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

by Isabel Ashdown

  Martha swallows this resurrected anxiety into the pit of her stomach and returns to the paperwork. ‘Why on earth would David Crown have given Liv a picture of himself?’ she says. ‘Especially one of him taken years earlier, and with an ex-girlfriend of all things? Liv hardly knew David Crown. Out of all of us, she had probably spent the least amount of time with him.’ She held the printed image at arm’s length so that Toby could snatch a glance as he drove. Liv and David Crown? Martha could barely allow the idea to germinate in her mind. Impossible. She would have known. One hundred per cent. She knows she would have known. But why won’t Liv commit to meeting up? It’s driving Martha insane. She resolves to force the issue when she gets back to London; maybe she’ll even spring a visit on her.

  ‘Reminds me of the Moors Murderers’ photographs from the sixties,’ says Toby. ‘It’s a powerful image.’

  Martha continues to gaze at the black and white photograph, trying to recognise the David Crown she once knew. The one in the picture could only be, what, late teens? Martha hadn’t met him until his mid-forties, and he was quite altered by then: stronger of jaw, taller perhaps, a solid man as opposed to a lean teenager.

  ‘If he’s around seventeen in this picture, it would be about 1969 or ’70 by my estimate. I’m hoping this could be useful if we bump into any locals who knew him back then. Might jog a few memories, perhaps give us some insight into the kind of young man he was before he moved away.’

  Tomorrow they have a meeting with a Mrs Thatcher, neighbour of the Crown family and the only person they have so far been able to locate in Castledale who knew David as a teenager. Other than that one appointment, they’re taking a punt on this trip, hoping they might find a few others who can tell them a bit more about the kind of young man he was back then.

  Toby indicates, taking the slip road on to the M1, shrugging his shoulders against the back of his seat as he settles into the journey. ‘He left Castledale altogether not long after that photo, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yep. After A-levels, he got a place at university in Cambridge, going straight on to teacher training and from there into his first teaching job. High achiever. According to Finn Palin’s notes, he married quite young – he and Janet met at Cambridge – and she described him as loyal, hardworking, gentle. The “perfect husband”. Everything in his history suggests he was reliable and steady – apart from that blot in his second teaching job, at St Cuthbert’s in Bedfordshire.’ She reaches into the carrier bag at her feet and brings out a supermarket sandwich, peeling back the wrapper and offering half to Toby. ‘It’s interesting that he moved away and changed career direction so completely after St Cuthbert’s. That suggests to me a man starting over, someone wanting to put the past in a box and forget it. A guilty conscience, perhaps.’

  Toby chews a mouthful of sandwich thoughtfully. ‘He was only in his early thirties when that allegation was made against him. If I was a teacher and that happened to me, I think I’d respond in one of two ways. If I were guilty, I reckon I’d thank my lucky stars for a close shave, move away and look for another teaching job – especially if I was a serial predator, looking to put myself in contact with more young women. But if I were innocent, I think it would wreck me. I think I’d fall apart for a while, and I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t want to stay in the teaching profession. I’d be terrified of it happening again, no matter how innocent I was.’

  Martha hands him an apple, polishing her own against her trouser leg, considering his words. ‘So, what, you think he’s innocent?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Toby replies. ‘But it would be interesting to get hold of his medical records from that time. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d had some kind of breakdown before he moved to London and retrained. You said there’s a gap in his employment history between Bedfordshire and retraining as a gardener in London. That would explain it.’

  It’s an interesting idea, and one which on the surface makes complete sense. But if David isn’t their answer – if he isn’t their man – then who is? What about this Ethan who Liv mentioned? Could it be him?

  ‘A breakdown doesn’t automatically make him innocent,’ Martha concludes sharply, tearing open a multipack of KitKats and flinging one into Toby’s lap. ‘A breakdown might just mean he’s got a whole mountain of stuff to feel bad about.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Toby replies, returning the chocolate bar to Martha with a shake of his head.

  ‘Oh, don’t tell me,’ she says with a groan, ‘you’re one of those sugar-is-the-devil types?’

  He looks perplexed, his attention fixed on the road. ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘Then what?’ she demands.

  ‘Bloody hell, Martha,’ he laughs. ‘Are you always this arsey? I just don’t like KitKats!’

  She folds her arms across her chest with a huff, all the while trying to suppress a smile. ‘Alright, clever clogs. Now don’t disturb me for the next hour or so, please. I need to gather my thoughts.’ With that, she closes her eyes and lets the motion of the car lull her into light sleep.

  The Peak Inn is a traditional stone-built pub in the centre of the village, standing on a street that tapers out to showcase the majestic hills and dales of Derbyshire. The landscape here is so vast, so unencumbered by urban sprawl and around-the-clock traffic, the sky so near and rolling. Even the drizzle on Martha’s face feels like welcome relief from the dark intensity of the past few weeks in London.

  A sharp recollection comes to her as she stands in the cool, dimming light outside the pub: geography class in Year Nine at school – the rain tapping hard at the metal-framed windows, condensation misting the glass – her, Juliet and Liv leaning over a worktable, laughing and chatting as they marked up a diagram of Derbyshire’s Peak District. Limestone; millstone grit; white peak; plateau. Strange, the way the mind lets these long-forgotten memories slip in, unbidden.

  ‘Right, let’s check in,’ Toby says, appearing from the side street where he’s parked the car.

  Martha takes her overnight bag from him and they enter the public bar to the welcoming heat of an open fire. It’s just after 3 p.m., and the pub is quiet apart from a couple of solitary drinkers around the bar and an elderly border collie sleeping at the hearth. A heavy-set man in his seventies rises from the seat beside the fireplace, offering a closed-mouth smile and stepping behind the bar. Martha can tell by the way he holds her gaze for a moment too long that he half recognises her and is trying to place the face.

  ‘Hi,’ she says, putting down her bag. ‘We should have a booking for tonight – under the name of Benn.’

  ‘Ah,’ the landlord replies, his expression at once falling into a friendly one of recognition. ‘Miss Benn!’ He reaches across the bar to shake her hand, and Toby’s, though this seems to be an afterthought. ‘Anthony Laight, landlord. Ant. Pleasure to have you here!’ After another few seconds of starstruck staring, Anthony Laight refers to his booking diary. ‘Now, then, is it two rooms for you – or a double?’

  ‘Two,’ Martha replies rather too firmly, avoiding looking at Toby as she knows he’d find the suggestion amusing.

  ‘Definitely two,’ Toby adds, and Martha swivels her eyes towards him, a silent reproach.

  The staircase to the first floor is creaky and narrow, with local photographs of the village displayed all the way to the top. Many of them are old and faded, relics from the Victorian age, and every one of them features the main high street with the mountainous landscape clear in the distance. Ant leads the way, insisting on carrying Martha’s case (but not Toby’s, she notices with childish pleasure), pausing briefly at the top step to catch his breath. At the end of the narrow landing he unlocks the first room, holding the door open for Martha to enter. It’s small and neatly decorated in whites and neutrals, a double bed taking up much of the space.

  ‘It’s our best room – see the views? Hope this will suit you, m’duck?’

  ‘It’s great,’ Martha replies, feeling uncomfortable at the close proximity she now shares with Ant and T
oby, who has stepped inside to have a nosey.

  ‘And you, young man,’ Ant tells Toby, a hand on his back, ‘are just next door.’

  Martha had hoped they might be a few doors apart. Somehow the next room seems far too intimate, and she wonders if his headboard backs on to hers.

  ‘Want a look?’ Toby gestures to his room as Ant makes his way back along the hall.

  Martha scowls from her open door. ‘Not especially.’

  As Ant reaches the bottom step, he calls back up. ‘Oh, are you lovebirds joining us for dinner tonight?’

  Martha and Toby make wide eyes at each other. ‘Cheeky sod,’ she whispers.

  ‘The special’s beef and ale pie. Seven o’clock. I’ll save you a table in the lounge bar if you’re interested?’

  ‘That’ll be great,’ Toby replies without consulting Martha, and he bats away her protests and retreats into his room.

  ‘Cheeky sod,’ she repeats to herself as she closes the door to her own room, kicking off her shoes and reopening the file notes before spreading them across the bed. The Square Wheels photograph sits on top, and Martha taps out a brief message to Juney: Any luck getting names for those two unidentified Square Wheels volunteers? Surely if they locate those two other girls – women now – they may be able to help piece together a bit more from the evening of Juliet’s disappearance, or at least give an insight into Juliet’s relationship with David at the time. Were they fly-by-night volunteers, like so many, or were they friends of Juliet’s – friends Martha knew nothing about? It unsettles her, the thought that Juliet had a life beyond the one Martha knew.

  Martha scrolls back through her inbox, knowing there’s something bothering her about Liv’s recent email. It’s only when she reads it again that it strikes her so obviously. Why would Liv suggest Juliet wanted to make Martha jealous? Liv, more than anyone, knows that Juliet didn’t have a spiteful bone in her body. She would never have tried to make Martha jealous over something so trivial as a boyfriend. And furthermore, Liv claims to have had no knowledge of this secret – but Juliet said that Liv knew, that Liv had known for several weeks. Could Liv really have forgotten something as significant as this? For the first time, Martha allows herself to consider a new possibility: that Olivia Heathcote knows more about Juliet’s disappearance than she’s letting on.

  Just before seven, Toby knocks on Martha’s door. ‘Care to join me for dinner, m’duck?’ he asks, aping Anthony Laight’s soft Midland tones.

  She gathers up her notes and returns them to her bag, locking the bedroom door as she leaves. ‘Does he seriously think we’re a couple?’ she whispers as they descend the stairs.

  ‘Dunno, but he went to great pains to tell me there’s a connecting door between the two rooms.’

  ‘Locked, I’m glad to say,’ Martha replies. ‘I checked.’

  ‘Charming!’ Toby laughs and stands back to let her enter the lounge bar before him.

  The pub seems to have come to life over the past couple of hours, a reassuring hum of chatter now rising up throughout the place. The lounge and the public bar merge into one, with Ant’s counter separating the two, and all but a couple of the smaller tables are occupied by groups of customers drinking and placing food orders, their laughter and conversation creating a warm, relaxed ambience.

  ‘You happy to have the pie?’ Toby asks Martha, heading to the bar to order.

  She nods, taking the table that Ant has pointed out to them, scanning the room as she tries to work out which of the customers are locals, assessing whether any of them might be worth a chat with.

  Toby hands her a tonic water and she takes a first sip, savouring the lemon cool of it on her tongue. She’s silently grateful to Toby for not interrogating her when she asked for a soft drink, for not pulling a face or trying to persuade her to have something stronger.

  ‘Cheers,’ she says, clinking glasses. ‘To Juliet.’

  ‘To Juliet,’ he echoes, and for a moment they sit in contented silence, taking in the atmosphere, enjoying the moment before the first autograph-seeker appears at their table. She’s a casually dressed woman in her late fifties, her hair bundled into a loose bun – not your average fan. Martha squiggles her autograph on a menu card, trying to smile away her irritation. She never asked for any of this; she loves her job, but not this, dealing with the public’s reaction to a face from the telly. As the woman walks away, Martha grimaces at Toby but he raises a finger and calls out, ‘Excuse me!’

  The woman turns back, surprised.

  ‘Are you local? I don’t suppose you know the Crown family, do you? I think they lived here up until the sixties or seventies.’

  A look of recognition crosses the woman’s eyes, but then she shakes her head. ‘It rings a bell. Want me to ask about for you?’ After a beat she adds in a whisper, ‘Is it for a new programme or something?’

  With the hint of a smile Toby replies, ‘No,’ while meaningfully nodding his head.

  ‘Ah, got you,’ the woman replies knowingly. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Bloody hell, you’re good,’ Martha tells him as she takes another sip of her drink. ‘Very slick.’

  Over the next couple of hours, the woman – Jenny – pops back with a series of disappointing updates. Most of the people she knows are too young to remember much from the period David Crown would have lived in Castledale, and many of them are incomers to the village. As they eat their supper and discuss their plan of action for tomorrow, they give up hope of finding any answers in the local pub, instead relaxing in each other’s company, he drinking pinot noir, she moving on to sparkling water.

  ‘So you went to boarding school?’ Martha asks Toby, whose posture is measurably more relaxed after a second glass of wine. ‘How come? I mean, why boarding?’

  He picks up his own glass, scrutinising the contents before putting it back on the table without drinking from it. ‘I didn’t want to go – I was terrified of leaving home so young. But it was a family tradition. My older brothers and my father – and his father – all went to the same school, so it was always part of the plan. But it also meant Dad could concentrate on his work rather than bringing us up.’

  Martha frowns. ‘What about your mum? What did she think about it?’

  ‘She buggered off altogether when I was thirteen, so that kind of sealed my fate. I haven’t seen her in years.’

  ‘Mine too,’ Martha says before she can stop herself. ‘My mum. She left me and my dad when I was fifteen.’

  ‘Tough, isn’t it?’ And that’s all he says on the matter.

  Martha silently chastises herself for the unfairness of her earlier assumptions and prejudices. They’re not so very different after all.

  The pub is clearing out now, and with most of the diners gone, only a handful of drinkers remain. The lights around the lounge are soothingly low, the dark wood of the place like a cocoon against the cold wind that whips along the street outside.

  Ant calls to them from the bar. ‘Can I buy you lovebirds a nightcap?’ he asks with a smirk that tells them he really is just winding them up. ‘Cognac? Scotch?’

  They leave their table seat and join him at the bar, sliding on to age-worn wooden stools to accept his offer. There’s another man, perhaps a few years younger than Ant, on the public bar side, facing them. He glances at them briefly before turning his attention back to his pint. A small cluster of younger customers are in the fireside seats and a middle-aged couple remain in the lounge bar, drinking after-dinner coffees, snatching the occasional peek at Martha. The mood of the pub is entirely different now, hushed and ancient once the noise has been stripped away.

  ‘I hear you want to know a bit about the Crown family?’ Ant says, sliding two small glasses across the counter.

  Martha raises her eyebrows in surprise. Of course – why hadn’t they asked Ant in the first place? Pub landlords know everyone. The man across the bar looks at her for a moment too long, and it’s clear he’s tuning in to their conversation.

&nb
sp; ‘I went to school with their younger boy – Dick. They had Blackdog Farm over beyond the copse; been in the family for years, for as long as I remember, anyways. Nice family. I used to go back there for my tea sometimes, when my mum was busy. Mrs Crown made the best fruit scones this side of the Peaks.’

  Toby has taken the notebook from his back pocket, and he scribbles down the details as quickly as Ant speaks them.

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Ant.’ They’re interrupted by the sound of the man’s empty glass slamming down on the bar. ‘They’re not here to ask about the woman’s bloody scones, are they?’

  Ant raises his eyes to the ceiling before turning to address the man. Martha switches her full shot glass with Toby’s empty one.

  ‘Go on, then, Eddie,’ Ant says. ‘Get it off your chest.’

  ‘They want to know about that lass he killed, don’t they? David Crown and that lass from Pleasley. Tilly Jones.’

  PART TWO

  A Death

  I had been sitting on that wooden bench for a while by the time the two girls came strolling along the darkened canal path, wheeling their bicycles between them, flawless in the fractured shades of evening. I strained to tune into their conversation as their soft tones drifted towards me on the winter air, tried to make out their features as the flash of lamplight illuminated their young skin and flowing hair. Silently I left the bench to disappear myself into the shadows of the hedgerow, where I might remain unseen, invisible as a ghost. Look at them! I marvelled. They glide with the carelessness of creatures accustomed to their own beauty, for they’ve never known anything different, have they? Since their first breath, one imagines they have been told it. What a beautiful baby, strangers would have said. What a beautiful little girl. What a beautiful young woman. The one I had my eye on reminded me so much of another I’d once known, a lifetime ago, in a different place, a different time altogether. It occurred to me in that moment, as I tracked those unsuspecting fawns, that beauty is surely the strongest currency – the most potent of lures. What unsightly man or woman in possession of a great fortune wouldn’t readily swap a large part of it for just a little of that magic?