crutches it took far longer and Lila hadn’t anticipated how difficult she would find the journey. She paused midway, a little out of breath, in pain, and sweat beading under her dress, and she glanced at her watch, aware the funeral would already be underway. The cool grey May sky was the only relief and even that turned on her when the clouds darkened then spat with rain.

  After what seemed like an age, she spotted the Three Swallows pub in the distance and several cars parked alongside the verge. A little further behind the pub was the towering church.

  She cursed as she passed another bus stop; annoyed that she hadn’t taken the time to find out there was one much closer. As she started the incline towards the church, mourners spilled out of the door and anxiety twisted in her stomach.

  She paused for a moment, wondering what the hell she had been thinking. This was private and she wouldn’t be welcomed. Reaching in the pocket of her denim jacket, she felt the locket, remembering she had come all this way to pay her respects, to return the locket to Stephanie’s family. Lila couldn’t turn back.

  Apprehensively she edged closer, the immaculate black suits, dresses, hats and heels making her feel woefully out of place. She glanced down at her own black dress, which hung above her knees, and her one scuffed boot, conscious that she didn’t fit in with these people.

  Nerves eventually won out and the closest she dared get was the wall inside the front gate. There she remained, an outsider watching as the coffin that held the body of a girl she hadn’t known, but would forever be tied to, was carried through the graveyard, and Lila tried to decide if she would be able to pluck up courage to approach Henry Whitman when he returned to his waiting car. She recognised him from press pictures as he stood graveside beside a sobbing woman, back ramrod straight, his expression grim. He wasn’t going to welcome Lila at his daughter’s funeral.

  This was a bad idea. Elliot was right. She shouldn’t have come. She should slope away quietly and post the locket with a note of condolence.

  As she made up her mind it was best to leave, a man standing to the side of the mourners glanced in her direction, eyes narrowing in recognition as they locked onto hers. And before she could react, he was heading purposefully towards her, long strides eating up the ground between them, looking royally pissed off.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he hissed.

  Lila took a defensive step back, almost losing her footing as her crutch hit an uneven patch of grass. ‘This is Stephanie Whitman’s funeral?’ Her voice sounded far more confident than she felt and her heart was thudding. ‘My name is–’

  ‘I know who you are, Lila Amberson.’

  He spoke her name with scathing sarcasm. Who the hell was this man and how did he know who she was?

  ‘I just wanted to pay my respects.’

  He gave a bitter laugh. ‘You wanted to pay your respects? Why? You didn’t even know her.’

  ‘No, you’re right, I didn’t,’ Lila agreed quietly over the lump in her throat. ‘But it felt the right thing to do.’

  Blue eyes that had until now been cool heated up unexpectedly, the man’s frown deepening as anger coloured his cheeks, and Lila shrunk back as he took a step towards her, conscious that he dwarfed her by at least five inches. When he spoke, his words were clipped.

  ‘The right thing to do… The respectful thing to do would have been to stay away. Your boyfriend killed my sister. Did you really think we would welcome you here?’

  ‘He wasn’t my boyfriend.’

  Lila kicked herself for the irrelevance of her comment. This man… Stephanie Whitman’s brother, had flustered her. She hadn’t expected such a hostile reaction.

  And how exactly did you think they were going to react? Invite you back to the house for tea to show you Stephanie’s baby pictures?

  She hadn’t thought this through and she certainly shouldn’t have come to the funeral.

  Before she could say as much, he caught hold of her arm, his grip firm, fingers digging into flesh, as he pushed her towards the gate.

  ‘Ouch, you’re hurting me.’

  ‘You need to go. Now. I don’t want my mother seeing you here. Not today.’

  ‘Let go of me then! I’m gone.’

  ‘Go!’ he hissed, giving her a gentle shove as he released her.

  Lila steadied herself on her crutches, sucked in a shaky breath. She wanted to defend herself, point out that it had been an accident and that Stephanie’s death hadn’t been her fault, but she couldn’t find the right words and it wasn’t appropriate.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said instead, her heart thumping and her legs unsteady as she turned inelegantly on the crutches, keen to get away, aware Stephanie’s brother was watching her go. Tears pricked at the back of her eyes and she blinked furiously, annoyed that his words had gotten under her skin.

  She ordered herself to focus on the view as she descended the stone path leading down from the church. Even on a dull day, it was so pretty with stone cottages spaced around the neatly mown green on the other side of the road. It crossed her mind briefly that it would be a nice location to shoot, but just as quickly she realised she would associate this place with Stephanie Whitman and that day’s unpleasant encounter. Better to forget Cley and the Whitmans and focus on getting her own life back on track.

  * * *
>
  He studied the local news sites as he drank his tea, looking for any updates.

  The main story was still the car accident and the death of Stephanie Whitman. Her father was determined to keep her in the headlines, blaming the driver of the other car.

  That was good. If he kept distracting the reporters then other stories would be flying under the radar.

  It needed to stay that way.

  3

  Lila had plenty of time to brood over what had happened.

  Not fancying the half-mile walk back to the coast road, she decided to chance the bus stop outside the Three Swallows pub, but was struggling to find information as to when the next bus actually ran.

  She weighed up her options: make her way back to the coastal road (something she wasn’t sure she could face as the long walk to the church had exacerbated the pain in her neck and shoulder); a taxi, but she could ill afford that option; or persuade someone to come pick her up. Elliot was working in London for the day and wouldn’t be home until late. That left Beth or Natalie, but they would be at work.

  As Lila made the decision that she would have to wait it out for the bus, thunder rumbled overhead and the spits of rain turned heavy. There was a bus shelter that offered some cover, but it wasn’t enough to protect her from the downpour. Lila glanced at the pub across the road. It was her only option.

  Negotiating crutches on a road that was slippery with water wasn’t easy and, although only a short distance, by the time she reached the door, she was soaked.

  The place was empty, albeit for one barmaid and an old chap who sat at the bar with his back to her. Lila made her way to the toilets and attempted to dry herself using paper towels and the hand dryer. She was a mess and just wanted to go home. Knowing that wasn’t an option, she made her way back out to the bar and ordered a Coke.

  ‘Can you tell me when the next bus is back to Holt?’

  The barmaid set down Lila’s drink, rang up the order on the till. ‘There’s one going in about twenty minutes outside The Fruit Fayre. It’s about half a mile down the road.’

  ‘What about the stop outside?’ Lila asked, handing over a fiver.

  ‘The next bus won’t pass through here until later on this afternoon.’

  Lila’s heart sank, still she forced a smile and thanked the barmaid, ignoring the curious stare from the old man sat at the bar, who looked like he was probably a regular so was no doubt familiar with everyone who came through the door and was wondering who the hell she was. She managed to put her purse away, attempted to pick up the full glass of Coke while balancing on her crutches.

  ‘Here, let me help you with that.’ The barmaid came out from behind the counter, took the glass from her.

  Lila chose a table in the corner, away from the old man’s prying eyes. Despite her mop-up job, her clothes were still damp and uncomfortable, and she sat in the cool quiet pub, her neck and shoulder throbbing, sipping at her Coke, trying to figure out what the hell to do, knowing that she would never make it back to the coast road in twenty minutes, so was stuck in Cley village for at least another hour. She listened to the rain pelting against the windows, wishing she had never been stupid enough to come to Stephanie Whitman’s funeral.

  Lila’s phone had been wrecked in the accident, but fortunately Elliot had come through for her, loaning her his old one until she could sort out a replacement. He had also given her sim card to a friend, who was trying to recover her photos for her. Although Lila used her cameras when working, she still had numerous shots on her phone she didn’t want to lose. As Elliot’s phone was, for now, her only source of entertainment, she checked her e-mail and Facebook accounts, looked at the weather forecast, dismayed to see the rain was set to stay for the rest of the day.

  Bored, she typed “Richard Gruger” into Google.

  She had already looked up her rescuer after learning his name, so knew which one of the three Richard Grugers he was, that he was fifty-two and a headmaster at a private school in Suffolk. There were a handful of search results for him, mostly relating to the accident, and just one image. Fair, cropped hair and dark eyes. Non-descript in many ways, but a face she would never forget.

  Her thoughts turned from Gruger to Stephanie’s brother, and anger gnawed at the guilt in Lila’s belly. She hadn’t caused the accident, had been a victim, the same as his sister. The police hadn’t ever said Mark was responsible. How dare Stephanie’s brother speak to her as if she was a criminal?

  Lila hesitated, googled “Stephanie Whitman” and reread the articles about the accident. Henry Whitman was the only family member to comment in the press. One article mentioned her mother, sister, and a twenty-year-old brother. The man who had attacked her at the church had been older, maybe in his thirties.

  She logged into Facebook again, typed Stephanie’s name into the search engine, The girl’s face appeared, pretty, smiling, looking like she was having fun, and the guilt returned.

  Stephanie’s page had been turned into a memorial and was filled with comments from her friends. Lila read half a dozen of them, feeling like an intruder. She briefly scrolled through her seven hundred and thirty-six friends, wondering how on earth someone could know that many people, then clicked on her photos, wading her way through dozens of selfies and shots taken at a black tie affair, where Stephanie looked pretty in sunny yellow as she posed with her parents, sister and one brother. The man from the funeral wasn’t there.

  So who was he?

  Lila found him eventually in an album created two summers earlier, titled “Beach Barbecue”, Stephanie in the middle of a group hug between him and another guy, all with wide grins on their faces. The caption below read “Awesome catch up with my brothers from another.”

  The comments below identified the brothers as Jack and Tom Foley, while another picture in the same album told her Jack had been the brother Lila had encountered at the funeral. In the photo he was on the beach with Stephanie, giving her a piggyback, and they wore identical grins.

  Hearing voices, Lila glanced up as the bar began to fill with people wearing black. Stephanie’s family was holding her wake at the pub. Jack Foley had been angry to see Lila at the church. He wasn’t going to welcome her presence here.

  As the thought crossed her mind, he entered the pub, deep in conversation with the other man from the beach photo, whom she now knew was his brother, Tom.

  As he spoke, he glanced in Lila’s direction, making eye contact.

  The light-brown dishevelled hair and blue eyes were the same as the photo, but the wide crooked grin had been replaced by a scowl. Could this day get any worse?

  She slipped her phone in her bag, left her almost-full glass of Coke on the table and pushed herself up on her crutches. She wasn’t going to get into another fight with him. She would rather endure the rain and her pains, and walk back to the coast road.

  He was still standing close to the door and she avoided eye contact as she crossed the bar, aware he was watching her.

  ‘You don’t have to say anything,’ she hissed quietly. ‘I’m going.’

  ‘Why are you even still here?’ Despite the scowl, the anger had gone from his tone and he sounded weary.

  ‘I’m waiting for the bus, but it’s fine, you don’t have to worry. I’ll wait somewhere else.’

  ‘In the rain?’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  Of course it wasn’t fine and she was soaked again within seconds of stepping outside the pub. She glanced briefly at the bus shelter, which didn’t even have a seat, knew her only real option was to walk back to the other bus stop. Trying her best to huddle into her jacket, her teeth chattered with the cold as she walked. As far as stupid ideas went, this had to be one of the worst she’d ever had. The bus would already have gone, her clothes were soaked, the cast on her leg too, and her calf muscle throbbed underneath, while the pain in her shoulder was getting worse.

  When the Land Rover pulled up alongside her, she barely registered it at first, the rainwater plastering
her fringe to her forehead, and dripping into her eyes.

  The window wound down and Jack Foley stared at her.

  ‘Get in.’

  ‘I’m fine where I am, thank you.’

  ‘Really?’

  Lila had tried for indignant and dismissive, but was aware she probably looked pretty foolish from the inside of a dry car. ‘Go back to your sister’s wake. I need to get to the bus stop.’

  Jack hooked a brow. ‘You’ve missed the bus. Next one won’t be for another hour. Get in and I’ll give you a ride to wherever you’re going.’

  ‘I don’t want to put you out.’

  ‘You already have,’ he told her bluntly.

  When Lila shook her head, started to move away, he eased the car forward, keeping pace with her. ‘I don’t want you going back in the pub but, mad as I am at you, I’m not going to leave you outside in the pouring rain. So get in the car, let me take you to wherever it is you’re going then stay the hell out of my life. Deal?’

  There was no dignified way out. Lila didn’t want to accept the ride from him, but she would look petty and ungrateful if she didn’t. Besides, the thought of waiting another fifty minutes in the rain wasn’t pleasant. She negotiated her way round to the passenger seat and climbed in the car, balancing the crutches between her knees.

  ‘You can put them on the back seat.’

  ‘They’re fine.’ They weren’t. They were a hindrance and she nearly bashed herself on the chin when she fastened her seat belt. She wouldn’t admit to that though. She just wanted this ride over with.

  ‘Suit yourself.’ He gave her a pointed glance. ‘Where to?’