Beautiful Liars_a gripping thriller about friendship, dark secrets and bitter betrayal

by Isabel Ashdown

  ‘Are you happy for me to get straight down to the interview?’ Martha asks.

  ‘Yes, please.’ Alan Sherman’s faded expression is attentive, businesslike. As he perches on the edge of his seat, only his hands give away his emotions, his fingers turned under as they grip on to the soft velour fabric of the armchair, his knuckles pale.

  ‘Here’s how it will work,’ Toby tells him. They have rehearsed this. ‘Initially, Martha and I will be talking to everyone connected with the case, hopefully building up a clear enough picture to persuade the police to share more of their initial findings with us. Once we have a stronger argument, and the police on board, we’d like to return with the cameras, to re-interview you as part of the programme. This way, you’ll know what to expect – and, if necessary, we can tailor your interview to appeal to members of the public who may have information to share with us.’

  Alan Sherman nods, and Martha feels as though he is fading before her very eyes, his skin growing more sallow, the lines of his shape growing translucent against the backdrop of his neat living room. He’s a ghost, she realises. The real Mr Sherman left years ago, soon after his daughter. This man is nothing but a ghost.

  Toby pauses, waiting for Martha to pick up the thread. When she doesn’t, he continues, seamless as the most practised understudy. ‘The programme could go one of two ways: a) we build up a clearer history and reconstruction of events, and use the programme to appeal to witnesses, or b) – our preference – we solve the case and present the investigation as a finished outcome.’

  Alan Sherman listens carefully, nodding throughout.

  ‘How does that sound, Mr Sherman?’ asks Toby.

  ‘Alan, please.’

  ‘Sorry, of course. Alan. Are you happy with that approach?’

  Alan Sherman turns to Martha. ‘Are you happy with it?’ he asks, and she fears there is criticism in the question until she reads his face and sees his need. He just wants her to tell him what to do.

  ‘I think it’s a good approach,’ she says. ‘The more we can find out from the people who actually knew Juliet, the more likely the police are to give us an audience. At the moment, they’re resisting.’

  He sighs deeply and gestures towards the modest plate of biscuits between them. They’re bourbons – Juliet’s favourite. ‘Then I’m happy with it.’

  They start with the easy questions, the ones they already know the answers to, a warm-up of sorts. How did Juliet seem on the night she disappeared? Normal. Did he notice any changes in her behaviour leading up to her disappearance? No. Was she a good time-keeper? Yes. Was Juliet in the habit of keeping secrets? No. Were there many family arguments – with her parents or older brother? No. How often did she volunteer at Square Wheels? Once or twice a week.

  A couple of times he hesitates before answering. ‘You know this, Martha. You were there.’

  And Martha can only nod, and agree, yes, she was there, but they need it in his words.

  ‘Did Juliet have any boyfriends?’

  Here, Alan Sherman pauses. ‘Well, we didn’t think so. But then there was the letter we found in her wastepaper bin.’

  Martha stares at him blankly.

  He frowns, tilting his head. ‘Didn’t the police ask you about it? They said they’d be asking her friends.’

  She has no idea what he means. ‘About a letter? No – I mean, they asked me if I knew who Juliet was seeing, but they never mentioned a letter. I don’t know what to …’ Her mind buzzes with confusion. ‘Who was it from?’

  Alan pushes out of his chair and leaves the room, returning a moment later with a sheet of crumpled paper in his hand. ‘I dug it out earlier. I thought you might like to see it. It’s not a letter she’d received, it was one she was writing – but, as you can see from the state of it, she’d obviously had a change of heart about sending it.’

  Martha takes the letter from him, placing it down on the coffee table between them, gently smoothing out its bumps and ridges. Her pulse is racing, her fingers shaking.

  ‘Do you mind if I read it aloud?’ Toby asks, reaching across for the sheet.

  Thank God, Martha sighs inwardly. She doesn’t think she has the strength to do it herself. With a small hand gesture, Alan Sherman tells Toby to go ahead.

  ‘My one love,’ he reads, ‘I don’t want us to argue. Please can we stop? I want us to be out in the open too, holding hands when we want to, and no more secrets, but we have to be patient. Too many people could get hurt – think about your own family. I’ll be eighteen in a few months’ time and I know it will be easier to talk to my folks then. Can’t we just wait and look forward to when we will be together ALL the time? Before we know it we’ll be free of all this, travelling the world where we won’t have to hide! Please understand. Love you love you love you xxx.’

  Toby stops reading and places the letter back on the table-top. ‘Do you know who she was writing to?’ he asks.

  ‘Not David Crown,’ Alan replies. ‘That’s what you’re probably thinking. Am I right? That’s what the police thought. But Juliet would never—’

  ‘Did she ever mention David Crown?’ Martha asks, finding her voice again. This letter – what on earth did it mean? What secrets had Juliet been keeping from them, from her family, her best friends?

  Alan’s expression is tired, resigned. ‘She liked him, but not in the way the police would have people believe. I think Juliet really admired his dedication to the charity. She told us that he ran his own business as a landscape gardener, that he was a good man, that he was fun to be around. He always made sure the volunteers went off in pairs for safety, and he always helped them give their bikes the once-over before they set off, to make sure there weren’t any slow punctures or loose chains. You were a volunteer there too, Martha?’

  ‘I was,’ Martha replies quietly. ‘But it was a bit sporadic, if I’m honest. I wasn’t there every week like Juliet. Liv and I both helped out quite a bit the summer before, but we lost interest as soon as the good weather tailed off. But I’d have agreed with Juliet’s assessment of David Crown. He seemed like a decent guy to me. On the surface.’

  Alan raises his eyebrows and takes a deep breath. ‘I never met him,’ he says. ‘It’s one of the things that has troubled me ever since. I mean, what kind of father doesn’t go and check out something like this? I should have gone down there, introduced myself, found out what kind of set-up he had going on. Juliet thought he was a decent fellow, but she could’ve judged it wrong, couldn’t she? Maybe I would’ve spotted it, you know, if he wasn’t what he said he was?’

  Martha shakes her head sadly. ‘You’re wrong. If David Crown was responsible – if he was this bad person we think he could be – none of us saw it. He was really nice. He looked normal, he was kind, caring – a charity worker, for God’s sake! Meeting him wouldn’t have made the slightest difference, Alan, I promise you.’

  Alan Sherman picks up his mug, takes a long drink of his tea. A solitary tear escapes from the outer corner of his eye, travelling down over his sharp cheekbones and into his collar. He doesn’t seem to notice. ‘You just wonder, don’t you? What you could have done differently. I’ve often thought over the years – if I could just roll back time and change things somehow …?’

  Martha knows this feeling only too well. Even as he speaks, she’s asking herself: How did I not know about this person Juliet was writing to? Why didn’t I question her harder when I knew she was keeping secrets?

  ‘What about her fellow volunteers?’ she asks, clenching her jaw, trying to not be moved by his quiet grief. ‘Do you recall any names?’

  Alan crosses the room and fetches a photo album from the bookcase, barely making a sound on the carpet. ‘I’ve got a couple of photos you can borrow, if they’re any help?’ He slowly turns the pages, stopping at a pair of photographs, sliding them out and passing them to Martha before sitting again. ‘The first one was taken by the local newspaper – I think Square Wheels won some kind of community award. And the second
one was from a boat trip out with David Crown. A reward for some volunteer work, I think?’

  The newspaper photograph shows the group posed with food-laden bicycles, David Crown in the centre, flanked by two volunteers on either side, the Square Wheels banner overhead, nailed to the side of the wooden hut where the sandwiches were prepared. It must be winter, because they’re all dressed in coats and hats and scarves, their skin showing the cold glow of exertion. Juliet stands on the right side of David, to her right a girl whose face looks unfamiliar to Martha, and to David’s left are another girl and a boy. The caption reads: Local Heroes Scoop Community Award.

  ‘Do you know the names of these other volunteers?’ she asks.

  Alan reaches across the coffee table and points to the faces in turn. ‘I don’t know the one next to Juliet but this very thin one on the other side of David Crown, I seem to think her name was Karen, and the boy beside her – don’t you recognise him?’

  Martha scrutinises the picture more closely. ‘Oh, yes! God, I can’t believe I didn’t see it at first. Tom!’ She turns to explain to Toby. ‘Tom was – is – Juliet’s brother. But I don’t remember Tom being a volunteer?’

  Alan smiles and shakes his head. ‘I don’t know how well you knew Tom at the time, but he was never a sticker. He did help out there a handful of times, but that’s all. He just happened to be passing on the evening the newspaper guy took that picture, and they needed another body. Typical Tom: all the glory and none of the work.’

  ‘Do you think we could talk to Tom? Ask him if he can think of anything particular about that night? He was there, at the Waterside Café, the night Juliet went missing.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be happy to talk to you, but you know he’s living in Paris now? We sold the house, after his mum, well—’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Martha interrupts. She’s ashamed not to have mentioned it before. ‘I was so sorry to hear about Mrs Sherman. I didn’t know about it at the time, but she was always so lovely. You both were. It must have been very hard.’

  ‘You know we’d separated by the time she died? I only moved back in towards the end, to help Tom, really, although Ann and I still loved each other, if we’re honest. But it’s difficult to carry on together, when something like that happens. Juliet.’

  Martha nods, wondering how Alan Sherman keeps on going. How does he keep getting up in the morning and dressing and feeding himself and telling himself everything will be OK? How can he believe everything will be alright, when his entire life is living proof that life can turn out very bloody far from alright?

  ‘How is Tom these days?’ she asks. ‘I haven’t seen him for years.’ Since that night.

  Now Alan Sherman’s face breaks into an unexpected smile. ‘He’s very happy. Works as a sommelier – wines, something of that kind. Married, with a baby on the way. Imagine – I’m going to be a grandfather.’

  And there Martha sees it: hope. That’s what keeps him going. Hope that the next day will be better than the last, that next week will be an improvement on the one before, that next year will be happier than the year just gone.

  ‘Congratulations,’ she says, and can’t find more words, stunned into silence.

  ‘I’d almost given up hope – of a grandchild.’ He smiles, and he swipes away another tear, his eyes shining with the pleasure of this piece of joy. ‘They think it’s a boy.’

  ‘When’s it due?’ Toby asks, and Martha is glad to have him beside her more than she could ever have imagined possible.

  ‘May. Spring baby. Good time of year.’

  Same month as Juliet’s birthday, Martha thinks, and their eyes meet in this unspoken knowledge.

  Mr Sherman smooths down his trousers and gives a brief bob of his head. ‘I’ll give you Tom’s details before you leave.’

  ‘And this other girl? You definitely don’t remember her?’ Martha asks, returning to the photograph and pointing to the girl beside Juliet.

  ‘As I say, no idea. I don’t recognise her at all. I think they had a fairly fast turnover of volunteers. Juliet said a lot of people came along and never returned once they realised it was hard work and bloody cold.’

  ‘Like me and Liv,’ Martha says, grimacing.

  Alan smiles warmly. ‘She called them “the lightweights”. This girl could’ve been one of them.’

  Martha turns her attention to the second photograph and feels her insides flip. The image is of a summer’s day, four youngsters on a riverbank, wet-haired in underpants and T-shirts, smiling and waving at the person behind the camera. Three of them sit cross-legged beneath a tree on a picnic blanket, surrounded by sandwiches and drinks, while Juliet’s brother Tom hangs like a monkey from the branch overhead, his sinewy legs kicking out. The three on the picnic blanket look equally carefree: young, vibrant, beautiful.

  ‘Remember this one?’ Alan asks, dewy-eyed again, and Martha finds she cannot speak.

  The three on the blanket are unmistakable. Juliet, Olivia and Martha. And the terrifying thing is, until now, she’d forgotten all about that day, forgotten about that boat trip with David Crown and her closest friends. But, even as the details of the trip remain just beyond her reach, Martha can’t shake the feeling that by the time that day was over, nothing would ever be the same.

  7. Casey

  I love Fridays, because this is the day the man from the supermarket comes. Having my weekly groceries delivered has changed my life, really, in so many ways – and would you believe it, I have Liv to thank for introducing me to the idea. It was during that second house-viewing last winter, when we stood in her kitchen as she made me a cup of coffee, just how I like it, milky with two sugars. Miriam, the estate agent, was there too, but she has faded to a shadow in my memory, because it was Liv and I who were deep in conversation, leaning casually against the worktop eating ginger biscuits. I felt as though I’d known her forever! I’m not used to meeting people as short as me, but she carried it off in a petite, stylish way, and I felt inspired that perhaps I could improve myself and be as graceful as her. Liv seemed to know how to dress in a way that suited her exactly. I can see her now as though it was yesterday, wearing quirky patterned leggings and an oversized emerald-green jumper that looked quite stunning against her dark skin. On her wrist was a silver bangle exactly like one I’ve got at home, and I admired it, and that made her smile. She asked me all sorts of questions about my work, showing an interest that was so sincere that I knew I was in danger of boring the socks off her as I talked through the various books I’d proofread over the past year, showing off over my early access to some of the most hotly anticipated scientific journals of the year.

  ‘What an interesting job that must be,’ Liv had said. ‘And how great that you’re able to work from home. I’m quite envious.’

  Her face showed me she meant envious in the good way, and I thought. My word, that someone like Olivia Heathcote – someone as faultless as her – should be envious of me! I put my hand over my mouth, conscious of the ugly snaggle tooth that rears up whenever I smile too widely, and suppressed a giggle.

  There was a knock at the door, and I recall feeling quite irked by the idea of interruption, and Miriam and I stood in awkward silence for the few seconds it took for Liv to answer and invite her visitor in. To my surprise, a young man appeared in the kitchen doorway, bearing multiple bags of grocery shopping, and wearing a Sainsbury’s staff uniform.

  ‘Just the weekly shop,’ Liv explained. ‘The twins are a nightmare to take around the supermarket, so I order it online now.’

  The young man bobbed his head at us, placing the bags on the floor beside the fridge and heading out again to fetch the next load. The back of his neck was smooth and tanned, the closely sheared hair growing crooked where he was due for a haircut.

  ‘Can you do that?’ I asked, amazed. ‘Order your groceries online?’

  ‘Yes! I can’t tell you how much time – not to mention stress – it’s saved me over the past couple of years. They don’t charge delivery
if you order over a certain amount.’

  Well, I decided there and then, I shall do that. One less reason to leave the house. One more visitor I can call my own. I checked my watch and made a mental note: 2 p.m. on a Friday.

  And that’s what I’ve done ever since I took over the house as my own. Every Friday at 2 p.m. Carl arrives with my weekly shop. I stuck to the same slot as Liv in the hope that I would get the same driver, and nine times out of ten it has been him. I feel we know each other quite well now, and I’m certain he doesn’t mind at all that I call him by his first name. He, on the other hand, insists on calling me by my formal title, and he won’t be moved. Perhaps one day!

  Today when Carl knocks on the front door I am right there, already with my fingers on the handle, because I don’t want to miss a moment of our time together. I closed my laptop over an hour ago, stopping for a brief lunch of scrambled eggs on toast, before tidying myself up in anticipation of his visit. I brushed my hair for an additional fifty strokes, despite having already brushed it thoroughly this morning, and I dotted Mum’s 4711 cologne liberally about my person, on my wrists and behind my ears like I’ve seen her do so many times in the past. I even put a dab or two around my panty line for good measure. It made me smile, having a little secret like that! The smell of it is so fresh, it lingers in the air around me, and I’m certain I can see Carl’s nostrils quiver when I invite him inside my home.