The Flower Girls

by Alice Clark-Platts

  Hillier gets out of the Tube at Clapham South and takes stock of where she is. To her left is Clapham Common where joggers are already puffing around the perimeter despite the early hour. Opposite her is a little line of shops: kebab restaurants, fried chicken takeaways, a newsagent and a local Sainsbury’s. She looks down at her pocket A–Z and heads over the road in that direction.

  She turns up another road at right angles to the row of shops. The street is empty; a Sunday quiet fills the air. The houses are decent-sized Victorian semis with tiny gardens and identikit stained-glass panels in the front doors and white slatted shutters in the windows. She thinks back to her little sanctuary in Brixham with the view over the hills and the patch of grass out the back. She had left while it was still dark this morning. It seems a world away from here, where the main road bustles noisily with traffic, where empty cans of lager are abandoned on a wall she passes. She wouldn’t live in the city if you paid her the three million that you’d need to afford to buy something here.

  Halfway down the street she finds the house she’s looking for. Number ninety. The door is a deep red colour and the stained glass around it cobalt blue. The garden is tidy albeit sparsely planted. Hillier hesitates at the gate and looks at her watch. It isn’t even eight-thirty and she wonders if she should wait, head back to the high street and have a coffee before she knocks.

  As she stands there debating this, the curtains in the lower front window twitch and a moment later the front door opens. Jane Greenstreet stands there in jogging bottoms and a grey T-shirt.

  ‘You coming in then, or what?’ she says.

  ‘You won’t let it go, will you?’ Jane asks, ten minutes later, as she bangs a mug of coffee down in front of Hillier, the liquid sloshing onto the island countertop. She gets a cloth and wipes it away. ‘You’re lucky Georgie isn’t here or I wouldn’t have let you in.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Hillier says, ignoring Jane’s mood. She can mollify her. She pulls the mug towards her and blows on the coffee. ‘Where is Georgie?’

  Jane lifts her eyebrows and delays speaking for an antagonistic second or two before giving up and replying. ‘She’s with her dad at my in-laws.’ He took her there for the weekend but it’s too much of a faff lugging everything that Charlie needs so we stayed here.’

  Hillier looks across the kitchen to where the baby sits in his highchair carefully throwing one Cheerio after another down onto the floor. She smiles at him. ‘He’s bonny.’

  Jane sighs, capitulating, and takes a seat opposite her. ‘So?’ she says. ‘Why are you here?’

  Hillier nods. ‘I know you think I won’t let it go. But I can’t. I don’t understand it – what happened to Georgie. I don’t understand why you wouldn’t let us talk to her. Properly, I mean. Really question her about what happened—’

  ‘I’m allowed to protect my daughter,’ Jane cuts in. ‘At the very least – after everything that’s happened – you can give me that.’

  ‘I get it, I really do. But I don’t understand why you – and your husband – aren’t more . . . curious . . . as to what happened. If someone had wanted to hurt my child, I wouldn’t rest until I’d found out who it was, and why.’

  ‘She just wandered off,’ Jane says in an exasperated tone. ‘Why does there need to be any other reason?’

  ‘Mrs Greenstreet – Jane – with all due respect, Georgie’s five years old. She’ll be led by you. At the moment, you won’t let us anywhere near her. We can’t ask her proper questions about whether she saw anyone, spoke to anyone, whether anyone tried to hurt her. You’re being completely obstructive, frankly.’ Hillier breaks off, her breathing agitated. She needs to calm down before Georgie’s mother throws her out onto the street. She looks down at her coffee mug and bites her lip. ‘I’m just saying it’s odd. And I don’t deal well with odd. I like things clear and tidy.’

  Jane Greenstreet studies her in silence. ‘I understand,’ she says at last. ‘I’m the same, as it goes.’ She glances over at Charlie, who gives her a gummy grin before chucking another Cheerio on the floor. ‘It’s why I don’t do so well with this parenting lark. All a bit too messy for my liking. Isn’t it, Charlie boy?’ She gets up and bends down at the base of the highchair, scooping up the cereal into her palm.

  ‘That afternoon,’ Hillier continues, ‘you said that Georgie left the bar where you were sitting with Declan at three o’clock. Is that right? That’s when Karen the waitress described seeing Georgie come into the kitchen and the sous-chef, Marek, backs her up.’

  Jane freezes and a pink flush appears on the back of her neck. ‘Yes, it was three. Because that’s when Charlie wakes up from his nap. We had him in the buggy in the bar where we were. It was fairly quiet. I think we were the only ones in there.’

  Hillier studies Jane, wondering why the woman suddenly appears nervous. Why she has coloured up as if she is lying. ‘Everyone can place Georgie in the kitchen at three,’ she says. ‘And everyone in the hotel is accounted for at the same time. But the timing for Georgie in the kitchen is given by Karen and Marek who were looking at the kitchen clock. Which was slow. By thirty-three minutes.’

  ‘So?’ Jane looks confused. ‘What does it matter?’

  Hillier shrugs and takes a sip of coffee. ‘It might not,’ she says. ‘But, then again, it might. Because if Karen and Marek reckon Georgie came into the kitchen at three on a clock that was running slow, what it means is that Georgie actually came in more around three-thirty. So I just wanted to check with you what time you think it was.’

  Jane walks over to the bin and drops the cereal inside. She stands with her back to Hillier for a minute and then her shoulders sag. When she turns round, her face is blotchy as if she is trying not to cry.

  ‘What is it, Jane?’ Hillier asks gently. ‘Do you know something about the timing that you’re not telling me?’

  Jane rubs a hand over her face and breathes in deeply before coming to sit down. ‘The reason we were down in Devon over New Year is that . . .’ She glances at Charlie and lowers her voice. ‘We haven’t been getting on well, Declan and I. In fact, it’s been bloody awful. Arguing. Then not sleeping. We’re so bloody tired. It’s why he’s gone to his parents’. We need a break. I don’t want to separate but . . .’ A tear rolls down her cheek. ‘I don’t know what’s best for the children. Having us together or not seeing us argue all the time.’ She takes a look at her wedding ring. ‘We went down there to try and have some family time. Have a break from the monotony of it all. You don’t know what it’s like, being stuck in the house all the time. I used to have a job, a career. Now I spend my days doing washing and pureeing apples. It’s crap. Don’t get me wrong,’ she says quickly. ‘I love my kids. But sometimes you need a bit more, you know?’

  Hillier nods, her fingers tight on her mug.

  ‘So . . . New Year’s Eve. We had a bottle of wine over lunch. Then that turned into two. Then we had a gin and tonic afterwards in the bar. Bad idea as it turns out. Just meant another argument. A nasty one. We said things we shouldn’t.’ She shakes her head and a sob escapes her. Charlie gives his mother a startled glance from the highchair and Jane wipes her face hurriedly. ‘And so, all that time, we were drinking and fighting when we should have been watching Georgie. We should have been looking after her.’

  ‘Hang on, Jane. What happened to Georgie wasn’t your fault,’ Hillier says.

  ‘It was,’ she insists. ‘If we’d been looking after her properly and not getting hammered in the middle of the day, we would have stopped her going out of the room. Or we would have gone with her. What were we thinking? With Charlie asleep in his pram. And – as it turns out – a bloody serial killer staying in the same hotel. It’s bloody appalling!’

  ‘Hazel Archer isn’t a serial killer,’ Hillier says. ‘Look, these things happen. Children wander off. You can’t keep tabs on them all of the time.’

  ‘You bloody well can. It’s called parenting,’ Jane practically spits.

  ‘I don’t think
beating yourself up now is going to help anything. Least of all your marriage.’ Hillier is rational, cool. She bites her lip, watching Jane gradually calm down, breathe slower. ‘And so what you’re saying about the time issue is . . .’

  ‘That I haven’t got a fucking clue what time Georgie went off. Could be three, half-past, could have been four. I don’t know. We were arguing and then suddenly she was gone.’

  ‘But why didn’t you say this at the time? Tell us that you weren’t sure when Georgie went off?’

  ‘Can you imagine the headlines?’ Jane exclaims. ‘Journalists were swarming round the hotel like bees. They would have had a field day. Pissed Parents Lose Child. Think of the accusations they could have made. Look how everyone pilloried the McCanns for having dinner while their kid was getting abducted. And then all that money spent on the search. I thought they might charge us for it.’ She shakes her head vigorously. ‘Declan’s on a warning at work. If he loses his job because he was drinking and irresponsible . . . we’re already really struggling. The mortgage on this place gives me a hernia every time I think about it. And what about Children’s Services?’ Jane stares wildly at Hillier. ‘I knew this woman at school who was half an hour late to pick her kids up and they took them away from her. Half an hour! What would they be like if they found out we were both boozing and forgot all about her—’

  Jane breaks off, rubs a hand over her face. She swallows, calming down. ‘Look, when Georgie was found, I was so relieved. You can’t imagine . . . I just wanted the whole thing over. Neither of us has drunk anything since. We can’t. We want to put the whole thing behind us. Try and keep together. I didn’t want you digging around and stirring things up. Can’t you see that?’

  Hillier sighs. ‘I suppose I can. But from my perspective it still leaves loose ends hanging.’

  ‘She’s safe,’ Jane says firmly. ‘And nothing like that is ever going to happen again.’

  ‘All right.’ Hillier’s tone is muted. ‘And so, just to confirm. When you concurred with the timing Karen gave . . .’

  ‘I said it was the same time as I didn’t want to admit the truth.’ Jane looks up at the ceiling and then back at Hillier, her face screwed up in self-disgust. ‘It sounded possible, so I said it. But if you want the god’s honest truth, I’ve got no idea what time Georgie went missing.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Hazel stands before the judge, her head bowed. She wears a cream blouse with a Peter Pan collar. Her hair is brushed to one side, her head as sleek as a seal’s. Her hands are trembling as she clings to the balustrade of the witness box.

  ‘Would you like some water, Miss Archer?’ the judge asks kindly.

  Hazel nods and then nearly drops the glass the usher brings to her. She shakes her head, embarrassed.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Laurel’s barrister smiles at her, leaning easily over the wooden lectern in front of him. The courtroom is small, a single male judge in red robes facing them all. Max and Jonny sit at the back of the room on a bench with green felt cushions. Other than them, the barristers and the clerks, the court contains no one else and is closed to outsiders. The air smells of furniture polish and the foxed pages of legal tomes.

  Laurel isn’t present. As is normal with a judicial review, she awaits the verdict in her prison cell.

  ‘Miss Archer,’ the barrister begins. ‘This is a rare occurrence, as you know. But the court has agreed that these are extraordinary circumstances. Oral evidence in a judicial review hearing such as this is extremely unusual. But we have called you here today – and you have agreed – to speak for your sister, Laurel Bowman.

  ‘Perhaps you could explain to the court a little bit about your relationship with your sister.’ He waves his hand towards her. ‘How you come to be here today and so forth.’

  Hazel swallows. ‘I haven’t seen my sister for many years. We got back in touch just recently because . . . uh, well, because my identity became known. For various reasons. And so we thought . . . Well, I thought that the time was right to get back in contact.’ She inhales deeply as if she has emerged breathless from deep underwater.

  The barrister nods. ‘And so, Miss Archer, if we go back to the offence for which your sister was convicted, it is my understanding that you have no recollection of that day. That – although you were present – given your very young age at the time and the distress rightly caused by the nature of the crime committed, you have blocked out all memory of that day and its transgressions?’

  Hazel lifts her eyes to look at the barrister.

  The judge pushes his elbows to the front of his desk, peering down to where she stands. The barrister shifts on his feet, waiting. A shaft of sudden sunlight bursts in through the small window at the very top of the courtroom, illuminating dust particles dancing through the air.

  ‘Miss Archer?’ the barrister says again. ‘Can you answer? Have you any memory of that day in 1997?’

  Hazel doesn’t speak.

  Max is on the edge of his seat, his palms pressed into his knees. The barrister turns with an uncomfortable laugh to the judge, his hands splayed, pleading for assistance.

  ‘Miss Archer?’ the judge says kindly. ‘I realise this is hard for you. But I must request that you answer Mr Donnelly’s question.’

  ‘Yes,’ she says. Her voice is clear although her eyes are glazed, as if she is herself transported back to that day when willow leaves spilled down on to the canal weaving its empty way through the trees. ‘That day in July. All those years ago. Yes,’ she says. All eyes are on her. The courtroom is as silent as if under a spell. ‘I have some kind of memory of that day. In fact, now I remember everything.’

  ‘It was the start of the summer holidays. Six weeks in front of us. Nothing to do except play. Be together. We were very close, Laurel and me. I remember . . .

  ‘If we were careful and promised not to talk to any strangers, Mum would let us walk from our garden gate, up the canal path to where the playground was.

  ‘It was hot. One of those beautiful summer days when everything was bright green and yellow and all you could hear were the leaves rustling in the trees and the far-off drone of a plane in the sky. You could hear the birds singing. We were happy. We were playing. Running to the playground together. We loved the roundabout and the swings. Flying through the air. Laurel would push me so high, to the point where your stomach flips. It was . . . fun.’

  Hazel pauses, taking a breath.

  ‘We were just kids. Little girls.’

  She looks up then, at the tableau of faces before her. Jonny is gazing directly at her. Something in his eyes comforts her, steadies her. She gives him a sad smile before continuing.

  ‘Kirstie was playing on the horse when we arrived. We just started talking to her. Playing with her. Her mother was having coffee, talking to her friends, I think. We didn’t notice. We were in a world of our own. That was why it didn’t seem strange when we suddenly found ourselves back at the old canal. We often played there, Laurel and I. The woods ran either side of it so it was good for Hide and Seek and Tag and make-believe games . . .’

  She hesitates.

  ‘I mean, I know what people say about us watching films and that.’ Hazel looks up at the bench. ‘The trial judge said it. I read it, later on. But it wasn’t true. Really, you have to understand, films and television are nothing compared to what you can have in your head. Willow trees were fairy kingdoms to us. We used to go to a clearing where Laurel had her house and I had mine. Bits partitioned off where we had cinemas and swimming pools and huge master bedrooms with four-poster beds. None of it was real. You know?’

  She picks up the glass of water and takes a sip. Her hands no longer tremble. She is calm.

  As she drinks, the barrister rouses as if sunken in a trance and forces himself to interject. ‘And Kirstie Swann. What happened to her that afternoon?’

  Hazel puts her head on one side.

  ‘She didn’t fall,’ she says carefully. ‘She was hi
t. We were playing Mums and Dads and the baby was naughty and so she was hit. And then she fell.’ She looks around the courtroom slowly. ‘But that was when I ran.’ She shakes her head. ‘The blood . . . I didn’t like it, I was scared. I wanted my mummy. So I ran. All the way back home.’ Hazel wipes her cheeks, which glisten with tears. ‘I swear that’s the truth. On the Bible. On my father’s life.’

  The barrister stares at her for a long moment before seeming to shake himself into action.

  ‘Who hit Kirstie, Miss Archer? Who hit her and caused her to fall?’

  Hazel looks surprised as she folds her hands one over the other in front of her skirt. ‘Well, it was Laurel. Of course it was. That’s why she was found guilty.’ She frowns as if confused. ‘That’s why she’s in prison.’

  The barrister looks at the judge, who leans heavily back in his seat and lifts his chin at the ceiling in an apparent direction to continue.

  ‘Um, yes, indeed. ‘The barrister’s voice is bewildered, rising as he struggles to think on his feet.’ As it was found by a jury of her peers in 1998. And . . . can you tell the court, Miss Archer, are you willing to vouch for your sister now? Are you happy to state that you will be a constant in her life going forward? Provide her with some much-needed familial support if she were to be released?’

  Hazel bows her head as the sun reappears. Its light catches the shine of her hair.

  ‘Can you vouch for your sister?’ the barrister says again after a beat. ‘Can you say that in your view she has been rehabilitated?’

  There is no sound for a moment. The courtroom hangs on her words, chests rising and falling inaudibly, as they watch Hazel carefully considering her reply.

  ‘No,’ she says at last. ‘No, I’m sorry to say that I can’t vouch for my sister Laurel. I thought that I might be able to, but from what she told me at our recent meeting, and what I now remember to be the truth of that day back in 1997 . . .’ She looks slowly around the room, blinking as if viewing it from behind glass. ‘I’m so very sorry but I cannot in all conscience say that Laurel should ever be released.’