My Perfect Friend, page 1
Praise for Sarah Clarke
‘Brilliantly tense, with an unexpectedly dark heart – a totally compelling read.’ Sunday Times bestselling author Sophie Hannah
‘Had me in a complete vice. A brilliantly crafted suspense thriller which poses a dark dilemma – who can you trust?’ L V Matthews, author of The Twins
‘A fast-paced, twisty story … A thrilling read.’ Catherine Cooper, bestselling author of The Chalet
‘Suspenseful, gripping and nightmarish, I barely breathed as I read the final chapters. Every Little Secret should come with a health warning! Just WOW!’ Jane Jesmond, author of On the Edge
‘Distinctive and original – Sarah Clarke brings a new and exciting voice to the thriller genre.’ Sophie Flynn, author of All My Lies
‘A read-in-one-sitting kind of book – a heart-breaking exploration of the ripples one act of violence causes through the years and the lengths to which a mother will go. A confident and bold debut.’ Louise Mumford, bestselling author of Sleepless
‘Impossible to put down … a smart new voice in the thriller genre – and definitely one to watch.’ Katie Lowe, author of The Furies
About the Author
SARAH CLARKE is a writer living in South West London with her husband, children and stubbornly cheerful cockapoo. Over fifteen years, Sarah has built a successful career as a marketing copywriter, but her dream has always been to become a published author. When her youngest child started secondary school, she joined the Faber Academy Writing A Novel course to learn the craft of writing psychological thrillers. Sarah graduated in 2019 and joined HQ Digital two years later. My Perfect Friend is her third novel.
Also by Sarah Clarke
A Mother Never Lies
Every Little Secret
My Perfect Friend
SARAH CLARKE
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
HarperCollinsPublishers
1st Floor, Watermarque Building, Ringsend Road
Dublin 4, Ireland
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2022
Copyright © Sarah Clarke 2022
Sarah Clarke asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © November 2022 ISBN: 9780008494933
Version: 2022-09-08
Table of Contents
Cover
Praise for Sarah Clarke
About the Author
Also by Sarah Clarke
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Note to Readers
Prologue
December 2021
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
January 2003
Chapter 6
December 2021
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
February 2003
Chapter 9
December 2021
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
March 2003
Chapter 13
December 2021
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
April 2003
Chapter 18
December 2021
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
April 2003
Chapter 23
December 2021
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
April 2003
Chapter 27
December 2021
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
May 2003
Chapter 35
December 2021
Chapter 36
May 2003
Chapter 37
December 2021
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
April 2003
Chapter 51
December 2021
Chapter 52
June 2003
Chapter 53
December 2021
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
January 2022
Chapter 57
Epilogue
A Letter from Sarah Clarke
Keep Reading …
Acknowledgements
Dear Reader …
About the Publisher
For my family
Chris, Scarlett, Finn
& Mika
Note to Readers
This ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings:
Change of font size and line height
Change of background and font colours
Change of font
Change justification
Text to speech
Prologue
January 2022
Simon sits up tall. The soft cushion of his chair feels wrong in this setting, his expectation formed by childhood memories of hard wooden church pews. He plants both feet, rests his clammy palms on his thighs and tries to focus on the discomfort caused by his shirt collar cutting into his neck.
He wonders if he can keep up the façade throughout the whole service. Or whether he will slip to the floor at some point, bang his fists against the carpeted floor of the crematorium and scream for his life back, beg some higher power to tell him it’s all a big joke – a dark prank performed for one of those toxic TV shows perhaps – and that Beth is going to waltz back into his life at any moment with a wink and a ‘gotcha’ smile.
There are many other people here, every chair occupied, the room thick with mourners. But it doesn’t stop the intense ache of loneliness seeping through him. Or the desperate knowledge that things won’t get better. That his future is now grey and empty.
He wishes Beth was here.
Of course she is here, he thinks as he stares at the coffin lying on the plinth just ahead of him. But not in any reachable way. She can’t allay his loneliness, squeeze warmth into his fingers, lean against him and whisper something inappropriate for a funeral that makes them both look down at their feet to hide their smiles. She can’t be his wife anymore.
Looking back, he can see the stepping stones of mistakes he made, and how they helped build the path that led to this day. If only he’d recognised the danger earlier, veered away from his middle-class beliefs that things like this don’t happen to people like them. If only he hadn’t believed Beth when she said she’d be fine on her own.
An older woman stands up and walks to the lectern, a piece of paper trembling in her grasp. It’s so brave of Beth’s mother to speak today. He sees the familiar features on her face, but she still looks like a stranger, lost in her own grief. He listens to her words of love, a fitting eulogy for a beautiful person, and finally gives in to his emotions. He cries for the wife he’s lost, the life that was once so privileged and now lies in tatters.
And he cries for his daughters.
December 2021
Chapter 1
Beth
If she’d walked home via Thurleigh Road she wouldn’t be here now, Beth thinks, staring at the three emergency vehicles lined up on the pavement, their flashing lights giving the normally quiet road an early Christmas glow. She would be in bed, Simon gently snoring next to her, wondering whether the magnesium that her nutritionist recommended will do its job, or if she’ll need something stronger to help her drift off.
But no. Tonight, she chose the slightly longer route from Wandsworth Common train station via the main road because it felt safer. And here she is. Surrounded by police and paramedics.
A small gust of wind appears from somewhere and Beth shivers as it coils around her. It’s always a dilemma, going to an upmarket restaurant in the wintertime, and she’d erred on the side of style over practicality this evening. Her floaty dress, leather bomber jacket and Veja trainers had looked good when she left home, and equally so when she arrived at Barrafina in Soho. But now she wishes she’d chosen
The relief when the paramedics finally arrived – about ten minutes after she made the 999 call – had washed over her so potently that it felt like a jet of warm water, albeit a temporary one. She was no longer responsible for the inert figure collapsed on the ground, the poor homeless man with a needle sticking out of his arm, whose smell she’d been trying desperately to ignore. She’d stepped back with an almost giddy sigh when they took over, and watched the performance like it was an episode of Casualty. The stocky older woman with short grey hair had flung her green rucksack onto the concrete paving slabs and pulled out various bits of equipment, while the younger one stretched on some latex gloves and crouched over the man slumped motionless in the doorway.
‘Airway clear but not breathing; no pulse; pupils fixed and dilated,’ she’d called out in a serious voice, carefully releasing the belt strapped around the man’s bicep and picking up the needle by his side. ‘Looks like a heroin overdose.’
It was at that point Beth started shivering again. When she’d first seen the man lying there, she’d acted without thinking, adrenalin overpowering rational thought. But once she learned that he wasn’t breathing, and realised that her calling the ambulance hadn’t saved his life, the chemicals quickly faded. It took a few more minutes for the grey-haired paramedic to officially pronounce the man dead, and by then Beth was struggling to not just feel grateful that it was all over.
Except it wasn’t all over. The confirmation of death into the paramedic’s radio had started a new flurry of activity. Another ambulance pulled up with two more paramedics, and two police officers arrived in a flood of blue light. They ignored Beth at first, heading straight for their colleagues and the man on the ground, but now one of them is walking towards her.
‘I hear you’re the person who called the emergency services,’ he says, stopping a little too close for Beth’s liking. ‘I’m PC Curtis.’
‘Beth Packard,’ she whispers, taking a step backwards. ‘Nice to meet you.’ She must sound odd, exchanging pleasantries in these circumstances, but it’s how she’s programmed to behave.
‘It must have been a shock,’ he continues. ‘Finding him like that. How are you doing?’ He pauses a moment, taking in her summery outfit. ‘I can ask one of the paramedics to get you a blanket from the wagon if you’re cold?’
Beth smiles warmly at the pale-faced police officer. Not because she wants a hospital blanket – she wouldn’t trust that it had been properly laundered after its last recipient – but because smiling warmly is her default. She probably did it on purpose once upon a time, when she first discovered the advantages it could bring. But now it’s just a habit, a defence mechanism in uncomfortable situations.
And she’s certainly feeling uncomfortable right now.
‘I’m fine – thank you though,’ she says, hoping that she sounds genuine. He seems nice enough, not one of those misogynist policemen that you read about in the press.
‘My super just called. CID will be here in a sec. We need to check the property over, then they’ll take your statement. Are you okay to wait?’
Beth smiles. It’s the very last thing she wants to do, but of course she wouldn’t admit that. Instead, she asks, ‘CID? Is it normal for them to be involved in something like this?’
PC Curtis shrugs. ‘Normal enough, I suppose, if they’re quiet. We need some help to check the shop out.’
Beth starts to smile again, to regain lost ground, but they’re both distracted by another car joining the line of vehicles on the pavement. It’s a nondescript colour and model, made worse by the thin glaze of Wandsworth pollution covering its panels, and Beth isn’t surprised when two almost identical men in jeans, hoodies and stab vests climb out.
‘Excuse me,’ PC Curtis says, dipping his head slightly and turning towards the detectives. Beth watches them talk on the pavement for a few moments, then move as a threesome towards the shopfront where the four paramedics and a second uniformed police officer are still loitering. The newly arrived ambulance will transport the body to the mortuary at St George’s Hospital, Beth hears the older paramedic explain. She wishes they’d hurry up; surely the dead man deserves better than a grubby concrete floor and an audience of strangers for his final resting place. At last, the group fragments and Beth watches the uniformed officers, and one of the detectives, head inside the shop. The other detective, the slightly broader of the two, strides over in her direction. She smiles at him, warmly.
‘Thank you for waiting. I’m DC Stone, Wandsworth CID. Mrs Packard, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, that’s right. And no problem at all. It was the least I could do.’
‘I don’t agree,’ the detective observes. ‘A lot of people would have chosen to do considerably less than you’ve done.’ There’s an admiration in his tone that Beth wasn’t expecting, and it makes the space between her shoulder blades widen a fraction. But now she feels like crying, so she blinks and draws them back together.
‘I was just on my way home from a night out with my girlfriends,’ she explains. ‘A Christmas get-together before Christmas actually kicks in and we’re all too busy to celebrate.’
He smiles, but it’s a polite one. He doesn’t understand her world.
‘I live on this road, but further up towards Clapham Common,’ she continues, wafting her hand eastwards and up the hill opposite. She can’t help a note of pride slipping into her voice. When she and Simon first moved to London, they bought a flat in Fulham with a little help from Simon’s parents. It was small and the mortgage used up most of their salaries (not that hers contributed much) but its location was what the estate agent called aspirational, and selling it smoothed the way for future house moves. Beth dreamed of having a family home between Wandsworth and Clapham Commons, so when they returned from a few years in Singapore with a baby in tow, it was the first place they looked. ‘I was on my way home from the station when I saw him,’ she explains. ‘He was slumped in the doorway; I knew straight away that he was seriously ill.’
‘And that’s when you called the emergency services?’
Beth nods. ‘A man walked past when I was calling them; I thought he was going to stop and help, but when I looked around, he’d gone.’
‘And they say chivalry’s dead,’ DC Stone murmurs.
‘The woman I spoke to asked me all these questions, whether he was breathing, if he was in the recovery position; I did what I could, but I was shaking all over.’ She shudders and isn’t sure whether it’s the cold air or the memory of kneeling down next to the man that’s causing it. The image is still so clear in her mind. His wiry beard, red-raw cheeks and rotten teeth. How badly he smelt. And she had to touch his skin, check his pulse, bend close enough to listen for breath. A wave of nausea rises with the image and Beth tries to ride it by imagining stepping into a scalding-hot shower. She scratches her left palm.
‘That must have been very difficult for you,’ the detective surmises in a low voice.
The tears are threatening again and she’s so tired that she’s not sure she can stop them escaping this time. She hears her tone harden a notch. ‘DC Stone, I want to help, but I really don’t know anything else. I’m tired, and I’d love to go home.’
‘Of course, I understand,’ he says, but his body doesn’t move, and Beth knows she’s not free yet. ‘Just a couple more questions, then I’ll get one of the uniforms to run you back.’
Beth thinks about turning down the offer of a lift, her house is only ten minutes away on foot, and a neighbour might notice her getting out of a police car. Like Saskia with her nocturnal habits and eagle eyes. But she’s frozen solid and the thought of a warm vehicle is enticing. ‘Thank you,’ she says, surrendering. ‘But I’m really not sure what I can add.’
‘You mentioned that you live on this road. And it looks like the deceased might have been squatting in this property. I wondered whether you’d seen him before tonight? Or anyone else coming or going?’
Beth face stretches into another smile and freezes. She’s been half expecting this question, but now it’s arrived she’s not quite sure how to answer it. Because she has seen him before tonight, sitting against the shop’s front window, or just wandering around, clearly high, scaring the children. And she may have uttered the odd word under her breath. There have been conversations with neighbours too, the collective tutting and sighing about the presence of squatters on their affluent street. She even emailed the residents’ association a couple of weeks ago to see if they could track down the owners of the shop (Delphine’s used to sell French haute couture until everyone transitioned to joggers). But she feels bad about that now, after what’s just happened. And it’s not like it’s relevant to the man’s death.
