The Orchid Girls Page 23

  Michael’s house is in complete darkness when I arrive; the nearest street light is further along the road. My hand shakes as I turn the key in the lock, feeling as if I’m intruding. I haven’t been here alone before.

  It takes longer than I thought to search through his things, although Michael doesn’t have much. His wardrobe contains a row of pressed shirts and trousers, neatly folded jumpers on shelves and polished shoes lined up in a row at the bottom. He’s organised; it’s where I get it from. I hope that’s the only quality I’ve inherited from him. On one shelf is a large box which contains all his paperwork. I take it downstairs and flick the kettle on. The cupboard contains a jar of instant coffee and regular tea bags. I make do with a black tea to warm myself up.

  Most of the paperwork comprises bills which he has kept for the last five years, all neatly labelled in a box file. One compartment contains birth and marriage certificates, along with Mum’s death certificate. My hands are unsteady as I hold the yellowing piece of paper. Cause of death: pneumonia. I didn’t know that, another thing Michael kept from me. Tears spring into my eyes. I see Mum, so weak from throwing up, it must have been the chemo that did that. Me, the selfish teenager, just wishing she was my old mum whose strong arms held me so tight when I was hurt.

  Wiping my eyes, I go back into the bedroom. I’d expected to find something here. The wardrobe is tall and I stand on a stool to check the shelf where the jumpers are. The smell of mothballs welcomes me as I pull the clothes down and reveal an old suitcase. I knew I was missing something. Michael refused to throw this battered old case away when he moved. I’d have got rid of it years ago, it’s disgusting. Bits of cracked leather fall away in my hands, crumbling into dust. I take it down to the kitchen.

  A quick flick through the contents and a cardboard folder catches my eye. This is it, the letters must be inside. The folder contains a stack of newspaper cuttings, faded with age. Dread overwhelms me as I recognise long-forgotten headlines, the photograph of Charlotte, the street where she was last seen, the beach where her body was found. Looking at that photo – the old school photo they always used – takes me back to the jagged cliff, wind roaring in my ears, making the wild orchids dance, Molly sobbing. The frantic activity that evening after Mrs Greene rang to say that Charlotte hadn’t arrived home, the realisation that there was no going back. Michael refused to have newspapers in the house, didn’t want them poisoning our home, but I used to go and read them in the library, desperate to know what was going on. Why would he go to the trouble of cutting them out and keeping them? Unable to stop myself I leaf through the articles, time disappearing through my fingers as I become a frightened teenager again. There’s nothing new here until I find an article from the local paper: the front-page news in July 2002.

  LOCAL VICAR QUESTIONED IN CHARLOTTE DISAPPEARANCE

  Michael Cavendish, vicar at St Mary’s Church, was taken in for questioning regarding his whereabouts on the afternoon of Charlotte’s disappearance.

  Police confirmed that a 45-year-old man has been helping them with their enquiries.

  My knees have gone to sleep underneath me while I’ve been crouched on the floor reading, and I’m suddenly aware how cold it is. It comes rushing back, Michael’s fury at being questioned by the police. His closed face when he arrived back home, lips pinched in anger. The way he always looked before he lashed out at one of us. My body shakes now, like it used to then, scared that he could see into my mind, know that I had been wondering what he was up to that afternoon, where he went on one of his drives.

  There is no central heating, and the windows rattle as the wind picks up outside. A large crash makes me jump and my heart bangs furiously at the thought of someone breaking into the house. I see dark shapes in the dimly lit back garden, but nothing moves. There’s no trace of any letters or Molly’s photos amongst the documents I search through. Eventually my fingers are too cold to move and I’m forced to stop. I’ve seen everything I need to. Reading the cuttings was a mistake. I feel like a frightened fifteen-year-old all over again. I wander around the flat, unable to settle. I stuff the jumpers back into the wardrobe, leaving the documents on the side, but I take the suitcase with me. I stash it in the boot of my car. No need for Angela to see what’s inside.

  Once I’m back home, I can’t face checking Alex Foster’s website, not with everything else swimming around in my head. It can wait. I take a sleeping tablet but it has no effect. I’m fully awake, body rigid, tired eyes staring at the ceiling. The phone rings but I let it go to voicemail. Late in the night Richard climbs into bed behind me and pulls me close, but I don’t want him to feel how tense I am so I roll away as soon as he falls asleep. Outside, a car alarm wails into the blackness.

  An insistent ringing wakes me in the middle of the night. It can only be Molly. Snatching the phone, I tiptoe down the mezzanine stairs to the living room, cursing her for calling at this hour.

  ‘Why are you ringing so late?’

  ‘I couldn’t decide whether to or not, but I thought you’d want to know.’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘That journalist was here, Alex Foster.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He was waiting outside my house when I got back home this evening. The thing is…’ Molly hesitates. Ice crawls through my veins.

  ‘He asked me about The Orchid Girls.’

  The flat is quiet when I wake. Richard is gone again. Despite the silence my mind is anything but still. Before I go downstairs I stash the cigarettes I bought on my way home last night in my bedside drawer. Richard never looks in there. I put Richard’s breakfast plate in the dishwasher and switch it on. I clean the kitchen until the breakfast bar is so shiny my tired-looking face is mirrored back at me. In the glossy reflection I see the fear in my eyes that I thought I’d left in Paris. I decide I won’t let myself look online until the flat is perfect. As I scrub and polish and shine I think about Molly’s phone call last night. The journalist looms in my mind and I rub at the counter, harder and harder, wishing I had a giant eraser that I could rub him out with. Now that he’s made the OrchidGirl connection to Molly, he’s not going to leave her alone. Can I really trust her? She’s been threatening me with the photograph but I don’t know if she’s telling the truth about the camera. But cutting myself off from her is too risky – I’m doing the right thing keeping her onside.

  I click on to the internet and open Alex’s website. A headline from that time goes round in my head like breaking-news subtitles that won’t stop. ORCHID GIRLS ARRESTED

  If we’re going to beat this man, I need all the facts. But my prayers for him to change his mind have gone unanswered. The headline leaps out at me.

  CASE NO. 5: THE ORCHID GIRLS

  On 14th August 2002, a fourteen-year-old schoolgirl, Charlotte Greene, was reported missing by her parents after failing to return to her home in Lyme Regis, Dorset. Following an extensive search, her body was discovered two days later on Monmouth Beach along the coast from Lyme Regis. Cause of death was given as drowning, her injuries indicating she had fallen and hit her head on the rocks.

  On the day of her disappearance, Charlotte had allegedly spent the morning with two friends, who reported leaving her in town at around 1 p.m. However, a witness reported seeing three girls on the cliffs at around 2.30 p.m. but was too far away for any positive identification. Under questioning one of the girls admitted to an argument, suggesting they had parted on bad terms. Despite inconsistencies in the girls’ stories, the girls decided against changing their statements, and after initial questioning, they refused to speak further. The girls were arrested and taken to trial.

  National press dubbed them ‘The Orchid Girls’ on account of the identical tattoos of a purple orchid that the three girls had on the inside of their left wrists. The girls refused to comment on the significance of the inking and eventually the case collapsed in court due to insufficient evidence.

  The Greene family moved to Scotland after the trial collaps
ed. Greene’s parents divorced and Greene’s mother founded a charity to help find missing young people, YOUNG MISSING.

  A documentary of the case was broadcast on ITV in 2005, but no new information was discovered.

  My eyes are glued to the screen and I read fast, hands clenched, telling myself it’s nothing new, it’s as removed from my life today as any of the other random cases that he has reported on. But when I see the last line, I freeze.

  Whatever happened to The Orchid Girls? Coming soon on this blog…

  Twenty-Five

  MOLLY

  Grace is all I can think about as I pack my overnight bag, stuffing in a couple of T-shirts and something to wear in bed. A few toiletries, my charger and headphones and I’m done. I decide not to tell Mrs Bird I’m going away; that way, if the journalist comes back she won’t know where I am.

  I hesitate for a moment outside the shop, but no. I stop myself. I got through yesterday and I can’t let myself drink today – the other day was a blip, that’s all. Being around Grace made me weak, just like it did all those years ago. I close my eyes and give in to a wave of nausea. A cold beer would feel so good, refreshing and bubbly, slipping down my throat, but then I think of Ellis and I’m glad that I haven’t got enough money to buy one. When I get to Dorset I’ll ring her and she’ll help me fight it. The constant battle in my head between drinking versus not drinking makes it throb even harder.

  On the train I call Mum to let her know I’m on my way. She sounds pleased, I think. But maybe she’s just being polite? I give in to my urge and call Grace, but she doesn’t pick up, and disappointment crushes me. Is she with her husband? I scratch at the scab on my hand, trying not to feel jealous. For the rest of the journey that night at Grace’s plays over and over in my head. A newspaper has been left on the seat opposite and I kick my feet at it when I see a photograph of Richard Sutherland. No doubt it’s a piece on how well he is doing in the polls. But when I pick it up, I see it’s not about that. The first line reveals that his father-in-law has died and I sit back in shock. Grace said Michael was ill, but… why didn’t she tell me when I rang? My pulse quickens, questions racing through my head.

  Michael being out of the way must make things easier for Grace – no more comments about the past, bringing up what she’s trying to forget. Ellis sends me a text and an urge to talk to her overcomes me. She’ll know what to do. Should I tell her I’ve had a drink? It niggles at me, not telling her stuff. The train jolts to a standstill and I jump to my feet. We’ve arrived at Axminster and the guard is blowing his whistle.

  My favourite front seat on the top deck of the bus is empty. Most of the passengers are elderly and seated downstairs, apart from a Japanese couple who exclaim at the scenery and jump up and down to take lots of photos. The constant movement winds me up. The bus twists around the Jurassic coast, its wild beauty still so familiar despite all my years away. As the scenery flashes past I wonder what it will be like seeing Mum. I watch the sea, thinking about how long it’s been since I’ve swum amongst the waves. It’s windy today, and the waves are choppy as they move forwards and backwards relentlessly; the tide is on its way out, leaving a trail of debris behind. Imagining what it may leave makes me shudder and I turn away. I used to love swimming, but that was before. I haven’t been in the sea since. I can barely bring myself to look at it.

  Arriving in Lyme, the bus station is achingly familiar. I used to loiter there with my school friends, drinking cider while they attempted to talk to boys. It was where I’d once watched Grace leaning against Jason, not understanding the pain that had jabbed at my ribs as I watched his hand tentatively stroking her hair. The lights of the bus switch off and the engine judders to a halt – I’m the last person to get off, reluctant to arrive now I’m here. My insides feel icy at the thought that someone might recognise me.

  Our home is at the end of a tree-lined street, cut off from other houses. I take a step back when Mum answers the door. The woman who stands in front of me has little colour, and she’s heavier than she used to be. Mum was always full of energy, but the lady standing before me looks tired and drawn. She’s wearing slippers that were once pink and fluffy, but are now dull grey and ratty, and she shuffles her feet along the floor, dragging them behind her, as if she’s cleaning as she goes – except for the fact that the place is filthy. I put my hand on the wall to steady myself. Dust clings to my fingertips. This place used to be spotless. Her pride and joy. Darren was right. What’s happened?

  ‘I’ll fetch some tea.’

  She nods to the front room, but the door is stiff and I push hard against it. I climb over a book which is lying abandoned on the floor, stooping to pick it up before realising that there’s no point. Piles of newspapers are stacked like an extra layer of wallpaper against the back wall, so high they obscure the window. The rest of the floor is a jumble of shoeboxes and carrier bags.

  ‘Mum?’

  The sofa is an island in the middle of the room, and I clamber over to it. A multi-coloured blanket is slung over the seats. Gran crocheted it when I was little – she tried to teach me but I wouldn’t sit still. The sofa is hard and uncomfortable, and I perch on the edge of it, shrugging my jacket off. A cat yowls and leaps off the other end, straining my already stretched nerves. The windows are closed and the autumn sun is beating down on them, the room stifling with the radiators blasting out on full. Mum enters holding two mugs of tea.

  She pushes a pile of papers aside to make space on the table.

  ‘You look thin, Molly,’ she says, worry etched in her expression. ‘Why has it taken you so long to get in touch?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum. I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me.’

  ‘You’re my daughter, whatever you do. How are you?’

  I consider lying to her for a second before changing my mind. There are too many secrets in my life. ‘I’m not doing great. Working in a bar until recently, same old stuff. I miss you, Mum, I wanted to see you.’ As I finish my sentence, I realise how hard it’s been without her.

  ‘I’ve missed you too, love. Where are you living?’

  ‘I rent a flat in a house, just me and an old lady downstairs.’

  ‘Don’t you get lonely? You always used to like company.’

  ‘We look out for each other.’

  ‘That’s not what I’ve heard about London.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m lucky I guess.’

  ‘You’re always welcome here, you know that.’

  ‘Really? Last time—’

  She waves her hand. ‘It was an emotional time, we were both upset.’

  ‘How have you coped, without Dad?’ But I know the answer. Obviously not great. She’s like a deflated balloon and the place is full of crap. Once he’d gone she’d lost both of us, and it looks like she’s fallen apart. Remorse hits me. I should have been there for her, thought less about myself.

  ‘It was hard at first, but it’s getting easier. Work keeps me busy.’

  ‘I won’t let you down again, Mum. I wanted to be sure of that before I came.’

  Her pale blue eyes look watery and I know she’s remembering how drunk I was at Dad’s funeral, what an idiot I made of myself. But it was the only way I could cope with coming back.

  ‘What do you want, Molly? Why have you come back, why now?’

  I crack my knuckles, not knowing what to do with my hands. ‘Don’t suppose I can smoke in here?’

  She shrugs and points to the balcony, a tiny space behind a stack of cardboard boxes, where there’s just about room to stand. I lean against the wall so I can talk to Mum across the clutter of the room.

  ‘I want to make a fresh start. Thought it might help to be back here.’

  ‘You’ve stayed away long enough.’

  ‘You know why that is.’

  She picks up a spoon and stirs her tea, staring into the mug. I blow smoke back over my shoulder, catching a glimpse of the cliffs in the distance, which makes me feel cold. The sky is dark purple like the wild, viol
et orchids which peeped out at the cliff path if you knew where to look. The sky was broody on the day I showed Grace the wild orchids, and she picked me one to put in my hair. We carved our initials into a chestnut tree, and she held my hand as we charged home, thick drops of rain pelting on our heads, laughing; nothing mattered once we had each other. I stub out the butt and go back in, shutting the door against the threat that lurks outside. Maybe it was wrong to come back. The memories are too much.

  I move a pile of magazines so I can sit back down again. ‘Mum, why is all this stuff piled up in here? How can you live in this mess?’

  Her cheeks go crimson and she hangs her head. ‘You’re right, maybe it’s got a bit out of hand.’

  ‘A bit. What have you done with my stuff?’

  ‘I haven’t thrown anything away.’

  I look at the dusty ornaments on the shelves, the piles of newspapers in the corner.

  ‘Your room is as you left it, I shoved your stuff into that old wardrobe. I shouldn’t think there’s anything much you’d want now, though. I know everyone’s into decluttering these days, getting rid of everything. But I can’t understand it. I like to have my things around me. Comforts me. That’s all I’ve got since your dad died and…’ Mum’s voice trails off, her eyes glazing, as if she’s left the room.

  A lump fills my throat.

  She wheezes and the clock ticks. ‘I suppose you’ll want to be staying the night?’

  So much stuff everywhere makes the walls crowd in. I can’t imagine sleeping here. I can barely move my feet for all the stuff around them.