The Perfect Friend: A gripping psychological thriller

by Barbara Copperthwaite

  The very next night we all went round to Alex’s place for a meal. It was a useful opportunity to get to know the group a bit better. At her large three-bedroomed house, with en suite, family bathroom, massive dining room and kitchen, and garden with mature trees, I became even more convinced that Alex was the perfect mark. She couldn’t be funding all that on her profits as a dressmaker; she must have received a decent settlement in her divorce, I reasoned.

  When I spotted her sudoku and cryptic crossword books, I almost laughed. I’d give her a puzzle she wouldn’t be able to resist solving, and the prize would be a wad of cash for me.

  Back at home, I finally gave in to my desire to research Alex. After a couple of hours, I sat back and whistled.

  Jackpot!

  After that, it was easy, particularly as the guilt of her coincidentally sleeping with my fling blinded her to everything. Even without that, I’d have reeled her in once I put my mind to it, but it certainly helped. She was my new best friend. Still, I didn’t want to rush things and ruin my chances. With a potential payout of over a million pounds, I was willing to stick around longer than usual, even getting a job as a cleaner and barmaid to make my cover story believable.

  It meant I spent more time with her than I had with any other of my previous targets. I didn’t understand why she was lying about Owen and the children, but felt sort of sorry for her, despite her nicking Simon. After all, I hadn’t been in love with him. Alex was clearly struggling to come to terms with everything that had happened to her. We really did get on, and she genuinely seemed to want to look out for me. Around her, I found myself trying to be the kind of daughter that she wanted – not just acting the role, but actually trying to change. It was almost like being given a second chance with Mum, and getting a glimpse of who she could have been if it hadn’t been for Dad. Being around Alex was making me soft.

  Several times I was tempted to call the whole thing off, just simply disappear without a trace and without her cash. Or to put down roots and stay. Perhaps I could announce I’d been miraculously cured. I found myself fantasising about settling down, and even took in Smudge, the stray cat, because he was a survivor like me.

  Going soft wasn’t an option, though, I reminded myself often. Alex was lying to everyone as much as I was with her bullshit story about her husband and kids. Although I gave her opportunities, she didn’t come clean about Simon, either. I reminded myself of all the times I’d trusted somebody in the past and they’d turned around and metaphorically kicked me in the teeth. Alex was clearly capable of doing the same. I wouldn’t let myself be taken in by her.

  Fifty-Four

  Now

  Leon still kneels by my side, trying to persuade me to go to the hospital.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I insist.

  ‘Well, I can’t make you, but I strongly recommend it.’ His eyes are full of fear for me, and the guilt is hard to take.

  ‘All right, I accept defeat – but only to shut you up. But first I think these officers want to speak with me.’

  The two uniformed police have come closer at overhearing I might be leaving the scene of the crime.

  ‘Are you ready to tell us what happened here today? Someone from CID will want to take a formal statement later, but if you could just talk us through it now it would be really helpful,’ asks the officer. Beside him his colleague pulls out her notebook, her pen ready to pounce on my words.

  I’m prepared now, ready as I’ll ever be. I’ve been lying for years, and this won’t be the first time I’ve done it to the authorities, either. Still, I battle nerves.

  ‘I, um, went to the police recently with suspicions that my friend, Carrie, didn’t have cancer. I don’t blame anyone for not believing me, I didn’t come across very well. And afterwards I was convinced that everyone was right, and it was my imagination. It won’t take much research on your part to show that I’ve not been very well recently. I’m a recovering anorexic, with a history of hallucinating, so on paper don’t make the best witness.’

  Leon starts to move away but I wave him back. ‘I don’t mind if you hear this,’ I say, then continue with my tale.

  ‘Carrie came round to my house last night and asked for the money that had been raised in her name.’ Neighbours will corroborate that she was seen lurking outside my house acting suspiciously before letting herself in. ‘I should have just handed it over… I honestly don’t know why I didn’t. Call it stubbornness, intuition, I don’t know, but I just found myself feeling wary. She, um—’

  Leon gives me an encouraging nod. The constables lean closer.

  ‘She suddenly got really angry. I’ve never seen her like that before. She told me if I didn’t get her the cash, she’d kill me. I didn’t believe her – not until she pushed me to the floor. I must have hit my head on the coffee table because I passed out.’

  Flashes of the truth break through my carefully rehearsed fiction. Waving Carrie goodbye after sitting up all night. The stress of the last few days taking their toll as soon as I was alone, exhaustion hitting me like a sledgehammer, causing me to pass out. When I’d come to, I’d seen the cuts and bruises on my face from where I’d caught myself on the coffee table – I was lucky they were only flesh wounds, and I wasn’t concussed. Instantly I’d known how they would help me.

  But I can’t tell the whole truth.

  ‘She stood over me and forced me to write a message to the bank, giving notice that I’d be emptying the account in cash today. I didn’t want to, but I had no choice.’

  ‘It’s okay. You must have been very frightened.’ The policeman gives an encouraging smile. His colleague’s pen doesn’t pause.

  My fingers trace lightly over the coagulated, sticky mess above my eye and down my face.

  ‘Carrie stayed over last night to make sure that I didn’t tell anybody. I was so scared I didn’t sleep a wink.’

  The dark circles under my eyes tell the truth of that claim.

  ‘She had to let me go to the bank alone, though, otherwise it would have looked too suspicious. I know I should’ve said something to the bank manager when she asked me if everything was okay, but I kept remembering what Carrie had said about killing me.’

  A mixture of genuine nerves and a smattering of acting has ensured my behaviour in the bank stood out as suspicious, and therefore memorable, just as I’d hoped while twitching and overreacting there. Everyone in the place had seen my bruised face, too, when I pulled my hood down, so my story of being pushed over by Carrie would appear real.

  ‘I went straight to her house with the money, as instructed. She was there, bags packed and ready to run as soon as I handed it over. I thought that would be the end of it, but then… ’

  I was bundled up against the cold. Only when I got inside Carrie’s home did I pull down my hood, take off my hat and scarf and reveal my cuts and bruises. She’d been so eager to get her hands on the funds, she’d barely listened as I explained I’d fainted.

  ‘What happened next?’ pushes the constable.

  I closed the front door, picked the scab from over my eye so that blood gushed down my face. And started screaming. Carrie’s mouth sagged wide, a black hole of confusion.

  But I don’t say that.

  ‘She threw herself at me. Grabbed my hair and hit my face against the door frame.’ A smear of blood I’d left there would authenticate that claim. Still, the tremble in my voice now is all too real. I have to sell this fiction, or I’ll be in big trouble myself. ‘I started to scream. We struggled, and I kept on shouting for help, hoping someone, anyone, would hear me.’

  Carrie’s hand closing over my mouth. Trying to shut me up. Not understanding what was going on. My elbow in her stomach. More yells. Knowing that I’d be heard by the boys searching for Smudge by the bins behind Carrie’s house, just as I’d told them to.

  I feel bad for scaring them, but without their help there would have been no third party to call the police – and there needed to be independent witnesses, otherwise it m
ight be all too easy for Carrie’s version of events to be believed. I can’t afford the police to dismiss me this time. Between the boys and the unexpected but painful ‘bonus’ of fainting and hurting myself, I feel reasonably confident that my version of events will be believed.

  The front door opens and Carrie appears, wearing handcuffs. Two police officers walk behind her each with a hand on her shoulder. Her eyes lock on mine. She steps towards me, struggling against the arresting officers’ grip.

  ‘Alex, what are you doing? Why are you lying?’

  Leon creates a bulwark behind which I can hide. Vigilant, the constables who were interviewing me also move. No one can shelter me from her words.

  ‘Tell the truth, Alex!’

  Still shouting my name and protesting her innocence, Carrie is bundled into a waiting squad car. I hear the slam of the door, but even through a window and three bodies, I can feel the weight of her glare pressing me down. Then an arm wraps around my shoulders. Strong, protective.

  ‘You’re safe now. Come on, let’s get you to hospital,’ says Leon. Sagging against him, grateful for his support, I let myself be led to the ambulance, safe in the knowledge that I’ve got over the first hurdle.

  Carrie’s story doesn’t add up. Mine does.

  Fifty-Five

  Twelve Months Later

  Alex is wringing her hands, then seems to realise and gives them a little shake before letting them drop to her side. The half an hour she’s had to spend waiting in line, getting her photo ID checked, placing her valuables in a locker, then being searched, have clearly put her on edge. She hasn’t spotted me yet; perhaps she doesn’t recognise me now my hair has grown. It gives me the chance to watch her. She looks well – the best I’ve ever seen her. Glossy hair, glowing skin, more meat on her bones. I can’t help but smile, and wonder simultaneously how it’s possible to hate and love someone at the same time.

  It’s 1.45 p.m. on the dot, and visiting time has begun at Low Newton women’s prison, just outside Durham. Other visitors flow around Alex, parting like a stream then rejoining, while she stands still, uncertain, looking around at the white walls and cobalt-blue carpets and matching chairs of the 1960s building. She’s probably thinking it’s better decorated – nicer – than expected, but when you’re talking about sharing the same prison as Rosemary West, it’s all relative.

  A tremor runs through me at the thought of facing the person responsible for putting me behind bars. I clench my hands into fists to hide their shaking, just as Alex moves towards me and sits down.

  ‘What do you want?’ I ask, cutting to the chase.

  ‘How are you doing?’

  I sneer back. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Several things.’ She looks around again. Like she wants to run away. ‘Um, firstly, I wanted to let you know that your friend, Wendy, has died. Her funeral was yesterday.’

  Sharp pain as I bite down on my lip. Blink rapidly to hide the tears. I’d spent so long hanging around the hospital I’d decided to become a hospital visitor, figuring I might as well do some good while I lurked. Wendy and I had hit it off. A single mum to two beautiful children, she fought cancer with such stoicism, optimism and biting humour. We’d laughed long and often together.

  Poor Wendy.

  ‘Not much of a friend, though, was she,’ I lie, my voice thick. ‘She never visited.’

  I don’t like the look Alex is giving me. It’s too knowing. She clears her throat.

  ‘I also wanted to thank you, actually,’ she says. ‘Thanks to you I found the strength that had for so long abandoned me. You might have been a grifter, but I’m a better person for having met you.’

  Her dark hair is longer now, past her shoulders, and the cut makes the most of her natural wave. That awful tendency to frizz seems under control, which might be down to better nutrition. Coral polish gleams on fingernails that used to be gnawed. Yeah, she looks happy. My stomach sours. I twirl a strand of my mousy, chin-length hair around my finger and stare hard. Alex shivers.

  ‘Did you notice I’ve put on weight?’ she tries again.

  ‘Oh, yes, I noticed straight away, because I really give a toss.’

  She ploughs on through the corrosive sarcasm of truth masquerading as dishonesty, trying to be upbeat. ‘I don’t have to go to the clinic any more, even as an outpatient. And do you remember that paramedic you asked to take a photograph of me? Leon? We’re together now. He’s sitting in the car waiting for me.’

  ‘I’m so glad everything worked out so well for you,’ I bite. Despite no longer having to vomit to keep up the pretence of chemotherapy treatment, I’m still bulimic. ‘Meanwhile I’ve been sentenced to eighteen months in prison for a crime I didn’t commit.’

  ‘Carrie – Sophie, I mean,’ Alex leans forward, voice low. I can’t help remembering how surprised she’d looked at discovering every single name she’d had for me was wrong. ‘You didn’t commit that crime, but you committed plenty of others. You know the police suspect you of ripping off at least ten other people, but your other victims are either too embarrassed to come forward or still believe your lies, despite all evidence to the contrary.

  ‘And you still won’t tell people what happened between you and Joanne – you’re lucky there’s not enough left of her to find out how she died, or you could be done for murder. Don’t you feel anything for her family?’

  Twirl, twirl, twirl, the hair and my fingers are the only parts of me that move. It’s Alex who caves first.

  ‘I, umm, still have some questions about what happened between us. I wondered if you’d answer them. I’m happy to answer any questions you have of me.’

  Were we ever friends? Was everything an act? Why can’t I answer those questions any more than you can?

  ‘After what you did to me and the lies you told in court, do you think I could ever believe a word that you say to me?’ I ask. ‘You had everyone eating out of your hand, you duplicitous bitch.’

  ‘Please, Sophie. You know I was only acting to protect myself.’

  I snort, but Alex isn’t put off. She lays her hands flat on the table between us as if bracing herself, then speaks again.

  ‘Why me? Aside from the money, I mean.’

  I fight the words, but the urge to verbally punch my friend is too strong.

  ‘Because you were the most gullible person I could find – who was worth the most. But you’re right, it’s not just about the money. If it were, I’d get a job. I love the con. It’s such a buzz pulling the wool over people’s eyes. And anyway, don’t think they don’t get something out of it – the smug bastards feel the warm glow of self-satisfaction at knowing they’ve helped someone. Admit it, you felt good being so selfless.’

  It’s true – but it’s not the whole truth. I’m not going to tell her the factually correct but highly embarrassing other stuff, though; the mushy crap about how the care people gave to me when they thought I had cancer made me feel loved and wanted. Why expose my soft underbelly to her, so she can kick it?

  Alex shakes her head. ‘So you chose me because I was easy. A born victim. Okay… Why did you send me a photograph of Joanne? You’d never have been linked to her—’

  ‘Well, having a missing person really does help back up my claims of an abusive boyfriend who is stalking me. Even better when her bones were found. I mean, what’s scarier than some psycho, who is clearly capable of murder, being after your friend, Alex? That story is definitely going to make you part with your money if nothing else does. Worked, too, didn’t it?’

  Boasting is idiotic of me. I clench my fists tighter. Maybe I shouldn’t have used Joanne’s snap, but it had made sense at the time. I shouldn’t have sent that old photo of Simon, taken in happier times, either; that was sloppy of me. I’d thought it would look like ‘Andy’ was threatening to hurt him in order to get to me. If I’d realised my ex-boyfriend had left town, I would never have done it. I ballsed up by wearing that expensive perfume in front of Jackie, too. Hadn’t realised her sis
ter worked behind the perfume counter of a department store. I’d assumed no one would recognise my treat to myself; stupid, when I’m always so careful that my clothes are cheap. Especially stupid when Jackie had been asking questions of me even before then. In fact, she’d been the reason I’d decided the time was ripe to close my trap on Alex – that and the fact that I was getting too comfortable there.

  There had been problems, admittedly, but some things had gone like a dream. Of those I was proud, from slipping a sleeping pill into Alex’s Appletiser to prevent her waking when I smashed my own windscreen, to freaking her out that time I followed her in the fog.

  A smirk slides onto my lips, only to slink away when faced with the prison walls surrounding me.

  I can’t help wondering at what point Alex realised everything was a sham. Was it that text from ‘Andy’ that I showed her, using my emergency second phone, that gave the game away? Or when she’d described some bloke she kept bumping into and I pretended that it sounded like Andy? Turned out it was Leon, that fool I’d persuaded into taking a photograph of Alex and me.

  Opposite me, Alex shifts, sighs, frowns into our silence.

  ‘It might not seem like it, but I do still care about you,’ she says. ‘I just… through all of this, I’ve never really understood why you did it. You’re intelligent, charming, beautiful, you could be anything you wanted to be. I know I put you in here, but if you wanted me to be, I could be waiting for you out there when you come out. I could help you get over your bulimia – I’m right, you’re bulimic, aren’t you?’