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

by Isabel Ashdown

  I’m too much of a coward to take a knife to my veins; too scared of heights to throw myself from the Hornsey Lane Bridge. I’ve got a small jar of Mum’s sleeping tablets rattling around in the bottom of my handbag, containing perhaps enough to knock me out but sadly too few to kill me. What would my mother think if she could see me now? She’d see how much I miss her and need her, if only by the altered shape of me. It was she who kept my eating in check, she who steered me away from those foods that make me so ill, those foods that make me so fat. At home, there were no Battenberg cakes or bottles of pop or jars of peanut butter and chocolate spread. At home, there were ‘square meals’ and quotas of fresh water to be consumed and lean white meat and steamed veg. At home, there was discipline. But here, there’s nothing. No rules, no limits. I buy what I want, I eat what I want, and never have I weighed out my portions or denied myself a second helping. Why, sometimes I’ll have three! There’s nobody here to tell me no, to arch their brows in disapproval or keep me from the food cupboard. There’s nobody to stop me. I’m like an articulated lorry with its brakes cut.

  It’s funny, to think back on it now, lying here as I am, stranded upon my sofa, larger than ever, as I was really just a normal child – neither fat nor thin, but somewhere in between. Whenever Mum brought up the subject of my size, Dad would argue that I hadn’t had my growth spurt yet, that I could rest assured that I was a completely healthy weight for my height and age. If I was carrying a couple of extra pounds, he said, I’d soon shift it with a bit more exercise, and he bought me a bicycle, saying I could join him on his weekend bike rides out along the river and into the countryside. Mum would remain silent during these conversations, her lips a tight line, giving no more than a curt nod when Dad looked to her for agreement. When we were alone, she’d tell me how she too was a chubby child, and how she’d never forgiven her mother for not acting on it sooner to help her to slim down.

  ‘But you’re not fat at all, Mummy,’ I’d say, confused as to why she should still be angry at her mother. (Even at ten, I called her Mummy, and never thought it strange until a few years later when someone laughed at me after I’d said it in public.) ‘Maybe you slimmed down after your growth spurt, like Dad says I will?’

  I remember the face she pulled. It said: What does he know about it? He’s just a man! ‘There’s no such thing as a growth spurt,’ she replied. ‘You don’t stay as slim as I do without considerable effort and willpower. Your dad, quite frankly, is talking nonsense. It’s different for men.’ The following day, two slimming magazines appeared on my bedside cabinet, and a padlock was fitted to the pantry door. Under the watchful eye of my mother, my meals diminished to the tiniest of portions, and all snacking ended. No more Hula Hoops or ginger biscuits or buttered toast or cake. Even fruit was considered too calorific if I was to make the changes she thought possible for me. In the privacy of my bedroom, morning and night, I followed a strict regime of exercise, as laid out in my Slim! magazine, a series of star jumps and jogging and stretching and sit-ups and lunges. I won’t pretend it was as easy as I make it sound, because it wasn’t. It was a living hell, and many a night I went to bed and wept into my pillow, hungry and tired and too weak to complain aloud.

  Within six weeks, Mum had to get out the sewing machine to take in the waistbands of my trousers, and I could balance marbles in the hollows of my clavicles. I had lost a stone and a half! My mother revelled in my rapid transformation, congratulating herself – and me – on making it happen, and I swear we connected in a way we’d never done before. Now we had something in common, a shared project: the project of me. Every time I entered the living room, she’d gasp and call me her beautiful girl, making me twirl for my father as she dabbed at her eyes. But Dad didn’t seem to share her enthusiasm, and it seemed the thinner I got, the deeper his furrows grew. I was torn. Surely now I looked better, more normal, more like everyone else? Perhaps, I thought with trepidation, perhaps I could even consider mainstream school in September, when I’d be eleven and able to join at the same time as all the new starters?

  With great effort I push myself up from the sofa, desperate to leave these thoughts behind. Why do I do it to myself, returning to painful memories like taking a fingernail to a healing scab? I’m not that person any more: I’m the master of my own destiny, the mistress of this house. Flicking on the radio for distraction, I rummage at the back of the kitchen drawers until I find a pair of scissors and fetch the mirror from the bathroom. Balancing it above the kitchen sink where the light is good and clear, I pick up a first handful of hair, nearly an arm’s length, and take the scissors to it just below the ear, drawing sharp breath as it comes away from my head and flops over my fist like a dead snake. Laying the strand carefully on the kitchen worktop, I work my way around, aware that my line is wonky, but continuing all the same, until finally there’s a thick pile of my hair arranged on the counter and a different person gazing back at me. My stomach continues to cramp. Carefully, I gather the pieces, tying the cut ends with a length of cooking string before brushing it out and hanging it from the hook on the back of the kitchen door. I’m standing there, admiring it, when a report on the midday news catches my attention.

  ‘Police are appealing for any information on missing schoolgirl Charlotte Bennett, who was last seen cycling home along the Regent’s Canal late on Monday night, near the footpath to the Waterside Café. Charlotte is seventeen years old, five feet four inches in height, with long, dark hair and blue eyes. She was wearing a fur-trimmed khaki jacket, black jeans and white Converse trainers, and riding a black and grey Giant brand bicycle. Police are treating her disappearance as suspicious.’

  My griping stomach finally gives way, and I rush for the toilet, making it just in time before my bowels empty themselves entirely. I slump over my knees, exhausted, confused, not really knowing who I am or where I fit in. If I were to die, if I were brave enough to end it all now – to take those scissors and plunge their blades into my neck – who would find me? Who would care?

  I think of Carl, poor, lovely Carl delivering my groceries the day after tomorrow, and I know I couldn’t do that to him. A person might never recover from a shock like that. It’s strange, but the thought of Carl gives me strength, and an idea presents itself to me, so brilliantly simple, it’s like a gift. I clean myself up and return to the kitchen, and prepare myself for a long-overdue trip to the post office. That missing girl has given me just the inspiration I needed.

  19. Martha

  With a wide sweep of his arm, Glen Gavin waves to Martha and Toby through the glass of his large corner office, beckoning them in.

  ‘Ah, the Dream Team!’

  ‘Batman and Robin,’ Toby jokes, tilting his head towards Martha as he says ‘Batman’, and she could almost hug him for it.

  Glen indicates to the two seats on the other side of his polished desk and they sit, as he presses the intercom and asks Sarah, his PA, to fetch drinks. He checks his watch, loosens his pristine tie a millimetre or two, and places his hands palm to palm. ‘So, what have you got?’

  Martha tugs back her jacket sleeves, propping her elbows on the desk, talking without notes. ‘I think the first thing to say, Glen, is that we certainly haven’t solved the case. The way it looks at the moment, the show, when it goes out, will be a “Cold Case Call to Action” rather than a “Cold Case Closed” documentary.’

  Glen’s expression remains stable, showing no obvious signs of disappointment. On the desk between her and Toby, the screen of Martha’s silenced mobile phone lights up with an incoming call: D calling. Both men glance at the phone as she hurriedly presses the Call Reject button and flips it face-down on the desk. She knows they’ve seen it; she knows Toby will be wondering again who ‘D’ is, will be wanting to ask. She also knows a garbled text message will quickly follow, and dread sits heavy in the pit of her stomach. She ploughs on.

  ‘The good news is that we’ve discovered plenty of new loose ends, which, if we don’t get to the bottom of them s
oon, will certainly give us a lot to showcase onscreen, in the hope that someone out there will connect them. Toby will run through our key breakthroughs.’

  ‘OK. Number one, we have these postcards, supposedly from David Crown – one a year sent to his wife Janet, from a variety of European locations.’ He places a blown-up picture of the postcards, photographed before they handed them on to the police, on the table between them.

  ‘Are they genuine?’ Glen asks.

  ‘Mrs Crown believes so, categorically. But we can’t be sure. Some of them are very old, and even the newer ones will have been through too many hands to have left any useful fingerprints. There’s nothing written on them other than “D x”.’

  Toby runs his finger down his journal.

  ‘Next, we have the discovery of this chat room, MisPer. Over the past day or so, we’ve been following a conversation between users calling themselves CrownieD and DebbieT, in which he claims to be David Crown and she – the originator of the thread – claims to be a family friend. Well, we’ve checked with Janet Crown and she’s never heard of anyone called Debbie, so we’re wondering if it’s a relative, or perhaps an old colleague or ex-girlfriend.’

  Glen continues to listen intently.

  ‘Juney’s had no joy finding the girl from that black and white photograph,’ Toby continues. ‘The girlfriend who gave David Crown his alibi at the time of the Tilly Jones murder.’

  Martha now reaches into her bag for her notebook, opening it up to refresh her memory. ‘We know from a local landlord that her name was Hattie Brown, but he couldn’t tell us much more, as she moved away from the village years ago. We want to get her version of the afternoon Tilly was killed. If she’s still alive, could she be posing as this “DebbieT”?’

  ‘Doubtful.’ Toby shakes his head. ‘She’s an ex-girlfriend from, what, nearly fifty years ago? I doubt they kept contact, especially with him having left his home town under a cloud of suspicion.’

  Glen raises a finger. ‘Is it possible that Debbie might be another Square Wheels volunteer, Martha?’

  Martha chews her lower lip. There’s so much from that period that’s grown foggy with the passing of time. ‘It’s possible, but it’s not a name I remember. And, of course, we have no idea if this conversation is genuine or bogus. All we can do is continue to follow it and see what it throws up. CrownieD is adamant that he – David Crown – is innocent, and he says he suspects a homeless man called Ethan as the real abductor or murderer of Juliet Sherman.’

  ‘And your police contact? Have you passed this all on to him? What’s his opinion?’

  ‘Yes, I met with—’ Martha stops herself from using Finn’s name. ‘I met with him last night. He’s retired, but very much in contact with serving officers in the Crime Squad, and able to feed in any information we think is of significance. He and I go back a long way, old family friend, and he’s willing to do everything he can to help with the case, so long as we keep his name out of it. He’s been back over the case notes and confirmed that when they interviewed David Crown on the morning before he disappeared, he never mentioned anyone called Ethan, or any other possible suspects, for that matter. That said, my old friend Liv also mentioned a homeless man called Ethan, so it’s a lead we need to look at seriously. But, until I see something on that chat-room thread that isn’t recycled from public records, I’m treating it with caution. It’s possible that this thread has popped up in response to the ad we ran in the Metro last week, when we appealed for information. There are plenty of nut-jobs out there. This lead may turn out to be a waste of time.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Glen says. ‘And you mentioned your friend Olivia? Has she been of any help?’

  ‘No. I’m increasingly getting the feeling she doesn’t want to be involved. I’ve been in regular contact with her since the start of this, but, while she’s been helpful enough in her emails, she’s resisted any suggestions of meeting up in person. I think perhaps it’s just too painful. But I haven’t given up yet. I’m pretty sure I can talk her around.’

  If only she felt as confident as she sounds.

  ‘Number three,’ Toby continues. ‘The Garden of Reflection at Juliet’s old school. This was the site David Crown was working on at the time he vanished, the remodelling of what was the old school swimming pool into a floral garden.’

  ‘It was quite a big project,’ Martha adds, ‘and a few of us, Juliet included, had helped out as volunteers the summer before, while David was getting the prep work underway. The old pool had to be broken up and filled in before any landscaping work could be done. Then the funding ran out and it was all put on hold till December, when the school held a Christmas fair and some other events and raised enough money to restart the work. We met with Geoff Blakeley, the gardening contractor who took over when David disappeared, and he tells us that, according to the school, David Crown had met with the building inspector on the very morning that Juliet vanished, when the footings for the patio area were passed. No one from the school could tell us the order of things, but the new contractor suspects that if the concreting work went ahead as planned, which it did a couple of days after David and Juliet’s disappearances, the excavated area must already have been filled with hardcore – rubble to you and me. Geoff took over where David left off, and the concreted patio base was already in place, ready for the garden to be planted up around it.’

  When the penny doesn’t appear to drop for Glen, Toby says, ‘We’re quite interested in that patio at the Garden of Reflection. It would certainly have been the perfect place to dispose of a body.’

  Glen’s eyebrows rise, and Martha is sure she sees the glint of excitement in his expression. ‘Now that would make good television,’ he says, looking from Toby to Martha. ‘What will it take to get the police to excavate?’

  ‘Right now,’ Martha replies, ‘we need something big to happen. We need something that will convince the police that Juliet didn’t run away, but was taken. We need to convince them that the Garden of Reflection is a potential burial site.’

  20. Casey

  The waiting is killing me. Every few minutes I check my emails for news from Martha, but there is none. Is she annoyed at me for avoiding her invitations to meet up? Has she given up on me? The parcel I sent should have arrived by now, surely? I sent it first class, but there’s no mention of it on the news, no update from Martha telling me she knows about it. Perhaps it has got caught up in the system, sitting on someone’s desk, unopened, unnoticed. I’ve been back to the MisPer chat room, adding in more specific details that might grab someone’s attention, but the silence rings out.

  If Martha has turned away from me, I don’t know how I’ll have the strength to go on. What is left? If it weren’t for the fact that I know Carl will be coming tomorrow, I swear I don’t know what I might do to myself. Yes, I’ll give it another day, give her one more day to respond. Tomorrow, I will sort out my filing and reply to all my emails. I will restore some order, banish the chaos I’ve allowed to take over my world. And then, if Carl doesn’t turn up, if Martha doesn’t reply – then I’ll do it.

  This time I’m not even kidding. I’ll kill myself.

  21. Martha

  By 8.45 a.m., Martha’s universe has tilted, with a phone call from Finn Palin.

  ‘Martha, love,’ he says the moment she answers the call, urgency in his voice. ‘My Met chap’s just been on the phone about the David Crown case. There’s been a new development you’ll want to know about.’

  Martha had been about to leave the apartment to meet up with Toby, and now she pushes the door shut again and drops her house keys on the side, fumbling in her bag for her notebook and pen. ‘Go on.’

  ‘A teenage girl went missing this week in the Islington area. Charlotte Bennett. Did you hear about it?’

  ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘Seventeen, cycling along the Regent’s Canal. Parents say it’s completely out of character. Police are treating it as suspicious. She was cycling home around nine at night.’<
br />
  ‘Christ. Just like Juliet. It’s even the same time of year.’

  ‘Just like Juliet. Well, that’s what I thought, so I called my pal yesterday when I heard about it on the news, but he said it was tenuous to say the least. There’s eighteen years separating the two events – too long to make a strong case for them being connected.’

  ‘OK,’ Martha says, wondering then why the urgency in his voice. ‘So, how does this help us?’

  ‘Well, that was what he said yesterday. Today, however, things have changed significantly. They’ve taken a look at Janet Crown’s most recent postcard, the one suggesting her husband is in London – together with the conversations in the missing persons chat room – and now, with this new bit of evidence—’

  ‘What new bit of evidence?’ Martha demands.

  Finn laughs. ‘Alright, alright! A parcel was delivered to the local police station some time yesterday, containing a typed note, claiming to be from someone called Ethan – along with a long, dark plait of hair. All the note says is, “I took Charlotte Bennett, just like I took Juliet Sherman.” No instructions, no threats or demands, just a statement.’

  Martha’s mind races. This name again: Ethan. Could he really be Juliet’s kidnapper?

  ‘What do you think, Finn?’ she asks. ‘Do you think David Crown is innocent?’

  ‘No,’ he replies without pause. ‘And neither do the investigating officers now. I suggested to them that, if David Crown is guilty, this is the perfect diversion – sending a note, claiming that the crimes were perpetrated by someone else altogether. If Ethan is a real person, he’ll be almost impossible to locate – if he was homeless back in 2000, he’ll be either dead now or living somewhere else altogether. The perfect fall guy. Perhaps David Crown is making plans to return? He’ll be getting on a bit now. Maybe he thinks this will clear him of any suspicion?’