The Flower Girls

by Alice Clark-Platts

‘But what?’ says Joanna, turning back to face Will. ‘I mean, she can’t apply for permission to review the decision of the parole board again. We’ve been through this. Time and time again, right?’ She eyeballs her friend, who has leaned back in his chair, his expression pained.

  ‘I just think we might need to steel ourselves for the worst this time,’ he says at last. He holds up his hands as Joanna starts to speak. ‘I know,’ he says. ‘But eighteen years is a decent stretch. She was a child when she went in. She’s nearly thirty now. I’m worried that you’re not taking on board the fact that some people might consider it enough. They might think she’s paid her dues.’

  ‘She beat Kirstie to death,’ Joanna spits. ‘She cut her arms and legs so badly that my niece would have died from blood loss if she hadn’t been beaten to death first. She bit off her earlobe. She’s never shown any remorse, never admitted her guilt. Is this really someone you want loose on our streets? Wandering into school playgrounds? Where’s any evidence of her rehabilitation? She can’t even say sorry for what she’s done, because she isn’t sorry.’ Her tone is scathing. ‘She couldn’t care less. And meanwhile Debbie and Rob have to live with what she’s done – every single day. The parole board are competent. More than competent. We say they are capable of deciding whether prisoners should be released on licence. And they have said that Laurel isn’t safe. But that’s not good enough apparently. Because she’s got more time on her hands than . . . I don’t know what. She can sit around the livelong day, bringing legal challenges against their decisions!’

  Joanna hurls her paper cup into the waste bin and snatches up her backpack. ‘I need to call my sister,’ she says. ‘I just hope she hasn’t seen the news before I speak to her.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘Primrose . . . Rosie,’ Max says softly, staring into Hazel’s eyes. ‘That’s who you are.’

  They are standing at opposite ends of Max’s room, he by the window, which overlooks the back of the hotel, the small delivery bay and the snowy fields stretching away from the sea. Hazel is positioned with her back to the door, ready to flee if necessary, keeping a wary distance between them. She feels a line of perspiration drip down her chest as she stares at Max. His face is eager, like a bloodhound’s. Hazel’s expression by contrast is taut, carefully controlled, apart from the feverish eyes that glitter at him, like a fox’s at the start of the hunt.

  ‘Please,’ he says levelly, ‘I don’t want to upset or frighten you. That’s not what this is about. I’m here doing research for my novel. That’s who I am – an author. I’m down here writing my book because it’s about here. It’s set here in Devon,’ he explains, aware of the clumsiness of his words. He’s so wired, they feel like party balloons popping. He needs to rein them in, keep her calm. Keep her here, in his room.

  ‘I was writing a scene,’ Max continues, forcing himself to ignore her obvious distress, ‘about a primrose.’ He waves his hands as if that’s irrelevant. ‘Anyway – the thing is – it reminded me. I knew I’d seen you somewhere before. Couldn’t place you, though, you know? But I’m good with faces. Always have been. And then it came to me!’ He snaps his fingers. ‘Primrose Bowman. Laurel Bowman’s sister. You were the Flower Girls.’ He looks at her, rubbing his chest. ‘I googled it. Found your photograph from when you were little. With your sister. The one they used in all the papers. You were both so famous then, everyone knew your faces.’ He shakes his head. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t get it straight away, but . . . well, you’re older now, aren’t you? Taller. But you still look the same. Your features . . .’ He stares at her. ‘I’m right, aren’t I? You’re Primrose Bowman.’

  Hazel watches him, silent and pale. After a moment, she nods slowly.

  ‘I knew it!’ he exclaims and rocks back on his heels, almost triumphant. They look at each other in the aftermath and Max coughs awkwardly. Now he’s got his answer he’s nonplussed, not sure what to do with the weight of his satisfaction. The quiet lengthens and stretches its legs inside the room. Hazel lets the silence settle. Her brain is noisy and fast, but she tells it to calm down, to be still. There is a grain of hope here. Somewhere in this hotel, she still has some power.

  ‘So . . .’ she begins. ‘What are you going to do?’

  Max looks confused. ‘Do?’ he asks. ‘About what?’

  Again, Hazel feels that familiar buzz of irritation, that people can be so dense. Surely he knows what he has here?

  ‘About Georgie,’ she says. ‘The police. What are you going to tell them, now that you know?’

  A bird squawks hoarsely outside. There is the faint sound of a car engine. Max rubs his hand across the back of his neck, his expression changing from anxious to blank and reverting to worried in a matter of seconds.

  Is he getting it now? wonders Hazel. Is he seeing what he has on his hands?

  ‘Oh,’ Max says, taking a step forward but moving back again swiftly when he sees her turn rigid. ‘Oh, God. It wasn’t you, was it? With the girl?’ A thin layer of sweat shines on his forehead. ‘You didn’t . . .’

  ‘No!’ Hazel cries. ‘I didn’t mean that! I wouldn’t. I haven’t. I swear. I don’t know where she is. I haven’t touched her, I promise you.’ She closes her eyes and gathers her thoughts. ‘I’m not the guilty one. It wasn’t me then and it isn’t me now.’

  Max’s expression is suddenly miserable. ‘I haven’t thought this through,’ he mutters, staring down at the carpet.

  ‘I haven’t touched that girl,’ Hazel says again, her voice a little firmer. ‘But, listen . . . Max, is it? If the police find out who I am . . . God, if the press do, if they come here . . .’ Her eyes fill with tears as she holds her hands out to him, her smallness, her cropped hair, emphasising how vulnerable she is.

  How little she was, back then, thinks Max.

  ‘I’m trapped,’ she whispers.

  Something in his face changes. ‘But you were going to run,’ he says as the thought occurs to him. ‘You had your suitcase. You wanted to leave.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’ Hazel’s voice cracks, a tear rolling down her cheek. ‘That policewoman. Hillier. I know she recognises me from somewhere. I just know it. She’ll have me arrested before you can even blink. I’ve seen it before, Max.’ And now it’s she who steps forward. ‘Trial by media. By the public. They’ve decided you’re guilty before you’ve even said a word. They wanted to bring back the death penalty for us. For me and Laurel.’ She swallows, draws her hands together in a prayer. ‘I swear to you – on my mother’s grave – I haven’t harmed that girl. I tried to leave because I’m scared.’ She shuts her eyes again. ‘You must see that.’

  Max is looking at her, trying to take it in, trying to discern what is true.

  Hazel takes another step forward. ‘I was never tried,’ she says. ‘I was six years old. Can you imagine? I was only just older than Georgie is now.’

  After a small thrust of his neck, Max shakes his head. ‘No, I can’t,’ he answers, his voice cracks a little.

  Hazel nods. ‘Everything was . . . God, when I think about it. Because of my sister and what she did, we were all so tainted. So damaged by it.’ Her voice is rising, emotion catching in her throat. ‘We were finished that day. Kirstie was dead,’ a sob breaks through, ‘and so was I . . . Rosie Bowman. My old life was dead to me.’ She takes a jagged breath, pulling herself to her centre before fixing Max with an anguished look. ‘Don’t make me go through it again, Max. Please. I’m begging you.’

  He is silent, thinking. His fingertips tingle at his sides. To be faced by this woman. This pariah. At one moment in time, after Princess Diana and Laurel Bowman, she was the third most famous person in the world. He remembers the photographs, the interviews, the screaming crowds outside the courtroom, the desperate tears of Kirstie Swann’s parents, the mother with her pregnant belly, staring into the camera with such vacant despair. He thinks about his own beautiful daughters and the girl who is missing. About her mother, weeping upstairs. And the press that wi
ll soon descend on the hotel like vultures. The policewoman, Hillier. He thinks of it all as he studies Hazel Archer’s face, her beautiful eyes pleading with him, asking him to make her safe.

  ‘It’s time to go downstairs,’ he says, at last. ‘I’m sorry. But we need to tell the police who you are.’

  Hazel shakes her head, expelling a long, slow breath. ‘Then I’ll die,’ she says simply.

  ‘Of course you won’t,’ he answers, firmer now. ‘We’ll just clear it up, remove the suspicion, and then you can go home. It’ll be all right, you’ll see. But you must be upfront with the police. It’ll only cause you more trouble if you try and leave.’

  Hazel isn’t answering. Tears are streaming down her cheeks.

  ‘Come on,’ Max says, stilted and uncomfortable now that he has brought a woman into his bedroom and made her cry. ‘I promise I’ll help you. I’m sure that everything will be fine.’

  ‘No, it won’t.’ Her voice catches, her breathing ragged. ‘You don’t know what you’re doing.’

  ‘I do,’ he says resolutely. ‘This is the right thing. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘But you don’t know about . . . oh, what’s the point?’ Hazel trails off, exhausted and limp. She sags a little at her knees, as if she might fall to the floor.

  ‘About what?’ he asks, moving towards her, suddenly aware of a different kind of fear in her face. ‘What is it you’re afraid of? Not the press or the police?’

  ‘No, not them.’ Hazel’s voice trembles. ‘It’s the other one. The person I don’t know . . .’

  Max shakes his head, confused. ‘What other person?’

  Hazel crouches and reaches into her handbag, rummaging until she finds her phone and looks at it for a few seconds, before jerking it towards him. ‘I haven’t told anyone about this,’ she says. ‘I didn’t know what to do.’

  Max takes the phone and stares down at the screen. Then he lifts his eyes to meet Hazel’s. ‘Who sent this to you?’ he asks.

  She moves her head from side to side, her face wild and tear-streaked. ‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘I just don’t know.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Hillier examines Marek Kaczka as he sits in front of her, his knees pressed tightly together, a lock of dark hair falling into his eyes, the rest of it tied back in a stumpy ponytail. He’s in his early twenties, she surmises. He looks at her distrustfully. There is stubble across his cheeks; he has deep brown eyes that undoubtedly some women would consider attractive.

  Hillier was given Kaczka’s full record this morning and it set her teeth on edge. Two years ago he was brought in for an alleged sexual assault on a minor. He’d become involved with a local girl from Brixham, claiming when reported by her school that he’d believed she was above the age of consent.

  In reality, she was only fifteen.

  Despite the school’s complaint, her parents had done nothing to support it. Three days after her sixteenth birthday the CPS had abandoned the charge for lack of evidence. But infractions such as these are generally only the tip of the iceberg. Hillier has seen the picture of the girl in her school uniform. Kaczka clearly likes young girls.

  Just how young remains to be seen.

  Hillier is on a ticking clock. It’s New Year’s Day and Georgie has now been missing for over twelve hours. The Major Investigation Unit and their associated forensic teams will be here within the hour, hampered by the weather and their longer journey from Torquay. But until they arrive, this remains Hillier’s case. And she wants it, it’s hers. She wants to find Georgie before the case is snatched away from her. She’s just hoping that a body isn’t going to propel things out of her remit before she can establish a definite suspect.

  Marek is nervous, that much is apparent to her, although he is trying to disguise this with an unattractive braggadocio, his shoulders squared and his jaw dropped, mouth open a little.

  ‘Talk me through yesterday afternoon,’ she says, pen poised over her notebook. ‘You’ve said you came on shift at one p.m.?’

  Marek nods. ‘It was going to be a late night with the New Year’s party so I was on the afternoon stint.’

  ‘What did you do when you got here?’ Hillier barks questions, keeping the momentum up. She wants him uncomfortable, ill at ease.

  Marek pushes his hair back from his face and swallows hard. ‘I went straight to the kitchen, started peeling the carrots. Karen – the waitress? – she’d been down on the beach earlier and seen a box by the rocks just leading up to the headland. She runs there every day.’

  Something in his tone makes Hillier suspect that there is a romantic connection between Marek and this Karen. It nudges him out of focus for a second as a potential paedophile. Just a nudge, but there all the same.

  ‘Inside the box were the kittens. Three of them. They were tied together with string and someone had put rocks in the box. Karen was upset. She, you know, thought someone had been trying to drown them. Then maybe they changed their mind? Left them there on the beach to starve instead?’ Marek crosses one leg over the other, his nerves dwindling now that he’s talking.

  He’s voluble, Hillier thinks. Likes the sound of his own voice. Good. Keep him talking.

  ‘So she brought them up to the hotel,’ he continues. ‘When I got here and saw them, I knew Chef wouldn’t like it. You can’t have animals in a kitchen and she’d put them right where the cold box is for the veggies. So we decided to hide the kittens in the storage room where we keep the dry ingredients, the flour and beans, what have you. I gave them some milk, untied them, kept them warm.’

  ‘You’re a big bloke,’ Hillier observes.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, you don’t strike me as a guy who’d go out of his way to save some cute fluffy animals.’

  Marek allows a smile. ‘Well, Karen liked them so . . .’

  ‘And you like Karen?’

  He shrugs again. ‘Yeah. I mean, why not? She’s cute. We get on.’

  Hillier nods. ‘And then?’ she prompts.

  ‘Karen must have told the guests. Or some of them. In the dining room at lunchtime before she went home and I got there. Or after, I don’t know. She wasn’t working that night.’ He sighs. ‘I didn’t really think about it. I was just working, getting everything ready for evening prep.’

  ‘Peeling the carrots?’

  ‘That’s right, yeah. And then I heard something by the door. And I turned round, and there she was just standing there. Georgie.’

  ‘Where was everyone else?’

  ‘They were around,’ he says. ‘It was busy, right? Everyone was running all over the place so they didn’t notice her. But I was standing by the swing door where she came in. And I knew immediately I clocked her, I knew why she was there. Chef was down the other end, where the fridges are, and I didn’t want him to see her or find out about the cats, so I put my fingers to my lips like this.’ And he makes the action.

  Something about his finger on his moist, full lips engenders an internal shudder in Hillier.

  ‘And then I pointed to the storage cupboard and beckoned her over. She’s sweet, right? She looks like my niece, Alicia.’ His eyes dart down to Hillier’s chest as if comparing the image of a child with that of a grown woman. His mouth curls.

  ‘So she came into the cupboard and knelt down and started stroking the kittens, playing with them.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘I don’t know. Three o’clock, maybe?’

  ‘And how long was she in there?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he says again. ‘I left her there. Went back to my station. And then, time went on. I finished the carrots. Then I had to do the potatoes for the gratin. So . . . you know, I really don’t know how long she was in there for.’

  ‘You must have seen her leave, though?’ Hillier asks.

  Marek shakes his head and clears his throat. ‘I didn’t. By the time I got around to thinking about her, it was dark outside. I went to the cupboard to tell her she’d better leave but she w
as already gone.’

  ‘And you didn’t see her go? Didn’t notice what the time was then?’

  ‘No. Look, I’m sorry. I was busy. I wasn’t watching the clock.’

  Can that be true? Hillier thinks. Isn’t clock watching a necessary part of working in a kitchen? Planning the service, timing things to perfection? Her instinct is not to believe this.

  ‘And did you see her again?’

  ‘No,’ he answers, lowering his eyes, his long eyelashes almost touching his cheeks. ‘The poor kid. I don’t know where she went after that.’

  ‘You’ve got form in this area, though, haven’t you?’

  Marek narrows his eyes. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know what I mean, Marek. You like them young, don’t you? Girls, I mean.’

  ‘That was totally innocent,’ he says, straightening in his chair, anger flashing across his face. Hillier notices his fists, flexing on his thighs. He’s strong. ‘She told me she was seventeen. She looked like she was in her twenties.’

  ‘Really? Doesn’t mention that on the file. She looks positively pre-teen in her school uniform.’

  ‘I never saw her in her uniform,’ he snaps. ‘And I was never charged. It was a mistake. It’s got nothing to do with this. I’m not a fucking paedo.’

  Hillier raises her eyebrows.

  ‘I’m not!’

  ‘Maybe,’ she says. ‘Have you got a girlfriend?’

  ‘Not at the moment, no. Not that it’s any of your business.’

  Hillier begins shuffling her papers, giving the signal that the interview is over.

  ‘And the kittens?’ she says as she gets to her feet.

  Marek looks confused. ‘The kittens?’

  ‘Where are they now?’ Hillier asks, looking down at him. ‘Are they still in the cupboard?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he answers, bewildered by the sudden turn in the conversation.

  ‘You haven’t checked on them since you prepped the dinner service last night?’

  ‘Yes. I mean, no.’ His eyebrows are drawn together, as if he’s flummoxed by this detail. ‘I don’t think so. I’m sure Karen has . . . Or somebody else?’