Beautiful Liars. Isabel Ashdown
she perhaps has the power to do something, to change something. “We want to find her. We won’t sensationalize it, I promise. The show—well, the show will simply give us a louder voice. It’ll make people listen.”
The three of them are standing close in the small space of Alan Sherman’s living room. He scrutinizes them each in turn, like a man deciphering another language, and then he unclasps his hands from where they rest at his sternum and pulls Martha toward him in a fierce embrace. From nowhere, a sob rises up in her chest and she’s a teenager again, stifling the sound against Mr. Sherman’s woolen sweater, grateful for his arms around her, mourning more than just the loss of her best friend. They all lost so much that winter. In losing Juliet, they lost their connections to one another, and over the years they must have forgotten what those connections really meant. They must have forgotten, all of them, otherwise why else would they have let them go so easily?
Mr. Sherman had always been kind to Martha. There had been an unspoken acceptance that he knew how things were for her at home, having unintentionally witnessed Martha’s family at its worst one Friday night when he’d called to pick up a textbook of Juliet’s that Martha had borrowed. Martha’s dad had been on one of his benders, roaring his rage from the far end of the flat as Martha fled through the front door, straight into the chest of Juliet’s father before he’d even had a chance to knock. Even now, she recalls the shame of that collision, the lies that poured from her mouth as she tried to explain that her parents were just mucking about, that it wasn’t a real argument, just a bit of harmless fun. Behind her the fury continued, audible even through the closed door, and she had steered Mr. Sherman away, agreeing to walk back to Juliet’s house and join them for their fish and chip supper. It wasn’t always like this, she’d wanted to say. Remember my old house? Remember when Dad wasn’t so bad?
“The textbook can wait,” Mr. Sherman had said, and even at thirteen she had understood the kindness he’d shown in just those few words.
“I’d forgotten . . .” Martha starts to say as she pulls away, but she doesn’t know where she’s going with the sentence, and she trails off with a shake of her head.
Mr. Sherman gives a small nod as he releases her, and indicates for them to take a seat while he puts the kettle on for tea.
“Are you OK?” Toby whispers when they’re alone, but Martha waves his sympathy away with a flick of her hand, telling him to get his notes out. Stiffly, she sits beside him on the pale leather two-seater.
The room is warm, the heat on at full blast; Martha loosens the collar of her shirt and shrugs off her jacket. I can do this, she tells herself, drawing strength as the adult Martha returns, the grown-up, prime-time Martha. It’s something she unwittingly mastered in childhood, the ability to go from broken to unbreakable in the matter of minutes, to present a smiling mask of resilience to the outside world while beneath the surface all might be far from well. I can do this. Within moments she is focused again, and quietly she and Toby run through the questions they have prepared, ready for Mr. Sherman when he returns with the tea tray. He places it softly on the coffee table between them and takes the armchair opposite, sitting on the edge of his seat as he pours tea and offers them biscuits. It’s such a civilized scene, slow-moving, punctuated by the soft tock of a wall clock, that it seems wrong to launch into questions of so dark a nature. But that’s what Martha is here for, and she fixes her gaze on his face, anchoring herself to the job at hand: the task of finding Juliet. A momentary flash comes to her: the tabloids’ suggestion that Juliet’s father was responsible for his daughter’s disappearance. Why had they suggested that? He must have gone in for questioning early on, and after all, didn’t police always treat the parents with suspicion until they could be clearly ruled out? But it had made it to the newspapers, and she can see the headline in her mind’s eye: “Missing Juliet: Does Dad Know Where She Is?”
‘Are you happy for me to get straight down to the interview?” Martha asks.
‘Yes, please.” Alan Sherman’s faded expression is attentive, business-like. As he perches on the edge of his seat, only his hands give away his emotions, his fingers turned under as they grip on to the soft velour fabric of the armchair, his knuckles pale.
‘Here’s how it will work,” Toby tells him. They have rehearsed this. “Initially, Martha and I will be talking to everyone connected with the case, hopefully building up a clear-enough picture to persuade the police to share more of their initial findings with us. Once we have a stronger argument, and the police on board, we’d like to return with the cameras, to reinterview you as part of the program. This way, you’ll know what to expect—and, if necessary, we can tailor your interview to appeal to members of the public who may have information to share with us.”
Alan Sherman nods, and Martha feels as though he is fading before her very eyes, his skin growing more sallow, the lines of his shape growing translucent against the backdrop of his neat living room. He’s a ghost, she realizes. The real Mr. Sherman left years ago, soon after his daughter. This man is nothing but a ghost.
Toby pauses, waiting for Martha to pick up the thread. When she doesn’t, he continues, seamless as the most practiced understudy. “The program could go one of two ways: (a) we build up a clearer history and reconstruction of events, and use the program to appeal to witnesses, or (b), which is our preference, we solve the case and present the investigation as a finished outcome.”
Alan Sherman listens carefully, nodding throughout.
“How does that sound, Mr. Sherman?” asks Toby.
“Alan, please.”
“Sorry, of course. Alan. Are you happy with that approach?”
Alan Sherman turns to Martha. “Are you happy with it?” he asks, and she fears there is criticism in the question until she reads his face and sees his need. He just wants her to tell him what to do.
“I think it’s a good approach,” she says. “The more we can find out from the people who actually knew Juliet, the more likely the police are to give us an audience. At the moment, they’re resisting.”
He sighs deeply and gestures toward the modest plate of biscuits between them. They’re bourbons, Juliet’s favorite. “Then I’m happy with it.”
They start with the easy questions, the ones they already know the answers to, a warm-up of sorts. How did Juliet seem on the night she disappeared? Normal. Did they notice any changes in her behavior leading up to her disappearance? No. Was she a good time-keeper? Yes. Was Juliet in the habit of keeping secrets? No. Were there many family arguments—with her parents or older brother? No. How often did she volunteer at Square Wheels? Once or twice a week.
A couple of times he hesitates before answering. “You know this, Martha. You were there.”
And Martha can only nod, and agree, yes, she was there, but they need it in his words.
“Did Juliet have any boyfriends?”
Here, Alan Sherman pauses. “Well, we didn’t think so. But then there was the letter we found in her wastepaper bin.”
Martha stares at him blankly.
He frowns, tilting his head. “Didn’t the police ask you about it? They said they’d be asking her friends.”
She has no idea what he means. “About a letter? No—I mean, they asked me if I knew who Juliet was seeing, but they never mentioned a letter. I don’t know what to—” Her mind buzzes with confusion. “Who was it from?”
Alan pushes out of his chair and leaves the room, returning a moment later with a sheet of crumpled paper in his hand. “I dug it out earlier. I thought you might like to see it. It’s not a letter she’d received, it was one she was writing—but, as you can see from the state of it, she’d obviously had a change of heart about sending it.”
Martha takes the letter from him, placing it down on the coffee table between them, gently smoothing out its bumps and ridges. Her pulse is racing, her fingers shaking.
“Do you mind if I read it aloud?” Toby asks, reaching