The Flower Girls

by Alice Clark-Platts

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  In the early evening Max lets himself in to the Airbnb flat he has rented for the last couple of weeks just off Leicester Square. Its sash windows overlook Gerrard Place where people are wandering along to theatres, looking for restaurants or standing in the freezing cold, chatting and smoking outside pubs. Watching them move around, unaware they’re being observed, he runs over what happened today, how life for him will soon become completely different, and how all these people will soon be very much aware of the name Max Saunders.

  It occurred to him, while Hazel was speaking in court – steadily unsticking the glue from her memories – that she is a natural for this kind of public arena. She speaks well, quietly and carefully, and creates that weird kind of empathy with onlookers not many people have but every celebrity wants.

  He goes to the tiny kitchen to pour himself a glass of wine, thinking how, even in the mainstream press, he can see the tide of public opinion turning. He knows that the more Hazel is discussed, the more normalised her situation will become. In the last few days, even before her meeting in the prison with Laurel, she has been approached by a television morning show who want to do an interview with her, and then a fashion magazine who want to feature her in a double-page spread. Of course, Max thinks as he drinks, she is remarkably pretty. That’s always going to help.

  He takes his glass back to the sitting room, swallowing a little as he goes, grimacing at the cold hitting his stomach. He needs to answer the numerous emails he has received from the literary agent, Romilly Harris, regarding his book proposal. She is straining at the bit to get it out to auction. Thank God, he thinks, the court was closed to the public today. If anyone leaks what happened, they will be in contempt. If there had been journalists allowed inside to witness what Hazel said, his scoop would have been blown out of the water.

  He remembers then the packet that a sad-faced Toby had handed him after the hearing. He roots around in his bag and retrieves it. Tearing it open, he pulls out an old cassette tape, its label worn away. He turns it over in his hands and looks inside the package but there is no note, only a compliments slip from Toby Bowman’s office. He wanders through into the sitting room, staring down at the tape. Outside, someone shouts drunkenly from the street but Max doesn’t notice. He tosses the tape into the air and catches it one-handed.

  Tomorrow morning, first thing, he’ll go into Soho and buy a cassette player. They sell them in those vintage shops he’s often walked past, never understanding how they make any money.

  For now, though, he settles himself down in a chair, listening to the sounds of the city rumbling outside, drinking, smoking and thinking about those two little girls, those sisters, who seem so pitched at opposite ends on the spectrum of good and evil.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  1997

  ‘Once upon a time, there lived a poor widow with her two little girls in a cottage by the edge of a forest. In front of the cottage stood two little rose bushes. One bush bore white roses and one bore red, and the little girls were named after them.’

  ‘Like me,’ said Rosie, pointing to her chest. ‘Rosie.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Amy, sitting on the end of Laurel’s bed where both girls sat in their pyjamas. ‘But your names are even more beautiful. One little girl was called Snow-White and she was blonde like you, Laurel. And the other little girl was called Rose-Red and she had dark hair like you, Rosie.’

  The nightlight twirled familiar shapes around the bedroom walls as Amy curled up with her girls. Tiny, glittering stars of light were reflected onto the ceiling. The girls could see their mother’s face as she leaned against the pale pink wall, eyes half-closed as she told the story from memory.

  ‘Snow-White and Rose-Red loved each other very, very much and vowed that they would stay together forever.’

  ‘What does vowed mean?’ asked Laurel.

  ‘It means a solemn promise. And they used to play together in the forest. Just like you play together in the garden and down where the trees are, outside the fence. They were such good children and they did everything their mother used to tell them to do. Just like you do. Remember?’

  Both girls nodded. Rosie moved to curl up with her head on Amy’s lap as Laurel watched her quietly from her pillow.

  ‘One day, a grizzly bear came into their cottage. The girls and their mother were terribly frightened. But the bear told them not to be afraid and that he was just hungry and cold. So they brushed the snow from his fur and gave him something to eat. The bear ended up staying with them for days and they played with him and loved him very much.’

  ‘I’d like a bear as a pet,’ Laurel said.

  ‘Mummy says no pets, remember?’ Rosie replied.

  ‘Animals are nice to look at but not to touch,’ Amy said. ‘Anyway. A few days later Snow-White and Rose-Red were in the forest when they came across a little dwarf who had got his beard stuck in a log. Immediately, they knelt down to help him but they couldn’t release his beard from where it was trapped. So Rose-Red took out some little scissors she always carried with her, and cut his beard free.

  ‘He should have been grateful but he was very angry and stomped around and around, yelling at them for causing him such bad luck by chopping off a piece of his beard.’

  ‘How mean,’ Laurel said.

  ‘Yes. Awful. So he gathered up his bag and the girls could see it was filled with rubies and diamonds and pearls. And he marched off into the forest without a word of thanks.

  ‘A few days later, the girls were in the forest once more when they saw the dwarf again. Suddenly, a huge golden eagle swooped down from the sky and picked the dwarf up in his talons. Talons are like claws,’ Amy said, seeing Laurel raise her head. At the answer to her unspoken question, she lay down again to listen.

  ‘Rose-Red and Snow-White jumped up and ran over to where the dwarf was dangling in the sky and caught hold of his coat-tails. They tugged and tugged and eventually he came loose and fell onto the ground and the eagle flew away. The little man was even angrier than he had been the time before. “Why did you tug me so roughly!” he cried. “You could have torn my new coat!’’ ’ Amy looked down at her girls who were staring at her wide-eyed. ‘Just then, a huge bear came ambling out of the woods and the dwarf screamed in terror.’

  ‘The bear!’ Rosie gasped.

  ‘The bear indeed. The dwarf immediately fell to his knees, saying, “Please, bear, don’t eat me. Take these two girls who are much plumper . . .” ’

  ‘What’s plumper?’ asked Laurel.

  ‘Fatter, Laurel. Fatter. Goodness, such a lot of questions! So he said, ‘Take these two girls who are much plumper than me and will make a much nicer meal than anything I could provide.’ And do you know what the bear did then?’

  The girls shook their heads as stars scattered over the ceiling above them.

  ‘The bear took his great paw and swiped the dwarf dead onto the ground. Blood seeped out of his nasty little head until it stained the earth as red as the roses in Rose-Red’s bush.’

  ‘Oh, Mummy,’ Laurel whispered. ‘That’s terrible.’

  ‘Well, not really, sweetie. Because the bear then transformed into a prince. The bear was, of course, the same one they had been so kind to. And he told them that the dwarf was an evil little man who had turned him into a bear years ago and robbed him of all his treasure. That was the same treasure as the dwarf was taking round with him in his bag. Now the dwarf was dead, the spell was broken and he could be a prince once again.’

  ‘But the dwarf was dead,’ Laurel said, her voice on the verge of distress.

  ‘But, Laurel, the bear turned into a prince. And then he married Snow-White. And Rose-Red married his brother. And they all lived happily together in a big castle with all the treasure they’d got back from the dwarf.’ Amy glanced down. Seeing Rosie’s eyes closed, her mother gently moved herself out from underneath her, picked her up and carried her over to her own bed. She opened the bedroom door, letting in a
shaft of light from the landing. Looking back as she went to leave, she saw Laurel had her eyes open and lay staring up at the ceiling.

  ‘All right, baby? Don’t worry. It’s just a story.’

  ‘It’s sad.’

  ‘Good night, Laurel. Sweet dreams.’

  After her mother had left, Laurel lay for a few moments before turning onto her side towards her sister. ‘Rosie? Are you awake? Did you like that story?’

  Her sister said nothing.

  ‘I don’t think he should have killed the dwarf, do you?’

  But Rosie didn’t answer, for she was fast asleep.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  Laurel and Fritz sit in her cell, flicking ash into an empty Coke can. The cassette player scratches out an ancient tape of Patsy Cline.

  They are quiet, companionably lost in the weed and their thoughts. Laurel has her head leaning against the wall, eyes closed, trying to palpate the anger which rages inside of her into something calmer, easier to swallow. The weed is helping, transforming the image of Rosie’s face into a blurry mash.

  Since she spoke to Toby after the hearing, the number of times he has tried to call her back has risen to double figures. But Laurel refuses to talk to him. What’s the point? It should have been obvious to Toby that Rosie would do this. Just as it had been obvious to her when she’d heard that her sister wanted to see her. She’s still angry with herself that she allowed curiosity to sucker her into the meeting. And then, that her rage had caused her to walk out on Rosie during it. That would have been what prompted her sister to be so cruel. She never did like to be left alone.

  Laurel thinks about Toby and the hole that will be left in her life from now on. She would like to talk to him. The desire burns inside her so bitter it makes her sick. But there’s just no point. He’d only want to say sorry, and she can’t bear to hear any more sadness from that man. He won’t last the month, she reckons. About time she gave him a break, let him live out his last days in peace without always having to bother about her.

  She can look after herself anyway. She has her mates in here. She has her routine. What was she going to do on the outside? Work for fucking Sainsbury’s? And whatever anyone said, she knows what the deal is. Keep your shit private. That shit is worth something.

  Down the corridor, a girl screams out and a clash of metal reverberates through the doorway. Laurel opens her eyes.

  ‘Shut the fuck up,’ she murmurs, trying to keep stoned and in the place where things make sense, where it’s warm and tomorrow doesn’t rear up like a slap in the face.

  She feels the weight of Fritz, curled up at the end of her bed, like a coil of lanky string. Laurel knows it won’t be long until they’re separated. It might be years, it might be months, but at some point Fritz’ll get parole or she’ll be moved to another prison and Laurel will be on her own again. It’s the way it has been since that day in the courtroom when she was led away from her parents and sister and they left her in a cell by herself. The only person there was the social worker. Laurel can’t even remember that bitch’s name any more. She hadn’t spoken to the child anyway, just let her sit there on the hard, thin bed, waiting for her mum to come and explain what was going on, for someone to take her home.

  Nobody came.

  Nobody ever comes to your aid in life because you’re on your own for all of it. Birth to death and back again.

  Laurel takes another drag and Fritz taps her on the knee.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why do you listen to this old rubbish?’

  Laurel doesn’t answer, remembering her mother swaying at the sink with Patsy Cline singing that she was crazy.

  They were all fucking crazy. That was the problem.

  ‘Just do,’ she says at last. ‘Makes me think.’

  Fritz nods and falls silent.

  ‘Are you going to see her again?’ she asks after a minute.

  Laurel knows who Fritz means but she won’t say the name. Won’t have it said in her presence.

  ‘Bitch is coming next week.’ Laurel drops her butt into the can and shakes it, extinguishing it with a hiss. ‘Last fucking time. Last fucking time that bitch is coming anywhere near me.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  Hazel opens the door to Hillier in surprise. So taken aback was she by the announcement of the name through the intercom that she pressed the buzzer with barely a second’s thought. Now she is regretting her impetuosity as she steps back to allow the policewoman to cross the threshold.

  ‘Hello,’ she says, backing into the flat as if she is a gladiator in the ring. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Thanks for letting me in, Miss Archer,’ Hillier says as she steps in quickly as if worried Hazel will change her mind.

  ‘Uh, no problem.’ Hazel walks into the sitting room and gestures towards the sofa. ‘Have a seat.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Hillier replies. ‘No chance of a glass of water, is there? I’m a bit parched from walking from the Tube.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Hazel says, leaving the room to go to the kitchen.

  The flat has an unused air, Hillier thinks, her eyes scanning the surfaces and walls for evidence of Hazel’s past, her character. One wall is covered in bookshelves but there are no photographs or pictures apart from a single painting on the opposite wall. Hillier stares at it. It is small, showing a woman with dark hair, wearing a red jumper, in the middle of a dark green background. The woman has her hands up next to her cheeks and her mouth is open in the circle of a scream. The expression in her eyes is so visceral that Hillier thinks she can hear that scream, feel the pain that lies beneath.

  ‘My mother painted it,’ Hazel says from behind, handing Hillier a glass of water. ‘Years ago, when I was a child. I always liked it. When she died, my dad gave it to me. I didn’t want anything else.’

  ‘I don’t know much about art,’ Hillier admits, wondering at the same time what could make Hazel possibly like this painting, want to look at it on a daily basis when all it conveys is panic and fear. ‘But that is striking.’

  ‘Yes,’ Hazel says, taking in the picture as if for the first time. ‘I must bring it with me to Jonny’s.’ She sits down in a leather club chair to the left of Hillier. ‘We’re getting married,’ she says, a faint smile playing at her lips. ‘He proposed just yesterday. It’s been such an emotional time. We went to court for my sister . . . You’ll hear about it soon enough, I would think. I suspect Laurel will be unsuccessful in gaining parole again, sadly.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’ Hillier’s eyebrows lift, her tone carefully neutral. ‘Congratulations on the engagement. Things are really working out for you.’

  ‘I think he meant to ask me at New Year’s,’ Hazel continues as if Hillier hasn’t spoken. ‘But, what with Georgie going missing, well, you know . . .’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ Hillier says, taking a sip of water. ‘May I?’ She indicates her jacket and, on Hazel’s nodded assent, removes it and places it carefully on the cushion next to her.

  Hazel looks at her. ‘Have you seen Georgie lately? Is she OK now?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Fit as a fiddle and bright as a button. Apart from her toe obviously . . . She was out of hospital not long after she went in.’

  ‘That’s good. And . . . does she remember much about what happened? Must be traumatic for a child as young as that.’

  ‘It was indeed. She remembers parts. Not all of what happened. But bits of it.’

  ‘Oh, that’s good. I’m pleased. It must have been so frightening for her parents.’

  ‘Yes, it was.’ Hillier leans back with a congenial expression on her face. ‘So! Can’t move without seeing you on a front page these days.’

  Hazel colours. ‘I can’t say I’m happy about it. It’s been very difficult actually.’

  ‘I’m sure. Still,’ Hillier says, ‘you’re quite the person of the moment.’

  Hazel’s face clouds over. ‘There has been a great deal of pressure . . . I’m not comfortable with it, as I said. For poor Jon
ny – and Evie – as well. It’s been a tremendous strain.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘So, why is it you’re here, Detective Hillier?’ Hazel asks, shifting on her chair and changing gear. ‘What can I do to help you?’

  ‘Oh, yes! Sorry, almost forgot myself,’ Hillier says, reaching into her jacket for a small notebook and flicking through the pages, the end of her biro in one corner of her mouth. ‘Ah, yes, that’s it. Just on the timings. On that afternoon Georgie went missing . . .’ She falls silent, apparently reading her notes.

  ‘Yes?’ Hazel prompts after a moment.

  ‘Yup, hang on. Here it is. Now, on the day that Georgie went missing, we established that she went into the kitchen and disappeared from there at three o’clock. Where were you at that time, Ms Archer?’

  Hazel screws up her face. ‘I think . . . I told you this before. I was having tea with Jonny in the hotel lounge.’

  ‘You’re sure about that? It wasn’t later?’

  ‘I think so. It’s hard to remember exactly this far on, Detective.’

  ‘Sure, I understand. And you were together until four?’

  She looks unblinkingly at Hazel. Sees the merest second of hesitation before Hazel shakes her head. ‘I was with him all the time. We went up to our rooms at five and that’s when the hotel manager came and knocked on our door and said that Georgie was missing.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Hillier taps her biro on the notebook. ‘That’s right, of course.’ She glances up and smiles. ‘You’re sure it wasn’t later? Even by perhaps half an hour? Was it dark outside by then, when you went up to your room? Do you recall?’

  Hazel folds her arms. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘No. That’s OK. No problem.’

  ‘Why are you asking me this? Has something come up? Didn’t Georgie just go wandering off? Why are you still asking questions?’

  Hillier gets to her feet. ‘Just a few end-of-the-case enquiries,’ she says, reaching for her jacket. ‘And Mr Newell? He would corroborate that, would he? That you were together all afternoon? That the timings you mention are correct?’