Beautiful Liars Read online

  2

  Martha

  The rest of the team is in the boardroom when Toby Parr turns up for the production meeting five minutes late, and Martha does all she can to keep the irritation from her face as he strolls through the door, pushing back his sun-kissed flop of hair and smiling broadly. She hasn’t seen him for eight or nine years, but still he exudes the youthful confidence of the privately educated, that self-assured aura of life membership that Martha dismisses as wholly unearned, awarded too freely. Does she feel like this just because of who he is, or would she resent him if they met under different circumstances? He’s almost a decade younger than her; he can only be in his midtwenties. But it’s not just that—after all, she’s only too grateful that older colleagues were willing to take a punt on her when she was younger and in need of a chance. Well, there you have your difference, she thinks: She needed a chance, and really, he doesn’t.

  “Morning, all!” Toby says, too breezily for a newcomer, eliciting polite murmurs and tight smiles from around the room. Martha takes in the neutral faces at the boardroom table. Many of these people are senior to Toby, and yet there’s curious caution in their open expressions.

  In the far corner of the room are a cameraman and a sound technician, there to record early footage for the piece. They will film the entire meeting, yet only seconds will be used in the final edit: well-chosen slices that add color and depth to the documentary, to the mystery. An earnest frown here, a studious turning of papers there. It’s not just a documentary they’re making. It’s entertainment. Martha has a sense of being somewhere outside of herself, looking in on this surreal scene. How is it that she should find herself here, star of a show that may unravel her own past, opening her up to the scrutiny of others? The world knows the Martha Benn she has become, the polished, glossy-haired, media-savvy Martha—queen of the prime-time talk show, go-to woman for serious reportage and debate. To her viewers she’s clean-cut, a poor East End girl come good. Respectable. Nothing more murky in her past than an early divorce and a couple of tenuous romantic links to minor celebrities. This morning at home, as she prepared herself for the day, she had gazed out across London, sipping strong black coffee—her one caffeinated drink of the day—and again she had been struck by the feeling that she was living someone else’s life. There she was in her twelfth-floor apartment, a glass-walled luxury abode overlooking the river, and she wondered how long it would be before she was ruined.

  Sending that letter to Olivia Heathcote had only been the start of it, but reaching back in time like that has unsettled her more than she could ever have anticipated. If the letter has reached her, will Liv even respond? Perhaps, like her, Liv has moved on, reinvented herself; perhaps Liv would rather keep that particular box tightly sealed too. They’ve all got secrets to hide, of that much Martha is certain. Her new TV show, this investigation, could well be the catalyst to her unmasking. Not that she’s ever pretended to be anyone else, or gone out of her way to deceive. Martha Benn is the name she was given at birth; she kept it even during her brief marriage to Denny, much to his family’s distaste. And she’s never exactly lied about her past. But she also has not been open about her earlier life, having long ago become accustomed to skirting over her Stanley House years, skipping straight to the good bits, the bits she can talk about with ease. The life she has constructed is about to change; she knows this without a shadow of a doubt. And there’s nothing she can do about it, not if she’s determined to unravel the mystery of Juliet. And she is determined. Whatever it takes, whether Juliet is found dead or alive, Martha has to find out.

  Now, at the top end of the table, executive producer Glen Gavin nods at Toby pleasantly, offering a help-yourself gesture toward the trolley bearing drinks and pastries, and rises to close the door and open the meeting. Glen is a lean man, his small frame nipped in by expensive suits, yet his presence is nonetheless large in the room, magnified further by the deep timber of his Scottish accent. Beyond him and the glass wall of their top-floor office, the London skyline fans out, bathed in the bright white sheen of a winter morning.

  “Good morning, everyone.” Glen pauses, his eyes following Toby as he sets down his coffee in front of the one remaining seat and unbuttons his jacket, then slips it from his shoulders and places it on the back of his chair. It’s all done in such a leisurely fashion, Martha could scream—and a flash of flint in Glen’s eyes momentarily betrays his mixed feelings about the appointment of Toby Parr.

  “So,” Glen says, “it’s hugely exciting to be gathered at the first planning meeting for Out of the Cold, and I for one am thrilled that we have managed to assemble some of our very best to turn this vision into a reality.”

  He falls silent, and it’s only when one of the junior researchers releases an awkward “Woo!” that the rest of the team realize what’s expected. They fall into a wave of polite British handclapping.

  “Now,” Glen continues, “let me summarize our overall plan. The pilot for Out of the Cold is provisionally scheduled to air six months from now, so the timings will be tight. It goes without saying that we’re relying on the success of this to help us secure the proposed series with the network. Our pilot needs to be a showstopper, and that, my friends, is why you’re all sitting around the table.” He rises from his chair and ambles toward the trolley, then picks out an apricot Danish, takes a bite, and chews slowly as he eyes each of the team in turn. When his mouthful is swallowed, he continues to speak, and he places the pastry on a napkin on the table before him, sliding his chair out to take a seat. He won’t eat the rest of it; it’s merely a prop. Martha’s gaze travels up from the pastry and finds Glen’s eyes locked on hers as he says her name.

  “We’re very happy to confirm that the show will be fronted by Martha Benn, who you’ll all be familiar with from her work on ITV—well, across a number of the channels, in fact—with Toby Parr playing a key role as her associate program researcher.” Martha nods. Toby raises a hand, like a schoolboy receiving an award from the head teacher. She wonders, momentarily, what they all made of her sacking from morning TV last year, when she had been replaced by a younger, pregnant up-and-coming star. More relatable, was the way her female boss at the time had put it. Younger, was what she really meant.

  Glen continues. “Our pilot episode will investigate the eighteen-year-old case of missing teenager Juliet Sherman, seventeen—who was last seen on a London towpath in January 2000, beside the Regent’s Canal, where her abandoned bike was later discovered. Juliet came from what you’d call a nice middle-class family. Dad was a bank manager, Mum worked part-time for a local firm of solicitors. Juliet had one sibling, older brother Tom who was back from university on his Christmas break at the time of her disappearance. All of them were interviewed at the time, but none of the family was ever considered a suspect. Within a matter of weeks, the police made the decision to scale back the investigation, ultimately concluding that she had run away with an older man—” Glen riffles through his papers, glancing toward Martha for help.

  ‘David Crown,” she offers. “Local landscape gardener and charity worker.”

  ‘Yes.” Glen nods slowly. “David Crown. All-around good guy.”

  There’s a ripple of amusement around the table, and Martha bites down an urge to pound her fists on the table, to tell them all to show a bit of bloody respect.

  “This is an interesting case, and one that will resonate with the public—not only in the light of recent high-profile abuse cases but also because our own Martha here was interviewed as part of the original police investigation.”

  A murmur rises, a gasp; querulous frowns turn into pleased expressions of surprise.

  “Martha, perhaps you’d like to take over from here?” Glen says, and he offers up his palms, gesturing for her to speak as he relaxes back into his chair.

  She hadn’t expected the surge of nerves that courses through her body, the heart-thumping weight of responsibility she feels in this moment. “Thank you, Glen,” she says w
armly, ever the professional, and she picks up a pen, tapping it lightly on the wrist of her other hand, a movement that apes her own private mindfulness exercises for calm. “Yes, I was involved in the original case.” Her mind is working fast, and she is careful to keep the emotion from her voice, to state only the facts and none of the profound sadness she still feels. “Back in 2000, I attended Bridge Academy in Hackney along with Juliet Sherman and another school friend, Olivia Heathcote—the three of us had been best friends for over seven years.”

  The silence in the room is palpable.

  “I think it’s important to say that the reason I suggested the new show, and Juliet’s case in particular, is because I recently read a local news article about her father’s desire to find out what happened to his daughter. He has terminal cancer, and his wife—Juliet’s mother—died a few years back, still not knowing. This is a family that has been beset by tragedy, and it feels like the right time to launch a new investigation. Time is running out for Alan Sherman. If we are successful, it will be a good thing we’re doing.”

  Quite to Martha’s surprise, the room breaks into spontaneous applause.

  She nods in acknowledgment, speaking quickly to move things on. “When Juliet went missing, Olivia and I were among the first to be interviewed, in part because of our close friendship with her—they wanted to know if we had any information about boyfriends or family disruptions at home—but more important because the two of us were among the last people to see her alive.”

  Now Martha hands a photograph down the table for Glen to pass around. It shows the three friends, sitting on the grass on a school trip to London Zoo, taken perhaps a year or two before Juliet went missing. Juliet and Martha have a similar look, both wearing their light brown hair long with outgrown fringes, the difference in their height unremarkable when seated. In reality Juliet had been a good two inches taller than Martha, and, although there was a passing resemblance, Juliet was simply more beautiful, her skin more honeyed, her green eyes more flaming than Martha’s dull brown. Looking at that photograph now, she recalls just how much she followed Juliet’s lead; Juliet was always the first to risk the latest trend or hairstyle, and Martha invariably followed suit. Liv’s appearance was dark to their fair, and she was the smallest of them all. She’d been adopted at birth, and the little she knew of her heritage was that her mother had been Irish and her father Sri Lankan, the physical legacy being her striking combination of dark olive skin and startling blue eyes. At barely five foot one she was tiny, something that had driven her wild when the others were routinely served alcohol at the Waterside Café bar while she had to hide out of sight for fear of being kicked out. Martha feels a pang of longing as the photograph circulates around the table. How could she have forgotten what Juliet and Liv had meant to her? Back then, in their adolescent years, they had been everything to one another.

  “And were you able to help?” Toby asks, leaning his elbows on the table, his brow knitted together. He clears his throat, his volume seeming to increase in response to the delay in her answer. “Were you ever a suspect?”

  “No,” Martha replies, rather more tartly than she’d intended. Inwardly, she gathers her patience. “I told the police that I knew Juliet was seeing someone, but I couldn’t say who, because I didn’t know. Juliet had told me that it was someone her parents wouldn’t approve of, but that was all. Of course, the police were particularly interested in that. The last movements we’re certain of were just after nine p.m. We’d had a few drinks in the Waterside Café—it was a Friday night—and as we left, Liv decided to stay on for another, so I walked with Juliet some of the way along the canal before she headed off to work on her bike. That’s the last time she was seen alive—or at least mine was the last confirmed sighting.”

  Martha pauses a moment, expecting questions, and when there are none she continues. “When I say ‘work,’ Juliet was a volunteer with Square Wheels, a charity set up and run by David Crown, which was basically a group of youngsters on bikes, handing out food and warm drinks to homeless people sleeping rough along the riverside. According to David Crown and her fellow volunteers, Juliet didn’t turn up for her shift that night.”

  One of the team, Juney, raises her hand. Her voice is light, slightly lisping, belying the deep intelligence of the young woman. “And David Crown was a prime suspect? If he was a predator, perhaps it makes sense—setting up a volunteer group that brings him into regular contact with young people? It makes perfect sense to conclude that he was the mystery boyfriend, doesn’t it?”

  Martha nods. “Yes, and I think that’s the theory the police were working with. But David Crown’s records came up fairly unblemished, and it seems that because it had been such a busy night, with plenty of volunteers on hand, there wasn’t a moment that he couldn’t account for in one way or another. He had alibis coming out of his ears.”

  “But you’re not convinced?” asks Glen.

  “I just don’t know. I helped out with Square Wheels myself on a number of occasions, and, while I agree that the evenings were always busy, it’s not true that David was never alone with any of the helpers. Usually, once he’d handed out supplies to everyone, we were sent off in pairs—for safety—and if there was anyone left over, they’d pair up with David to do the final handout. On the occasions I was there, Juliet and I naturally paired off, but as I wasn’t there that night I think it’s perfectly feasible that Juliet doubled up with him, or was at least alone with him at some point in the evening. She was running late that night—she was meant to get there at eight-thirty, so it’s quite possible that David Crown was alone at the Square Wheels cabin by the time she arrived.”

  “And his wife?” Toby asks, running his finger down the briefing notes in front of him. He’s frowning studiously. “Wasn’t she one of his alibis?”

  “Yes, but only for later that evening,” Martha replies, glad to see that at least Toby has come prepared, has read the overview she sent him last week. “So, it would have been difficult for David to account for every moment between nine and midnight. But on the other hand, there were enough volunteers coming and going that night to make it almost impossible for him to have abducted Juliet without someone noticing. The police notes I have tell us that the following morning he and his wife, Janet, were interviewed extensively. She claimed that he returned home at the usual time—eleven-thirty, give or take a few minutes—and that he seemed completely normal. David had told her that it had been a successful night, and they’d managed to deliver meals to at least forty homeless people along the riverside. There was a hard frost that night, and he was always particularly pleased when they managed to help people out when conditions were so harsh. Mrs. Crown said that her husband was in good spirits and that they went to bed soon after he returned, with nothing seeming out of the ordinary. After the police interview that morning, David Crown went off to his landscape gardening job as usual. But he never came home again.”

  “Never?” asks Juney.

  “No, he disappeared as completely as Juliet had. Later, it was discovered that on that same morning a large sum had been withdrawn from the Crowns’ joint savings account, and when Mrs. Crown searched their home, she found a number of his personal belongings missing—his passport, a suitcase, and several items of clothing. And that’s why the police concluded that Juliet and David had been in some kind of a relationship and had planned the whole thing, with her going into hiding the night before and him following once he’d gathered his money and belongings. The investigation continued for a few weeks longer, but with the emphasis on finding a missing ‘couple’ rather than searching for a teenager abducted by a man.”

  “How much money did David Crown withdraw?” asks Toby.

  “Fifty grand. According to Mrs. Crown, it was their life savings.”

  There are intakes of breath around the table, everyone breaking out into their own thoughts.

  “It sounds fairly viable to me,” offers Toby. “I mean, we’ve all heard about these
cases, haven’t we—teacher falls in love with pupil and they go on the run? This sounds similar, except that Juliet was a bit older. I mean, while David Crown wasn’t a teacher, he was an authority figure as far as she would’ve been concerned.” Toby glances around, looking for nods of approval, which he receives.

  “That’s all fine,” Martha replies, wondering how on earth she’s going to tolerate working with him. “Until you take into consideration Juliet’s track record and the responses of every single person who knew her. Juliet was, for want of a better expression, a goodie-goodie. She was a straight-A student, hardworking, diligent—a rule-follower. She put me and Liv to shame. She was committed to her volunteer work. She loved her parents and had a great relationship with them both.”

  “It says here that they split up within a year of Juliet going missing,” Toby interrupts, as if this fact makes a difference.

  “She had a great relationship with both her parents,” Martha repeats, ignoring him. “And to be perfectly honest she never really seemed that bothered about boys. She was a beautiful girl, and I remember she was always being asked out, but she just wasn’t interested.”