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

by Isabel Ashdown

  ‘Can you remember the last thing she said to you before you went your separate ways?’

  Martha closes her eyes for a moment. ‘Yes. From the moment we left the Waterside I’d been nagging her to tell me what she and Liv were arguing about, but she wouldn’t budge. I’d been feeling left out for a while, and I guess I was annoyed that she was keeping secrets from me. “I thought we were best friends,” I told her, “but you spend more time with David bloody Crown than you do with me these days.”’ Martha stops talking for a moment, shocked by the sudden and lucid outpouring, trying to think what would have made her say such a thing. There’s just a blank space where that knowledge should live.

  Toby tells her to go on. Sally and Jay keep their distance, clearly reading the situation sensitively and awaiting their instructions.

  ‘I remember how guilty she looked when I said that, but it wasn’t like I thought she and he had a thing going – it was more like I was jealous that she’d rather spend all her time volunteering than spend it with me. I don’t know, Toby, I might be getting this all wrong.’ She focuses in on the memory. ‘After that we walked in silence for a while – until I said I had to go back to the café for my bag. She said, “It’s really not a big deal, Mart, but come to mine tomorrow afternoon and I’ll tell you everything.” She said she was sorry for being a crap friend, and then she hugged me and that was it.’

  Martha takes a deep breath and meets Toby’s eyes. ‘I hadn’t forgotten my bag,’ she says in a hushed whisper, not wanting Sally and Jay to hear. ‘I think I must have just wanted to punish her, for leaving me out. I just wanted to show her I was angry, to make her tell me the truth.’

  How could anyone think that Martha wasn’t to blame, at least in some small way?

  9. Casey

  Dear Martha

  Re: Initial Questions

  I’ve had a chance to go through your email now I’m back in the country. I don’t know how much use I’ll be as it was all such a long time ago. But I will do my very best!

  In your notes, you mentioned that my police statement said I’d last seen Juliet in the Waterside Café before you two left for the night. Yes, I think we did have a little falling out, but it was such a small thing, I can’t imagine what it was about. That’s probably why it didn’t come up in my statement. It was really nothing, I’m certain.

  Juliet’s brother Tom – to be honest I can’t remember much about him that night. You say he was very drunk? Do you think he had something to do with it? I’ve been thinking, if it was a Friday night in the Christmas holidays, everywhere in London would have been busy, and strangers – visitors, tourists and so on – would certainly have been passing through. I’ve always thought that it might have just been a chance meeting with a stranger on the towpath.

  And of course I remember David Crown – I thought he was a really nice man. He did all that charity work, didn’t he? I think he ran the marathon too one year, for the Samaritans. I know he went missing around the same time as Juliet, but I can’t believe he was responsible. Do you have any other suspects?

  I hope this email contains something useful, and please do not hesitate to contact me again.

  Best wishes, Liv x

  I pored over my reply to Martha for hours this morning, wanting to get it exactly right. She’d sent me a list of questions about Juliet and the time of her disappearance, so particular that they required some further research. I’d come across an article about David Crown running the marathon, in some local-interest website, so I dropped that in for good measure, and I said I didn’t think he could have done it, because having been through the cuttings from that period I think it’s the conclusion that anyone with half a brain would come to! She’ll thank me, I’m sure. It’s narrow-minded to focus on one suspect alone. I would think Martha knows that very well herself.

  Some of her questions were easy to answer. For instance, I know the Waterside Café because I went there once or twice with my parents in my early teens, for Sunday morning coffee. I wonder if it’s still there? From memory, it was quite a relaxed place during the day, but in the evenings it was a favourite haunt for East London’s trendies – with a reputation for serving underage drinkers. Thanks to my excellent Pinterest board, which has now grown to quite an impressive size, I was also able to draw on information about Juliet’s disappearance that I had gleaned from the newspapers at the time. But in other areas I was utterly flummoxed. Tom, for example! I had had no idea that Juliet had a brother, or, if I did, it certainly hadn’t registered. It made me realise I need to dig a bit further, to fill out the details of their wider family. It would be terrible to get caught out on a simple detail like that. The devil is in the detail, as they say!

  When it came to my thoughts on a suspect, well, I was quite torn. What was I meant to say? It seems rather unfair to make alternative suggestions, but my reply had to feel authentic. I couldn’t risk Martha doubting me in any way. As I worked on this email, dipping in and out of my research, adding to the story, building up a picture of myself as Liv, I knew I hadn’t felt so fulfilled in a long, long time. My greatest fear at this point is that if Martha does successfully find Juliet’s killer – for everyone surely now believes that she is dead – our correspondence will come to an abrupt end. And I’m not sure I could bear for that to happen.

  So I threw a few other ideas into the pot. I dropped in the thought that Juliet’s brother Tom could be a suspect (this was genius, as Martha had suggested no such thing!). I also introduced the theory that it was a stranger, a tourist passing through who had grabbed her from the path. That perhaps David Crown was entirely innocent, a victim himself, if you like. Perfect.

  After what felt like a hundred redrafts, I finally pressed the Send button.

  I think colouring my hair has had a profound effect on me. I feel quite changed, not just when I look in the mirror at the new, younger me, but in my very core too! Who would have thought I could be so creative, so inventive? Certainly not my mother, who believed all fiction was a waste of time! She was Queen of the Glossy Magazine, filling her mind with the vacuous tales of the rich and famous, while I preferred to escape inside imagined worlds, worlds where I could be anything or anyone I wanted to be. My resolve to one day write a novel of my own swells inside me, and I celebrate my good mood by eating a generous slice of Battenberg cake and drinking a milky cup of sweet tea.

  Now I just have to wait for Martha’s reply. I can’t wait to find out what she needs from me next.

  10. Martha

  Finn Palin has turned out to be a mine of information. Last night he phoned through details he had lifted from the original notes of the police visit to David Crown, which confirms that at the time of his disappearance they had been unaware of his earlier indecent assault allegation. After some digging, however, Finn was able to tell Martha where the school was and when the trouble took place, but the one thing he refused to give up was the name of the girl in question, despite her begging. ‘It doesn’t matter how well we know each other, Martha Benn,’ he’d said, his tone stern and admonishing. ‘You’re not getting her name. It wasn’t on our patch, and anyway there was no case to answer. The girl dropped the charge. I don’t want you or one of your team hassling the poor girl.’ Martha knew better than to push it if she wanted his continued support.

  This morning, she and Toby have scheduled a Skype call with Jane Needham, the current head teacher of the Bedfordshire school and a close colleague of David Crown’s in 1986, at the time of the allegation. They agreed to make the call at Martha’s place and now, while Toby unpacks his laptop at the dining table, Martha makes tea at the kitchen island.

  ‘I thought I had a good view from my apartment,’ Toby says, whistling his approval. ‘This place is something else.’

  Martha rarely has visitors, and she bristles with embarrassment at his apparent comment on her wealth. His place is probably paid for by Daddy.

  ‘I wanted somewhere quiet. Almost impossible in London, unless you go upw
ards.’

  Toby takes the cup from her, pulling out another chair so they can sit side by side in front of the screen. ‘I’d never thought of it like that. I always wondered why people were prepared to pay so much for high-rise flats, but, looking out across the city like this, I see it. I could get quite used to a view like that.’ He runs a hand through his hair and straightens his collar, looking every bit the public schoolboy as he prepares for his small-screen appearance. ‘Ready?’

  As the dialling tone echoes into the spacious room, Martha has the gradual sinking feeling that Jane Needham has changed her mind. She’d had no idea just how difficult it was going to be, finding people who were willing to talk about the Juliet case – or David Crown – on record. She’s still waiting for a full response from Liv, and she’s growing increasingly worried about her reliability. She must be back in the country by now, surely? Martha recalls the way in which Liv disappeared inside herself in the weeks after Juliet had gone and she wonders if perhaps she never really came back. Perhaps, unlike Martha with her newly constructed life and wardrobe, with her upscaled accent and weekly manicures, Liv never moved on from it – and her slowness in coming forward is really a front for her pain. Martha wonders about her own easy ability to close it off, to compartmentalise her childhood and the trauma of losing a friend. Maybe there’s something wrong with me, she thinks now, not for the first time.

  Just as she begins to give up on the video call as a lost cause, Jane Needham connects, her face coming into view on the main screen. She has an arty look to her: her earrings are large yellow ovals and her white-blonde hair is piled up in a messy twist, a vibrant scarf around her neck.

  ‘Hello?’ she says. ‘Hello? Sorry – I was having a bit of trouble working out how to do this Skype thing. My son usually sets it up for me when I talk to my sister in – sorry! You’re not here to talk about me and my family, are you!’ She laughs nervously.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Needham,’ Toby says, stepping in to soothe her fluster. He gestures to Martha. ‘I’m Toby and this is Martha Benn. Would you mind if we call you Jane?’

  She smiles, and instantly Martha knows she’ll be a good witness, an honest voice.

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘We’re so grateful to you for talking to us, Jane,’ Toby says, switching the charm up a notch. ‘As I explained on the phone, we’re looking into an unresolved crime that took place in London eighteen years ago, and we’re particularly interested in asking you about one of the key suspects in that case, Mr David Crown.’

  Jane nods, her face easing into a more grave expression. ‘Yes. I knew David quite well.’

  Martha raises a finger. ‘Before we go on, Jane, are you happy for us to record this call? For the programme? We won’t use anything without gaining your consent first, but we thought it might save us time filming you all over again later on.’

  Jane’s hands fly to her cheeks. ‘Oh. Oh, I hadn’t thought about …’ After a moment’s hesitation she laughs lightly. ‘I mean, yes, I’m fine with that.’

  ‘OK, so David Crown,’ Martha continues. ‘He worked at your school between 1983 and 1986?’

  ‘That’s right. It was his second job, I believe, and we were in the same department – history. It was an all-girls’ school back then, not mixed as we are now, which can in some ways raise more difficulties for teachers like David.’

  Martha leans in closer, as though Jane were really just across the table from her. ‘Teachers like David?’

  ‘Well, David was a very good-looking young man. Quite striking. It wasn’t unusual for girls like Vicky Duke to get a crush on a male teacher.’

  Martha can’t believe how easily the name has tripped off Jane Needham’s lips. She jots it down casually, without taking her eyes from the screen.

  ‘Do you think that’s what happened here?’ Toby asks.

  ‘Well, yes, it’s possible. Although in Vicky’s case she had an enormous chip on her shoulder to start with, and from what I understand David had given her a hard time in class only the day before she made her allegation. I think it’s fair to say that Vicky was a bit of a handful. Her parents were separated – she lived with mum and four siblings – and I recall she had a reputation among the teaching staff as a troublemaker. An attention-seeker, you might say. She was constantly in and out of detentions, or wagging off altogether. Anyway, in this case she’d been turning up consistently late, not handing in her homework, giving bad attitude and so on – and on that particular day David had had enough. He told me – straight after that class, actually, because he was cross that he’d let his emotions get the better of him – that he’d told her she wouldn’t amount to anything if she threw away all her hard work for the sake of impressing her friends. When she told him to eff off, he gave her an after-school detention for the following evening. It was then that the “assault” was supposed to have taken place.’

  ‘Were they alone during the detention?’

  ‘No! In a school this size you’ll usually have at least a dozen pupils at after-school detention every night. But she claimed that when he dismissed everyone at the end he asked her to stay behind.’

  Martha feels sick inside. The story sounds so very plausible. If a girl came to her and told her this story, she’d probably believe it, wouldn’t she? She’d believe the girl over the man. ‘What exactly was he accused of?’

  Jane looks down at her notes. ‘I’ve got the ex-head’s statement here, from back in 1986. I can read it out, if you like? It says, “Vicky claims that the moment the classroom was empty Mr Crown told her to take a seat beside his desk, close to him. It was at this point she claims he put his hand up her skirt, inside her knickers (roughly) and told her, ‘That’s all you’re good for,’ before dismissing her to go home”. It doesn’t make for very comfortable reading,’ Jane says with a frown.

  ‘Jesus,’ Toby whispers. ‘If it’s true, he sounds like a dangerous man.’

  ‘But that’s exactly it, you see,’ Jane says, her gesticulating hands causing the screen to momentarily blur. ‘He was the sweetest man. We’d never before had any kind of complaint – quite the opposite. Everyone liked him: pupils, staff and parents alike. I know the head at the time was delighted with him – even then, male teacher numbers were starting to reduce, and she was glad to have a bright young man like David on the staff. It was clear some of the girls were smitten by him, but he appeared oblivious to it. He was happily married, and from what I recall he was a first-class teacher. I think you’re going to find it difficult to find anyone who’ll say David Crown was anything other than a very nice man.’

  And he was a very nice man, wasn’t he? Martha’s memories of him are of someone at ease around others – whatever their age – a person who others were drawn to and confided in. Was that who he really was – a good, kind altruist, happy to help others in need? Or did this trustworthy demeanour, more obviously, it seems now, give him all the necessary tools he needed to be a dangerous manipulator?

  ‘But the case never went as far as the police, did it, Jane?’ Martha asks. ‘Vicky dropped the charge?’

  ‘That’s right. I’m not sure of the exact circumstances, but yes, she dropped it. There’s a handwritten note at the bottom of the head’s statement, saying Vicky retracted her allegation without reservation. That was just a few days after she’d made the original claim.’

  After their Skype interview with Jane Needham, Martha sees Toby to the door before picking up her mobile phone, intending to phone Finn Palin for a further conversation about David Crown. Standing at her windows, she looks out across the city, desperately trying to somehow connect the details of her recent conversations and discoveries, to find something – anything – that points them in a positive direction. She is suddenly overcome with exhaustion at the sheer scale of it, and for the first time she actually wonders if they’ll ever come close to a breakthrough. It’s only a matter of time before the television network starts to put pressure on them for some kind of an update, and really,
how much further on are they?

  Before he left, Toby had asked Martha if she’d ever seen anything to suggest Juliet and David were an item, and she’d said no. She has the sudden urge to take another look at that Square Wheels photograph, and she spreads her papers out across the dining table, locating it, taking it to the window to scrutinise it closer. There’s something there: Juliet, dressed just as she is in this picture, her hair loose, the white volunteer’s tabard stark against the dark shade of her coat. A small moment presents itself to Martha, growing in clarity and strength the closer she zooms in on it.

  After Martha had stopped volunteering for Square Meals in the summer of 1999, Juliet had continued, and in fact so had Liv for a while. Liv did give up eventually, before Juliet went missing, but it was only a matter of a week or two earlier, rather than the months that Martha had originally misremembered. Liv’s family needed her around more and more, what with all the younger ones needing watching while her mum was on night shifts, and so by early December Juliet was the last of the three still working there. She was unshakeably dedicated to her work at Square Wheels, despite the lack of pay, often forgoing weekend nights out in favour of a two-hour shift with David Crown and her fellow volunteers. Why had Martha given up so much earlier than the others? They did everything together, so it made no sense. She makes a mental note to ask Liv in her next email.

  On this particular night in mid-December, Martha had cycled to Juliet’s just after nine – she recalls hearing the title music for the evening news as she left, playing out in the living room above the post-pub snoring of her father in his armchair – only to find Juliet not home.

  ‘She’s doing Square Wheels tonight,’ Mr Sherman told her, standing in the open doorway, checking his watch. ‘She was on the early slot, so I think she should be finishing up about now. Why don’t you go and meet her?’ he suggested, adding that she was very welcome to stay the night if she wanted.