The Flower Girls

by Alice Clark-Platts

  ‘It’s a game Hazel used to play,’ Jonny says. ‘Back when she was younger.’

  ‘Yes?’ Max says, watching her, his mouth dry.

  ‘I used to play it with my mum and my sister,’ Hazel says. ‘When one of us didn’t want to do something that Mummy had asked us to do, we’d play it. Scissors, paper, stone. You know it? You bounce your hand down three times like this,’ she says, moving her fist through the air above the table. ‘Scissors beat paper, paper beats rock and rock beats scissors. Shall we do it?’

  Max’s laugh is nervous. ‘What for, for God’s sake?’

  ‘No, you’re right.’ Hazel frowns in a strange way. ‘It’s a stupid idea. Sorry.’ She looks up at him, her eyes big and round. ‘I always used to lose the game anyway.’

  Jonny laughs softly. ‘How about that cake then?’

  ‘Wait,’ Hazel says, placing her hand on his. ‘We need to tell him.’

  ‘Tell him what?’ Max says, his eyes flitting from Hazel to Jonny.

  He is beginning to feel sick. The bookshop is too hot, too quiet. He watches her smiling at him, watches the way she takes him in, as if she knows him absolutely, is drinking in his deepest fears, his deepest insecurities. There is something so nauseating about it that, for the first time in her company, Max feels a delicate shiver move slowly down his spine.

  ‘Romilly Harris,’ Hazel says. ‘Harris Associates.’

  He knows what she is going to say before she says it. He sees then with a terrible clarity how he has been played and how he has let his greed and ambition lead him here, to become a person he doesn’t recognise.

  ‘I just spoke to her. Well . . .’ she smiles at him and Jonny leans back, crossing his knee over his thigh ‘. . . we saw her actually, at her office.’

  ‘You signed the contract.’ Max’s voice is practically a whisper. There is something wrong with his throat, he cannot seem to get enough air.

  ‘We do want to thank you, Max. For everything you’ve done for us. But, well, I need an agent myself, really. What with everything that’s happening for me right now. You’re just a writer, aren’t you? Romilly . . . she’s the person who holds the key to everything. I’m sorry, I know you thought we’d do this together . . .’ Hazel’s voice trails off, her eyes dipping low.

  ‘Romilly says you’ll definitely still be paid for the proposal you did. And that you might be chosen,’ Jonny says brightly. ‘You know, to be the ghostwriter.’

  Hazel nods. ‘I’m sure they’ll give you an acknowledgement inside the book,’ she says. ‘But I know that’s not important to you. I know that you did all of this in my best interests. That’s what you’ve always said, isn’t it? That’s why we’re so grateful to you. Honestly, we are.’

  Max has turned pale. He can feel a tightness in his chest, it’s hard for him to breathe.

  ‘Are you OK, Max?’

  Hazel’s voice is very far away all of a sudden.

  ‘The tape . . .’ he says. ‘I heard the tape. Someone sent it to me.’

  ‘What’s that, Max? I can’t hear you. What tape?’

  And then the bookshop disappears, and the last thing Max sees is Hazel’s face above him before everything turns dark.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  Dear Laurel,

  I have wanted to write to you for a long time. I have actually wanted to come and see you. But the powers that be, probably quite rightly, judged it ill-advised. Nevertheless, for many years I have composed letters to you in my head. I have thought and thought about the words that I would choose. The words that would hurt you the most, cause you maximum distress.

  I find myself today finally writing the letter I have imagined for all of these years. But, in the end, it’s not quite the letter I thought I’d write.

  Since your first parole hearing, I have been outside the walls of the prison where you are held. I have been the person most insistent on your guilt. And I have campaigned and fought to keep you where you are.

  I have succeeded in helping with this.

  I don’t claim that it’s solely down to me. But the actions of my family and myself have ensured that the country, the politicians, the press, have all been constantly reminded of the crime you committed in 1997 when you took the life of my niece, Kirstie Swann.

  Kirstie was born on 1 September 1994. Did you know that? It was a Thursday, ironically. Forgive my sarcasm, but in this case Thursday’s child didn’t have far to go in the end, did she?

  My sister Deborah is a better person than I am. She always has been. When we were kids, she was always the one with all the friends. I would hang behind her, wanting to join in, being a little pain. Was that what it was like for you and Rosie? Although – actually – I don’t think I want to know. Debbie is a good woman and she proves it to me even now, when she suffers more grief than most people will ever know.

  So why am I writing to you after all this time? I saw last week that you’ve had your big day in court. We don’t know the outcome yet. I suspect you do. Will you be free, Laurel? Will you be able to drink in the air that is denied my niece? Or will you be locked up in your box for another stretch of time before we have to argue it all over again?

  I think what I want is impossible. What I want cannot be achieved and that’s what leaves me hanging here, caught between anger and resentment, never able to break out of the cycle.

  Because what I want is for you never to have done what you did.

  All the arguments we’ve had about it over the years, between your lawyers and my family’s: all we argue about is whether you’ve been properly punished or not.

  But, really, is that the point?

  Even during the trial, we argued about why you did it. Did you mean it? Was it an accident? Had you watched something that changed the way your brain worked? Or were you just evil? Everyone had an opinion. Everyone had a view. We went back and forth and back and forth again. And we still don’t know the truth.

  That gave me solace for a long time. The thought that you did know the truth and that, one day, you would tell us. You’d let us know why you’d done it and things would change for the better because of it. Kirstie’s death would be explained.

  But you never said.

  And so, for years, I’ve kept all of this down inside me, just like my sister has. Buried it deep so I could function in life. I’ve directed my anger towards you and it’s propelled me on, let me survive.

  But a while ago, Debbie told me she can’t hate you any more and I couldn’t understand it. She said she just wants to remember her daughter as she was. Not as a crusade but as a beautiful little girl we all loved.

  And that must be right because she feels it. Kirstie’s mother.

  But where does it leave me?

  We can’t engineer time so that you never murdered Kirstie. And you won’t tell us why you did it. And everyone else is deciding to save themselves by opening up to forgiveness. Even your sister is opening her heart to the press and the judiciary. Even she is trying to make it better.

  I feel stymied, Laurel, in all honesty.

  Sometimes I feel like I’m recovering. And then other times, I want to come and hurt you so badly, for how you’ve hurt me and my family.

  But I won’t.

  But I can’t forgive either.

  All I can do, Laurel Bowman, is tell you as close as I can to face to face, that I will never forgive you for what you’ve done.

  But that I let you go.

  If I carry on hating you as much as I have done over the years, I’ll end up destroying myself and I have a lot to give. More than you will ever be capable of doing, I’m sure.

  So good luck to you, Laurel Bowman. I’m stepping back, I’ll let the courts decide from hereon in. Let them see if you are worthy to feel the fresh air on your face.

  I suspect you’re not. But I’ve been wrong before.

  Yours,

  Joanna Denton

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  15 JULY 1997

  The gate banged t
o a regular rhythm in the breeze. Amy watched it from the kitchen window where she stood immobile, unflinching from the heat of the sun which burnt her face through the glass.

  The girls had run in from the canal. Flying over the grass as if a wolf were chasing them. They had pushed in through the back door, past her standing at the sink. Amy turned her head to the sounds of their voices upstairs. Laurel was crying, she thought. She should go up there and see what was wrong. Somehow, though, it was as if the heat of the afternoon was like molasses, fixing her to the floor, dripping through her and congealing at her feet. Even breathing was difficult, the air hot in her lungs as if she were on fire inside.

  ‘I’m sorry!’ she heard one of the girls yell. Perhaps Rosie. Her voice was higher, it still had the timbre of a baby’s. Amy’s forehead creased. She really needed to go and see what was wrong.

  She turned and moved one foot, sliding it across the linoleum, her bare toes sticking to the dirt that covered the floor. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see something dark by the door, a puddle of rust. She dragged her other foot to meet the first and bent slowly to the stain. She straightened, frowning, and pulled the back door open. Another patch of colour spread across the stoop. She mustered the remaining energy she had and stepped outside into the garden. Across the grass, wide gaps between them, were more dots of brownish-red.

  Before she knew it, Amy was at the gate, bringing her hand with surprising speed to grab it, stopping it mid-swing. She held it open and moved slowly outside the garden’s boundary. A solitary chirp above in the trees accompanied her as she moved softly underneath the branches beside the canal, her feet gliding over the mulch and shingle.

  As she walked, Amy felt her heart thumping inside her. It was an unfamiliar sensation. For months, she had been dead, banked down by cotton wool soaked in unhappiness. Now, though, as she watched the splashes of colour continue, leading her on, she could actually feel the blood swimming in her veins, bringing life to her arteries, her limbs.

  When Amy reached the end of the trail of spots, she looked down at the dead girl for a long time. The girl’s eyes were black, unseeing and cold. Blood had crusted along her hairline, the skin around her earlobe pulpy like coagulated porridge. Her limbs were extended in a star shape, hands thrown up next to her face. Amy’s gaze travelled over her, taking it all in.

  A rustle back down the path caused her to glance up. Outside the gate, balancing on her toes, was Rosie.

  She stood there, her fingertips resting on the wood to steady herself, her dark hair reflecting the light of the sunbeams picking their way through the trees.

  Amy looked at her daughter, drinking in her beauty, drinking in her obedience, warm and peaceful like something you could always, always depend upon.

  She smiled at her, a genuine smile that lifted her face, caused her eyes to crinkle, in a motherly way, she thought. And Rosie smiled back, nodded quickly and then darted back through the gate.

  The bird above Amy took flight, its wings ripping through the branches, startling her, making her blink. She felt the air kissing her skin, goosebumps flowing down her arms as she wondered again about the baby on the ground. Wondering what it had taken to make her little body so damaged and broken.

  Amy turned and began to make her way back to her garden, thinking of her daughters, and particularly of her little Rose-Red. Such a precious girl.

  And always so very eager to please.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  Detective Sergeant Mike Gordon is at his desk when he is told that Lorna Hillier is downstairs waiting to see him. A few minutes later she enters his office, wet through from the latest downpour outside.

  ‘I swear to God,’ she says as she hauls herself into a chair opposite Gordon, ‘I’m going to go and live by the Mediterranean one of these days. This weather . . .’ She shakes her head like a dog emerging from water.

  ‘Hillier,’ he says. ‘To what do I owe this honour?’

  ‘Not going to offer me a cup of tea?’

  Gordon gives her a look bordering on contempt. He inclines his head and waits.

  ‘Clearly not. No problem. Anyway, I wanted to pop in and see you, to tidy up a few things on the Greenstreet case.’

  ‘What Greenstreet case?’ Gordon’s tone is weary. ‘As far as I’m aware, the matter is closed.’

  ‘Well, yes. I suppose, strictly, you could say that. But the thing is,’ says Hillier, bright-eyed, ‘I have new evidence. Evidence that proves Hazel Archer was involved in the abduction of Georgie.’

  Gordon leans forward. ‘What evidence?’

  ‘The clock in the kitchen was running slow. Karen Page the waitress says she saw Georgie come into the kitchen at three p.m. As did Marek Kaczka the sous-chef. By the way, they’ve both quit Balcombe Court now, which at first I thought was suspicious but I heard them talking the other night and I don’t think they had anything to do with it.’ Hillier speaks quickly, her thoughts tripping over themselves, but then she halts as if the conclusion is obvious.

  ‘The clock?’ Gordon prompts her.

  ‘Ah, yes. The clock. So, Karen and Marek are convinced that Georgie was in the kitchen at three but actually it was about three-thirty-five because the clock was running slow.’ Hillier spreads her hands. Fait accompli.

  Gordon stares at her.

  ‘Sunset was just before four that day. So it was nearly dark. Georgie said it was dark when she got lost coming out of the kitchen. Which it wouldn’t have been at three.’

  Hillier nods at Gordon, prompting him to catch up. When he doesn’t speak, she sighs loudly.

  ‘Georgie was let go, right? Whoever took her, let her go. That’s what always bothered me. Given that most abuse happens between family members, at first I thought it meant Jane or Declan had taken her. And then they couldn’t go through with it as she’s their daughter. So I went to see Jane.’

  ‘You went and talked to Georgie’s mother?’ A bead of sweat appears on Gordon’s forehead.

  ‘Yes. Remember we thought it was odd that she was so evasive? Well, turns out it’s because she admits they can’t remember when Georgie left them in the bar because they were drunk and arguing. She felt so guilty about it – and worried that we’d call in Children’s Services – she wanted to forget the whole thing once Georgie was safe.’

  ‘And you believe her?’

  ‘Yes. Even though she lied about the timings. Or rather, she didn’t tell the truth about not remembering. So, then I thought – well, who else would dump her? Dump a child after they’d taken the risk of snatching her? It wouldn’t be Marek. Whatever he says, he’s got an eye for a young ’un. He’s the type who, if he geared himself up for something, would follow through, I reckon. I can’t see him just letting Georgie go.’

  ‘So because you can’t see him letting her go, it means he must be innocent of her snatching?’ Gordon sounds dumbfounded.

  ‘Yep,’ Hillier answers firmly.

  ‘Right. So – just to get this straight – you went to see Jane Greenstreet off your own bat?’

  ‘On my day off, yes.’

  ‘Anyone else you’ve called on?’ His voice has dipped dangerously low.

  ‘Just Hazel Archer . . .’

  Gordon covers his face with his hands. ‘This is madness, Hillier!’ he exclaims.

  She halts, breathing hard. ‘What?’

  ‘For Pete’s sake, Lorna! Georgie Greenstreet was found safe. She’d got lost and had sheltered in a cave. Why does it have to be any more complicated than that?’

  Hillier narrows her eyes and folds her arms. ‘The only person with the necessary psychology to have let Georgie go – once she had been taken – is Hazel Archer.’

  Gordon takes a minute to compose himself although, when he speaks, his voice rings with steel. ‘All right, Hillier. I’ll humour you. Explain to me why that is.’

  ‘Because,’ Hillier explains slowly, ‘she’s got form.’ She looks at him. ‘Kirstie Swann.’

  ‘That was down to her
sister,’ Gordon points out.

  ‘Was it? Archer was never tried.’

  Gordon tightens his lips.

  ‘So she’s got form,’ Hillier insists. ‘Proven or not. She was around, wasn’t she? She’s never denied being present when the Swann girl was murdered.’

  ‘So why now? Why draw attention to herself, after all these years?’ Gordon asks.

  Hillier hesitates for a moment, looking to the ceiling as if she is searching for the right words. ‘Look,’ she says, ‘admittedly, I don’t know. Maybe she had some kind of mental breakdown. Maybe she’d read stuff about Laurel Bowman in the press, because of her court appeals, whatever. Maybe she’s never really faced what happened in 1997. So she has a sort of crisis. She takes Georgie – for what purpose, I don’t know, I’m not a psycho – and then, just as she’s going to harm the child, it’s like she wakes up, sees what she’s doing. And she sees that if something happens to the kid, she’ll be the obvious suspect. She can’t go through with it. She panics and so she lets Georgie go.’ Hillier sits back, triumphant.

  Gordon is silent, his nostrils flaring.

  ‘I saw a painting her mother did in Archer’s flat,’ Hillier continues. ‘It looks like some kind of emotional explosion. What was their relationship exactly? Why did the parents never see Laurel Bowman again? It doesn’t make sense. How could you abandon your own child?’ Hillier stares at him. After a lengthy few seconds, the ticking clock the only sound in the room, she drops her eyes.

  ‘I get it, Hillier,’ Gordon says at last. ‘I understand. ‘I know that you want to be recognised, acknowledged for the very important work that you do . . .’

  ‘That’s not it, Sarge.’

  ‘Oh, it is, Hillier. It is. You’re haring around the countryside, determined to find some – any – kind of evidence to prove your theory about Hazel Archer. But, as you admit yourself, it doesn’t stack up. It doesn’t make sense. Why would she deliberately bring this attention to herself? She’s led a private life for near-on twenty years. Why would she want this fuss? Why would she want the police crawling all over the place, looking into her and her life? And . . . no, let me finish.’ He waves his hand at Hillier, who is spluttering at him, trying to interrupt. ‘Let’s say you’re right, and she did take the child. Isn’t it convenient that she wakes up from her fugue or whatever just in time so that she doesn’t kill her? Everything you’re saying is based on theory, there’s no proof.