The Flower Girls

by Alice Clark-Platts

  For Tom, Constance and India

  ALSO BY ALICE CLARK-PLATTS

  Bitter Fruits

  The Taken

  CONTENTS

  Also by Alice Clark-Platts

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Part Two

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Part Three

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Acknowledgements

  A Note on the Author

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  1997

  Rosie was aware of nothing apart from her sister’s shadow. It spiked, jagged and black, across the stippled, sunburnt grass. She skipped inside its edges, her white leather sandals dipping into the cool before springing out, feeling once again the blister of sunlight.

  She hopped in and out of Laurel’s shadow like a sprite, seeing only the ground as she danced, watching the grass change to asphalt beneath her. They flitted past the unoiled swings where children squeaked, throwing their flying silhouettes onto the grey concrete of the playground, then past the colossal oak tree that shaded the white-and-red awning of the trailer café where a circle of mothers clustered, holding Styrofoam cups of coffee. Then they turned left, in the direction of the old metal rocking horse that creaked back and forth, its seats worn shiny and pale.

  Jumping over the cracks in the concrete, Rosie skidded to a halt at the platform alongside the horse. Still gazing down at the ground, she could see her sister’s feet below the horse’s mouth, her scuffed red trainers, one on top of the other, the laces split short and untied. Above the trainers, attached to legs astride the horse, she could see the flowery buckled shoes of a toddler, her podgy toes bunched up beneath a strap, her ankles fat like coddled cream.

  Rosie lifted her head. Her eyeline reached that of the blank-faced horse. Metal rolls of hair curled down the mane to where the toddler’s fingers clung tightly to the strands of frayed rope that served as reins.

  ‘Where’s your mother?’ Laurel asked the little girl.

  Rosie moved her gaze to her sister. The leaves of the oak tree swayed quietly above them; a breeze kissed their foreheads damp with sweat.

  ‘Do you like sweeties?’ Laurel said. ‘I’ve got some if you like.’

  Rosie felt the top of her lip prickle. She said nothing, though. Just waited.

  The toddler shifted on the seat at the front of the horse. She wore a yellow T-shirt with a daisy on it. Light blue shorts. She had a clip in her hair, pink and shimmery. Rosie raised her hand to touch it. It was beautiful. Like the toddler’s golden hair.

  The little girl turned her head to where her mother stood, coffee cup in hand. Her mouth opened in a soft little ‘oh’.

  ‘Sssshhh . . .’ whispered Laurel and the toddler hesitated. ‘Do you know where the fairies live?’ she asked. ‘They live in a little dell, just down there.’ And she flung her hand out, pointing over the playground fence, to where the grass dipped down and the land stretched out beyond where they could see. ‘Just there. They live in tiny houses. Under buttercups and snowdrops. It’s beautiful,’ she said.

  Rosie watched as the toddler’s gaze followed the line of her sister’s hand. As her eyelashes widened at the beautiful and incomprehensible names her sister gave the fairies: Titania; Cobweb; Mustardseed.

  Rosie began to dance and spring again, in and out of the shadow of her sister as it moved once more across the playground. She whispered the names to herself: Lily and Bluebell and, her favourite, Rosebud.

  They skipped over the rough ground, the grey of the paving stones, through the gate and back onto the sun-stained grass, its coarse, unmowed tufts grazing their calves, flattening dock leaves as they passed. And then down the slope they went, down into the cool and the shade of the line of oak trees that stood guard, wise and silent, running the whole length of the old canal path.

  That was where they went.

  Down to the grass-filled gully as the trees whispered above them, watching them and waiting.

  For what was yet to come.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It is on Hazel Archer’s twenty-fifth birthday that the second girl goes missing.

  The child is only five years old, with hair like Snow-White’s and a rosebud mouth all puckered and soft in a never-ending pout. She was last seen as the light fell away from the land and the Devon coastline became a swathe of rough, black shadows. Night has drawn in quickly around the hotel, which perches high on a promontory over the English Channel, dark folds of rock stretching down to where the sea pounds on the wintry shore, gravelly waters pulling in and out like monstrous pistons.

  Hazel is at her dressing table in the hotel room when the alarm is sounded. Jonny hums to himself, shaving at the bathroom mirror. Evie is next door in her own room, undoubtedly plugged into her headphones, eyes half-closed, long painted fingernails tapping along to the tinny beats in her ears.

  The rapping on the bedroom doors begins along the corridor. At first, Hazel assumes it is room service, delivering aperitifs before the New Year celebrations start in earnest. But the knocking is too quick and moves on too swiftly for that. There is no cheerful clank of a bottle on glass, no surprised laughter or thank yous. Instead, there is a swift and sudden change of mood. A sea mist seems to swirl frantically down the corridors, chasing ahead, while searchlights beam on each and every room.

  Jonny opens the door. A towel is around his waist, soap still clinging to his cheeks, his cropped, dark hair damp from the steam in the bathroom. Mr Lamb, the manager of Balcombe Court, stands outside in the corridor. Across the way, another staff member is kn
ocking on doors opposite. Inside their bedroom, all is soft-furnished and -hued: a four-poster bed, winged velveteen-covered armchairs, mahogany bow-legged tables. Outside, it is a different country: the air is fraught with panic.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ Jonny enquires.

  Mr Lamb is short and compact. He bounces uneasily on the balls of his feet, his breathing pinched and held tight. ‘A little girl’s gone missing,’ he says. ‘Her name’s Georgie. Over an hour ago – nearly two.’ He skewers Jonny with a stare before shifting his gaze beyond the line of his shoulder, over to where Hazel sits. ‘Have you seen her, either of you?’

  Jonny turns back to Hazel and they look at each other. After the merest second, they shake their heads almost in unison, mouths drawn closed, perceptibly nonplussed.

  ‘No,’ Jonny says. ‘We’ve been in here for an hour, I’d say. Wouldn’t you, Hazel? I haven’t seen any little girl.’ He frowns. ‘Maybe at lunch? I think I saw her in the dining room earlier. She’s the small dark-haired one, with the baby brother?’

  Hazel’s eyes are wide, her skin shiny with moisturiser. Her hands are gathered in her lap. ‘Where was she last seen?’ she asks.

  Mr Lamb shakes his head impatiently, keen to be off looking for the girl. ‘She’s five years old,’ he says, as if that is an answer. ‘Her mother is distraught. If you see her …’

  Jonny nods again.

  ‘Of course,’ Hazel replies. ‘Let us know if we can help.’

  ‘We can join in a search,’ Jonny adds.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Mr Lamb answers. He lifts his eyes to the ceiling, as if praying to the gods. ‘There’s a storm coming, you see. If she’s outside …’

  Hazel glances out of the mullioned window. The sky is pitch black beyond the glass. Balcombe Court is isolated, balanced as if on the air atop the sea. If Georgie is lost out there, she could fall down over the headland. She could be badly injured.

  ‘You could ask Evie,’ Hazel suggests. ‘Jonny’s daughter is in the room next door,’ she explains. ‘Jonny, go with Mr Lamb to check.’

  ‘Hang on, let me get some clothes,’ he says, retreating to the bathroom. He emerges a few seconds later, tousled in jeans and T-shirt, and he and Mr Lamb hurry along the corridor. Hazel stands as she hears a short rap on a door, the sound of Evie’s voice as she opens it, the murmurings explaining why they are there. Hazel moves to the window and looks out to where the yellow lights of the hotel seep onto the snowy ground.

  She scrutinises her reflection in the dark glass. From downstairs, the aroma of roast meat, caramelised vegetables and garlic, of fruit punch and red wine, creeps into the room and she feels a similar sense of nausea as she had done once as a child, lying upstairs with a fever while her mother fried onions down below. She leans her forehead against a diamond of cold, damp glass framed by lead and history.

  ‘Happy birthday, Hazel,’ she whispers. ‘Happy birthday, precious girl.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  The cries of Georgie Greenstreet’s mother are tearing through the hotel like violent jags of rainwater.

  Hazel is clothed now, her red dress on, her high-heeled shoes ready by the door. Jonny is in his suit and they stand facing each other, their faces strained.

  ‘They’ll cancel the dinner, I expect,’ he says.

  Hazel presses her lips together, a bite of irritation stabbing within her at his acceptance of the status quo. They have been stuck in this room for an hour since the manager’s visit, despite Hazel trying to persuade Jonny to go downstairs and see what’s going on, what’s happening with the other guests. But he has been firm, telling her they should wait for further instructions from Mr Lamb.

  ‘They don’t need us bothering them now,’ he says. ‘They’ve got enough on their plates.’

  Hazel tries to ignore the feeling she has been having lately – only in the last few weeks, since they have been planning this trip, in fact, and cajoling Evie to come with them – that Jonny’s concern with not bothering other people is a trait which, later down the line in their relationship, will cause Hazel to resent him, to lash out in frustration, pound a figurative wall with her fists, that he is so laid-back.

  At the same time, she looks at him standing there in his crisp white shirt and his dove-grey tie and feels wrapped in a strength that shields her from everything in the past, and what might happen in the future. Even when he is dressed, she can imagine the weight of him, the feel of his muscular arms around her. Is this what marriage is like? she wonders. A constant balancing act between infatuation and impatience. Not that they are actually married yet, but it seems probable, and Jonny has never caused her to worry that it won’t be the case. He is an ally, she knows this. He has taken on burdens with her that no other man would shoulder. Even with Evie, his daughter from his previous marriage – even then – he has introduced Hazel with such eagerness, such pride to have her in his life.

  But despite all of this, surely he must see the danger of the situation? With the girl missing? She turns back to the mirror, searching her perfectly made-up face, trying to imagine what others will think when they see it. How she will be judged. Her heart roils inside her chest, caught between the childish sense that what is happening is unjust, and fearful anticipation of what is yet to come. Whatever Jonny says, they should be downstairs, figuring out what to do, finding out what the hotel management are planning.

  ‘Will they call the police?’ Hazel asks him, her eyes febrile and bright.

  ‘Coastguard first, I would think,’ he answers, hands in his pockets, leaning back against the door. ‘If Lamb’s right, and the weather’s turning bad, they’ll want to search the beach before it kicks in. Storms are epic around here. You wouldn’t want to be anywhere near the sea in one.’ Jonny stops talking and takes a breath as if a thought has just occurred to him. Again, Hazel feels that bite of irritation, that feeling of being ten steps ahead. He comes over to her and cradles her face between his palms. ‘Oh, sweetheart, are you worried? About the police coming?’

  With an effort, Hazel swallows her frustration. Her hands tremble as she places them on his shoulders. ‘Of course I am. What do you think?’ She closes her eyes briefly. ‘A five year old going missing. It’s . . .’ She shakes her head, unable to finish.

  ‘It’s going to be fine,’ Jonny says. ‘I promise. You’ve got nothing to worry about. I’m here, aren’t I?’

  Hazel leans her head against his chest, breathing in the scent of him, feeling that solid frame, strong as oak, which props her up. It’s only when she straightens that she sees, with the force of a whiplash, electric-blue swirls chasing rapidly across the walls. Then she realises that her fears have materialised, and her head begins to spin along with the lights that circle the room from outside.

  Turning together to the window, they see the harsh, unremitting lights burning from the two police cars that have drawn quietly up in the snow.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The jaunty Christmas trees by the hotel entrance twinkle persistently under the barrage of freezing water that has begun to fall like nails from the sky. Detective Constable Lorna Hillier pulls up as close to the front door as she can, her car skidding slightly as she brakes.

  She has a checklist running through her brain at high speed. Close off entrances and exits; check CCTV (if any); confirm timings of guests; search all hidey-holes; PNC checks on everyone in the hotel for sex-register entries; liaise with the coastguard regarding search parameters; consider the necessity of a child rescue alert. Words like murder and kidnap leap around her head. Her eyes flit from wall to window, ears pricked as the weather changes shape outside.

  ‘Could do without this storm,’ she says to Mr Lamb, who greets her in the hotel lobby. They stand in front of the fireplace, their shadows dancing around the mahogany panelling. Behind them seven-foot-tall Christmas tree dominates the area in front of the desk, where an eavesdropping receptionist leans forward. ‘It’s going to make the search near-on impossible.’ Hillier glances at the ceilin
g. ‘Are the parents upstairs?’

  ‘Yes – with the baby. They’re not in a good way.’

  ‘That’s understandable,’ Hillier replies. ‘How many guests are staying here?’ she says, assessing the two corridors leading off from reception. There will be other exits, she thinks, other nooks and crannies where a child could hide or be hidden. ‘How many staff?’

  ‘I’ll get you a full list from the register,’ the hotel manager answers, shifting in his tweed suit, rising up onto his toes. He is barely an inch taller than Hillier and this is bothering him, she observes. ‘Would you like to see the parents now?’

  Hillier glances at him, noting his glum expression. ‘Yes, and then I’ll want to talk to the guests. Perhaps you can gather them in the lounge? And . . . the chef?’ She looks at her small spiral-bound notebook. ‘In your call, you said he saw Georgie at around three p.m.?’

  ‘She came to see the kittens,’ Mr Lamb says. ‘We found them in a box down on the beach earlier. Someone obviously wanted to dump them. Marek – the sous-chef – brought them here. He put them in the pantry, just out the back of the kitchen.’ Mr Lamb nods in the direction of the wall behind Hillier. ‘Marek says that Georgie came in earlier, wanting to see them, and he showed her and they gave them some milk together. Then she went away.’ He exhales mournfully.

  ‘Went where?’

  Mr Lamb hesitates. ‘I don’t know – we don’t know,’ he says at last.

  ‘How long has Marek . . . Surname?’

  ‘Kaczka.’

  ‘How long has he worked at Balcombe Court?’

  ‘Eighteen months. He’s a good lad. And why would he say he’d seen her if he’d . . . ?’ Lamb’s sentence peters out.

  Hillier says nothing, making another note on her pad. She looks up as the constable first on the scene, Tom Ellis, comes into the hotel from outside, shaking droplets of water from his jacket.

  ‘Nothing,’ he says in answer to her unspoken question. ‘The boys are searching everywhere. Checking all the guest rooms, the places you told us about.’ He jerks his chin at the hotel manager.