The Perfect Friend: A gripping psychological thriller

by Barbara Copperthwaite

  I look around but can’t spot him. It’s slower going walking on the sand, but I wander over to one of the teachers I vaguely recognise as someone I’ve said hello to before. He recognises me, too. We nod greetings, and I have to sweep those stray hairs from across my face as I talk, turning to face the wind.

  ‘Is Simon about?’

  ‘Nah, he hasn’t been here for months. Thought you might be bringing news of him, actually.’

  ‘News? What do you mean?’

  He stares out at the white-topped waves roaring in. ‘He just upped and left, must be about six months ago now.’ Cocks his head, thinking. ‘Yeah, must have been end of April, start of May, ’cos I went on holiday a couple of weeks after. No one’s heard of him since. He didn’t even serve notice – it was a right hassle having to get someone at short notice to fill in for him.’

  I’d finished with him at the end of April, and he’d dumped Carrie at the same time. He must have upped sticks straight after realising he and I were never going to be a proper couple. I wonder where he went, though, knowing how much he’d loved his home town and his teaching job?

  I feel a bit guilty. Perhaps I’d been too harsh on him. He’d been left under no illusion about our future, during our confrontation.

  ‘You’re like one of those sleazy love rats you read about in magazines. If you’d sleep around when someone’s at their absolute lowest, fighting against breast cancer, how the hell could anyone ever trust you? You’re not the person I thought you were, Simon. You disgust me,’ I’d shouted.

  Of course, he’d come out with excuses and platitudes. Told me he’d never loved anyone the way he loved me. Nothing could justify what he’d done, though. He’d led a naive young woman to think the two of them had a future together – only to abandon her when the going got tough. And he hadn’t even let me know what he was doing. He’d led me up the garden path the whole time, telling me he was single. Every time I thought of it I felt angry, skin crawling at my part in hurting Carrie.

  Now, like the coward he’d proved himself to be, Simon had run off with his tail between his legs. I really needed to talk to him, though.

  ‘Didn’t he leave a forwarding address for his wages?’

  ‘No, he took them when he left.’

  ‘What about friends? He must have been in touch with somebody.’

  The surfer pushed his sunglasses back over his hair, so that his eyes, though squinting in the bright light, met mine full on. ‘Alex, pet, I was his best pal. We’ve been inseparable since primary school, and I’ve not heard from him. Oh, I know what he did, to you, to Carrie, so I get why he’s done his disappearing act, but I’m still pretty damn raging with him. He’s never been the most reliable type, doesn’t deal well with pressure, but even I’m surprised by this. He hasn’t contacted anyone here since leaving.’

  Simon was upset, but it’s hard to believe he’d leave the job he adored and completely cut everyone off. Confused, I say thanks and turn away. There are two of me as I walk across the wet sand, one real, one a reflection. Neither of us can get our head around what we’ve heard.

  A headache is starting. The pounding in my head is in time with the rhythm of the waves, and no matter how far I walk I can’t leave it behind. There are things going on that I can’t comprehend, and the more I discover, the less things make sense. While I am left stumbling in the dark, feeling for clues, the watcher knows everything.

  * * *

  For the rest of the day I’ve got fittings, people nipping in to collect their finished dresses and meetings with potential customers to discuss design possibilities, prices and so on. Saturdays are always my busiest day, as most people are only available at weekends or evenings after work.

  My mind’s only half on the task at hand as I gather tear sheets from magazines and sketch out preliminary drawings to show possible clients what can be done with their ideas.

  ‘I’ve got too many thoughts whizzing round my head, I don’t know how to choose,’ says a woman searching for the ultimate bridesmaid dresses, which could be green, blue, cream, yellow or soft purple, depending on which breath she’s taking. She’s brought armfuls of magazines. I nod my understanding, say soothing words that come automatically after years of dealing with stressed-out brides. Soon, she’s less skittish. By the end of the session, she’s opted for my suggestion of including all of those colours by layering chiffon and letting each one peep through in turn. ‘They’re the colours of the sea,’ I explain. ‘So the chiffon fabric will float like ocean spray hitting sunshine. We’ll give it a handkerchief hemline to really accentuate that.’

  She adores the design, and it decides the theme of the whole wedding. ‘We can have seashells on the tables. Somewhere in one of these articles is a gorgeous driftwood centrepiece on the head table. There, look!’

  ‘That’s lovely,’ I smile, glad I’ve helped.

  She’s the last customer of the day, but when Carrie sends me a text, I pretend I’ve got a couple more to come. I need some time alone.

  There’s no trace of Carrie’s parents in Plymouth or Derbyshire, but I remember her mention of Cromer. I’ve no idea why she’d lie about where they are, but between the messages and this little mystery, it’s worth checking out.

  Once again I type in their names, and this time add Cromer. There’s a list of results, but none is an exact match. I’m desperate enough to look anyway, clicking on one after another.

  A sportsman who shares the same name as her father; a founder and CEO of a business; a woman who’s lost her dog and been reunited with it. I click on them, skim-read, close the page, growing more frustrated and bored with each link. Next is an old local newspaper report on a retiring head teacher with the same name as Carrie’s mum. I read it in desperation, even though I know her mum is a solicitor. No clues, no family resemblance. I’m about to leave it when something catches my eye on the sidebar, where other news stories are listed.

  There’s a photograph of a woman who looks familiar.

  Could it be?

  The tablet is inches from my nose as I pore over the tiny photograph. The angle is different, but that shy smile, the white-blonde hair with a blunt fringe, the sharp chin and heart-shaped face, everything looks familiar.

  It’s the mystery woman whose photograph Carrie had been sent.

  FEARS GROW FOR MISSING WOMAN, reads the headline.

  Twenty-Seven

  I open up the story for a better look. The headline leers large at me across the width of my screen. Looking at the much bigger image makes me more convinced it is the same woman, but I need to fetch the photograph to be certain. I stand – and swear as the realisation hits.

  All that’s left of the picture is ashes sticking to my kitchen sink’s stainless-steel plughole.

  Great idea burning it, Alex, you complete tool.

  Sitting down again, I try to compose myself before skimming the report that’s dated eighteen months ago.

  Fears are tonight growing for a missing 31-year-old woman who has been described as ‘high risk’ by police after she was last seen 72 hours ago.

  Norfolk Police are urgently appealing for information to help locate Joanne Freeman, 31, who was last seen in Cromer town centre on Saturday afternoon.

  Mrs Freeman is described as white, of slim build, with shoulder-length blonde hair that she usually wears tied up.

  She was last seen wearing a red jumper with a silver bomber jacket, dark leggings with a red pattern and black loafer shoes with silver buckles. She usually carries a handbag.

  From the initial police enquiries, the missing persons investigation was treated as medium-risk as it was not unusual for Mrs Freeman to stay away with friends and there were no apparent concerns for her safety. But police have now reclassified the case as high-risk 72 hours later after there has been no contact from Mrs Freeman and no sign of her. This includes her presence on social media and bank account activity. She does have a mobile phone, but she does not have a charger with her. It is also b
elieved she had very little or no cash on her when she went missing.

  Her husband, Heston, 34, is said to be ‘distraught’. No statement has been given by the family yet, but it is understood that it is the second tragedy to befall the Freemans. Their daughter, Alice, 10, lost her battle with leukaemia seven months ago. It is feared Mrs Freeman’s disappearance may be connected to the loss of her daughter.

  ‘Understandably, Joanne was in a state after losing little Alice. She was a devoted mother, and Alice’s death changed her from someone who was happy and chatty to utterly lost. We’re all fearing the worst,’ says a family friend who wishes to remain anonymous.

  Police are urging people to come forward as a matter of urgency with any information that could help locate Mrs Freeman, including possible sightings over the past few days. They are particularly keen to speak with her friend, Natalie Sheringham, who is believed to be the last person with Mrs Freeman, and who also hasn’t been seen since Saturday afternoon.

  If you can help the missing persons investigation, please call Norfolk Police.

  * * *

  At the bottom of the report is a photograph of Natalie Sheringham with Joanne Freeman. They’re both grinning at the camera, faces side by side in the selfie. In this picture I’m even more convinced I recognise Joanne, because her face is slightly turned to a similar angle to the one I’m used to seeing. Those lines and curves I spent so long studying slot into place now, and even though I don’t have an image to make a direct comparison with, the one blazing in my mind is identical.

  It’s not Joanne I’m staring at, though. It’s the other woman.

  The hair is long and black, the face so chubby that the features are distorted slightly from those I’ve become familiar with. That might be enough to fool some people, but not me; I’m good with visuals, thanks to my work.

  It’s Carrie. There’s no doubt in my mind.

  I sit back, staring blankly ahead. Carrie is wanted in connection with a missing person. Carrie isn’t Carrie at all, in fact, I remind myself, she’s – I check the report again – Natalie Sheringham. That would certainly explain why I can’t find her parents; but instead of solving a problem, all I’ve done is uncover a deeper mystery.

  Who the hell is Natalie Sheringham? And why is she hiding in Tynemouth, using a fake name, when her friend has gone missing?

  My new best friend, Google, steps in. I type in Natalie’s name. Nothing besides that local newspaper article comes up for Cromer. Time to forget local and go nationwide instead.

  After spending most of the night trawling through results, I can’t find anyone of that name who is the right age on any of the council registers, Facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter, you name it.

  Next, I do the same with Carrie Goodwin, looking across the whole of the UK. Nothing.

  With each keystroke made a fear grows in my heart. Carrie Goodwin doesn’t exist. Natalie Sheringham doesn’t exist.

  ‘Who the hell is my best friend?’ I whisper. As always in times of trouble, I talk aloud, finding it helps me. This is when I usually imagine the twins. Elise pacing up and down, angry at someone making a fool of her mother. Edward is the peacemaker, though.

  ‘There’s got to be a reasonable explanation. Perhaps you’re mistaken about this woman’s face – after all, you’re only remembering her, you don’t have the photograph to compare with any more.’

  ‘But what about Carrie? There’s no mistaking her.’

  I pull the tablet over again and stare at the image I’ve bookmarked. Doubt and conviction ebb and flow, creating a whirlpool of confusion.

  Maybe I am mistaken. This Natalie is wearing all black, and the jacket is formal, structured, with shoulder pads, not at all like the multicoloured, flowing clothes my friend favours. No fashion Prozac here. She’s also wearing heavy make-up to sculpt cheekbones and nose, like the Kardashians, but even with that it’s not enough to show Carrie’s distinctive cheekbones – if it is Carrie. Instead, her bone structure is hidden under a thick layer of fat, and her jawline has little jowls that melt into a double chin.

  Natalie’s eyeshadow and dark kohl liner is glamorous, her eyebrows are thick and high-arched and her lipstick is a deep berry red. Carrie only wears minimal make-up, and then only infrequently.

  I squint, lean closer. Despite all that, I’d swear it’s my friend. I’ve spent most of my spare time with her for the last six months. It’s her. I know it.

  So what next? Confront her with the truth? There isn’t actually any proof of anything. If only I’d been able to speak with Simon, he might have shed some light on Carrie’s past. But Simon has gone. Disappeared. Hasn’t been seen since I finished with him. Since Carrie discovered he was cheating on her.

  I go cold. That’s two people who’ve disappeared, both connected with this woman.

  The woman I know as Carrie has a hell of a lot of secrets she’s hiding – and suddenly I’m no longer afraid for her. I’m afraid of her.

  Twenty-Eight

  There’s a panic rising in me. I tell myself to calm down, but I’m shaking. There’s no one I can turn to and share these fears with, and for the rest of the evening no amount of distraction seems to work. My food sits untouched on the plate until the salad leaves have gone limp, the dressing looks congealed, the chicken dried to unappetising jerky. It gets pushed into the grateful jaws of the bin, which swallows it up.

  Most of the night is spent tossing and turning. I could swear I hear the handle of the front door moving, being tested. Everything’s fine, still locked when I check, but it takes a while for my heart to return to normal pace. When fatigue finally pulls me under, weird dreams plague me.

  By Sunday exhaustion and lack of food has me gripped so tightly that I feel wired rather than ready to drop. It’s like the bad old days of my anorexia, but try as I might, I can’t force down so much as a bowl of cereal. Once more, the bin gets fed the soggy leftovers, and after I’ve washed up I start to pace back and forth, thinking, thinking, thinking. There’s no making sense of the maelstrom of information. Nothing fits together, and I feel like I’m trying to solve a Rubik’s Cube with jigsaw pieces.

  There has to be a solution, though. Time ticks by. My phone beeps with messages I ignore. Adrenaline rushes through my veins, making me jangle.

  Come on, come on. Think. I keep walking, as if on a treadmill that will drive my brain.

  Then I stop. Slap my forehead. Of course! There’s one last option for finding Carrie’s parents that I haven’t tried yet.

  I grab my phone ready to dial, but common sense screams at me to stop. If I’m going to do this, I need to at least try to be a little clever about it, rather than simply blundering ahead like a bull in a china shop. So I tap settings, choose phone, scroll down to ‘show my caller id’, click on it and toggle it to off. Now my number won’t show up for the call I’m about to make.

  Crossing my fingers that someone will answer despite it being the weekend, I tap out the number memorised from Carrie’s phone…

  It rings and rings, then finally clicks on to answerphone. Damn, I’ll have to wait until tomorrow.

  The rest of the day and night is spent in a déjà vu of repetition. Pacing, worrying, trying and failing to sleep, ignoring the growl of my stomach.

  Day dawns, but it’s still too early to try dialling again. Finally, at 8 a.m., I give in to the urge.

  ‘Sparkles Cleaning.’

  ‘Oh, hi, it’s Carrie here.’

  ‘All right? You sound a bit funny.’

  ‘I’m getting a cold. The joy of a poor immune system. Anyway, I won’t chat for long, or I might lose my voice, I just wanted to check something with you.’

  ‘Okay. You’re not on shift again until Wednesday morning, if that’s what you wanted to know.’

  ‘No, it’s, well, I suddenly had a panic just now that I’ve not put down the right details for my parents, you know, on the emergency contact form.’

  It’s a gamble, but most workplaces these days seem to ask fo
r someone to inform in case of accidents and the like. I’ve got my fingers crossed Carrie’s workplace is the same.

  ‘I’ve been getting a bit muddled lately because of the cancer, and I’m worried I’ve given you their old address and phone number, not their new one,’ I add.

  My eyes screw up, trying to hide myself from that terrible lie. Using Carrie’s cancer as an excuse is pretty damn low, if she’s innocent. If. The need to find out about her family has gone way beyond wanting to simply help her, though.

  ‘Hang on a sec, let me have a look.’ A sigh. The sound of a drawer opening and closing. Some rustling. ‘You still there? Yeah, the name we’ve got is Alex Appleby.’

  My own number is reeled back at me.

  I am Carrie’s ‘In Case of Emergency’, and not the parents she claims to be so close to. I’ve hit another dead end.

  The paranoid conviction grows that something is going on with this person, this Carrie or Natalie or whatever her name is.

  I open up the saved tab on my tablet and look again at the news story. That Joanne is definitely the same woman whose photograph was sent to Carrie. I’d stake my life on it. What had been written on the back? The words come as soon as they are summoned because I’ve read them so often they are ingrained: Losing patience. Give me what I want, or me telling everyone what you’ve done will be the least of your worries.

  Realisation unfolds to reveal the meaning. The person behind the messages is threatening to expose Carrie – or whatever her name is – for whatever she’s done to Joanne. ‘Give me what I want’ must be a blackmail demand. If she doesn’t do as she’s told, the police will be informed of Carrie’s real identity, I assume. Everyone discovering her shady secret will be the least of her worries, because if she’s involved in Joanne’s disappearance she’ll spend what little is left of her life in prison. She’ll be dead before a trial can happen.