The Orchid Girls Read online

  The Orchid Girls

  A completely gripping psychological thriller

  Lesley Sanderson

  Contents

  Prologue

  Daily Tribune

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Charlotte’s Diary

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Charlotte’s Diary

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Charlotte’s Diary

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Charlotte’s Diary

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Charlotte’s Diary

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Grace’s Diary

  Chapter 15

  Grace’s Diary

  Chapter 16

  Molly’s Diary

  Chapter 17

  Grace’s Diary

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Daily Tribune

  Chapter 20

  Molly’s Diary

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Grace’s Diary

  Chapter 23

  Daily Tribune

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Daily Tribune

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Molly’s Diary

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Charlotte’s Diary

  Chapter 33

  Molly’s Diary

  Chapter 34

  Daily Tribune

  Chapter 35

  Grace’s Diary

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Grace’s Diary

  A Letter from Lesley

  Acknowledgements

  To Mum and Dad, with love

  Prologue

  On days when panic cuts me down, when her features fade and I can’t quite picture the face I knew better than my own, I take my mind back to that day on the cliff, opening my eyes to the grey Dorset sky, my throat coated with fear. Sweat pools on my back as I grab a fistful of grass and hoist myself up, hearing the crashing sound of the sea below. The wind whispers ‘Charlotte, Charlotte’, and I remember.

  Everything is changed forever.

  She’s running towards me, hair blowing out and wild like seaweed. Her blue eyes hold mine as she pulls me to my knees so that we are facing one another.

  ‘But…’

  ‘Shhhh,’ she says, ‘don’t say it.’ I look away from her so that she can’t read my eyes. The fear pumping in my chest adds to the roar of the sea.

  Her hands are shaking as she takes the penknife from her pocket, unfolds the blade and takes my hands. She slices once across her palm, and then does the same to mine. She presses our hands together, the warmth of the blood and the cold of our skin mingling into one.

  ‘Now we are bound forever,’ she says, her eyes determined. ‘I will never tell anyone, I swear. This is between you and me. Now you swear too.’

  And now, it’s happened. I knew the time would come, no matter how many years it took – she’s back in my head. I'll keep her there for as long as it takes. I will find her. I will. I'll never rest until she’s out of my mind and back in my arms where she belongs.

  Forever.

  Daily Tribune

  Monday 15th August 2002

  A frantic search is under way for a missing fourteen-year-old girl who disappeared over the weekend after leaving her friends in town.

  Charlotte Greene was last seen walking along Church Street in Lyme Regis at around 1 p.m. on Sunday, after spending the morning on the cliffs with two friends. Yesterday police searched through the night for any trace of the missing girl.

  Charlotte is described as white and roughly 5ft 3in tall, with a slim build. She has green eyes and blonde hair, which was tied back in a ponytail. She was dressed in light blue jeans and a pink hoodie with white Nike trainers, and she was wearing a turquoise backpack.

  Her mother Tracey Greene told BBC News, ‘This is so out of character for Charlotte. She’d made some new friends who she was hanging out with on the beach – she had no reason to run away. We love her and want her to come home.’ Caroline Conway, whose daughter was with Tracey before she went missing, said, ‘Everyone has been out searching for her. We’re all desperate for her to get in touch.’

  Hundreds of local people were said to have met at a church early this morning to distribute flyers. Dorothy Mutton, who works at the RNLI charity shop in Lyme Regis, commented, ‘It’s worrying – being a coastal town there are so many hazards in the area. People are looking everywhere they can think of.’

  With strong winds forecast in the next few days, police are widening the search and deploying the use of local coastguards, determined to find the missing teenager before unseasonal weather renders the search even more difficult.

  One

  Present day

  GRACE

  Lights flash green in the half-light. Something rattles. My mobile vibrates on the coffee table. Shadows fall through the large glass window and dance on the pale floorboards, while outside a black expanse of nothingness hangs over the canal. The sofa creaks as I sit up and rub my eyes, confused to have fallen asleep as the afternoon crept away. Then I remember the photo shoot, my exhaustion, the excitement of creating my first book cover, how it isn’t a dream.

  ‘Hello?’ My voice croaks. A clicking noise, followed by a woman’s voice.

  ‘Gracie?’ Only one word and I’m wide awake, my body taut. I dig my fingernails into my hand. ‘Hello, Gracie, is that you?’

  My hand wobbles as I put the phone up close to my mouth.

  ‘Wrong number,’ I say, and end the call.

  The tick of the clock is loud, as if it’s beating in my head. I switch on the lamp, stare at the glow it casts on the floor and hug my arms around myself in a vain attempt to get warm. I make myself a hot drink, take it out onto the balcony, my fingertips white against the red of the china mug I am clutching to my chest.

  Boats huddled along the banks make sinister shapes at this hour and the dark canal is still. Lights from the office block opposite gleam on the water, and I tell myself the voice on the phone could belong to anyone. But only one person ever called me Gracie.

  Scratching sounds of a key in the door alert me to Richard’s arrival and I take a deep breath, attempting to push her voice to the back of my mind before I go to tell him about the rest of my day. Everything apart from the phone call, that is. He can’t know about that.

  The following morning, Richard helps himself to a large portion of the granola I made yesterday, and I’m pleased with the way the creaminess of the oat and yogurt matches the colour of our new Smeg fridge. He eats while he stands, checking his phone at the same time.

  ‘This is good.’

  ‘My followers thought so too.’ I grin as I remember the explosion of little hearts on Instagram.

  ‘Are you baking today?’

  ‘Later. I’m being interviewed this morning, remember, the journalist I told you about? We’re meeting in Highbury. I’ll wait for the rush hour to finish, catch the later train.’

  ‘Wish I had that option. But my car is due any minute,’ Richard glances back at his phone, ‘in exactly ten minutes’ time – traffic is going to be hell. Can’t wait, sorry. I’ve got a meeting in Finchley this afternoon, I’ll ring you later when I know what time I’ll be home.’ He kisses my cheek and then he’s gone.

  The fridge buzzes into the silence of the kitchen and I wipe up the little trail of coffee he’s left on the marble work surface. I w
ash the china mug in the sink, wishing he wasn’t working late again – we don’t get enough time together these days, and I’m missing him. The cupboard door is open and I close it, restoring order to the kitchen ready for my baking session this afternoon. Everything needs to be perfect.

  It’s a short walk to Camden Station to catch the ten o’clock train. Enclosed in the apartment lift, I remember the phone call and wonder if it was her. What if she’s following me? The walk feels different now she is back in my head – a glimpse of red is her coat disappearing around the corner, heels clipping the pavement behind me are her footsteps, but when I turn around, of course she isn’t there. I wouldn’t expect to recognise her voice after all this time, but I do. Why would she call? The thought propels my feet to move even faster, and I don’t see the man stepping out from a cafe until I’ve crashed into his cup, causing coffee to slop in milky drops which land with precision on his black woollen coat. His face twists in surprise and my hand clenches around the pack of tissues I carry in my pocket, offering it to him.

  ‘Shit! I’m so sorry. Can I get you another?’

  He dabs at his coat. ‘No, it’s fine.’ He inclines his head towards my pale designer jacket. ‘It could have ruined yours, which looks a lot better quality.’ Then he’s gone and I take a moment to breathe hard, as I have taught myself to do, before I follow the other commuters into the station.

  There’s a Metro newspaper on the seat next to me and I snatch it up, determined not to speculate any longer on what was probably a wrong number. As I unfold the front page, I wish I hadn’t, because the headline MISSING TEENAGER jumps off the page at me. Again I attempt a moment of mindfulness but all it does is heighten the noise of slamming doors and loud announcements telling me the train is about to depart, and when I go back to the paper I’m compelled to read about a thirteen-year-old who has gone missing after an outing with her friends. Charlotte is in my thoughts once again – she’s there hiding at the back of my mind as I read about the weather and the traffic, trying to distract myself from the image of the Dorset cliffs which lurks in my mind. The man opposite me has an irritating cough and I press up against the window and close my eyes, not wanting to breathe in his germs or read any more about missing girls.

  Lily, the journalist, is smart in her designer suit, her high heels tapping along the pavement as we walk. I’m glad I chose to wear my fitted dress and heels; my long blonde hair is neatly swept up.

  ‘There’s a new gluten-free bakery down the road, I thought that would suit you,’ she says, waving her hand in the direction of Upper Street.

  ‘Perfect. I’m trying out a new recipe for banana bread this afternoon, so it will be good to check out the competition.’ I add a laugh, but it’s a little forced; memories of the phone call and the missing girl are not entirely erased from my mind.

  ‘Their cakes are amazing.’

  ‘I’ll be interested to know how they sweeten them, whether they use all-natural ingredients like I do.’

  Lily chats about her own attempts to go gluten-free as we take the short walk along the busy street. I relax as an unexpected ray of autumn sunshine warms my hair.

  ‘So how does it feel to be such a successful food blogger?’ she says, as we carry our herbal teas over to a table at the back of the bakery, where the smells of freshly baked bread and cinnamon are reassuringly familiar.

  ‘How do you quantify success? Having hit a certain number of followers? Yes, that’s happened, but I’ve been so busy I haven’t really had time to stop and think about it. I love doing what I do, it means so much to me to make a success of my life, and getting to indulge my passion, I know I’m lucky to be able to do that. Not everyone gets that opportunity.’ I break off a piece of my date loaf, crumbling it onto the plate. I look at her studying me and I wonder if she thinks my success is all down to Richard. ‘It’s taken a long time and a lot of hard work to get where I am today. It’s not as glamorous as it looks.’ I laugh, and Lily smiles back. I talk her through today’s post, which will take up the rest of my day – the shopping, the testing, the photographs. ‘I spend a lot of time selecting ingredients,’ I tell her, ‘and standing in a hot kitchen, repeating a recipe over and over until it’s perfect.’ Her red fingernails tap at the keypad and I answer her questions until our cups are empty. It’s only when I think we’re done that she catches me unawares.

  ‘Can you tell me a little about your background?’

  I push my plate away, the crumbs no longer acceptable, like a blemish on smooth skin, but she’s unaware. Words spill from her glossy pink lips.

  ‘What’s the story behind your success? Did you learn to cook at home, with your mother? Where is home – originally, I mean?’

  Lily’s eyes are wide, eager to find out something new about me. A part of me admires her approach, unlike the majority of interviewers, who are more interested in what it’s like being married to a handsome politician. I shake my head, wrapping my silk scarf around my neck to indicate our time is up, dismissing her question.

  ‘That’s not how it happened for me.’ I force a smile, knowing it’s important she believes me. ‘I trained in nutrition, before setting up my own business. When we first got married, we used to eat out all the time, but when people started recognising Richard it became less enjoyable for him. He loves the public, but there’s a limit when the interest intrudes into your personal life. I’d forgotten how much I love creating my own recipes, so I started cooking more at home, and somehow I became the face of clean eating.’

  ‘It must be hard, having such a perfect image to live up to.’ We both smile, but I don’t let her see the frisson of anxiety her words bring up. ‘You say “somehow”, but how much of your success do you attribute to being the wife of Richard Sutherland? So many food bloggers jostle for attention, but very few hit the big time.’

  My shoulders tense at the inevitable question, but I look her in the eyes as I speak. ‘There’s no doubt that Richard being who he is works to my advantage, but I’m sure I’d have got here regardless. I’ve worked like crazy. It might have taken a little longer, that’s all.’

  ‘Of course,’ she says as she switches her iPad off. ‘I’m sure the book will speak for itself. You mentioned Richard and how he deals with being recognised. How do you handle it?’

  For a moment I experience a stab of alarm, before realising what she means.

  ‘It’s not a problem for me.’ I flash her a smile and stand up.

  ‘Yet,’ she says, and we kiss goodbye as if we are old friends.

  She’s about to go when I place my hand gently on her arm. ‘I want you to know I’m not all hard work and no play. Cooking is my passion, it’s fun. I’m living the dream – my dream – and this success has exceeded my expectations. I’m so happy.’

  ‘Any plans for the weekend?’ she says as we make our way to the cafe door.

  ‘Holiday research. I’m planning a surprise minibreak for Richard – this is strictly off the record, but I know I can trust you.’ I laugh and she nods, giving an exaggerated wink. ‘A few days away as soon as the election’s over and we can breathe again. I’m thinking Rome, or Florence. He’s been looking for a new piece of art for our lounge. I know some lovely little galleries.’

  ‘Keep me posted,’ she says with a smile. ‘The article will be up sometime this month.’

  I’m thoughtful as I watch her disappear into the crowds, wondering why her last words make me nervous, hoping I can trust her. As I move through the street, exasperated by the slow pace at which people walk, I wonder for the first time since I moved over from France whether I’ve made a mistake coming back here. But I wasn’t to know how successful Richard would become, how high his expectations would be. My shoes clatter on the tiles as I enter the station and lose myself amongst the commuters. If only I could lose my thoughts so readily.

  It’s only later, when my first batch of bread is in the oven, that I check my mobile. There’s a missed call from the same number as the night befo
re, but no message. I’m not sure how long I sit and stare at the phone, wondering why she’s got in touch now, after so many years, when the smell of burning jolts me from the sofa. But it’s too late, the banana bread is ruined.

  By the time I’ve created a bread I’m happy with, the light is fading outside and I decide to postpone the photo shoot until the morning. Pacing around the flat isn’t enough to release my energy so I get changed into my sports gear. Our apartment’s canal-side location – making it perfect for running – is one of the many things that attracted us to it. I work out I can manage fifteen minutes each way and I’ll be home before it’s fully dark.

  Black water glistens as I hurry down the steps to the canal-side. Fewer people are down here in the evening and I glance around to see whether I am alone. A man disappears into the gloom ahead, and a woman is unlocking a bicycle further back. I transfer my keys to my pocket and set off at a steady pace.

  The cyclist overtakes me, red curls blowing in the wind, and I slow my pace, reminded of the girl with red hair from my past watching me, in that silent way she had. I’ve only been running for five minutes when a drop of rain lands on my forehead, sliding into my eye. I wipe the water from my face; I hadn’t thought to check the weather before I came out and the thin T-shirt I pulled on offers little protection against the elements. By the time I reach the point where I’m turning around, the shirt is sticking to my shoulders and the wind is picking up.