Black Flowers (26 page)

‘I’m sorry,’ I said again.

‘No, no. It’s my mistake. That just tends to be the only people who come to see me now. The boys and the girls. I just thought—’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to mislead you.’

‘No matter. Who are you then, and what can I do for you?’

‘My name’s Neil Dawson.’ I still hadn’t really decided what I was going to say, so I just took a deep breath and came out with it. ‘I wanted to ask you about a man called Robert Wiseman. Have you ever heard of him?’

She pursed her lips, considering it, and then shook her head.

‘I don’t remember if I have. When would this have been?’

‘He wouldn’t have been one of your children,’ I said. ‘Actually, he was a writer. A novelist. Years ago, he wrote a book called
The Black Flower
.’

I gave her a chance to recognise the title, but she just looked blank.

‘You’ve never heard of it?’

‘No, I don’t think so. What is it?’

‘A crime novel,’ I said. ‘Well, maybe more horror than crime.’

‘Oh no, no.’ The shake of the head was much more definite this time, the matter clearly settled by that detail alone. ‘Those aren’t the kind of books I read. There’s
far
too much horror in real life to waste time reading about it in stories as well.’

‘I know what you mean.’

And I believed her too. At the same time, though, Wiseman
must
have spoken to her at some point, because his description was simply too vivid to have come about any other way. Which meant that he hadn’t told her his name or his real intentions when they’d met.

‘What does it have to do with me?’ she said.

‘In one part of the book, he writes about a children’s home. It’s very specific. I think he based it on the one you used to run.’

‘I see. Well, that feels like a very long time ago now.’

‘Yes.’ I leaned forward. ‘It’s not really the home itself I’m interested in. It’s actually one of the children who stayed there. A girl you used to look after.’

Mrs Fitzwilliam didn’t reply, but I sensed the slightest of hardenings to her. After all this time, she was still protective of her charges.

Maybe I should have tried to bluff it after all.

‘It will have been about thirty years ago,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure exactly. This girl would have been five or six years old. She was found on the promenade in Whitkirk, and all she had with her was a grown-woman’s handbag, containing a flower.’

The more I spoke, the harder Mrs Fitzwilliam’s expression became. It wasn’t just protectiveness either.

You know
, I thought.

You know who I’m talking about
.

And so, despite the hardening, I felt a flash of hope. If she knew about this girl and what she’d gone through, she could corroborate her existence. Christ – maybe she even knew how to contact her.

I started to gabble.

‘The little girl, she told a story about escaping from a farm, but nobody believed it. I know she was telling the truth though. I think her father was exactly the type of man she said he was.’

‘I won’t talk about my children.’

‘I know you don’t want to,’ I said. ‘And I know you probably shouldn’t. But I really need to know about that girl.’

‘No.’ She shook her head firmly. ‘No, you have to leave.’

‘More than I can tell you.’

‘I’m going to call the police, Mr Dawson.’

I closed my eyes and pictured Ally. Forced myself to continue.

‘All right, then,’ I said. ‘Maybe you should. Because that man
is still out there. And if someone doesn’t find him in time, he’s going to kill someone else.’

‘I’m telling you to—’

‘Not just a woman. A baby too.’

And at that, something inside me just crumpled. I was so tired, so scared for Ally. There was nothing left to say.

The silence that followed seemed to go on for a long time, and when I finally opened my eyes again Mrs Fitzwilliam was staring at me. Her face was grim. Her jaw working slightly. I couldn’t read what she was thinking.

I held my hands out, palms up.

‘Please help me. Please.’

After a moment longer, she sighed to herself. Then she eased out of her chair and began to follow one of the worn grey trails to the doorway.

‘Wait here,’ she said.

‘You were wrong before.’

Mrs Fitzwilliam walked back into the lounge, half bent over, pushing a small trolley. The cups on it rattled against the teapot, letting off small porcelain clinks. She had been in the kitchen for five minutes, and I was now back sitting where she’d left me. In her absence, I’d stood up and walked quietly around the room, checking the photographs. It hadn’t helped. There were so many children, and almost any of the girls might have grown into the woman photographed at the Carnegie Crime Festival.

‘Wrong about what?’ I asked.

‘You told me that nobody believed her.’ She began pouring my tea. ‘The truth is that not many people even got to hear her story. Certainly not the media.’

She passed me the cup.

‘Thank you.’ I thought about Wiseman again. If the full story had never been reported then he
must
have heard the details from someone else. ‘I’ve spoken to one journalist who had no idea she’d ever existed. Was it not in the press?’

‘There was an appeal, an attempt to trace the parents, but the exact details of what she told the police were never circulated.’ Mrs Fitzwilliam began pouring her own drink. ‘It wouldn’t have registered in the brains of most journalists. It’s even worse these days. They just want something horrible to sell their newspapers with, which means they’re only interested in children who are
missing or worse.’ She gestured around the walls. ‘They’re never interested in the ones who are still here and need help.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘You’re right.’ Mrs Fitzwilliam was shuffling back across to her chair. ‘You believed the girl, though? What she said?’

‘Oh yes.’ She eased herself down, delicately balancing the cup and saucer in her hand. ‘It was a horrific story, but I can tell you with absolute certainty that she wasn’t lying. You develop a nose for these things over the years. However, that isn’t the point.’

‘The point?’

‘A girl of that age shouldn’t have such pictures in her head. A normal little girl from a good home wouldn’t be able to tell the story that she did. Even if she was making it up, I ask you: where did those ideas come from?’

‘A policeman believed her too.’

‘Yes.’

‘He came to see her?’

Mrs Fitzwilliam nodded. ‘I remember him vaguely. He was a good man, from what I can recall. He seemed to care very deeply about children.’

Yeah
, I thought.
Very deeply
. So deeply that he’d murdered a child-killer and dumped his body in a river. Wiseman too. And God only knew what else.

‘I have no wish to know, by the way.’ Mrs Fitzwilliam sipped from her cup. ‘What you mentioned before. About her father and someone else being missing. I’ll tell you what I can, but I want no more involvement, and that’s final. It’s better that way.’

‘Better?’

‘Safer.’

That word kept coming up, didn’t it?
Safer
. There was something to it: the more I learned, the more this girl’s story did feel dangerous. Of all the people who had come into contact with it, so many had found themselves entangled in it. Threads of real
life made into fiction. They seemed to reach back out again and wrap around you. Pull you into it.

Mrs Fitzwilliam balanced the cup and saucer on the arm of the chair, the saucer resting exactly in place.

She said, ‘And as much as I looked after her, the same as I would have done for anyone, I was glad when she finally left. It shames me to admit that, but it’s true.’

‘That’s not shameful,’ I said. ‘I can understand that, given the man who was out there looking for her.’

‘It wasn’t just about him. We were protected, after all. That old address was private, unlisted. There was no way he could find us, and the police made sure we were safe.’

‘So what was it?’

She grimaced. ‘It was that she
talked
. She kept telling her story, over and over. It was bad enough hearing it once. The other children didn’t need to hear it at all. Do you want to see her?’

‘Yes,’ I said immediately.

‘She’s in the middle photo on the mantelpiece.’

I stood up and put my cup and saucer on the trolley, then walked across. I’d already looked at this picture when she was out of the room, and nothing about it had struck me in particular. But as I lifted it up, I felt a jolt. She was obvious now that I knew she was there.

Mrs Fitzwilliam said, ‘That’s her on the right.’

I nodded; I could tell. In addition to a much younger version of the old lady sitting across from me, there were three children in the picture: two girls and a boy. The girl on the right was small, with slightly straggly hair, and she was staring straight into the camera with a
furious
expression on her face. The sheer intensity in her eyes might as well have knocked the other children out of the shot altogether.

I said, ‘How long did she stay with you for?’

‘Nearly five months. Longer than most, but the circumstances were unusual. With most children, they’re either taken away
from their family, or the parents have died. It’s rare in this day and age to get an abandoned child. And so obviously, the police wanted to track down the family, regardless of whether she was telling the truth about them or not. Either way, they needed to find them.’

‘But nobody came forward?’

‘No. Never.’

‘And what happened to her?’

‘She was adopted,’ Mrs Fitzwilliam said. ‘They found a permanent home for her.’

‘Do you know where?’

She shook her head, and my heart fell slightly.

‘No. I never did. It was always better not to, for my sake, and they were especially careful with Charlotte, due to her background.’

Charlotte
. So Wiseman hadn’t even been bothered enough to give her a new name. I guessed he would have been keen to keep the
Charlotte’s Web
detail, and maybe he’d thought the case was obscure enough for using the name not to matter. Presumably the adult Charlotte was also called something else now anyway. But still.

I shook my head, almost missing the next thing Mrs Fitzwilliam said.

‘And she’s never talked about it.’

I put the photo back down. I was going to ask something else when I realised what I’d just heard.

‘You’ve seen her since then?’

‘Yes.’ Mrs Fitzwilliam grimaced again. ‘Every year.’

I took a step towards her. The hope was fluttering again.

‘You’ve seen her
every year?’

‘Yes. My children often come back to see me. And I might be retired now, but that doesn’t mean I’ll ever turn one of them away.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘Not even her.’

It felt like my mind had gone blank, the individual thoughts obscured by the sheer number of them competing for attention.
Almost on autopilot, I rummaged in my pocket, searching for the photograph I’d printed from the Carnegie Crime Festival. I was still unfolding it as I passed it to her.

‘Is this her? Sitting between the men?’

‘Let me see.’

She peered at it, screwing her damaged eyes up so tightly they almost disappeared entirely. And then she nodded.

‘Yes. She’s older now, but that’s her.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m quite sure. It’s one thing not to remember every child. It’s another not to recognise a grown woman.’ She looked up at me. ‘Especially this one.’

Time was slowing down. I took the sheet from her and then it felt like I was backing away across the room. I sat down carefully, trying to think.

‘When did you last see her?’

‘A week or so ago. Always the same. Every year.’

Always the same. I glanced down at the photograph of the ethereal woman – Charlotte – sitting between my father and Robert Wiseman. Taken at the Carnegie Crime Festival, which had been held every September, up until 2003. This picture was from September 1989. Wiseman had disappeared in September. My father had booked into The Southerton in September.

Finally, I understood.

‘She comes home,’ I said.

‘Yes.’ Mrs Fitzwilliam nodded once, then took a sip of her tea. ‘She comes home. To mark her birthday. The only one she’s ever had.’

I closed my eyes.

All those years ago, the little girl had appeared on the promenade in September. As an adult, she had returned on the anniversary of that date, to mark the moment at which her real life had begun. That was the month she’d encountered Wiseman and my father. That was why Wiseman had come back here in September, researching his follow-up. He’d been looking for
her in the only place and at the only time he knew she would appear, as regular as a haunting. And that was how my father had found her too. Not by detective work. Simply by knowing where she would be on one particular date.