‘Damaged how?’
‘She seems strange, certainly not someone who would easily inhabit the world. She’s childlike, but also kind of old-fashioned. There’s something really off-kilter about her. I wonder if she’s ever done anything like this before?’
‘You mean a history of violence?’ Toby asks.
Several thoughts collide in Martha’s mind: the quiet girl in the Square Wheels hut, silently watching but rarely interacting; the strange creature in Liv’s house, all this time pretending to be Liv, acting out Liv’s life through emails. The wonky cut of her hair, jagged and asymmetrical, as though she’s cut it herself. David Crown with his arms around Juliet, comforting her when no one else was there to see. Mrs Crown in her lonely house, weakened by cancer, devoted to her absent husband, yet denying her living daughter. What happened between them? Would Katherine Crown have known Juliet back then? She must have done, if only in passing. Might she have wished her harm?
‘OK, Toby. Two priorities. One, we need to track down the real Liv and see if she can tell us anything about Juliet’s last movements on that night. Maybe she remembers Katherine – maybe she even knew she was David’s daughter? Why don’t you see if Finn can get his Met chap on to it? I expect the estate agent who sold Liv’s house in Stack Street might be able to help, if it’s the police who are asking. While you’re at it, tell him to check out whether that hair could actually belong to Katherine.’
Toby frowns, but jots it down in his notebook all the same.
‘And two, we need to get ourselves back around to Janet Crown’s house, to find out what she can tell us about her daughter. There has to be some reason she didn’t mention her before. I’m wondering if they’ve had some kind of disagreement. And I’m wondering if that disagreement has anything to do with Juliet Sherman and David Crown.’
Her phone rings.
‘Martha? How’s that head of yours?’ Finn’s voice is instantly recognisable.
‘I’m fine, Finn. You know me: it’ll take more than a knock over the head to put me out of action.’
‘Glad to hear it, love. Are you and Toby up to meeting me at the Anchor in a couple of hours? Quite a lot to update you on.’
Martha gives Toby a nudge and presses the speaker on her phone. ‘Like what, Finn?’
‘Well, for starters, our missing girl Charlotte has turned up.’
26. Katherine
I was up before dawn, my head full of meandering fears, my most pressing thought being that I needed to put things right somehow, to make amends to Martha for all the trouble I’ve caused. With my hat pulled low I left the houseboat and headed into the high street, to hide out in this tatty café with free Wi-Fi access and set to work. I have everything I need to work this all through, to sort things out.
The main problems, as I see it, are these. Firstly, I have hurt Martha, something I had never, ever wanted to do. Secondly, I have misled her and potentially damaged her investigation. These are two things that I want to put right, and this can only be done face to face. Thirdly, I have drawn unwanted attention to myself, and as yet I’m at a loss as to how to remedy the whole awful situation. I know this last thing because I tried to return home late yesterday afternoon, only to find the place swarming with police officers and cars with flashing lights. I don’t know if I intended to go back in or simply to see what was going on. Perhaps I wanted to see if I’d really killed Martha, because it was all I could think of from the moment I fled and I knew I’d never get a wink of sleep if I didn’t put my mind to rest on the matter. When I got there it was already dark, and there were lots of passers-by walking along the diverted footpath trying to get a better look. I joined them, trying to saunter past as casually as possible, without drawing attention, slowing my pace as I passed by an officer leaning against the side of his police car talking into his phone. He was telling them to put out a ‘Wanted’ communication across the networks! I slowed to the point of almost stopping, and indeed he even turned to glare at me and cock a thumb to indicate I should move on.
‘We’re looking for a thirty-five-year-old white female,’ I heard him say as I made to move away, dallying in the shadows of my fellow pedestrians, safe from his view. ‘Going by the name of Katherine or Casey Crown. Yep. Serious assault – paramedics say the victim will be fine, but could’ve been a different story if she’d not been found. Uh-huh. Run it past the press team, will you? If we can find a recent photograph, I’d like to get it out in the evening news.’
Ha! Good luck with that, I thought, for if there’s one thing I do know, it’s that there are no photographs of me any later than 2001. Not one! I have a morbid fear of cameras, or at least of cameras being pointed my way. So there, PC Plod!
Here in the café I have my laptop open on the table in front of me, with the Juliet Pinterest board up on the screen to refresh my memory with all the facts of the case. I’m hoping it might help me to decide on my next steps. Remarkably, it does! In a flash of inspiration I congratulate myself on my forward-thinking in obtaining the real Olivia Heathcote’s email address yesterday morning. Of course, it hadn’t been difficult. I’d phoned Marcia, the estate agent who had dealt with the house sale, and asked her if she knew whether Olivia was still practising out of London. ‘I have a friend who is interested in her services,’ I lied. Without hesitation she told me that no, she believed Olivia Heathcote had moved to Guildford to work for a new practice there. Easy! It took no time at all to find her new place of work, and there on their company website was a public email address. After creating a brand new ‘Martha Benn’ email address to send from, I tap out a message, easily mimicking Martha’s style from the many she had sent to me over the past couple of weeks – opening with the copied first passage from her original letter, making vital changes in the second half:
Dear Liv,
If this email finds its way to you, I know it will come as a surprise that I’m getting in touch after all this time. I can only say I’m sorry to have left it so long. It’s hard to believe that eighteen years has passed, and yet it has. But let me get to the point.
Perhaps you’ve seen me on TV in recent years? I’m not saying this to brag, but because my latest project is a new show that investigates ‘cold cases’ – historic police investigations that have either been closed down or forgotten about, but where we believe there’s a chance to solve them with fresh evidence or modern forensics. I hope you won’t think it gratuitous; after what happened with Juliet – well, I suppose it’s made me want to delve deeper into these unsolved crimes, to try to make a difference. The show is called Out of the Cold, and we’ve just begun work on our very first programme – and this is my reason for making contact. We’re investigating Juliet’s disappearance.
According to the police, you are a ‘person of interest’ to them. Yes, I know this will be a shock to you – to me too! But I have some evidence that will change their minds immediately, if you are able to meet me here in London tomorrow at midday. I’m sorry for the short notice, but it’s the only way we’ll be able to prevent the police from following this ridiculous line of enquiry.
I’m out and about for most of the day, so drop me an email to confirm you’ll be there? Let’s say twelve o’clock, on the Regent’s Canal at that bench nearest to the Square Wheels hut. It’s right beside a red and blue houseboat called Dovedale. I’ll take you for a bite of lunch if you have time?
With love, Mart xxx
Once I’ve sent it, I sit in the same spot for half an hour, checking my watch constantly, watching as the minutes tick by. It’s early, not even 9 a.m. Perhaps Liv hasn’t checked her emails yet. Maybe she’s busy with the twins. Butterflies explode inside me when I realise it’s Saturday, and I wonder if it’s possible she doesn’t have access to her work emails at the weekends. I glance towards the man behind the counter, and something in his expression tells me he’s irritated that my bags are obscuring the aisle. Or perhaps he doesn’t like that I’ve been sitting here for so long. It starts to worry m
e, but then, in an instant, I am invisible to him, as an attractive young woman comes in through the front door and raises her hand, causing his eyes to flash brightly, his mouth to crack wide.
Relieved, I turn back to my laptop, and to my astonishment there it is. A reply from the real, actual, genuine Olivia Heathcote. For a moment I think my mind must be playing tricks on me, but no, there it is! There it is!
Dear Mart,
I’m so happy to hear from you, but also now completely unnerved by what you’ve just told me. Of course I will do whatever it takes to meet up with you tomorrow, as I know you wouldn’t ask me lightly. Do you want to give me your mobile phone in case there are any problems? I will meet you at the Regent’s Canal, 12 o’clock, exactly where you said.
Mart, I’m so glad you’re on the case for Juliet. She would have been happy to know it’s you she’s got fighting her corner.
Love you, mate,
Liv
How extraordinary, I think, to say ‘Love you’ to someone you haven’t seen in nearly twenty years. ‘Love you’. Other than to my parents, I’ve never said those words to a soul. Imagine having a friendship so strong that it could stand the test of time, even after everything they’ve been through. Because I know they’ve been through all sorts of things, I know they have their demons. I might not have said a lot in those Square Wheels days, but I had eyes and ears, and I knew more about those girls than they could ever have imagined.
I’ve always been a little spy. That’s what my mother used to call me, when she’d catch me listening in doorways, or twitching at the net curtains as the neighbours passed by. In some ways I found spying more of a diversion than the dramas on television, certainly more rich and unexpected, and more connected to me. I mean, EastEnders bore no resemblance to the world I lived in! Through my silent observations, I knew that Mr and Mrs Jenson along the street never cleared up after their poodles when they pooped on the pavement, except when there were other people about. Then they’d make a big show of picking it up in a plastic bag and placing it in the doggy waste bin at the edge of the park. They were what my mother would call ‘all show and no substance.’ There was the teenage couple who I’d see regularly wandering by hand in hand, their contentment written on easy faces, other times walking side by side, he with his hands thrust deep in his pockets, she stony-faced, arms crossed over her chest. There was Jeanie from two doors down, who many years ago gave up trying to befriend my mother, after popping by once too often when she was in one of her low moods and being turned away by my father on the doorstep. Jeanie has a ginger cat, and she buys most of her groceries from the corner shop, which Mum said must cost her a fortune. Once, when I couldn’t sleep at night, the hunger pains in my stomach keeping me awake, I sat and watched the dark street from my bedroom window and saw a fox sprinting along the pavement, shortly followed by a staggering man so drunk he could barely stay upright. It was like watching a blind man navigate the road home. He stumbled to the ground twice before he disappeared from my line of vision and I wondered what his story was, whether he had family waiting for him, or just an empty house to return to.
Of course, there was plenty to spy on inside our home as well as out. Much whispering behind closed doors, low murmurs and suppressed gulps of despair beyond the single wall that separated my bedroom from that of my parents. ‘Perhaps we should have had another child,’ I heard her say late one night when I was nine or ten. ‘We still could,’ he’d replied, and I believed he really meant it. ‘But I’m no mother,’ she’d cried in response. ‘Look at me, David, look at me!’ At the time, my mind had been galloping so wildly that I’d struggled to keep up with the conversation. ‘You’re a wonderful mother,’ he’d reassured her, but I can’t say I recall hearing her reply. I was so consumed by the idea of a second child – a longed-for brother and sister – that I lost the rest of it in the noise of my own thoughts. From there on in, I was on the lookout for signs that my mother might be expecting, listening out for news of my much-anticipated younger sibling. But, of course, it never came, and I’ve no idea whether they were actually trying, or whether it was even something either of them really wanted. Perhaps it’s just one of those things couples say to each other when they’re sad, when they’re searching for an explanation for why their lives haven’t turned out as they’d once hoped. Years later, in a spiteful fit of anger, I asked Mum if that was the reason he had left us: because she’d not been able to give him another child. I suppose that was the beginning of the end for her and me. That and the thing I saw down on the towpath; the things I saw down on the towpath.
After setting up yet another fake email account for what I hope Martha will believe is the ‘real’ Liv, I send a corresponding email from ‘Liv’ to Martha, telling her that she’s just heard from the police about what’s been going on with ‘that woman pretending to be me’. As Liv, I suggest the same meeting place, the same time, and tell Martha that I have some vital evidence regarding Juliet’s disappearance that I need to hand over to her. My words are rushed, as the man behind the counter is getting impatient with me still sitting in the café now the place is suddenly buzzing with people wanting to sit down. I want to stay and wait for Martha’s answer to come back to me, but that horrible man keeps glaring at me and reaching over my laptop to take the ketchup for another table, and now two strange men have taken the seats opposite me without even having the decency to ask if I mind, and really, I just have to get up and out of the stinky little place as quickly as possible! With trembling hands, I pack up my things and huff out of my seat, walking as fast as my aching feet will take me, back to the quiet safety of Dovedale. It’s only when I lie down on my cabin bed that I realise I could simply have ordered another drink, and then that café owner wouldn’t have minded me staying one bit. Then I might have stayed long enough to read Martha’s reply. Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, why do I always have to ruin everything? I’ve been doing it as long as I can remember and I simply don’t know how to stop.
All I can do is lie here, trying to control my breathing, trying to imagine what I’ll say to Martha and Liv when they get here tomorrow. What if Martha is scared, after our last encounter? What if they try to run away? Well, I resolve, closing my eyes and inhaling deeply, I’ll just have to make sure that doesn’t happen.
27. Martha
By one o’clock they’re sitting in a quiet corner of the sticky-floored public bar of the Anchor, Finn holding a pint in his hand, Toby and Martha each with a coffee. It’s been fifteen years since Martha was last here, searching for her errant father late one night, and she’s shocked to see that it hasn’t changed a bit. The dark wood bar dominates, still reeking of the age-old stink of tobacco and dregs, and the same maritime knick-knacks hang from the beams, thick with dust and cobwebs. The faces behind the bar are different, but she could swear the drinkers – or at least the types of drinkers – are not.
Martha fills Finn in on her most recent news: that Olivia Heathcote has been in touch. The email was there in her inbox when she woke this morning. ‘Looks like your guys managed to track Liv down quite quickly,’ she says. ‘She seems to know all about Katherine impersonating her, so I’m guessing they’ve filled her in on the connection with the Juliet case, because she’s arranged to meet me at midday tomorrow, down at the canal where Juliet’s bike was found.’
‘Should we send Jay and Sally down?’ Toby asks. ‘To film your meeting?’
Martha thinks for a moment. ‘Ye-es, but give us half an hour to ourselves first? It’s been a long time since Liv and I last saw each other, and she said she’s got some evidence she wants to share. And it’ll give me a chance to ask her if she minds appearing on film.’ Martha feels a lurch of anxiety. What if Liv doesn’t want any part of the TV show; what if she ends up resenting Martha for getting her involved? Martha had replied to Liv’s email straight away, but she hasn’t heard back in the couple of hours since, and she’s got no other way of contacting her to check if she’s OK with the camera crew being on
hand. She’ll just have to wing it. ‘Actually, Toby, make it an hour, OK?’
Toby taps into his mobile phone, making arrangements with Jay and Sally for the following day. ‘What’s the name of the houseboat again – where you’re meeting Liv?’
‘Dovedale,’ Martha replies. ‘The blue and red one near the exit path where we filmed last time. They’ll know where I mean. Tell them one p.m.’ She turns to Finn, anxious to hear what he has to say. ‘I’m afraid we haven’t got much time,’ Martha says, rubbing her hands together to warm them up. It’s true they’re on borrowed time, but more than that she wants to get out of this ghost-pub as quickly as possible. It sets her nerves on edge, makes her feel vulnerable in a way she can’t stand. ‘We’re on our way to Janet Crown’s place next.’
Finn takes a gulp of his pint, nodding and pulling out his small police issue notebook. He may be retired, Martha thinks, but he’s still Met through and through.
Tapping the top of the page with his pen, Finn begins to run through his list. ‘So, as you know, the missing girl has turned up.’
‘So what’s the story?’ asks Toby. ‘That’s great news – but does that mean her disappearance is unconnected?’
Finn sighs, his mouth turning down at the edges. ‘Yup. What her parents didn’t say when they reported her missing was that she’s gone walkabout a few times before. She’s not quite as squeaky-clean as they made out – boyfriends, underage drinking, smoking cannabis, etc. She’d been staying at a boyfriend’s house for the past few days, and that bike they found down by the canal turns out not to be hers at all – she had hers with her all along. And obviously the hair wasn’t hers either, so I think your theory that it was sent by Katherine Crown looks increasingly likely.’
Beautiful Liars_a gripping thriller about friendship, dark secrets and bitter betrayal Page 20