‘Yes,’ Hazel answers coldly. ‘He did before when you questioned us at the hotel. And he would do so again.’
‘Your fiancé now, isn’t he?’ Hillier says lightly.
‘That’s right. Is that all, DC Hillier?’
‘Yep, that’s it. Thanks for talking to me, Ms Archer, I appreciate it. Funny old business, wasn’t it? What happened to the little girl . . .’
‘Kids will run off, I suppose.’
Hillier looks at her sharply. ‘Seem to run off a lot around you, if you don’t mind me saying.’
Hazel draws herself up. ‘I do mind actually. I think it’s better if you leave now.’
Hillier smiles, making her way into the hallway, glancing at a photograph of Hazel and Jonny on the wall. She taps the glass covering his face. ‘Nice photo. Seems a decent chap.’
‘Goodbye, Detective Hillier,’ Hazel says at the door.
‘Look after yourself, Ms Archer.’
Hazel shuts the door behind the policewoman, standing in the entryway for a long while before she finally turns and heads back into the body of the flat.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Max walks through Soho with a pair of headphones over his ears. The Sony Walkman is in his jacket pocket, the volume turned up to maximum. At first, there is just static. Then the sound of two little girls’ voices fills his head.
He stops. Lights a cigarette while leaning against a wall covered in fly posters. As he listens, he drops to the ground, sitting down on a doorstep, his head in his hands. When the tape comes to the end, he exhales smoke, squinting up into the sky.
And then he presses rewind.
Joanna runs along Shaftesbury Avenue, rueing the decision to take this route as she dodges past the pottering tourists, the dawdling office workers. Still, she loves this part of London. She loves the mingling of different languages; the way Londoners walk with their heads down whereas the tourists look only upwards; she even loves the rubbish and detritus swept into piles in the gutters, that feeling of everything getting tidied and sorted and washed away clean.
The morning is clear and bright and her lungs drink in the cold fresh air. She carries on into Soho itself, up through Leicester Square, past a man hunched in a doorway listening to his headphones, thinking already of the latte and the sausage sandwich she’ll have when she’s run her ten kilometres.
It seems a lifetime ago since the New Year. During the last few months – since seeing Debbie and then resolving things with Will – she has to admit that she has felt lighter. Not indifferent, not absolved, but as if a small chip of ice has been dislodged from inside her. She can breathe easier. She has been sleeping better for the first time in years.
They have taken on a number of different cases at BTR. An environmental matter she has really got stuck into, and a case involving a death row inmate in Jamaica. They’ve nudged her away from Kirstie a little. She’s still there but not as visceral. Joanna has even managed to put the date of the judicial review hearing out of her mind.
Perhaps she has been wrong all this time, she thinks as she cuts up through Chinatown, breathing in the smell of crispy duck and noodles. Perhaps opening up is good. Maybe she should find a counsellor, someone professional to help her put what happened to Kirstie in a place that hurts her less, isn’t so intrusive, so obstructive.
Is it forgiveness she feels? She takes that thought and throws it down on the ground in front of her as she pounds the pavement, runs over it as if testing its strength. From the way her speed picks up, she realises that it’s not. She thinks about meeting Laurel Bowman face to face and can still imagine screaming at her, making her beg for forgiveness, for what she’s done. But . . . and her feet slow a little as she passes the Curzon Cinema and turns onto Frith Street … is that entirely accurate? Would she actually do that? Or would she rather sit and ask her how this could have happened? Ask her whether she wishes that things were different. Whether that ten-year-old girl exists any more or whether she has been extinguished.
Could she – ever – put the Flower Girls behind her? Could she go back to the person she was before she heard the name Laurel Bowman? That bright-eyed girl at university with all her idealistic dreams. She’d always thought she was going to be something, help people. Not fester in a pool of anger and vitriol.
Joanna glances up, to where the glass of the sky is smeared only by the white trails of planes traversing it. She sees that she’s outside a newsagent’s and feels thirsty. Sweat is coasting down her forehead and she feels warm outside for the first time this winter.
The bell rings as she enters the shop and it is as if the universe is laughing at her. Because there, slapped all over the front pages, are photos and headlines concerning the Flower Girls. Laurel Bowman’s judicial review was heard in court yesterday and judgment is expected any day now.
It is as if she can never escape. She feels a searing anger at the injustice of it. Images dance in front of her eyes and she sways in the shop. The sight of her pregnant sister sobbing with pain at Kirstie’s funeral; of the sombre police guard holding her tiny coffin; of Toby Bowman making his rotund way into court, dropping papers as he goes; of the judge looking down and making orders that affected everyone but him; of Debbie again, flicking ash into a saucer, pale hands and face, her eyes shrunken and exhausted; of the sounds of Jemima, playing upstairs in her cot; and finally of Rosie Bowman, her hood covering her face as she made her way outside in the rain.
It hits her in a rush, like the curve at the top of a rollercoaster as the car pushes out over the edge. All these images. The last twenty years of her life.
‘Are you OK?’ the newsagent asks her from behind his counter. ‘Do you need something to make you better?’
Joanna whips her head up to look at him and her eyes blaze.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I do need something.’
And, in that instant, she knows exactly what she needs to make her better.
She knows exactly what she needs to do.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
The Devon air is brittle with frost as Karen waits in the play park opposite the blocks of flats. The high-rises were built before she was born so she has never considered their incongruity, the starkness of their mean, grey shapes, as if they are famished, starved of warmth against the dome of the sky and the roar of the sea.
Eventually, she can see the familiar shape of Marek as he comes tumbling out of the entrance, his hands tucked under his armpits.
‘You’ve been bloody ages,’ she complains. ‘I’m freezing.’
‘Sorry,’ he mutters, sitting next to her on the bench and lighting a cigarette that he passes to her before taking out one for himself. ‘Have you heard anything?’
‘No,’ she says, exhaling smoke into the cold air. ‘It’s all gone quiet. That policewoman hasn’t been in touch since the other week. Who are you staying with anyway? You need to tell your family where you are.’
‘No way,’ Marek replies. ‘As soon as she knows where I am, Mum’ll be on the phone to the police and I just don’t need that crap. She’s never forgiven me for that little bitch from Brixham. Seriously, even the police knew it was bollocks. She looked bloody twenty. But Mum’s like, “oh, the shame, the humiliation . . .”’ He peers up into the sky. ‘I fucking hate this place,’ he says.
‘Yeah,’ Karen replies. ‘It’s shite.’
‘Ta for telling me, though,’ Marek says. ‘About the copper. Appreciate it.’
She nods, flicking ash onto the ground.
‘Might have got something up in London. Hotel out near Heathrow.’ He shrugs. ‘Agency thing. But at least it’d be away from here. You can have a bit of a crack in London anyway.’
Karen looks over at him. ‘So you’ll leave?’
‘Maybe.’ Marek feigns a disinterested study of the swings, under which condom packets, cans of Tennent’s Extra and some old sheets of newspaper are strewn. ‘I’m not going back to Balcombe, am I? Not with that policewoman sniffing around. What d
id she say again?’
‘Just went on about the timings. What time I left. What time the kid came into the kitchen. Didn’t make any sense if you ask me.’
‘Kid just fucked off out of the hotel by mistake,’ Marek sniffs. ‘But I’m bolloxed if I’m going to hang around while they try and pin it on me.’
‘Innocent until proven guilty.’ Karen gives a disbelieving laugh.
‘Yeah, right. Not for people like us. She had me fingered soon as she knew I was a Polski and that the police had talked to me before. It’s typical of this place.’ Marek sneaks a glance at Karen’s profile as she pulls on the cigarette. ‘You could come to London with me. If you wanted. It’s not like you’ve got a job any more.’
‘Couldn’t stay at the hotel without you, could I?’ she answers. ‘Job was shite.’
‘So come to London then.’
Karen looks at him, his cheeks red with the cold, his eyes bright. She gives a laugh. ‘And leave all this? Nah.’ She gets up and stands in front of Marek and gently kicks his trainers. ‘I can’t walk out on my dad, you know that.’
‘So that’s it then?’
She shoves her hands in her pockets and glances over at the coastline, the edge of the cliffs where the clouds cluster low in the sky. ‘I’m gonna get going. Go into town. See what’s happening.’
‘All right,’ Marek says flatly. ‘See you.’
‘Don’t get moody,’ she says, looking down at him, but he doesn’t answer. ‘Be like that then. See you around.’ She heads across the asphalt back towards the road and a lone bus stop, its dismal light flickering in the gloom.
A few minutes later, the bus arrives and she gets on, sitting down at the front, her head tucked into her jacket. She doesn’t look for the departing Marek as he goes back inside the flats and she doesn’t notice Hillier, sitting with her back to them on a bench in the shadows of the playground, where she has been waiting in silence, listening to the two of them as they talked.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
The woman sitting opposite Max in The Ivy brings to mind a hound. She has a long nose and longer chin and her bush of blonde hair, which swirls across her shoulders, calls forth images of recently shorn wool. He widens his smile to dispel the picture and inclines his head.
‘Are we drinking, Romilly?’
‘I thought champagne would be appropriate?’
‘Wonderful. You know,’ Max says, after the waiter has taken the order and retreated discreetly, ‘I was so delighted to get your call. With all the recent attention Hazel has had, and the way the press has leapt on the story, it’s been a tad overwhelming. When you called, it was like manna from heaven.’ He raises the crystal flute he is handed and chinks it delicately against Romilly’s. ‘Cheers.’
‘This is where I’m at my most useful,’ she says, her eyes trained on Max above the rim of her glass. ‘In the eye of the storm, it’s easy to lose your bearings. You need a compass, someone to direct you and present the different options. That’s how Harris Associates earn our money. We can quieten the racket, pick out the good options, and help you focus on the aspects that will have the best outcome. Oh, just the chef’s salad,’ she says, without turning her head to the waiter who has deftly reappeared at their table. ‘No dressing.’
‘The duck,’ Max says, pushing the menu towards the table’s edge and lifting his glass again. ‘Thank you.’
‘For example,’ Romilly continues, ‘this week alone, I’ve had producers from Netflix wanting to discuss a feature-length documentary on the Flower Girls – obviously focusing on Hazel. Did you see the Amanda Knox one? Propelled her massively in public opinion ratings. I mean, I still think she did it but that’s irrelevant. It’s what the public think that counts. If Hazel could get just half such a positive response, then we’re looking at film deals. Before any of that, of course, we’ve got the auction of the book proposal. And then once you’ve written the book – which will need to be done immediately, by the way – there’s the submission to media groups for serialisation rights.’
‘Which I’m hugely excited by,’ Max says.
‘Yes, it’s great news.’ Romilly smiles again. ‘These really are happy days.’
Conversation pauses as the food arrives.
‘And Hazel,’ Romilly says, studying her salad in the manner of a pest-control expert appraising a rat’s den. ‘How is she coping with it all? With the attention? Is she strong enough to deal with it, do you think?’
Max nods. ‘Hazel’s fine. I’m sorry she hasn’t come along today. She’s just got engaged. A little bit swept off her feet, I think.’ He takes a sip of champagne. ‘One thing I will say about her, though: she looks vulnerable but underneath she’s tough as anything. And she has Jonny to support her too.’
‘Sure, but we’re going to have to move quickly, Max. Once the court judgment is out, all of this will be in the public domain. We have Hazel for the moment. But we need her to sign a contract. Because she’s vital. Without her, frankly, we’ll have nothing other than the stuff that is out there already. You’re positive you have her on board?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Max says, bristling slightly, feeling a prickly flush creep up the back of his neck. ‘Hazel depends on me to advise her. She’s vulnerable. I don’t think she really understands how to handle it all so that’s where I come in. Where we come in, Romilly. Don’t you worry about her.’
The table vibrates with the buzzing of Romilly’s phone. She holds up a hand in apology as she takes the call.
‘OK, thanks. I’ll be right there.’
Ending the brief conversation, she smiles at Max, bringing her handbag onto her lap. ‘I’m so sorry but I’m going to have to dash. Something’s cropped up back at the office.’ She stands and waves at the table. ‘Do let me get this. It’s been so lovely to meet.’
Max rises, his napkin in his hand. ‘Thank you so, so much, Romilly. It has indeed been a delight. And listen,’ he continues as she exits from behind the table and makes to leave. ‘Please don’t worry overly about getting the contract signed.’ He kisses her on both cheeks, his hands on her shoulders. ‘There’s no cause for concern at all. Hazel and I are as thick as thieves.’
He meets her later that afternoon in a bookshop just off Piccadilly Circus. She arrives hand in hand with Jonny and they retreat to a café at the top of the building. Hazel’s eyes rove around, taking in the hushed whispers of the other customers as they notice one of the Flower Girls sitting down with her back to them, her collar turned up high.
‘Let’s order cake,’ Max says. ‘We’re celebrating.’
‘Are we? What for?’ Jonny answers, glancing around.
‘For fame, glory and all of its spoils. Harris Associates are desperate to take you on. Take us on. The whole shebang. They’ve got producers interested. Netflix, Amazon. They want to do a documentary. Hollywood beckons! We’ll get Reese Witherspoon buying the film rights before you can say Gone Girl.’
Hazel is quiet, a look of concern on her face.
‘What is it?’
She glances across at Jonny, who puts his arm round her shoulders. ‘I don’t know. It’s all going so fast. I feel a little bit out of my depth, I suppose.’
‘You mustn’t worry,’ Max says firmly. ‘I’m here, aren’t I? And Jonny? It’s what I’ve always said, it’s all about perception. People don’t know what they believe until they’re told what to believe. If the accepted line is that you’re totally innocent, people will get it.’
‘I am totally innocent.’ Hazel’s tone is sharp.
The memory of the cassette tape burns like a hot poker across Max’s skull. With an effort he pushes it away. This is his chance. His chance to make something of his life.
‘Yes, yes, I know.’ He swallows, lowering his voice a little. He has had too much champagne at lunch and his gullet feels as though it’s on fire. He needs to focus. ‘But I’m talking about what’s represented in the media. Look, if you had every paper globally telling you that the world was fla
t – every article, every expert, every TV show – eventually you’d start to believe it, wouldn’t you? If all the photos of the world as round were removed so you had nothing to counter the arguments? People can’t hold onto an idea if there’s no foundation to it.
‘What we’re going to do with the book is start sowing the seeds of you as a charming, beautiful, vulnerable woman. Then we bolster that with more and more information, until all the search engines, all the available information, is about that, not you being associated with your sister.’ Max shrugs, looks down at the empty table in front of them. ‘It’s just how things work.’
Jonny nods and squeezes Hazel’s shoulder and she visibly relaxes, takes a look over Max’s head to the counter full of cakes and muffins. ‘I’m going to visit Laurel on Wednesday by the way.’
‘What?’ Max exclaims too loudly. An elderly woman at the table next to them stares over crossly. ‘Why on earth would you do that?’
‘I need to end things once and for all. I need to say goodbye.’
‘I think it’s a terrible idea,’ Max forces himself to speak in a quieter tone. ‘Before, I would have been all for it, positively encouraged it. But now . . . since the court case . . . she hates you for what you said about her in court. She must do. She won’t get out now. I’m surprised she’s even agreed to see you, if I’m honest.’
Hazel’s lips tighten a fraction. ‘Oh, she’ll see me.’ She puts her head on one side. ‘Do you really think I shouldn’t go?’
‘I’m just looking out for you, Hazel.’ Max lifts his head to meet her eyes. ‘Look, shall we get some water? I’m feeling a tad warm.’
‘Well, let’s see,’ Hazel says, and puts her elbows on the table and gives a little smile. She forms her hands into tight fists, the knuckles white.
‘What are you doing?’ Max stares at her, his head beginning to throb.
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