‘Georgie!’ she yells, sprinting until her lungs are fit to burst. ‘Georgie Greenstreet! Is that you?’
She reaches the frozen creature. Its eyes are large as planets, red-rimmed and filled with water. She rips off her jacket and kneels down, wraps it around the child. At the same time, she removes the frozen lifeless bodies of the kittens from Georgie’s arms and lays them gently on the ground. She pulls the child in against her chest and rubs her fragile limbs as if coaxing the very life back into her. ‘It’s OK, Georgie,’ she says, her voice a grateful whisper. ‘You’re all right. You’re going to be all right.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
‘You have to tell your side of the story,’ Max says, sitting down on the window seat next to Hazel. He is turned sideways, his focus solely on her. In front of them, Jonny stands with legs apart, thumbs thrust through the belt loops on his jeans.
The window behind them is white from the glare of the snow. Despite the apparent calm, the hustle of the search for Georgie is still tangible. It colours the conversation with a distracting rattle of anxiety, a sense of distant, breathless momentum. Max is desperate for more booze, something to quell the adrenaline that sears through him like mercury. But he restrains the desire. He has to keep his head clear, his motives exact.
The scratches on Hazel’s face are still raw and swollen, a brutal reminder of the hatred shown towards her by Georgie’s mother. ‘And that’s exactly why,’ Max says, pointing to the marks, his words running away from him as he tries to slow down, to gather his thoughts. ‘That’s why you’ve got to tell your version of events.’ He swallows, bringing his palms together, taking a steadying breath. ‘Nobody has ever heard it, have they? You were so little and then . . . well, then you were given your identity for witness protection. And because of that, everyone just lumped you in with your sister – the Flower Girls – there’s been no distinction made between the two of you, has there? It’s not fair, frankly.
‘But now you’ve got the chance to set things straight. Say what really happened, how it wasn’t you. That you were an innocent bystander, that you weren’t involved.’
Hazel gazes at Max, a hard knot in her throat as she considers his eagerness, his confidence that what he’s saying is right. She glances up at Jonny, at his broad stance. As always, Jonny’s solid masculinity is reassuring, it comforts her.
‘I don’t know,’ he says into the resulting silence. ‘If we put this out in the papers, our lives will become a nightmare. We’ll have press everywhere. I’ve got to think about my job. About Evie. What’s she going to go through, with her friends at school?’ He turns to Hazel. ‘I mean, are you even allowed to say who you are? Tell everyone your real name? Won’t you get into trouble for revealing it?’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ she replies in a tiny voice. ‘There was never a court order. They did the identity change for us out of kindness.’ Her tone borders on sarcastic. ‘It’s only for criminals when they’re released that it causes a problem, I think. And I’m not a criminal. Am I?’
‘Well, I hate to say it, but unfortunately the Greenstreets know who you are now.’ Max smiles ruefully. ‘And there are journalists outside the hotel doors, itching to get inside. The story of a little girl going missing is huge. The Greenstreets will talk. They want their daughter found and they think you’re responsible. Nothing’s reached the press right now, but it will do very soon. You don’t want it happening in an uncontrolled way when all hell will break loose, frankly,’ Max says. ‘Your only hope of putting this all to rest, once and for all, is to – very calmly and rationally – tell your side of the story. Explain that you’re just a normal woman, living a normal life with a job and a family. That you wouldn’t dream of hurting a child. Not Kirstie Swann, and not Georgie Greenstreet.’
Hazel goes to speak but Jonny cuts in, one leg jiggling inside his jeans. ‘Well, all right, I can see that. But how would it work?’
‘I’ll write a proposal and look to get us representation. Then,’ Max says carefully, ‘we can think about an interview. Or even . . . a book.’
‘Do you have a background in this stuff? Have you written anything like this before?’ Jonny asks, shooting a look at Hazel to check she’s noticed this pertinent questioning.
‘I worked in print journalism for fourteen years before I turned to fiction,’ Max says. ‘I’ve done freelance work at the Mail, the Evening Standard. Since then I’ve had two novels published under my own name and I’ve also ghostwritten a biography. I’ve got the experience and contacts and, believe me,’ he looks directly at Hazel here, ‘it won’t be hard to sell this story.’
‘Right,’ Jonny says, placated.
Hazel has yet to say a word, watching Max and Jonny, considering what she hears. She wants to speak, to cry until she is wrung out. But she can’t hear properly over the banging of her heart in her chest, like a moth trapped in a lampshade, getting ever closer to the white heat of the bulb. The scratches gouged on her face are smarting and she can’t rid herself of the image of Jane Greenstreet’s expression as she hurtled across the dining room to attack her. It was so filled with loathing. The effort to keep rising sobs within her is making it hard for Hazel to swallow or speak. So she concentrates on the men, their plan-making. Jonny will know what’s best. Max seems to be completely on her side too. She doesn’t understand why he is, but she is deeply grateful for it.
‘What do you think, darling?’ Jonny asks her, his voice soft. ‘Can you see yourself doing this? Do you think it might help? I mean, I can see Max’s point. I can see the advantage in putting across what you know about what happened back then. You’ve never said, have you? What do you think?’
Hazel shakes her head and touches her face gingerly. ‘They hate me,’ she says. ‘All of them. Hate me.’
‘But maybe this is a way to turn things around?’ Max suggests. ‘Maybe if you explained things, said what really happened, people would think differently about you. You know,’ he says, leaning forward, warming to his task, ‘people judge when they don’t know any different, when they’re only given one story they can latch on to. Tell them a different story and then you’ve got an opening, a way of letting them make up their own mind. There will always be people who close their eyes to certain ideas. But in this case, there isn’t another version for anyone to think about. All everyone thinks is that Laurel’ – he doesn’t notice Hazel flinch at her sister’s name – ‘was responsible for the death of that child.
‘At the moment – I mean, you must have heard about this – your sister’s challenging the courts for her release, she’ll want to flood the media with her side of events. But if you give them another story – a better one – make them see you as a human being, not a monster . . . then,’ Max sits back in his chair, unconsciously rubbing at the pain in his chest, ‘you might win your own freedom. Imagine that. You might be able to live a normal life again.’
‘I’ve never had a normal life, Max,’ Hazel says. ‘I’ve never had my freedom. I’ve lived a lie since I was six years old. For nineteen years, I’ve lived like this. I don’t think I know any other way to live.’
‘OK, but what about Jonny?’ Max replies. ‘Wouldn’t you like to be together out in the open? Not always worried that someone will find out who you are? Able to tell Evie about your past? Not to lie to your future step daughter?’ He chooses the words deliberately.
Hazel looks down at her lap as Jonny reaches over to grip her hand tight. ‘Yes,’ she answers in a small voice. ‘I would.’
‘Then why don’t we try?’ Max continues. ‘We could do an interview and I could write the book proposal. And then you could just read it and see what you think. You can make any changes to it that you like. If you hate it, or you get cold feet at that stage, you can withdraw it, take it back. You’ll have my word that I’ll destroy it. I promise . . .’
‘Hang on, mate,’ Jonny interrupts, his tone suddenly urgent and panicked. ‘What’s that? Can you see outside behind you?’
/> He pushes forward, his chest almost flat against Hazel’s face as he leans up close to the window. ‘Over there. Can you see it?’
Hazel twists round uncomfortably so that she can look outside and Max does the same next to her.
‘It’s the policewoman, isn’t it?’ Max says. ‘Hillier?’
‘She’s carrying something,’ Jonny says, his voice shaking, his knuckles white as he grips Hazel’s shoulder. ‘She’s carrying something in her arms.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Hillier lifts Georgie up and over her shoulder, turning back to where the lights of the hotel are amber now in the burgeoning dusk. She trudges slowly under the weight of the five year old, hearing only the sound of her own breathing, hoarse and laboured, as she eventually reaches the hotel entrance.
She kicks it open with her foot and the heavy oak door swings back to reveal the newly arrived DS Gordon standing at the reception desk, fairy lights twinkling beyond his shoulder on the Christmas tree. He turns to face her as Hillier stumbles in, flutters of snow shooting in behind her, white slush trailing in from her feet. The air is cold and sharp and Gordon’s shock at the sensation, at the sight of his colleague carrying the missing Georgie, delays his reaction for a few seconds and, when it comes, it’s words rather than actions.
‘What the . . .’ he blurts.
‘It’s her,’ Hillier gasps. ‘It’s Georgie. She came up over the cliff outside. She’s hypothermic. Paramedics . . .’ she manages to say before collapsing into one of the chairs to one side of reception, Georgie still clinging to her, her eyes closed, her lips the colour of marble.
Gordon reaches for his radio at the same time as the woman behind reception gasps and makes a grab for the phone.
‘Don’t bother,’ he barks at her. ‘I’ll be quicker. Get blankets. Foil from the kitchen. And get her parents down here now.’
Hillier leans her soaking head back against the chair, shutting her eyes to the scene, putting her icy fingers on Georgie’s wrist, feeling that faint pulse still beating. She whispers a prayer, thanking the heavens for this moment, the feeling of this wet, cold body against hers.
‘You’re all right, Georgie,’ she murmurs. ‘You’re all right.’
Within moments, an industrial-sized sheath of aluminium foil is found and Georgie is carefully removed from Hillier’s lap. The girl’s wet cardigan is taken off, along with the T-shirt that sticks to her chest and back like a second skin. Georgie’s red and mottled skin is dried before the foil is gently put around her and then two woollen blankets; another towel is rolled and put around her neck. Then her skirt and tights are removed and she is tucked into the roll of blankets, her head just visible at the top.
‘Keep talking to her,’ Gordon says. ‘Georgie, can you hear me, sweetie? Hello there. You’re safe now. Mummy’s coming.’
Georgie’s eyes are still closed, her breathing shallow.
‘Come on, Georgie, that’s it.’ Gordon’s voice is loud, persistent. ‘Wake up, Georgie. Come on, girl. Stay with me here.’
Hillier watches, hardly daring to breathe as someone removes her own clothes. She is barely aware as her jumper and shirt are lifted over her head, a blanket wrapped over her bra. She is shivering uncontrollably.
‘That’s good,’ Gordon says, noticing her trembling. ‘Shivering is good.’ He glances back at Georgie who is motionless. ‘Where is that ambulance?’ he barks.
‘The roads . . .’ Mr Lamb interjects. A small crowd has gathered, looking on silently at the two cold bodies trussed in blankets by the Christmas tree. ‘It could take some time. Can you turn off that racket, Lucinda?’ he snaps at the receptionist. A minute later and the lull of panpiped classical music is replaced by the sound of rapid breathing, of the concentration involved in watching and waiting.
The uneasy silence is broken by the cries of Jane Greenstreet, who comes flying down the staircase and throws herself at Georgie.
‘Hold up!’ Gordon says, putting out a hand. ‘Be careful with her. She’s in the recovery position, Mrs Greenstreet. Just watch yourself. Talk to her, though, keep with her. The ambulance will be here soon.’
‘Oh, thank God, thank God,’ Jane cries, tears streaming down her face. ‘My baby. Where have you been?’ She kneels at Georgie’s head, stroking the black hair that just pokes out from the towels and blankets. ‘Georgie . . . Georgina. It’s Mummy. Look at me, sweetheart. Why won’t she open her eyes?’ She stares up desperately into Gordon’s face. ‘Why won’t she look at me?’
‘She’s hypothermic,’ he says, his expression dark. ‘We need that ambulance.’
‘Oh, God, no . . . Not now we’ve found her. Please! Declan, someone, help us.’
The cries of her mother reach something in Georgie and she opens her eyes suddenly, bright stars of cool and gelid ice. Her mouth opens a little, lips devoid of colour, death seeping over her skin like a glass filling with noxious liquid.
‘She’s arresting,’ Gordon says, bending down rapidly. ‘Please, Mrs Greenstreet, out of the way.’ He unwraps the blankets one after another, exposing Georgie’s tiny bare chest to the room. He lifts her waxy chin and blows into her mouth, once so rosy and red. Then he begins compressions. As he counts, pushing on her chest, Hillier hears the faint crack of a rib. Jane rocks back on her heels, her hands to her mouth, dry sobs racking her body as she watches.
‘Someone take over, please,’ Gordon gasps, and another member of the Crime Squad edges over on his knees to carry on the compression as Gordon breathes intermittently into Georgie’s mouth.
‘Is she breathing?’ Hillier asks, unable to stop herself. ‘Is she?’
Gordon doesn’t answer, his knuckles flexed on the carpet.
Hillier can see a tiny shake of his head as they swap again. It’s been too long, she thinks. Georgie’s little heart is too tired. Her blood is too cold. She sends up another plea to the skies. She will never complain again about her work, her life, her mother, her anything. She will do it all with a happy, warm heart, if only God will let this little girl live. She has drawn blood from her lip where she has been biting it, still shivering continuously, but she only tastes it, only notices it, when she hears the sirens, the swish of tyres on ice, and a chip of hope returns once the paramedics are on the scene.
That now perhaps Georgie will live.
PART TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
1997
It was after nine p.m. and the sky was only just turning inky, the night reaching its dark tentacles over the houses, pulling them into blackness.
The pavement was filled with bodies, cameras round their necks, cigarette butts and empty coffee cups filling the gutter. The house they clustered around was in darkness, empty and cold. Outside, though, the air was hot with bursts of chatter like machine-gun fire. Either side of the house, people stood in their front gardens, staring at it, pointing and shaking their heads. A flock of birds flew over them as the sun finally set and the air began to cool.
An unmarked car slowed down, idled at the kerb for a minute before pulling off again and away down the street. As it did so, the crowd moved as one, sending their blinding flashes of light to chase it as it drove away.
‘Mrs Bowman! Mr Bowman! Have the girls been arrested? Have they been charged with Kirstie’s murder? Mrs Bowman, how do you feel as a mother? Just one statement for our readers!’
Feet slapped on concrete as journalists ran after the car, flailing their arms to gather speed, their breath raw in their nicotine-filled lungs.
Inside the car, all was very quiet. Rosie’s head lay in her mother’s lap, her eyes closed fast as Amy hid her face behind the collar of the shirt she had put on that morning when all was normal and fine. Her throat was parched and her eyes felt grit-smeared. She touched a lock of Rosie’s hair as it curled on her knee, then drew her hand back involuntarily. All she could see when she closed her eyes was Laurel’s face as they had left the police station. Something in her expression had frightened Amy. There was a co
ldness to it, as if she could see right through her mother.
Gregor had said he would stay overnight with Laurel before they questioned her again in the morning. And so Amy had stiffly got to her feet and pulled her handbag to her chest, holding out her free hand to Rosie, as she had done a million times in the ten years since she had had her girls. Rosie had taken it and they had been led to the car outside. Before she left, Amy had looked back and seen her eldest child standing framed in the doorway of the interview room.
Amy had left hurriedly then, dragging Rosie behind her, trying to force down that image of Laurel, somewhere it would be suffocated. Rosie had said nothing in the police station. They had interviewed her in what must have been a family waiting room with a mural of inappropriately jaunty cartoon characters peeling off sporadically around the walls. She had failed to answer a single question from the officers there. She seemed to sink lower and lower into the chair they had put her on until the social worker had said it was too late to continue, that Rosie should be allowed to go.
Social Services had arranged for them to stay in a cheap hotel nearby. One of the other police officers had picked them up some nightclothes and toothbrushes. Their own house was dangerous, they had been told. Their safety was compromised there. Amy hadn’t quite believed it, though. She’d wanted to see her home for herself. Now she realised, as the social worker’s car sped away, that what they had been told was true. They could not return to this place.
Since leaving the station, Rosie had maintained her silence, only nodding when she was offered a Ribena. Then, as they sat huddled in their seats in the car, waiting for the social worker to buy it in a petrol station, Rosie had turned to face her mother.
‘Will Laurel be OK?’ she had whispered, her pallor sickly under the harsh yellow lights.
The Flower Girls Page 10
