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

by Isabel Ashdown

  Now, staring at the newspaper in my hands, I thank God the police could find no recent photographs! I wonder if I have been blessed with a sixth sense of sorts, some intuition that has prevented me from putting myself in front of the camera for exactly this reason. Aware of the shopkeeper to my rear, I realise that, while he might recognise me from my time living here before, he almost certainly doesn’t know my name. People don’t tend to ask me my name. I’m safe, I think with relief, and lowering my hood I turn and approach the till.

  ‘I’ll have a cappuccino, please,’ I say, sliding my newspaper on to the counter as I spot the tray of Krispy Kremes on the worktop behind him.

  He must see me looking, because as he starts to prepare my fresh coffee he gives me a big smile and says, ‘Krispy Kreme? Fresh in this morning!’

  I am starving. And those doughnuts look like just about the best I’ve ever seen. My mouth moistens at the thought of biting down on the sugary coating, my teeth sinking into dough.

  ‘Oh, go on, then!’ I giggle, and he winks at me. He actually winks, and it’s just breathtaking.

  ‘Which one would you like?’ He readies a doughnut bag, a pair of bright pink cake tongs hovering over the sweet treats.

  ‘Oh. I’ll have the cinnamon bun, please.’

  He places it in the bag and looks at me expectantly. The only noise in the shop is the sound of my cappuccino gurgling out through the coffee machine spout and into its cardboard cup. ‘Another?’

  My hand flies up to cover my mouth, and I don’t know quite why I’m feeling so giddy, but I am. Perhaps it’s nervous energy, having seen that article in the newspaper, and me standing here so brazenly at the counter, buying coffee and doughnuts with that ‘Woman Wanted’ headline glaring up at us both, and he none the wiser! Oh, if only he knew!

  ‘OK. I’ll have a Strawberry Iced with Sprinkles,’ I say. ‘And a Seasalt Caramel. For my mum,’ I add, lest he think I’m a big, fat, greedy pig. Which I am!

  He drops them into the bag and rolls the end closed, handing it to me with a tap on the side of his nose. Our little secret, that tap says, and my heart gasps. He has lovely brown skin and a lilting, friendly accent – foreign, my mum would say. I wonder how old he is. Maybe thirty or forty? I’m not very good at reading these things, but what I do know is that he doesn’t have a ring on his wedding finger.

  I tap my nose back at him and hand over a twenty-pound note. ‘Thank you,’ I say, and I do my best to look alluring. It’s hard when you’re buttoned into a thick padded coat and ruddy with the cold, but I look up through my eyelashes the way Princess Diana used to do, and he rewards me with the brightest smile I think I’ve ever seen. I’ve never seen teeth so straight and white!

  ‘What’s your name?’ I ask him, feeling my cheeks flare up like stop lights.

  ‘Arun,’ he replies as he passes me my change, and then he raises his hand goodbye and turns to wipe down the coffee machine.

  If I do come out of this unscathed, if I manage to meet up with Martha and Liv and put everything straight, then I will come back here and pluck up enough courage to show him I’m keen. If nothing else, this experience has taught me that life should be seized, that not a moment more should be wasted though fear. I will grasp at every opportunity, and to hell with anyone who stands in my way! Outside the shop I pause. I forgot to pick up sugar for my coffee; there were little paper sachets inside, brown and white, at a counter to the side of the till. I go back in – and that’s when I hear it. Out of view, from the back of the shop, I hear Arun’s voice, low and conspiring. I move closer to the entrance, just enough to hear him without being seen.

  ‘Hello, Crimestoppers? Yes, I want to report something. The police came in last night asking me to let them know if I see Katherine Crown – the one who attacked that woman in Stack Street? Well, she just came in for coffee. I’m not sure which direction she’s heading in, but if they’re quick they might pick her up nearby.’

  It’s like a knife to my chest. Judas! I want to scream, but there is no time for emotion, no time to dally, and I pull up the hood of my coat and head for the park, where I can cut through on my way back down to the canal. There’s no way I’m going to be able to sit down in a café to check my emails now, not with the police out hunting me down. If Arun was tipped off to look out for me last night, it’s likely that other shops and cafés in the high street had a similar visit. I’m desperate to know if Martha has responded to my email – if she intends to turn up today as planned – but for now I’ll just have to lie low, hide below decks back at Dovedale, and hope and pray that Liv and Martha turn up. At least I have coffee now. At least I have my doughnuts.

  29. Martha

  Martha’s first thought when she wakes is that Toby is asleep on the sofa in the other room. For a while she lies motionless, tuning in, trying to work out if he’s awake too, wondering if he’s experiencing the same strange sensation of proximity that she is. The clock on the nightstand tells her that it’s just before seven, and she swings her legs out of bed, anxious to prepare herself for her meeting with Liv at noon, and to find out what news Finn has on the police hunt for Katherine Crown. She must try phoning Finn’s chap again; she’d tried several times yesterday afternoon without any success.

  In the living room, Toby is still sleeping, stretched the full length of the sofa, Martha’s Scandinavian throw draped over his legs. From the ankle that protrudes she can see that his lower half is clothed, but his shirt is draped neatly over the back of one of the armchairs, and his torso is naked against the cushions. Martha permits herself a moment to gaze upon him, this beautiful young man, admiring the lines of his chest and long, lean limbs, wondering what it is that he sees when he looks at her. Why is she even indulging herself in these thoughts? Under the circumstances, it’s nothing short of ridiculous.

  As she fills the kettle, he stirs, extending his arms, yawning loudly before easing himself upright on the sofa. His hair is all mussed up at the back, no more the well-groomed city boy, and from her position in the kitchen, she thinks, he could be a stranger. She hadn’t intended to ask him to stay, but it was gone midnight by the time they finished working through their notes and programme plans, and with today’s early start it made sense. They were in high spirits, after Finn had been in touch to let them know that Vicky Duke, the pupil who had made the allegation against David Crown back in 1986, had come forward of her own accord that evening, asking to make a statement to the police. It was likely this statement would put Crown even more firmly in the frame as a predatory suspect. As Martha had handed Toby some bedding, there’d been an awkward moment when their eyes had connected and she’d sensed a hug coming on. ‘Sleep well,’ she’d blurted out, and she’d turned on her heel and retreated to her bedroom before they could act on it. Was it simple affection or sexual chemistry? She likes to think the former, but she fears – for her part at least – that it might be the latter.

  ‘No sugar, remember,’ Toby calls to her, his arm hooked over the back of the sofa, a boyish smile on his lips.

  In response Martha holds up the cup she’s already made for him and crosses the room to sit beside him. She hands him a packet of madeleines.

  ‘Cake? It’s a bit early for me,’ he says, passing them back.

  ‘It’s what they eat on the Continent – with coffee,’ she says, opening the packet and pushing one into his palm. ‘Try it!’ She dips one into her mug, laughing at his horrified expression. Snatching his back, she dunks it into his coffee and puts it to his mouth. ‘Just try it!

  He obliges, taking it in one bite, chewing thoughtfully as she sips her coffee and awaits his verdict. ‘OK, you’re right,’ he admits. ‘They’re pretty good. Reminds me of the breakfast cakes they have in Venice.’

  He reaches for another one, but Martha’s fingers close around the bag. ‘They went to Venice,’ she says quietly, as much to herself as to him.

  ‘Who went to Venice?’

  ‘Liv and Jules. At the end of Year Eleven, on a
school trip. I couldn’t afford it …’ Martha recalls her language teacher trying to persuade her to apply for an ‘aid’ place, but pride had prevented her from doing so. And even if she could have afforded it, how could she have left Dad in the state he was, with no one else to keep an eye on him? Liv and Juliet had begged her to come too, and she’d fobbed them off, saying she was going to Scotland that same week to visit her mum. Of course it was a lie; there was no trip to Scotland, no trip anywhere.

  ‘Is that relevant?’ Toby asks. ‘To the case?’

  Martha presses her palms against her eyes, trying to take hold of the memories, trying to establish the order of events. That trip had been at the end of term, in 1998, after their GCSEs, right before the start of the summer holidays. It was that summer that Juliet had first started at Square Wheels, followed quickly by Liv and Martha. The summer that everything had started to shift. When they’d returned from Venice, Liv and Jules had seemed to Martha to be more tightly entwined than ever, and, while their trio was still strong, she couldn’t help feeling that she had lost them in some way. That she was now somewhere on the outside.

  What had she done during that week when they were away?

  ‘I don’t know, Toby,’ she replies, dropping her hands to her lap, turning to face him.

  There’s not a hand’s width between them on the sofa, and for just a moment she has the strongest sensation of being separated from her body, watching them from afar: he, bare-chested, scruff-headed and tanned, she free of make-up, her silk-print kimono slipping off one knee, showing the merest hint of her thigh. Neither of them speaks.

  ‘Martha?’ Toby is the first to break the silence, his fingers reaching for the side of her face, his index finger resting on her naked earlobe.

  She’s the one who leans in, who presses her lips to his, soaking in the smooth heat of them against hers, his breath, his scent. His hand slips away the silky fabric, encircling her knee – and the reality of the situation slams her back with a start.

  ‘Oh, God, Toby,’ she says, ‘I’m so sorry.’ She’s trying to stand, but he has her hand in his, gently insisting that she stays.

  ‘Don’t say that,’ he replies, holding on. ‘Please don’t say you’re sorry.’

  Now she manages to extract her fingers, and she backs away, gathering up the empty cups, busying herself. Anything but look at him. Every nerve in her body wants her to throw herself down beside him, to give herself up. But she can’t, can she? To do so would be to reveal herself, not just her body – that’s the least of her thoughts – but herself.

  ‘But I am sorry! I just … I don’t know what I just … At any rate, Toby, this is a stupid idea, and I’m a stupid woman. Jesus, what was I thinking?’

  Good, she has regained her control. She stands before him, certain, empty mugs hanging from the fingers of one hand, adjusting the front of her kimono with the other. Toby sits forward in his seat, bare feet – elegant feet, she notices – flat against the plush oatmeal carpet, his elbows resting on his knees, the muscles of his arms strong and relaxed.

  His expression is tired. ‘Is it because of him?’ he asks.

  ‘No!’ she replies, somewhat too quickly. ‘It’s nothing to do with him. That was an age ago.’

  ‘I liked you, even back then, you know,’ he says.

  Martha can’t deal with this. It’s crazy. She has to shut it down before it all starts to become real in the world. ‘OK, that’s enough. I’m done with talking about this, Toby. This was entirely my fault, and I’m sorry.’

  ‘But …’ He rises from his seat, reaching for his shirt.

  Martha turns her back on him and strides towards the kitchen. ‘I’m meeting Liv at twelve,’ she says, fixing her mind on the day ahead. ‘I’ll use the bathroom first, if that’s alright with you?’ At the bathroom door she hesitates, glancing back to see Toby already seated at the dining table with his notes, a neutral expression on his face. ‘While I’m doing that, I want you to check in with Jay and Sally to make sure they’ll be at the meeting point as arranged, no earlier than one o’clock.’

  He nods, not looking up.

  ‘And see if Juney can find out the latest with Mrs Crown? We need to reschedule that meeting with her, if she’s up to it.’

  Toby makes a note.

  ‘Oh, and can you phone Finn, see if there’s any news from forensics yet? I’ve told him that I’d like to go with the police representative to break the news to Alan Sherman, once Juliet’s identity has been confirmed.’

  Toby does look up now, fixing Martha with a worried frown. ‘Are you sure it’s a good idea for you to go alone today? I mean, the police haven’t located Katherine Crown yet, and judging by your last meeting she’s got it in for you. You might be at risk.’

  Martha smiles, glad that they’re firmly back on to the subject of business again, that they’ve been able to put this behind them so quickly. ‘I’ll be fine, Toby. Liv will be there. Katherine’s hardly likely to try to take us both on. But if it makes you feel any better, why don’t you come down at the same time as the camera guys? Perhaps we can film a few more straight-to-camera pieces while we’re there, now we’ve got more content?’

  As she heads into the bathroom, Toby calls after her, ‘Jay just texted. He says, “Tell Martha no busy patterns, please. Those spotty Cruella gloves of hers played havoc with the try-outs last week.”’

  ‘Tell Jay he’s a cheeky sod,’ Martha replies, and she closes the door behind her, takes a steadying breath, and sets the shower running.

  On the main street, Martha taps out a text message to Finn’s police contact, telling him she’s meeting Olivia Heathcote at the canal and asking him to phone her as soon as he has a chance. She’s left two voice messages this morning, and she’s starting to wonder if he’s as interested in these cold cases as Finn has made out.

  As soon as she turns on to the towpath, Martha spots Liv standing beside the bench in the distance, just as she’d said she would be. She is dressed in a bright mustard coat and fuchsia leggings, heavy boots anchoring her feet to the earth, a swirl of brightly coloured scarf wrapped around her shoulders. She’s gained perhaps a couple of pounds, and her shoulder-length hair is more groomed, but she still looks like that pixie of a girl that Martha knew. What will they see when they look into each other’s eyes now? What will they feel? Liv is facing downstream, looking out across the roofs of the houseboats moored along the canal, her breath pluming white in the winter air.

  Despite the hour, the verges and hedgerows are still cloaked in a hard, crunchy frost, and Martha takes care to stay upright as she navigates her way along the towpath, dressed head-to-toe in her trademark black and grey. The spotty gloves and red scarf are her only concession to frivolity, and even they seem a bit over-exuberant on those days when she feels less than animated. The midday sun is a milky yellow above the flyover in the distance, throwing soft shadows out behind Liv and casting her in striking relief. The film-maker in Martha wishes the camera crew were here now, to take in this emotional scene, to capture Liv in the moments leading up to their first encounter in so many years. She slows her pace, purposely savouring the seconds before their reunion, before Liv becomes aware of her presence. Before the years between them shatter, and their grief might be shared.

  As though she senses that Martha is there, Liv spins around, releasing her hands from her pockets, throwing them up with a cry. ‘Mart!’ She breaks into a run, arms outstretched to catch Martha, to surround her.

  They’re both crying, sobbing, and Martha doesn’t even care that any old passer-by can see her. They’re sobbing and talking and laughing all at once, each of them releasing their grip to look into the other’s face, before pulling back in again, crying and laughing some more. Never, in all the years that have passed since the friends separated, has she felt such kinship. Liv and Juliet were all she had back then, more like siblings than schoolfriends, more like family to her than her own. Her own family were shadows; they didn’t count. But Liv and Jule
s – they knew her, and they loved her, despite all the shit that came with being her friend.

  Eventually they gather themselves, Liv reaching inside her bag to produce a pack of tissues so they can wipe away their tears and mascara, and Martha is reminded that she’s a mother now. God, so much has changed.

  ‘Shall we sit here for a while?’ Martha asks, hooking her arm through Liv’s and walking towards the bench with its age-old inscription to Clara May Avery, beloved wife.

  The houseboat moored in the water ahead of them is just as Liv described it in her email, blue and red, with the name Dovedale etched on its side. Still here. It’s memorable because it’s the first of the houseboats along this stretch, and back in the day it was the most colourful and best maintained. Martha seems to remember it belonged to an old man with a heavy ginger beard, who pottered about the place in all seasons, touching up the paintwork, tending to his flower boxes or cleaning the outside windows. Now, the paint is peeling, the faded curtains drawn closed inside its neglected windows, and Martha thinks that the old boy must be long gone. It seems symbolic, somehow, that the houseboat remains, the boat they passed by day after day, on the way to school or Square Wheels or the Waterside Café. They’ve all moved on and changed, but that houseboat has remained, quietly ageing, silently watching the world go by.