The Perfect Friend: A gripping psychological thriller

by Barbara Copperthwaite

  Aged seventeen, I considered myself an orphan, particularly as I spent quite a lot of time wishing Dad would drop off his perch.

  The funeral ceremony was swift. A few words said by a vicar who clearly didn’t know anything about the woman in question, a mouthed rendition of ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’, chosen despite being so at odds with her life, and her coffin sliding silently away behind discreet curtains.

  Outside, I gulped down lungfuls of welcome fresh air to blast away the claustrophobia of grief, and saw the bunch of carnations I’d spent the last of my money on tossed on the floor beside blooms from other services. My stomach growled, protesting the waste that would keep it empty tonight. It was the cheapest service I could get, and even then, I’d had to launch a crowdfunding page to afford it. Luckily, plenty of people were moved to dive into their pockets at the word ‘cancer’, so I hadn’t even needed to be creative. Those who had abandoned Mum over the years salved their consciences with donations, which also absolved them of the guilt of not attending the funeral.

  Back at Mum’s, cards lined the mantelpiece and shelves. Many were sending condolences, but there were others, too.

  Keep fighting!

  * * *

  You’re an inspiration.

  * * *

  To the bravest woman I know.

  My lip curled. They were from people who had barely spoken to Mum in years. Where had they been when she was fighting Dad?

  Outside, I heard a scuffling noise. No doubt it was the man himself, coming home drunk. A voice lifted in song. ‘Sweet Caroline’. The hypocritical, pickled old bastard was singing Mum’s namesake. Moving swiftly to the front door, I shot the bolt across, then did the same at the back door. After forty-five minutes of hammering and yelling, he fell asleep on the doorstep.

  * * *

  The sun had barely risen when I finally opened the door. The ammonia tang of urine stabbed my senses. Eyes watering, I stepped over the prone form of my dad and the puddle he lay in and didn’t look back.

  As I strode down the garden path, I told myself I’d rather die than go back to that house. Kicking a tin off the path, it landed with a soft thud in the overgrown grass. Maybe Dad’s dream would finally come true, and that would be the one to take root and grow into a beer tree.

  No keepsakes from the home I’d grown up in weighed me down. I didn’t want any. My mementoes lurked inside me. Dad’s predilection for lies and cruelty, or Mum’s cancer gene, I couldn’t help wondering what my inheritance was.

  Thirty-Four

  Now

  The sound of the sea always soothes me, even today, against all odds. It’s freezing cold, with glowering clouds billowing across the sky thanks to a strong wind that pushes me from behind, too. I stride along, lost in thought, trying to work out what on earth to do next.

  I didn’t go to the support group last night, didn’t dare to set foot outside in the fog, for fear of who might be waiting for me. The fog still seemed to be swirling in my mind, too, stopping me from seeing properly, obscuring the best path to take to dodge this nightmare. When morning arrived I had to escape outside to try to blow it away, ignoring the voicemail from Carrie.

  ‘Hope you don’t mind me checking up on you, but you don’t seem like yourself lately. I’m worried,’ she’d said. I don’t feel like myself. I might be going mad.

  Jackie’s left a similar one, checking up on me. For now, it’s better to avoid everyone, because I’ve no idea who to trust – including myself.

  A large pile of seaweed has been washed ashore by the huge rollers. The kelp is as wide as my forearm and for a moment I feel claustrophobic, imagining it binding my wrists in prayer, tethering me to the waves. The cathedral of the ocean closing over me until I’m encased for ever in deep blue. I shake my head and walk on, the sense of doom keeping pace.

  If there’s one thing my counselling has taught me, it’s that I can’t always tackle problems on my own. No more telling myself I can solve this mystery single-handed, playing detective when I’m just a seamstress using up all my strength to stay healthy. It’s time to report what’s happening.

  * * *

  The nearest police station is North Shields, so on returning from my walk, I drive to my neighbouring town. The station’s car park is full. I abandon the car on a street in a pleasant-looking residential area that seems at odds with my tingling nerves. As soon as I enter the long, low, two-storey modern building, a man behind reception gives me a friendly nod.

  ‘I’d like to speak to someone about a crime – possible crime – please.’ My clammy hands clasp, unclasp and repeat the movement.

  Ten minutes later, a uniformed officer introduces himself as Constable Gadin. He has a kind face that invites confession, even if he does look young. It gives me confidence to speak once we’re settled in a side room.

  Haltingly, with much backtracking to explain bits I’ve forgotten to mention then realise they’re important, the story comes out.

  ‘So you want to report the anonymous messages and the car being vandalised on behalf of Ms Goodwin?’ he checks.

  ‘No. Well, yes, I suppose so. But it doesn’t just involve her, don’t you see? I’m involved too. I must be. By my reckoning, this person smashed Carrie’s Volkwagen up by mistake when they actually wanted to destroy my car.’

  PC Gadin isn’t reacting to the tumble of words.

  ‘The vandalism was to send me some kind of message. Then there’s the photographs sent to Carrie – they also involve me. It can’t be a coincidence that there is a picture of the two of us, or that the next picture was of Simon—’

  ‘He’s the one you were both dating?’

  ‘Exactly, and now I think him going missing might have something to do with Carrie.’

  How she’s managed to make a grown man disappear is another matter, but the whole point of coming to the police is so that they can find the answers, not me. I’m only glad to be dumping all the problems on someone else. That probably explains my verbal diarrhoea.

  PC Gadin refers to his notes. ‘Right, you mentioned this. And you believe she’s involved in the disappearance of somebody else as well? That she is someone my colleagues in Norfolk are keen to speak to?’

  Again I nod, leaning forward eagerly. ‘That’s right.’

  The officer himself leans back in his chair. Taps his fingers on the table. ‘I’m a bit confused. The messages you mentioned, do you think Carrie Goodwin sent them to you?’

  ‘No, they weren’t sent to me. They were sent to her.’

  ‘Okay. But you think she’s done something wrong. She’s made people disappear.’

  ‘I’m not sure. Possibly.’

  ‘Do you know how?’

  I chew my lip, thinking. Shake my head. My leg starts to jiggle.

  He rubs his temples. ‘You say that the woman in the photograph, is – now where is it… ?’ Another quick reference to his notes so he can quote me, ‘Ah, here it is: “Looks like my friend, but doesn’t”.’

  ‘She’s changed her appearance, you see. She’s lost weight, got a new hairstyle, wears completely different types of clothes. But it has been two years almost since this Joanne went missing, so there’s been plenty of time for those changes.’

  ‘We can definitely look into this for you and contact Norfolk. Do you have the photographs and messages?’

  ‘Ah, well, the thing is, I destroyed them. I panicked. It was stupid of me, but I’m afraid I burnt them.’

  ‘You’re the only person that’s ever seen these messages?’ The doubt in his eyes infuriates me.

  ‘Why does that change anything? I’m telling you, this missing woman and my friend are both being looked for by the police. It really isn’t that hard to comprehend. All you have to do to check out my story is contact Norfolk police. Why don’t you do your job, instead of sitting there looking at me over steepled fingers as though I’m insane? Look at that frown on your face!’

  ‘You need to calm down, ma’am.’

&
nbsp; ‘Don’t call me “ma’am” in passive-aggressive fashion. Just listen to me. I know the story sounds mad and convoluted, and I’m doing an atrocious job of explaining, but somebody has been sending threatening messages to my friend. They involve me, I’m scared, and now I think that my friend is somehow involved in a woman going missing. Someone followed me last night. My life may be in danger. I also strongly believe that Carrie is linked somehow with Simon disappearing. You need to look into this and stop treating me like I’m mad.’

  ‘I am listening to you, ma’am, but you really need to calm down.’

  The officer doesn’t believe me. He’s trying his best to hide it, but he’s placating me, using a soothing voice as though I’m hysterical. If only I hadn’t burnt those photographs; they were the only evidence I had. Instead of calming down, my voice rises in volume.

  ‘You’ve got to believe me. I’m in danger, someone is after me. Carrie Goodwin isn’t who she says she is, that isn’t her name. Her last best friend disappeared – and I’m next!’

  ‘Why do you think you’re in danger?’

  ‘Because someone followed me last night.’

  ‘And you believe it was Ms Goodwin?’

  ‘No! Why would Carrie follow me? She knows where I live.’

  My head is thumping. I push my chair back. Stand up, stumble, holding my head in my hands. The room is spinning like a gyroscope, but I cling to consciousness because PC Gadin has to be made to understand. One last go, shouting over the blood pounding in my ears.

  ‘You’ve got – you’ve got to listen to me. Someone followed me last night. They want to make me disappear like they made Joanne and Simon disappear. I don’t understand how I got involved in this. You’ve got to help me, you’ve got to save me.’

  The room seems to somersault, the floor rising up to meet me. The last thing I hear is a shout of alarm.

  Thirty-Five

  After a brief check over when I came round, the police doctor has given me the all-clear. Once again, I’m in the interview room, but this time with someone else, a Dr Sharma. She’s about 50, but doesn’t have a single grey hair in her glossy black bob. She doesn’t sit on the opposite side of the table, instead she perches beside me, her chair turned to the side so that it’s facing me. It’s so she seems friendlier. She clearly doesn’t want to scare me and make me freak out again.

  ‘Alex, do you understand that you’re being temporarily detained for your own welfare under Section 136 of the Mental Health Act? We can keep you here for up to seventy-two hours until we reach a decision on your mental state.’

  Movements are careful and considered, words are carefully pitched to be professional but non-threatening. An expectant silence waits for me to reply, so I nod my compliance.

  ‘Are you on any medication or taking any form of drugs?’

  A flicker of surprise when I say I’m not. My hands are getting clammy again, but I push on anyway, mimicking Dr Sharma’s tone.

  ‘Look, I know I got a bit hysterical earlier, and I apologise sincerely. It was completely unnecessary. But it doesn’t change what I’m saying, and I’d be incredibly grateful if someone would listen to me and take me seriously.’

  ‘We’re taking your claims very seriously, Ms Appleby, I can assure you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ My smile is hesitant because she opens up a cardboard file. Studies some paperwork inside it.

  ‘The thing is, Alex, when you passed out we had a look in your mobile phone for an emergency contact and we found the details of the eating disorder clinic you’ve been attending. I’ve spoken with your therapist, Rosie Knight.’

  ‘I don’t see what she’s got to do with this.’

  ‘Okay, I need you to stay calm.’

  ‘I am being calm.’ I’m literally biting my lip. Surely everyone gets annoyed when they’re told repeatedly to calm down when they already are.

  Dr Sharma glances at the paperwork again.

  ‘Ms Knight has made us aware of your medical background, Alex, which is why we are now going to be looking into assessing you.’

  ‘So you’re not actually investigating what I’ve reported to you. You’re checking to see if I’m mad or not.’ Deep inside I’m fighting not to give in to the desire to shout in order to be taken seriously, but on the surface I’m controlled. A switch has flicked inside me now that my liberty is in danger. I must sell self-assurance. This is simply another lie people need to believe about me – I’ve done it before; can do it again.

  ‘You have suffered states of delirium previously, as a result of undernutrition,’ observes Dr Sharma.

  ‘There’s no point denying it. One morning I even woke up with another me screaming at me to get up. That was the incident that got me sectioned and kept in the clinic for my own good until I started putting weight on. As you’ve stated yourself, it was the result of undernutrition.’

  Straighten your back, maintain eye contact, keep the voice low and steady. Minuscule alterations to make me believable.

  ‘This is different. Everything I’ve said today is real. Please help me persuade the police to look into this.’

  ‘While you’ve been here, Alex, officers have looked into part of your claims. You are concerned about your friend, Simon, correct? He’s been tracked down in Cornwall. Family members have confirmed that he decided to move there to, and I quote, “ride the waves”. Our colleagues in Cornwall have spoken with him and can confirm that he is safe and well.’

  The images that have been running through my head of him lying dead somewhere, his tanned body blue and lifeless, disappear. Muscles unknot at the knowledge I don’t have to feel responsible for his death any more.

  ‘Thank you for finding him! I can’t believe it! So, what about this Joanne Freeman, will you be talking to Carrie about her?’

  ‘Norfolk police aren’t looking to speak to anyone named Carrie Goodwin in relation to the case—’

  ‘Yes, but that’s not her real name, she’s… crap, I’ve forgotten her real name, but anyway, Carrie is a pseudonym. Oh, Natalie Sheringham, that’s it. Look her up.’

  ‘Alex, there is absolutely no proof Ms Goodwin is the person that the police want to speak to. You said yourself she doesn’t look like the woman in the photograph—’

  ‘She does, it’s only that she’s changed her appearance.’

  The radiator in the room makes a strange gurgle and clunk. It’s the only sound to be heard for several minutes. Finally the doctor speaks.

  ‘You do realise this story doesn’t make sense, don’t you? The police have investigated your claims as far as they can, and we can confirm that Simon is fine. They really don’t have time to waste on wild goose chases. There’s no evidence of any threatening messages existing, because you destroyed them. As for the vandalism, Ms Goodwin needs to report that herself.’

  I almost argue. Almost. But there’s a little nagging doubt in my head. Elise, ever the voice of reason, seems to be whispering in my ear.

  ‘You sound insane. You thought Simon had been hurt, or worse – but he’s fine. You’re banging on about threatening messages, but you’re the only one who’s seen them. You doubted Carrie had cancer, against all evidence to the contrary. You’ve been forgetting to eat. Face it, Mum, you’re losing the plot.’

  * * *

  Elise isn’t the only one who thinks I’m losing the plot and sliding back into old, bad ways. I’ve only been allowed out of police custody so that I can transfer into the clinic. Now they plan on assessing me themselves, to see whether or not they should keep me in. My whole team sits in front of me, looking dour. Rosie’s even brushed her hair. Things must be serious.

  ‘I feel terrible for wasting the police’s time,’ I offer apologetically.

  ‘Our main concern isn’t the police, Alex, it’s what’s going on with your health,’ says Rosie.

  My medical doctor, Sandra, chips in. ‘Your blood pressure is low again. It’s not dangerous yet, but it’s enough to be ringing alarm bells with us. How m
uch walking are you doing?’

  ‘Nothing excessive,’ I say. Although I suppose actually the miles have been racking up lately, what with going back and forth to Carrie’s, then wandering along the beach. Is that too much, in my weakened state?

  ‘Regardless, if your blood pressure falls much lower we’re going to have to think about you using a wheelchair again.’

  No way.

  ‘We also have some concerns about your weight.’

  ‘But my weight is fine! I know I haven’t put any on lately, but you always say that maintaining is good, too.’

  ‘Let me show you something.’ Rosie pulls out a large piece of paper. On it is a graph with three lines climbing slowly across. ‘Anywhere between these two lines represents an acceptable weight gain on your part. This third line represents your actual weight measurements at every weigh-in you’ve had since leaving the clinic as an inpatient. See how it hugs the line that illustrates the lowest acceptable weight gain?’

  Rosie runs a finger along it to underline her point.

  My medical doctor, Sandra, chips in. ‘We’re uneasy that you’re deliberately doing the minimum to get better so that you can be discharged from outpatients – and go straight back to your old ways.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ I splutter.

  ‘Anorexics can be very manipulative,’ says Rosie. ‘Is that what you’re doing? We need to know the truth.’