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 across for the sheet.
Thank God. Martha sighs inwardly. She doesn’t think she has the strength to do it herself. With a small hand gesture, Alan Sherman tells Toby to go ahead.
“My one love,” he reads, “I don’t want 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
