17. Martha
Martha and Toby are working from her apartment this morning, preparing an update to present to Glen Gavin in the morning, a summary of their progress so far. She’s been in touch with Finn Palin to get his advice about next steps regarding the postcard evidence they received from Janet Crown, and he’s promised to pass it on to a serving Met detective he’s close to, in the hope that they’ll consider reopening the case. But the reality is, it’s all so flimsy. So what if David Crown has been sending postcards to his wife? It makes no difference at all to the theory that he and Juliet ran away together eighteen years ago; it just suggests that he still has feelings for his wife and wanted somehow to keep contact. What is of interest is the variety of locations the postcards are sent from, all over the UK and Europe. If Juliet did go with him, and it’s a big if, is she with him now as they travel around the world, still together after all this time? If she is alive, is she happy? Martha can hardly stand the thought of it. Is it terrible that she prefers the idea of her best friend dead to her living a life with that man?
She pushes her papers to one side and leaves the table she’s sharing with Toby, easing out her aching shoulders and offering to make them both a drink. At the window she pauses to look out over the city skyline, asking herself if she would have taken this on, had she known just how hard it would be to find the answers they’re searching for.
‘It’ll be worth it, you know,’ Toby says, reading her thoughts.
She turns to reply, and, not for the first time, she’s struck by the beauty of him. There are times, she’s certain, when she catches him watching her, and she wonders, is he attracted to her? Surely not. She’s almost ten years older, and at her worst a sharp-tongued old boot. She certainly hasn’t made this assignment easy for him, and she wouldn’t blame him if he’d already written her off as a mardy bitch. And, let’s face it, they’ve got history. She’s unsettled every time she allows her eyes to meet his.
‘Do you think?’ she replies, arms folded, head to one side. At least she’s managed to drop the sarcastic tone with him now, though there’s no doubt her defences are still high. ‘It just seems to me that every time we think we’re getting somewhere with this, we meet a closed door. One step forward, three steps back.’
Toby leaves his seat to join her beside the window, breaking eye contact to look out over the Thames and the city beyond. ‘But the postcards – that’s massive, isn’t it? A game changer. Jesus, if they don’t reopen the investigation after that, I don’t know what will persuade them.’
‘Yes. But when you consider that those cards contain nothing more than a “D” and a kiss, you can see why the police might not take them too seriously. At any rate, so what if he is alive? It doesn’t tell us anything we don’t already know. The police didn’t believe David Crown killed Juliet, and the postcards don’t change that. Personally, I’m leaning towards the idea that those postcards are a hoax.’
‘But who would bother to keep a hoax going for so long? Eighteen years is a hell of a long time to keep a practical joke going.’
‘What about his wife? She could be sending them to herself?’
‘I can’t see it,’ Toby says, sliding his hands into his pockets and leaning against the window frame. ‘She seems so frail, and I’m guessing she’s been ill for a while. What would she gain from sending herself postcards?’
‘Attention?’
‘But she says she’s never shown them to anyone before now. They’re from all over Europe – and she told us she hasn’t travelled in years, because of her bad health.’
Martha sighs. ‘Yeah, I know. I doubt she’s even got a passport. But she was a bit of an odd one. I’d like to find out a bit more about the Crowns’ relationship before he left. I wonder if they were really as happy as she makes out? She seems like the kind of person who wants to present the world as perfect, even when it’s not. Maybe he had a history of affairs? Maybe she never believed he was innocent of that allegation when he was a teacher? Maybe she thinks he did run away with Juliet – or worse? Women have been covering up for their men since history began. She wouldn’t be the first. You never know, it may have been a blessed relief for her when he disappeared.’
Toby laughs, shaking his head. ‘Sexist. It might help to know where those postcards really came from, though, don’t you think? Couldn’t the forensics people compare the handwriting to Crown’s?’
Martha turns to face him, realising how near he suddenly feels. ‘It’s a “D” and an “x”, Toby. Even if they thought the letters were similar to any handwriting samples they’ve got, I’m pretty sure it’s not enough to conclusively say it’s him.’
He runs his fingers through his floppy fringe, and for a moment, as neither of them looks away, there’s tension between them, an increase in the room’s air pressure.
Over at the dining table, Martha’s phone rings and, grateful for the interruption, she strides across the room to take it. ‘Hello, Juney?’
‘Hi, Martha. I think I’ve got something.’ Juney’s tone is cautiously excited. ‘We’ve just received an anonymous tip-off – from someone who saw our appeal for information in the Metro last week – about a conversation thread they spotted on a website called MisPer. Have you heard of it?’
‘No. Go on.’ Martha switches the phone to speaker mode so Toby can listen in.
‘It’s a missing persons chat room – where people post up photos and details of their missing loved ones for members of the public to offer information or so that the missing person can get back in touch. There’ve been a few success stories over the years, you know the kind of thing: someone disappears after a breakdown or family argument, only for them all to be reunited decades later.’
‘Yep, I know the kind of thing.’ Martha’s impatience gets the better of her. ‘Alright, Juney, tell me more about this tip-off you’ve had.’
‘OK. As I say, the contact was anonymous, but they pointed us to a thread that was started just days ago by a DebbieT, claiming to be a family friend of David Crown, and asking for anyone who knows anything to get in touch. Well, within twenty-four hours, someone responded.’
‘And?’
‘And the person responding claims to be the man himself. His username is CrownieD, and he says that he’s David, that he’s alive and well, and he’s maintaining that he did not abduct Juliet Sherman.’
Martha feels a hum of nerves rising through her body. ‘Does he say whether Juliet is with him or not?’ She can’t believe she’s asking the question. Is it possible that Juliet is still alive? The light of the large room is suddenly too vibrant, too intrusive, and she grabs for a seat, steadying herself as she sits.
Toby rushes to her side, pushing a glass of water towards her and taking the phone from her hands. He places it in the centre of the table and continues. ‘Juney? Hi, Toby here. What are your instincts? Do you think it’s genuine?’
‘I’m not sure, Toby. It certainly sounds plausible – and no, Martha, if this is genuine, Juliet’s definitely not with him. In Crownie’s reply he talks about Square Wheels and the canal area where he worked, but it’s nothing that’s not available in the public domain – you know, old news articles, etc. But he does also go on to talk about one of the homeless men they got to know on the Square Wheels circuit, suggesting that he’d taken quite an interest in Juliet – pestering her to go out with him on several occasions, to the extent that David had to step in and ask him to back off. This man’s name was Ethan, apparently, and it’s Crownie’s theory that he is the man the police should have been talking to when she went missing.’
Toby reaches for Martha’s hand and gives it a nudge. ‘Does that ring any bells, Martha? Did the police ever mention interviewing an Ethan?’
‘No,’ she replies, absently tapping at the pressure points of her wrists, trying to make sense of this whole new line of enquiry. ‘No, but Liv mentioned the same person – Ethan – in an email two or three days back. I passed it on to my Met guy, but he said the
re was nothing about him in the interview files.’
Toby rubs his jaw between finger and thumb, his face set in concentration. ‘We have to get hold of Liv, don’t we? What if this Ethan is the key to Juliet’s disappearance?’
Martha’s anger at Liv’s absence rears up, spilling over as exasperation. ‘If this CrownieD really is him, and if Ethan really is our man, then David Crown may have spent eighteen years hiding for no good reason. And if Ethan really exists, if he’s the person behind Juliet’s disappearance, then he could still be out there. Still a danger.’ She looks across at Toby. ‘Christ, Toby. What if we’ve been barking up the wrong tree all this time?’
No one speaks for a moment, until the voice of Juney rises up between them. ‘Do either of you know who DebbieT might be?’
‘Not a clue,’ says Martha, gripped by an urgency to get Juney off the phone so they can stop talking and do something. ‘OK, thanks for all this, Juney. Can you email me the full details straight away? I’ll need them in the next hour.’ With that she hangs up.
‘What now?’ Toby asks.
‘Now,’ she replies, ‘I need to run this all past Finn Palin. He’ll know what to do. He’s got a friend on the inside who’s been quietly pulling together the details as we’ve been feeding them through. I’ll ring him now, see if he’s got time to meet me today.’
Toby looks at his watch. ‘Don’t forget we’re meeting Geoff Blakely at the Garden of Reflection at five.’
‘Shit, yes. Who’s he again?’
‘Geoff worked for the contractors who took over the landscaping job at Bridge School when David Crown disappeared. Sally and Jay are down there filming some background footage while it’s still light.’
‘Did you get permission from the school?’
‘Yep.’
In that moment, Martha recognises how much Toby’s steady presence reminds her of Juliet. The composed quality of him is a lifeline when everything else to do with this damned case feels as though she’s all at sea. People are drawn to him in the same way as they were to Juliet, and it’s more than just aesthetic, it’s something magnetic and intangible. It’s goodness. Back in the Stanley House days, when things at home became unbearable, Juliet was simply there for Martha, never probing, never judging, just there – steadfast, generous, kind. How could Martha ever have harboured bad feelings – jealousy – towards her?
Martha pushes up from her chair, drains her drink and walks across to the kitchen sink to refill her glass. ‘Good work,’ she says, businesslike, and she turns back to face him. ‘Why don’t you get down there now, see how Sally and Jay are getting on? I’ve got, what, two hours to catch up with Finn and I’ll join you just before five?’
‘Sure thing. I’ll phone my mate Josh on the way. He’s an IT whizz – might be able to help us work out where those chat-room accounts originate from. I’ll keep you posted.’ With minimum fuss, Toby packs up his papers and, after a brief, searching hesitation in the doorway, he leaves.
Martha stands at her window view, watching the world pass by on the Southbank, mentally preparing to phone Finn. It’s only two days since they met in the café; will he mind her bothering him again? Too bad if he does, she tells herself, she’s got nowhere else – no one else – to turn to. After a few minutes, she sees Toby emerge on to the sunlit pavement below and she watches him as he lingers beside the railings to tap into his mobile phone. Done, he slides the phone into an inside pocket and carries on along the street, just as an arriving text sounds on Martha’s phone. Toby. You’re doing just fine, Martha Benn, it says. Just wanted you to know.
It’s exactly the kind of thing Juliet would have said, and Martha feels as vulnerable as a child. A surge of emotion comes at her, confusing and violent in its urgency. This is not good, this blurring of the personal and the professional. Heart thumping, she heads for the bathroom to run cold water over her wrists, to gaze at the groomed, grown-up Martha Benn who looks back at her. What the hell is wrong with her? She’s never struggled with this before. Until now her tough shell has been unbreakable, her mask of strength the most vital tool in her armour. But, right now, every fibre of her body wants to give in, to soften in response to Toby’s warmth, to show him the yielding Martha beneath. And what then? Weakness must surely follow, and she knows weakness is a luxury she can’t afford. She’s got a reputation to maintain.
‘OK,’ she tells her reflection. ‘OK. Time to phone Finn.’
When Martha was small, Finn and Helen Palin had been regular visitors to the Benn family home, back in the days before Stanley House, when Sunday lunchtimes were the happy focal point of the weekend. Finn and Martha’s dad had remained best friends since they were probationers together, rising through the ranks at more or less the same pace, and performing best-man duties at each other’s weddings in the same year. They were ‘thick as thieves’ Mum and Helen would often joke, but they weren’t wrong – the two men were as devoted as brothers. They worked hard and the pressures of police work were not inconsiderable, so, when their shifts coincided, they regularly made time for a few pints together at the Anchor on Dove Street. Long ago, following a worrying night when a worse-for-wear Dad had wandered home the wrong way along the river, an unspoken pattern had been established, whereby Finn would deliver him home at the end of the evening, pushing him through the front door before heading on his way. It was a standing joke, Finn’s ability to fare better given the same quantities of alcohol, but on reflection Martha knows Dad’s worse state was down to preloading of several sly shots of scotch before his night out had even begun.
Of course, her mum barely noticed when Dad’s drinking progressed from steady to heavy, as her own quiet consumption had increased at a similar pace. Hers, however, was stealthy and low, hidden behind unremarkable behaviour and a gentle manner. With the passing of years, the presence of Uncle Finn, once the happy signal of weekend get-togethers and laughter, had morphed into the omen of bad fortune. Nothing changed for him; as regular as ever, he’d turn up ready for a night out, bellowing his cheery hello through the hallway, returning Dad to them several hours later, reeling and reeking. But increasingly Dad’s end-of-evening merriment switched the moment he stepped back through the door of Flat 1, Stanley House, a ticking time bomb that might go off any time between late evening and early morning.
But how could Finn have known this? How could he begin to imagine what transformations took place when he wheeled his merry friend back in through his doorway? Because, for Finn, nothing had altered. He was just the mild-mannered fellow who enjoyed a few drinks once or twice a week, who treated his family well and did a fine job at work. How could he ever know what was in store for the sleeping mother and child as he walked away from those nights out, pleasantly drunk himself, to return to his own home, where he’d kiss his slumbering wife and drop into smiling dreams, before waking with a conscience as clear as an infant’s. How could he know that his best friend was a bad drunk behind closed doors, a cruel-mouthed bully, a broken wreck? How could Finn even imagine how it felt to be woken to the sound of your father raging at your sleep-dulled mother, to hear him weeping alone in the hallway, or gently shaking you by the arm because he ‘needs to talk’. Could Finn know how it felt to lie there in the darkness, pretending to sleep; to sit across the breakfast table from your father as his hands shook so violently that you actually wished he’d just get on with it and take that first drink of the day.
Well, Finn should have known, the teenage spectre of Martha reminds her, the bitterness still fresh. He should have known, and he should have made it stop.
‘It’s Martha,’ she says when he answers on the fifth ring. You owe me, Finn, she thinks, and for Juliet’s sake she feels no guilt. ‘Finn, I really need your help in getting this thing moving. We’ve got some new information I’d like you to take a look at. Are you free right now?’
18. Casey
A pile of unposted manuscripts sits on the table beside the living room window, all parcelled up and addressed, and
ready to go. They’ve been there for days, and the editors I’m working with have been chasing them up for over a week. A couple of them have got quite shirty with me about the delay, but a trip to the post office is beyond me, beyond the realms of my capabilities or the strength of my nerves. I know I should take a bath, but I can barely bring myself to get up from the sofa. I’ve been here all night long, going over the ways in which I might put an end to this terminal loneliness. There’s been no further word from Martha, and I sense disappointment in her silence, as my fear of her abandonment wraps itself around my fear of being caught out. My guts writhe painfully, and beneath my many layers of clothing the sore places beneath my armpits throb hotly and I regret shaving them the way I did, using soap in place of shaving foam. Right now, I couldn’t get up if I wanted to. The smell that rises every time I shift position is warm and yeasty, and I’m oddly aware that it comforts and repulses me in equal measure. I wish I’d had the foresight to see a doctor before I reached this stage, to speak of my anxiety in exaggerated terms, to stockpile enough medication to see me off. Though what such medication might be, or might do, I’m too ignorant to know, and I haven’t been back to see him since that last time, when he commented on my weight. It wasn’t the diagnosis I objected to, it was the tiny curl of his lip, the crease that appeared at the top of his nose that told me I disgusted him, that he’d rather I wasn’t there at all.
Beautiful Liars_a gripping thriller about friendship, dark secrets and bitter betrayal Page 15
