‘Primrose . . . Rosie,’ Max says softly, staring into Hazel’s eyes. ‘That’s who you are.’
They are standing at opposite ends of Max’s room, he by the window, which overlooks the back of the hotel, the small delivery bay and the snowy fields stretching away from the sea. Hazel is positioned with her back to the door, ready to flee if necessary, keeping a wary distance between them. She feels a line of perspiration drip down her chest as she stares at Max. His face is eager, like a bloodhound’s. Hazel’s expression by contrast is taut, carefully controlled, apart from the feverish eyes that glitter at him, like a fox’s at the start of the hunt.
‘Please,’ he says levelly, ‘I don’t want to upset or frighten you. That’s not what this is about. I’m here doing research for my novel. That’s who I am – an author. I’m down here writing my book because it’s about here. It’s set here in Devon,’ he explains, aware of the clumsiness of his words. He’s so wired, they feel like party balloons popping. He needs to rein them in, keep her calm. Keep her here, in his room.
‘I was writing a scene,’ Max continues, forcing himself to ignore her obvious distress, ‘about a primrose.’ He waves his hands as if that’s irrelevant. ‘Anyway – the thing is – it reminded me. I knew I’d seen you somewhere before. Couldn’t place you, though, you know? But I’m good with faces. Always have been. And then it came to me!’ He snaps his fingers. ‘Primrose Bowman. Laurel Bowman’s sister. You were the Flower Girls.’ He looks at her, rubbing his chest. ‘I googled it. Found your photograph from when you were little. With your sister. The one they used in all the papers. You were both so famous then, everyone knew your faces.’ He shakes his head. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t get it straight away, but . . . well, you’re older now, aren’t you? Taller. But you still look the same. Your features . . .’ He stares at her. ‘I’m right, aren’t I? You’re Primrose Bowman.’
Hazel watches him, silent and pale. After a moment, she nods slowly.
‘I knew it!’ he exclaims and rocks back on his heels, almost triumphant. They look at each other in the aftermath and Max coughs awkwardly. Now he’s got his answer he’s nonplussed, not sure what to do with the weight of his satisfaction. The quiet lengthens and stretches its legs inside the room. Hazel lets the silence settle. Her brain is noisy and fast, but she tells it to calm down, to be still. There is a grain of hope here. Somewhere in this hotel, she still has some power.
‘So . . .’ she begins. ‘What are you going to do?’
Max looks confused. ‘Do?’ he asks. ‘About what?’
Again, Hazel feels that familiar buzz of irritation, that people can be so dense. Surely he knows what he has here?
‘About Georgie,’ she says. ‘The police. What are you going to tell them, now that you know?’
A bird squawks hoarsely outside. There is the faint sound of a car engine. Max rubs his hand across the back of his neck, his expression changing from anxious to blank and reverting to worried in a matter of seconds.
Is he getting it now? wonders Hazel. Is he seeing what he has on his hands?
‘Oh,’ Max says, taking a step forward but moving back again swiftly when he sees her turn rigid. ‘Oh, God. It wasn’t you, was it? With the girl?’ A thin layer of sweat shines on his forehead. ‘You didn’t . . .’
‘No!’ Hazel cries. ‘I didn’t mean that! I wouldn’t. I haven’t. I swear. I don’t know where she is. I haven’t touched her, I promise you.’ She closes her eyes and gathers her thoughts. ‘I’m not the guilty one. It wasn’t me then and it isn’t me now.’
Max’s expression is suddenly miserable. ‘I haven’t thought this through,’ he mutters, staring down at the carpet.
‘I haven’t touched that girl,’ Hazel says again, her voice a little firmer. ‘But, listen . . . Max, is it? If the police find out who I am . . . God, if the press do, if they come here . . .’ Her eyes fill with tears as she holds her hands out to him, her smallness, her cropped hair, emphasising how vulnerable she is.
How little she was, back then, thinks Max.
‘I’m trapped,’ she whispers.
Something in his face changes. ‘But you were going to run,’ he says as the thought occurs to him. ‘You had your suitcase. You wanted to leave.’
‘Wouldn’t you?’ Hazel’s voice cracks, a tear rolling down her cheek. ‘That policewoman. Hillier. I know she recognises me from somewhere. I just know it. She’ll have me arrested before you can even blink. I’ve seen it before, Max.’ And now it’s she who steps forward. ‘Trial by media. By the public. They’ve decided you’re guilty before you’ve even said a word. They wanted to bring back the death penalty for us. For me and Laurel.’ She swallows, draws her hands together in a prayer. ‘I swear to you – on my mother’s grave – I haven’t harmed that girl. I tried to leave because I’m scared.’ She shuts her eyes again. ‘You must see that.’
Max is looking at her, trying to take it in, trying to discern what is true.
Hazel takes another step forward. ‘I was never tried,’ she says. ‘I was six years old. Can you imagine? I was only just older than Georgie is now.’
After a small thrust of his neck, Max shakes his head. ‘No, I can’t,’ he answers, his voice cracks a little.
Hazel nods. ‘Everything was . . . God, when I think about it. Because of my sister and what she did, we were all so tainted. So damaged by it.’ Her voice is rising, emotion catching in her throat. ‘We were finished that day. Kirstie was dead,’ a sob breaks through, ‘and so was I . . . Rosie Bowman. My old life was dead to me.’ She takes a jagged breath, pulling herself to her centre before fixing Max with an anguished look. ‘Don’t make me go through it again, Max. Please. I’m begging you.’
He is silent, thinking. His fingertips tingle at his sides. To be faced by this woman. This pariah. At one moment in time, after Princess Diana and Laurel Bowman, she was the third most famous person in the world. He remembers the photographs, the interviews, the screaming crowds outside the courtroom, the desperate tears of Kirstie Swann’s parents, the mother with her pregnant belly, staring into the camera with such vacant despair. He thinks about his own beautiful daughters and the girl who is missing. About her mother, weeping upstairs. And the press that will soon descend on the hotel like vultures. The policewoman, Hillier. He thinks of it all as he studies Hazel Archer’s face, her beautiful eyes pleading with him, asking him to make her safe.
‘It’s time to go downstairs,’ he says, at last. ‘I’m sorry. But we need to tell the police who you are.’
Hazel shakes her head, expelling a long, slow breath. ‘Then I’ll die,’ she says simply.
‘Of course you won’t,’ he answers, firmer now. ‘We’ll just clear it up, remove the suspicion, and then you can go home. It’ll be all right, you’ll see. But you must be upfront with the police. It’ll only cause you more trouble if you try and leave.’
Hazel isn’t answering. Tears are streaming down her cheeks.
‘Come on,’ Max says, stilted and uncomfortable now that he has brought a woman into his bedroom and made her cry. ‘I promise I’ll help you. I’m sure that everything will be fine.’
‘No, it won’t.’ Her voice catches, her breathing ragged. ‘You don’t know what you’re doing.’
‘I do,’ he says resolutely. ‘This is the right thing. I’m sure of it.’
‘But you don’t know about . . . oh, what’s the point?’ Hazel trails off, exhausted and limp. She sags a little at her knees, as if she might fall to the floor.
‘About what?’ he asks, moving towards her, suddenly aware of a different kind of fear in her face. ‘What is it you’re afraid of? Not the press or the police?’
‘No, not them.’ Hazel’s voice trembles. ‘It’s the other one. The person I don’t know . . .’
Max shakes his head, confused. ‘What other person?’
Hazel crouches and reaches into her handbag, rummaging until she finds her phone and looks at it for a few seconds, before jerking it towards him. ‘I haven’t told anyone about this,’ she says. ‘I didn’t know what to do.’
Max takes the phone and stares down at the screen. Then he lifts his eyes to meet Hazel’s. ‘Who sent this to you?’ he asks.
She moves her head from side to side, her face wild and tear-streaked. ‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘I just don’t know.’