of people these days, despite the fact that London is quite the cosmopolitan city. I don’t mean that I choose not to mix with them; it’s just that I don’t mix with any people very much, not since my teens anyway. Oh, but now that I think of it, there’s the chap behind the counter at the local post office, who I would guess must be Indian or Pakistani, although his name badge says HAROLD. His skin is a deep mahogany, and I can’t even begin to think what age he might be, though he seems both young and old at the very same time. Is it wrong of me to think of Harold as a white name? I suppose it is. Not that it matters at all, of course. I don’t mind who serves me at the post office, and Harold is always very helpful and polite. I’m proud to say I’ve never had a racist thought in my life.
Anyway, the postman who delivers to this street is young and male (and white, as it happens), and from the few exchanges we’ve had I’d describe him as quite the charmer. When I say young, I mean he’s about my age, midthirties, with the brightest green eyes and a mischievous smile that makes me blush from my collarbone to the roots of my hair. I don’t get too many parcels that won’t go through the letter box, so it’s rare for him to have to knock on the door, and the few bits of mail that I do get have usually landed on the mat before I can snatch a glimpse of him through the front window.
In the old days, my work documents would arrive in hard copy, thick bundles of A4 enclosed in padded envelopes, often requiring a signature on delivery. So I saw a lot of Ms. Crew Cut over the years at Mum’s. But in recent times things have changed for the humble proofreader, and now almost all my work comes via e-mail, a condition of my freelance contract being that I own a decent printer to run off documents myself. The whole arrangement seems a bit off to me because, while these publishers can’t be bothered to send a hard copy to me, they still demand that I return my corrected documents to them by post, so I have to go through the hell of a trip to the post office at least once a week, skirting the long way round to avoid passing the old house with its nosy neighbors and difficult memories. If it weren’t for my regular postal excursion, I don’t think I’d leave the house at all. And why would I? I love it here. I loved it from the moment I laid eyes on the place and decided I would have it. It’s never a cause for celebration when someone in your family dies, but without my recent legacy I would never be living here so happily. I’d been longing for my own space for years, and Mother’s money was a godsend.
Goodness, I’m still sitting here at the table in the front window, gazing out into the morning as my mind jumps about all over the place! I think perhaps it’s a symptom of living alone, although I fear it was probably the same when I was living with Mum. At times, when I struggle to focus like this, I will pinch the soft skin of my underarm until it makes my eyes water and forces me to concentrate on just the one thing. Well, the postman is in my thoughts, but of course he isn’t the main point of this excitement, delightful as it is to remember answering the door and finding him standing there. He was looking especially chirpy today, and he gave me a wink and made a pleasing cluck-cluck sound with his mouth as he walked away. “Have a good day, love,” he called back without turning, and he vanished into the next street on the corner of my terrace. I pressed myself against the door frame after he’d gone, trying to sustain the physical memory of him, glad that I’d brushed my long hair so diligently last night.
The parcel contained a gruesome biography I’d ordered online about the London killer John Christie, plus a new thesaurus to replace the one I spilled tea all over last week when I drifted off on the sofa. Delivered with the parcel were a few marketing flyers and, to my surprise, a handwritten letter addressed to the previous owner, Olivia Heathcote. How odd, I thought initially, that this was the very first piece of mail I’d ever received for my predecessor, but then it struck me that of course she must have put a forwarding arrangement in place and, now that twelve months had elapsed, any residual letters would start to fall through my door. I can’t say why exactly, but just holding that envelope in my fingers, with its curly handwritten address and its opening flap sealed by the tongue of a stranger—well, it rendered me quite breathless. I placed it down on the table and gazed upon it for a while, running my palms over my painful belly, trying to ease the bloating that had seized me in the night. I’m overweight, it’s fair to say, but today my stomach felt even more distended with trapped gas, gripping and twisting away inside me like a snake. I’d been forced to open the windows in my bedroom when I rose, just to let out the terrible whiff of it. It’s a curse.
Breathing deeply through my discomfort, I went over the logistics of returning the letter to the post office. I had two manuscripts parcelled and ready to go, so it would be no bother to return this item at the same time—but then, I countered, wouldn’t it be ridiculous to hand them an envelope absent of a return address? Surely they could do nothing with it! There would be no way of getting it back to the sender, and I’m quite certain it would have ended up in their recycling bin. Finally, I decided to open up the envelope and see if it contained a sender’s address within, and then return it. That, I swear, is what I intended to do.
Once I had read the contents, however, my thoughts were taken in an entirely different direction, and I realized I’d been handed a gift. And that is why an hour later I haven’t moved an inch, and I sit here clutching the letter, blinking in astonishment at the last few words: With love, Martha x
Dear Liv,
If this letter finds its way to you, I know it will come as a surprise that I’m getting in touch after all this time. I can only say I’m sorry to have left it so long. It’s hard to believe that eighteen years have passed, and yet they have. But let me get to the point.
Perhaps you’ve seen me on TV in recent years? I’m not saying this to brag, but because my latest project is a new show that investigates “cold cases”—historic police investigations that have either been closed down or forgotten about, but where we believe there’s a chance to solve them with fresh evidence or modern forensics. I hope you won’t think it gratuitous; after what happened with Juliet, well, I suppose it’s made me want to delve deeper into these unsolved crimes, to try to make a difference. The show is called Out of the Cold, and we’ve just begun work on our very first program—and this is my reason for making contact. We’re going to be investigating Juliet’s disappearance.
I know this will upset you. Believe me, I thought long and hard before suggesting we feature her story—but remember how we all said at the time that there had to be more to it than the police would ever consider? We all knew there was no way Juliet would have disappeared like that by choice, but now, Liv, I really feel there’s a chance we could find out exactly what happened and bring someone to account.
I can’t tell you much more now—but I’ll fill you in on everything once you’ve confirmed you’re willing to talk. This could be in person, by e-mail, on the phone, or however you prefer, and all we ask is for your memories of that time. I feel sure that the not-knowing will have haunted you as much as it has me, and I hope with every fiber of my being that you will agree to help. What I can tell you is that David Crown remains a person of interest, so anything you can recall about him will be of help right from the start.
Liv, I hope you are well and happy. I hope above all that you’ll forgive me for past mistakes—and make contact.
With love,
Martha x
The morning sun casts fingers of light across the letter, picking out the dust bobs that float in the space between me and the net curtains to the street beyond. There’s a tremor running through me, a juddering reverberation like the one I feel when heavy trucks rumble up the road and rattle the glass panes. But this is different. This comes from within. I turn over the envelope, smoothing it out on the tabletop, running my thumb across the handwritten indentations of the address. My address, but not my name. Olivia Heathcote.
Martha Benn—the Martha Benn—thinks that I am Olivia Heathcote. She thinks she is writing to Liv Heathcote, and she wants her help in
