Her Last Summer

by Emily Freud

Genres: Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

No body. No crime?

Twenty years ago, Mari vanished while backpacking through Thailand with her boyfriend, Luke. He was accused of murder, but has always insisted he's innocent. Besides, her body was never found.

Now, he's finally ready to talk. And filmmaker Cassidy Chambers wants to be the one to uncover what really happened, back then, in the dark of the jungle.

But as she delves deeper into the past, Cassidy begins to fear what lies ahead, and the secrets buried along the way.

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Release date: April 11, 2024

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 384

Sample

1

My fingers grip the microphone tightly as lights glare. Squinting slightly, I smile out at faces obscured by drifting motes of dust. The auditorium is full. I only know because it was whispered over my shoulder for encouragement as I waited to go on. Blushing, I listen as the woman sitting to my right lays on a thick, overembellished introduction. She lists the accolades of my short but accomplished filmmaking career, and I’m left to wonder how I’ll live up to it for these rapt onlookers. Usually, I am the one shuffling a pile of carefully curated questions in my lap.

‘Ms Chambers. We’re honoured to have you here. Really, very honoured.’

I bring the microphone up. ‘It’s great to be here.’ Feedback rings around the space and I move it an inch away, feeling foolish. ‘Thank you for inviting me.’

‘The students here at the London Film School used your documentary, Missing, as one of our seminar films last term. It is obviously a very sensitive piece, with a little girl abducted and a family traumatised – can you tell us about your process of finding stories, and approaching the victim’s loved ones?’

I collect my thoughts, before placing the mic back beneath my chin at the optimum distance. ‘When investigating this type of crime, you must be mindful of all the people involved. They never chose to be victims of something like this – it chooses them. I wouldn’t make a film if the families weren’t willing to take part, or without their permission. They’ve had hopes dashed many times, and we certainly don’t want to add to that pain. But at the same time, these are horrific crimes, and shining light on them can result in peace – in the case of Missing and Molly-­Ann’s parents, it was finding her body so they could have some finality in their grief. It can also, as we saw here, take a dangerous criminal off the streets, and stop the spread of further pain – the pain that violent crimes cause. But we do need to look at the bigger picture, questioning the system we assume will protect us if the worst should happen. So, when researching and developing, I’m looking to tell an intimate narrative with a big-­picture angle that says something about our justice system or the society we live in. I want to access a story’s inner and outer worlds. From the police station to the kitchen table. And ultimately seek the truth, and hopefully get some answers.’ Feeling I’ve rambled, I stop. I could talk for days on the subject.

She smiles supportively, and I note her eyes scanning her sheet for the next question. ‘Missing, which I should mention has been shortlisted for a Grierson Award, congratulations—’ Applause interrupts her, and she pauses to allow it room.

I hold her gaze, fighting the urge to look down, away from the compliment. ‘Thank you,’ I say, as the enthusiastic clapping peters out.

‘The film resulted in new evidence being uncovered and the correct perpetrator behind bars. How does it feel as an investigative journalist to be an active participant in a story like that?’

‘This film was years in the making but what initially drew me to this case was an article I’d read about Molly-­Ann’s step­father. He’d been in prison for a decade at that point for a crime he was adamant he didn’t commit. The circumstantial evidence was huge, but a body was never recovered. At the time, there was new evidence, but the Crown Prosecution Service were refusing to reopen the case. We spent a few months looking into the story, and decided the untapped leads were worth exploring. We approached the family and his lawyers, and they gave us access. We had no idea at the time it would lead us to Max Barber, a construction worker the family had on their property the year before she was taken.’

‘And he’s now been found guilty of her murder,’ she says knowingly.

‘We approached witnesses who were finally willing to speak. As is often the case, as years pass secrets no longer bear the same weight. Those revelations resulted in the police finally agreeing to reopen the investigation.’

‘And we all know what happened next . . .’ She leans forward. ‘They found Molly-­Ann.’

My smile fades at the memory. ‘Yes, well.’ I look at my hands. The memory of Molly-­Ann’s mother sobbing, the pain in her eyes seizing the camera lens as I caught my breath. ‘Yes. And after testing the DNA samples, her murderer was confirmed to be Max Barber.’

‘What an incredible moment! Because of you, an innocent man is free, and a murderer is off the streets. How does that feel?’

‘It’s overwhelming, if I’m honest. All we ever set out to do was to tell the story of how a miscarriage of justice can still happen in this country, even with all the checks and balances we have in place. It’s an unexpected, but extremely pleasing, by-­product of doing my job.’

‘You tell it incredibly well, I must say.’ The audience murmurs in agreement. ‘I’ve not had such an array of emotions as a viewer for a long time.’

‘We had a lot of texture in that film which helped. Recorded phone calls, psychiatric reports, police interviews. Telling these stories in the UK where you’re not permitted to film in the courtroom can be challenging. But we got lucky.’

‘That plot twist . . .’

I nod, agreeing. And with a wry smile I add, ‘Sometimes the truth is stranger than fiction!’ The audience laughs.

‘What compels you to tell these stories? You seem to be a dog with a bone once you start.’

I hesitate and look out across the crowd. As I open my mouth to reply, a solitary figure stands up. A flash of recognition and my stomach plummets. Memories clutter my mind and I close my eyes briefly, ordering away the darkness. When I open them, I realise it was just a harmless student, taking a photograph. I clutch the mic harder. ‘I just really care about the truth. And telling stories.’ She looks at me as though she knows there is more. But I purse my lips and cock my head to one side with a generic smile, waiting patiently for her next question, and she moves on.

2

I head back to the production office, rushing from platform to train. I walk quickly, as always. Companions often ask me to slow down we are so out of step. The interview has taken it out of me, and I feel as though I’m being chased by confusing emotions, and whispering echoes from words left unsaid. I know the only way to stop my skin crawling is to work. Once inside, I hop into my seat, opening my laptop and placing headphones on so I can ignore the bustle of the media company. Focusing instead on the treatment I’m writing for what I hope will be my next film. My shoulders slowly lower as I get lost in the research calls and court transcripts, body-­cam footage and news articles.

I’m completely sucked in. The next time I look out the window, evening is settling across the roofs of Soho. A muddle of aerials and chimney stacks stick into the silvery sky. Inside, desk lamps are turning off and bags are dragged up from the floor. Huddled end-­of-­day conversations. I watch from my bubble, thinking of where they are off to now, and who will be waiting for them at home.

I hear Cleo, my assistant producer, stand up and stretch. Next the sound of her bum bag clip. Her slender frame reaches the corner of my eyeline before she speaks. ‘Cass?’ I stop typing and turn my head, fingers frozen above the keyboard. ‘A few of us are going for a drink at The Ship, want to join?’ she asks, leaning on the corner of my desk, and I begin to shake my head. ‘Come on, it’ll be fun. It’s the perfect summer’s evening to get jostled about on the pavement with a cold beer. Cass, you deserve it,’ she attempts. I gesture at the document on my screen. It’s really starting to look like something pitchable.

‘I want to get this over to Raef before his meeting in the morning. I think he might say it’s ready. You go, have fun.’

She gives me one of her looks. ‘Cass, you work too hard.’ My stiff, determined smile causes her to relent. ‘Okay. Want me to stay and help?’ I shake my head as she places a hand on the top of her swivel chair, ready to jump back in.

‘No – you go. All these calls you made really helped. Enjoy yourself.’

She’s pleased. Just like me at that stage of my career: hungry, ambitious. Desperate for praise. She begins to walk away, calling, ‘Don’t stay too late!’ I watch as she joins Mo by the black grid glass doors; he’s an edit producer she’s been spending a lot of time with recently. They grin at each other and start chatting; the sound of Cleo’s high-­pitched laugh makes me smile. I’m glad. Too much of this job is long hours and weeks away – an expectation that you can drop everything and jump on a train at a moment’s notice. There isn’t enough time for a personal life. I’ve given up having one. I wasted my twenties chasing a good story. Was it a waste? I doubt I’d be in this position – barely thirty and one of the youngest female directors with a Grierson nod under my belt. Only a few years older than Cleo. They treat me like another species around here. They can’t work out how I’ve pulled it off, like I must have cheated somehow. But it’s just sacrifice. You must choose. And I did.

A few hours later and I stifle a yawn. My slouched back feels tight and sore, and I pull my arms behind me so my hands meet and gently rock my head from side to side. Then I lean towards my screen again, double checking the cover email, ensuring all integral elements are front facing, as Raef skims when in a rush. I chew my lip as I attach the document and hit send. I hope he’ll be pleased with it. Songbird Productions is the new kid on the production company block, and even though Raef’s the founder and owner, he still takes the lead on all new developments.

Satisfied, I close my laptop and secure it in my bag.

‘Hi, how are you?’ I ask the cleaner as she empties the bins.

‘You’re always here,’ she teases. ‘On your own!’

And I laugh. ‘Work shy, the lot of them.’

She smiles, but I think I notice a flicker of pity in her eyes. The noise of a hoover wails from one of the meeting rooms. I like being the last one here. It makes me feel as though I’ve eked out every possible moment of productivity from the day. Wrung it dry.

I stride across the open-­plan office, thinking of what I’ll have for dinner. Another takeaway most probably, or a ready-­made soup. I need to stop and get some food for Herzog, my cat.

The phone rings from the unmanned reception desk. It echoes shrilly around the empty foyer. Ignoring it, I continue towards the lifts. The ringing stops as I pass, but begins again immediately. I pause and stare at it, and then across to the lifts.

I sigh before making a U-­turn. Leaning over the high bar of the reception desk, I reach down and pick up the handset. I’ve been at the company from its inception so feel it’s part mine anyway. My first job in television, over ten years ago, was on reception at a large company where Raef was the creative director. As I went up the pecking order, we became friends, and he took me with him when he started up on his own.

‘Songbird Productions,’ I say. Grabbing one of the branded notebooks and pencils off the desk to take a message.

‘Can I speak to Cassidy Chambers, please?’ I blink at the sound of my own name. The man’s voice is throaty and carefully paced.

‘Who’s speaking, please?’ I ask, intrigued. I make research calls from the office for the various projects I have on the boil, hoping to get one over the line and commissioned, so it could be anyone.

‘My name is Luke Speed. I . . . I . . .’ He pauses. Unsure how to explain. But he doesn’t need to.

‘I know who you are,’ I reply, my voice rising with surprise.

‘Is that you?’ The way he says it makes me feel as though I’ve been lost.

‘Yes. I’m Cassidy.’ I pull at the strap of my bag and let it slump on the floor before hiking the phone cord over, so I can make myself comfortable in the desk chair. ‘What can I do for you, Luke?’

‘I finally got round to watching your film, Missing, last night. It . . . it brought up a lot of stuff for me.’ I flick through the filing cabinet of missing persons cases in my mind, having researched hundreds on my hunt for a new project. I know Luke’s story. I was in my first year of secondary school when the teenagers went missing while backpacking in Thailand. I remember my mum watching the coverage on the news through a haze of cigarette smoke. They were on the cover of every newspaper for weeks. It was one of the big missing persons cases of the noughties and was never fully resolved.

The story is on my list to do some deep-­dive research into, but I got distracted by something else and haven’t had time. It has all the tropes of a successful true crime series: a love story, a suspect, a young woman whose demise has never been uncovered. The did he/didn’t he? The nostalgia of that time. Backpacking in the region had been propelled into the zeitgeist because of a recent film adaptation of The Beach starring Leonardo DiCaprio, and when this story exploded all heads turned to the Asian continent. There was an outpouring of grief for the beautiful couple. But when Luke was found he became the lead suspect. Last I heard he’d got addicted to hard drugs and vanished into the underworld. Another victim? Or the guilty party? Gripping.

What is he doing calling me?

‘Your film, it made me think. It’s been twenty years since Mari went missing.’ He pauses, and I resist the urge to butt in. ‘Everyone’s had their chance to tell the story, all built on accus­ations and assumptions. It’s time to set the record straight. It’s time to tell my side.’

I stand up, needing to move somehow. This never happens. ‘Luke. Let me get this straight. You are approaching me because you’d like us to make a documentary about what happened to you and to Mari in the jungle?’

‘Yes,’ is his simple reply. ‘No one . . . no one believed me . . . They still don’t believe me . . .’ His voice cracks.

‘Luke,’ I say gently. ‘You must have been through a lot.’

‘I’m sick of hiding.’ There is an anger now, a raw frustration. ‘Of people deciding who I am from dribs and drabs of information the media skewed. I’ve finally got myself out of the mess I was in and need to regain control of my life. It’s my story. Not theirs.’ His anger rising. I am surprised how yanked by sympathy I feel. ‘And the only way I can do that is by laying down the past, in my own words.’

I clear my throat. ‘Luke. This will be a big story. It will take its toll . . . They’ll come for you, you know that, right?’

‘Let them. I can’t live my life with it hanging over me. Something needs to change before I can move on. I don’t know what else I can do. I’m stuck. And . . . I want to find her. I want to be able to say goodbye.’ The desperation in his voice is haunting.

I realise my hand is balled into a tight fist and I let it go. ‘You need to understand, Luke, just because you’ve come to me doesn’t mean I’ll let you off lightly. I’m going to ask you the tough questions. Everyone will want to know exactly what happened in the jungle between you and Mari.’

‘I want the tough questions,’ he says, almost exploding with frustration at my reticence. ‘I want people to see me as a human. Not as a . . . murderer.’ He pauses. ‘Because I didn’t hurt her – I loved her. I still love her.’ The tenderness in his voice causes me to blink.

‘You know they may not think that, right? You may tell your story. And they still may not believe you.’ I want to be honest with him right from the start before this has a chance to snowball. I don’t want him running to me down the line saying he didn’t understand the consequences.

‘I want to, Cassidy. I know you’ll do it justice. I trust you with my story.’

I feel a lick of pride and take a deep breath. ‘Okay, Luke. Let’s do this.’ I take down his details and tell him I’ll call first thing once I’ve spoken to Raef. I already know this will sell quickly. Stories like this, with a contributor still under suspicion willing to be the focal point of a film, don’t come around often. The streaming services will all want a go at it, a lot of the traditional broadcasters too.

This is the big one I’ve been waiting for. And I can’t quite believe how it has fallen into my lap. Luke Speed is my next obsession. I already know it.

3

Raef is jittery. He’s doing that annoying thing with his leg when he’s rushing with adrenalin. Rocking it subconsciously as he inhales thickly on his vape. Since I phoned him a few evenings ago, full of heady elation, he’s been gushing about the possibilities of the project – who he’s going to pitch to, what it could look like stylistically. The scope. The awards. I’ll get random voice notes day and night with thoughts far too premature for the stage we’re at.

Luke is due to come into the office today. I can tell by the angst haemorrhaging off Raef that he’s nervous, having built it up in his mind that Luke won’t be what he’s hoping: a strong character who’ll be able to carry a film. This meeting will, hopefully, expel those fears. I’m not worried. Over the last few days, I’ve spoken to Luke for hours. He’s desperately likeable and brilliant at articulating himself. I just know it will transfer onto screen. I have good instincts for this sort of thing.

I’ve been busy writing up the cold case as a treatment using my research calls with Luke, and news articles and interviews that have accumulated over the last two decades. Meeting him is one of the final hurdles; after this, Raef wants to start the ball rolling selling the series, and at least get some development money.

After completely immersing myself in the story, it’s even more compelling than I remembered. Mari and Luke were high school sweethearts. All A stars at A level; captains of the sports teams. They were beautiful, sultry and wholesome. The real deal. When they went missing the whole country was on tenterhooks. Vigils were held. The Archbishop of Canterbury mentioned them in a sermon. The prime minister talked about their plight in parliament. People donned purple ribbons, to match the colour of their school uniforms. There was collective euphoria when Luke was found, and then grief when Mari was officially declared missing, presumed dead. That united grief turned to united anger when Luke’s story came out.

He was no longer a victim, but a culprit.

Luke’s outlandish claims of being followed by a maniac in the jungle were simply laughed at by Thai police – even more so by the British media. He described this crazed man as having wild hair and his body covered in mud; he’d stalk them day and night. One outlet did a mock-­up of his description which travelled across the internet before the term ‘going viral’ had even been invented.

In 2002 Luke gave a shambolic interview to the police after months of near starvation and disorientation so severe, he was half crazed himself. He said that one morning he woke up in their makeshift camp, and Mari was simply gone. Poof. No one believed his theory the perpetrator was this chilling figure in the jungle.

Then, more evidence came to light which painted a different picture of Mari’s boyfriend. CCTV emerged of them arguing during their trip. Travellers came forward, saying they’d witnessed the pair fighting. But what really went against Luke was the fact the police could not find one shred of evidence there was anyone else in the jungle. The fabled man Luke talked of was dismissed as utter rubbish. The rescue service never recovered her body. So, a definitive answer has eluded everyone since.

Raef flicks through the treatment I’d printed off for him. ‘Right. You okay leading? We need this to go well.’

I nod, trying not to let his anxiety rub off on me. ‘Sure. It will be fine, Raef.’ I flick him a look.

‘I’m seeing Sangeet from Channel 4 and Felix from Disney+ this afternoon,’ he says, as if to underline how important this initial meeting is. ‘I’ve got more tomorrow. It wouldn’t look good if I cancel.’

‘I know, Raef,’ I say with a sigh. I told him to wait until we’d done this housekeeping before he got everyone excited. But he couldn’t help himself. Raef seems to thrive under pressure, and I think he assumes others do too. ‘I told you. Luke can carry this, I’m sure of it.’

He looks at me intensely, as if checking for cracks. ‘Well, I hope he doesn’t back off once we go through everything for informed consent.’ Part of this meeting will need to include what the project could entail, and all negative repercussions that could come from it. Then he’ll need to sign a release form, confirming he understands and agrees to take part in the film.

‘Let’s just take it one step at a time,’ I reply calmly. Raef nods. I’ve got a good track record of coming up with the goods.

The phone rings in the middle of the meeting room table. We look at each other. Showtime. He nods at me to take it, and I lean forward and snatch it up.

‘Luke Speed is here to see you,’ the receptionist tells me.

Thank goodness. I was half terrified he wouldn’t turn up.

‘Great. Send him over to meeting room three.’ I tighten my ponytail and brush down the front of my shirt, before turning to look out the glass wall.

The first thing I notice is everyone in the office stops what they’re doing, and looks up, transfixed. The women especially, but the men too. There is a shift in the atmosphere. Heads are tilted, backs arch and lips part. When he comes into view, I understand.

He’s tall, with a broad chest and toned arms. Although bald, this suits his chiselled face. He has a slight tan and a fresh-­out-­the-­gym-­shower glaze. He’s wearing a crisp white T-­shirt and khaki trousers with white Converse, a bag slung confidently over the back of his shoulder. There is a mid-­century vibe about him. Incredibly well put together.

He catches me staring through the glass and smiles, and dimples form on his cheeks. I return his smile warmly, feeling like I’ve got to know him well during our long research chats, some of which have lasted hours. But I’ve been picturing the Luke from twenty-­year-­old photographs. Not this Luke. I wasn’t picturing him like this.

I open the door for him and Raef jumps to his feet, holding out a hand. ‘Luke, great to have you here. Thank you for coming in.’ He gestures to a seat at the other side of the table and picks up the phone. ‘Tea? Coffee?’

Luke pulls out the chair and begins to sit. ‘A glass of water would be great. It’s so hot today,’ he says, gesturing to the window and the vivid blue sky.

‘Can you bring a coffee, one of those herby things Cass likes, and some cold water and glasses to meeting room three?’ Raef tells the runner at the end of the line. ‘Thanks.’ He puts the phone down and takes the seat across from Luke. His extra charming smile plastered, which he saves for people in need of impressing.

‘So, Luke. Thank you so much for choosing to trust us with this,’ he says, rubbing his hands together.

Luke nods, glancing at me. ‘It was more because of Cassidy than anything.’ I feel myself flush. This isn’t me at all. I’m trying not to look at him directly because I’m afraid he’ll sense something.

‘Yes, well. She’s ours so it all works out,’ Raef replies ­jovially, swivelling his chair in my direction, and I take my cue to jump in.

‘Yes, thank you for coming in, Luke,’ I say, looking up at him with an assured smile. ‘We wanted to get you in here to go through the process, so you really understand what you’re committing yourself to before we start.’

‘I appreciate that. But I’ve already made up my mind,’ he says, leaning back in his chair, poised and relaxed. The runner bursts in, the mugs and glasses knocking together as he nervously puts the tray down on the table. We wait for him to leave before continuing. Raef terrifies the younger cohort of the team. He is the king of factual television, and the long list of critically acclaimed hours of television that precede him are intimidating. His eye for . . .