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 warmly, 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,
