Beautiful Liars. Isabel Ashdown

us to argue. Please can we stop? I want us to be out in the open too, holding hands when we want to, and no more secrets, but we have to be patient. Too many people could get hurt—think about your own family? I’ll be eighteen in a few months’ time, and I know it will be easier to talk to my folks then. Can’t we just wait and look forward to when we will be together ALL the time? Before we know it we’ll be free of all this, traveling the world where we won’t have to hide! Please understand. Love you love you love you xxx.”

      Toby stops reading and places the letter back on the tabletop. “Do you know who she was writing to?” he asks.

      “Not David Crown,” Alan replies. “That’s what you’re probably thinking. Am I right? That’s what the police thought. But Juliet would never—”

      “Did she ever mention David Crown?” Martha asks, finding her voice again. This letter—what on earth did it mean? What secrets had Juliet been keeping from them, from her family, her best friends?

      Alan’s expression is tired, resigned. “She liked him, but not in the way the police would have people believe. I think Juliet really admired his dedication to the charity. She told us that he ran his own business as a landscape gardener—that he was a good man, that he was fun to be around. He always made sure the volunteers went off in pairs for safety, and he always helped them give their bikes the once-over before they set off, to make sure there weren’t any slow punctures or loose chains. You were a volunteer there too, Martha?”

      “I was,” Martha replies quietly. “But it was a bit sporadic, if I’m honest. I wasn’t there every week like Juliet. Liv and I both helped out quite a bit the summer before, but we lost interest as soon as the good weather tailed off. But I’d have agreed with Juliet’s assessment of David Crown. He seemed like a decent guy to me. On the surface.”

      Alan raises his eyebrows and takes a deep breath. “I never met him,” he says. “It’s one of the things that has troubled me ever since. I mean, what kind of father doesn’t go and check out something like this? I should have gone down there, introduced myself, found out what kind of setup he had going on. Juliet thought he was a decent fellow, but she could’ve judged it wrong, couldn’t she? Maybe I would’ve spotted it, you know, if he wasn’t what he said he was?”

      Martha shakes her head sadly. “You’re wrong. If David Crown was responsible. If he was this bad person we think he could be, none of us saw it. He was really nice. He looked normal, he was kind, caring—a charity worker, for God’s sake! Meeting him wouldn’t have made the slightest difference, Alan, I promise you.”

      Alan Sherman picks up his mug, takes a long drink of his tea. A solitary tear escapes from the outer corner of his eye, traveling down over his sharp cheekbones and into his collar. He doesn’t seem to notice. “You just wonder, don’t you? What you could have done differently? I’ve often thought over the years—if I could just roll back time and change things somehow . . . ?”

      Martha knows this feeling only too well. Even as he speaks, she’s asking herself, How did I not know about this person Juliet was writing to? Why didn’t I question her harder when I knew she was keeping secrets?

      “What about her fellow volunteers?” she asks, clenching her jaw, trying to not be moved by his quiet grief. “Do you recall any names?”

      Alan crosses the room and fetches a photo album from the bookcase, barely making a sound on the carpet. “I’ve got a couple of photos you can borrow, if they’re any help?” He slowly turns the pages before stopping at a pair of photographs, sliding them out and passing them to Martha before sitting again. “The first one was taken by the local newspaper—I think Square Wheels won some kind of community award. And the second one was from a boat trip out with David Crown. A reward for some volunteer work, I think?”

      The newspaper photograph shows the group posed with food-laden bicycles, David Crown in the center, flanked by two volunteers on either side, the Square Wheels banner overhead, nailed to the side of the wooden hut where the sandwiches were prepared. It must be winter, because they’re all dressed in coats and hats and scarves, their skin showing the cold glow of exertion. Juliet stands on the right side of David; to her right is a girl whose face looks unfamiliar to Martha, and to David’s left are another girl and a boy. The caption reads, “Local Heroes Scoop Community Award.”

      “Do you know the names of these other volunteers?” she asks.

      Alan reaches across the coffee table and points to the faces in turn. “I don’t know the one next to Juliet, but this very thin one on the other side of David Crown—I seem to think her name was Karen, and the boy beside her—don’t you recognize him?”

      Martha scrutinizes the picture more closely. “Oh, yes! God, I can’t believe I didn’t see it at first. Tom!” She turns to explain to Toby. “Tom was—is—Juliet’s brother. But I don’t remember Tom being a volunteer.”

      Alan smiles and shakes his head. “I don’t know how well you knew Tom at the time, but he was never a sticker. He did help out there a handful of times, but that’s all. He just happened to be passing on the evening the newspaper guy took that picture, and they needed another body. Typical Tom: all the glory and none of the work.”

      “Do you think we could talk to Tom? Ask him if he can think of anything particular about that night? He was there, at the Waterside Café, the night Juliet went missing.”

      “I’m sure he’ll be happy to talk to you, but do you know he’s living in Paris now? We sold the house, after his mum, well—”

      “Oh, yes,” Martha interrupts; she’s ashamed not to have mentioned it before. “I was so sorry to hear about Mrs. Sherman. I didn’t know about it at the time—but she was always so lovely. You both were. It must have been very hard.”

      “You know we’d separated by the time she died? I only moved back in toward the end, to help Tom, really, although Ann and I still loved each other if we’re honest. But it’s difficult to carry on together when something like that happens. Juliet.”

      Martha nods, wondering how Alan Sherman keeps on going. How does he keep getting up in the morning and dressing and feeding himself and telling himself everything will be OK? How can he believe everything will be all right when his entire life is living proof that life can turn out very bloody far from all right?

      “How is Tom these days?” she asks. “I haven’t seen him for years.” Since that night.

      Now Alan Sherman’s face breaks into an unexpected smile. “He’s very happy. Works as a sommelier—wines—something of that kind. Married, with a baby on the way. Imagine—I’m going to be a grandfather.”

      And there Martha sees it: hope. That’s what keeps him going. Hope that the next day will be better than the last, that next week will be an improvement on the one before, that next year will be happier than the year just gone. “Congratulations,” she says, and can’t find more words, stunned into silence.

      “I’d almost given up hope—of a grandchild.” He smiles, and he swipes away another tear, his eyes shining with the pleasure of this piece of joy. “They think it’s a boy.”

      “When’s it due?” Toby asks, and Martha is glad to have him beside her more than she could ever have imagined possible.

      “May. Spring baby. Good time of year.”

      Same month as Juliet’s birthday, Martha thinks, and their eyes meet in this unspoken knowledge.

      Mr. Sherman smooths down his trousers and gives a brief bob of his head. “I’ll give you Tom’s details before you leave.”

      “And this other girl? You definitely don’t remember her?” Martha asks, returning to the photograph and pointing to the girl beside Juliet.

      “As I say, no idea. I don’t recognize her at all. I think they had a fairly fast turnover of volunteers. Juliet said a lot of people came along and never returned once they realized it was hard work and bloody cold.”

      “Like