Текст книги "Without a Trace"

Автор книги: Lesley Pearse

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Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ Molly said. ‘I thought we had a week or so up here.’

She purposely didn’t say ‘together’, in case that was too familiar.

‘Unfortunately, police witnesses are usually called right at the start. This case is a bit more complicated than most, as Miss Gribble has pleaded not guilty to abduction, claiming that Christabel had the right as Petal’s mother to go and get her from Cassie. She claims, too, that she never touched Cassie; she just tripped over and fell. She’s also pleading not guilty to murdering Reg Coleman, though how she can maintain that story I don’t know, not when his body was found in the garden.’

‘I suppose she could claim that someone else killed him and put him in the ground. How are they going to prove it was her after all these years?’

‘I think the forensic team have got something up their sleeve and, besides, when the jury hear she locked Petal upstairs for months and was going to leave you to die of starvation I can’t see them finding her not guilty of stabbing and burying Reg when she alone had the motive and opportunity to do it.’

‘Whatever happens, it’s going to be tough for Christabel today,’ Molly said. ‘I’d hate to be in a position like hers. Miss Gribble is almost like a mother or big sister to her, and she must have loved her.’

‘I’m hoping that now she realizes just how badly she’s been betrayed, and that Miss Gribble stole her whole life it will make her speak out when she is called to give evidence.’

‘It’s funny to think such a weak woman could produce a daughter like Cassie,’ Molly said. ‘She used to tell me to stand up for myself and demand my rights. I used to think I was weak, just like my mum.’

‘You are like your mum in that you care about other people,’ George said, taking her arm as they crossed a busy road. ‘That isn’t weak. And you’ve got to remember that women of your mum’s age were told from birth that being a good wife meant never criticizing or opposing their husband.’

‘I suppose that’s okay if you’ve got a reasonable husband like your dad.’

‘Don’t ever tell my dad that! Mum is the boss in our house. She’s just good at making him think he is. She was even the one who proposed!’

Molly giggled. ‘Really?’

‘Yes, really. Apparently, he’d been hinting at it for months, but never came right out with it. He hadn’t even dared to say he loved her. So she got cross with him, and just said she was tired of it all, she loved him and wanted to get married, but if he didn’t feel the same he was to admit it and then clear off.’

‘That was brave of her! Most women would feel a man was just stringing her along if he didn’t speak about his feelings, or that he was rather pathetic.’

George’s head whipped round to look at her. Molly felt herself blushing and she hoped that, by just looking ahead, she would appear nonchalant.

Neither of them was called on the first day of the trial; they just had to sit and wait. At first Molly enjoyed watching people coming in, wondering who they were and what crime they were involved in, but that soon wore off and she began to feel cold and bored. The time passed very slowly, even with George to chat with.

Her mind wandered and she began to think how far she’d come since that first time in London for her interview at Bourne & Hollingsworth. She’d been scared to eat in a café, terrified she’d get lost on the underground and convinced she stood out as a naïve country girl. What a lot she’d seen and done since then! She’d been sacked from her job, almost raped by the man in Soho, gone to live in the East End and then got the job at the George. And she’d done what she set out to do: to find Petal and see Cassie’s killer brought to justice.

There had been some terrible times but some very good ones, too. She’d made a friend for life in Dilys, and Ted and Evelyn had become almost family. She could thank Cassie and Constance for expanding her mind and making her realize that she wasn’t weak. London had played its part in rounding her out but, although it would always be an exciting place to visit, she was very glad she didn’t have to live or work here any more.

She could imagine Cassie smiling down at her. She felt her friend would think she’d turned up trumps. Not just for saving Petal, but for saving herself from becoming a cowed little mouse like her mother.

That evening she and George went to the pictures. He wanted to see On the Waterfront, starring Marlon Brando, but Molly insisted she had to see Carmen Jones, with Dorothy Dandridge, and somewhat reluctantly George agreed.

She loved it, as she knew she would, because the music was so moving, and she cried several times. George admitted as they came out that he had been close to tears, too, and that he had loved the film, but said he was going to drag her to see On the Waterfront the following night.

He hadn’t held her hand or even put his arm around her in the cinema but, when they got back to the hotel, he kissed her goodnight outside her room.

It was a delicious kiss, slow, sensual and toe curling, but George pulled away from her and smiled down at her. ‘Bed for you. I wish I could come in and share it, but I promised your mum I wouldn’t take advantage just because we were in a hotel together.’

‘I think I’m old enough to decide for myself whether I would welcome a man in my room,’ she said jokingly.

‘I agree, but a promise is a promise and, anyway, we may need to have our wits about us tomorrow,’ he said. ‘But can I just add that there would be nothing I’d like better than to spend the night with you.’

Molly closed the bedroom door behind her and stood leaning against it for a moment in a daze. He’d finally admitted he wanted her. Was that because she’d put him under pressure by talking about weak men? Or because he really meant it?

They had barely got to the Old Bailey the next morning when the prosecuting barrister, Mr Barrington-Sloane, came to tell Molly she was to be called first.

‘I want the jury to see straight away that there is no doubt Miss Gribble is a ruthless and cunning murderess who had total control of Christabel Coleman. So I will first ask you to tell the jury about Sylvia Coleman and Pamela, then lead on to you finding Sylvia Coleman dead in Stone Cottage. I aim to go on from there to how you came to be imprisoned by Miss Gribble, but there is a possibility the judge will not allow that evidence today. We’ll see how it goes.’

Molly’s stomach began to churn with fright. Yesterday, as she and George were waiting, he had told her tales about defence lawyers throwing doubt on things witnesses had said. He’d assured her that she’d be all right as she was simply reporting what she’d seen at Stone Cottage and no one could twist it, as it was fact.

‘Don’t look so scared,’ Barrington-Sloane said. He was scary, too, tall and very thin with a nose like a beak. With his robe, wig, and half-moon spectacles perched precariously on the end of his nose, he reminded her of a crow. ‘You’ll be fine,’ he went on. ‘Just look at the judge and speak up.’

Molly didn’t think she’d be able to speak up, or to call Cassie and Petal by their real names. She couldn’t even think of them as Sylvia and Pamela, let alone remember to use those names.

It began very well. Barrington-Sloane encouraged her to set the scene by explaining how Sylvia and Pamela hadn’t turned up for the Coronation Day party, and how Molly had gone up to Stone Cottage on her bicycle to find them and found Sylvia dead on the floor and Pamela missing.

The defence lawyer, a short, stubby man, said he had no questions, so Barrington-Sloane moved straight on to getting Molly to relate what happened when she went to Mulberry House with the intention of meeting Christabel Coleman. Molly went on to say how she was attacked by Miss Gribble and knocked unconscious, only to come to later to find herself locked in a room in the cellar.

‘Will you tell the court what it was like in that cellar?’ Barrington-Sloane asked her.

‘It was very cold,’ she said. ‘The only thing to sit or lie on was a wooden bench. I couldn’t sleep because of the cold, and I was hungry and thirsty.’

‘You were in there for two days,’ Barrington-Sloane said. ‘Were you confident you’d be either let out by Miss Gribble or rescued by someone else?’

‘No I wasn’t confident about being rescued,’ Molly said. ‘I thought I would die in there, as no one knew where I was.’

‘But after your second night in there you did manage to pick the lock and escape,’ Barrington-Sloane said. ‘Did you run out of the house to get help for the child you believed to be held there?’

‘No, I stayed in the house and went to find her,’ Molly said. ‘I guessed they must be holding her in one of the rooms upstairs, and I went to look for her.’

‘And when you found her locked in, you broke down the door to set her free, isn’t that so?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘But your troubles weren’t over just yet: you had to get out of that house, with the child. She was undernourished, neglected and frightened, but you carried her downstairs. And what then?’

‘Miss Gribble was there, a poker in her hand,’ Molly said. ‘I whispered to Petal that she was to run when I put her down. Luckily, that was enough of a distraction for Miss Gribble, and I managed to grab a heavy ornament and throw it at her. It stopped her in her tracks.’

Barrington-Sloane told the remainder of the story, asking Molly to confirm that Christabel Coleman had knocked her unconscious with an axe. Later, she and the child had been taken to Hastings Hospital by ambulance. The defence lawyer, Mr Myers, began his turn by spending a few moments strutting around the court, his hands behind his back, before starting his cross-examination. Molly quaked, fearing he was going to bring up her having got the sack from Bourne & Hollingsworth, or some other incident from the past which would suggest that her word couldn’t be trusted.

‘Miss Heywood,’ he said, with the kind of sneer smile that confirmed her worst fears about what he intended to bring up, ‘we have heard that you diligently took part in the search for Pamela after her abduction, but I would like to know why you weren’t so diligent when you found a letter in Stone Cottage that was a link to Sylvia Coleman’s past. Why didn’t you take this letter to the police?’

‘Because I knew they wouldn’t follow it up,’ she replied. ‘They’d already lost interest in the case by then.’

‘I’m sorry. I hadn’t been informed that you were an expert on police procedure,’ he said sarcastically. ‘So, instead of informing those who have access to a huge network to track people down, and the benefit of forensic science to assist them, you chose to play detective?’

‘I suppose so. I thought Sister Constance, the lady the letter came from, would be more likely to open up to me.’

‘Can you tell me the date on which you found the letter?’

‘No, sir, but it must have been July or so.’

‘July or so. In 1953?’

‘Yes, sir,’ she responded, her heart sinking even further.

‘Didn’t it occur to you that by withholding this piece of evidence you might be responsible for prolonging the length of time that vulnerable little girl was held captive? Or, even worse that during that time she might have died?’

‘Sister Constance didn’t know anything,’ Molly retorted. ‘Even if I had given the letter to the police they wouldn’t have found Pamela through Sister Constance.’

‘Is that so?’ Mr Myers asked, fixing her with dead, shark-like eyes. ‘Isn’t it true you were given a notebook belonging to Miss Coleman?’

Molly felt nauseous now. ‘Well, yes, but it didn’t have addresses or anything, just odd references to things she did, places she’d been to. It was very hard to understand.’

‘And you didn’t believe that an experienced detective would have been able to decipher a young woman’s jottings faster than you?’

‘Like I said, the way the police had left the case led me to think they would just ignore me.’

‘Yet you went to school with Constable George Walsh, who was involved in the investigation. You were such close friends that he rode his motorbike to Rye from Somerset when he suspected you were in trouble. Are you telling me he wouldn’t have taken your concerns seriously?’

Molly squirmed. She couldn’t even be indignant at the barrister’s questions, because he was right. She should have given that letter to the police and she should have at least informed George what she was up to.

‘With hindsight, I should have shared all information I received or had worked out for myself with the police,’ she admitted. ‘But I didn’t imagine I was going to find Petal – or Pamela, to give her her correct name – in a village out on the Kentish marshes. I was just trying to find my friend’s relatives.’

The defence lawyer said he had no further questions, and Molly was able to leave the witness stand.

At four o’clock the judge adjourned for the day. George had given his evidence that afternoon, and tomorrow morning both sides would make their closing speeches. Molly had hardly said a word since giving her evidence that morning and, although George hadn’t been in court to hear what the defence lawyer had asked her, he’d been at enough trials to guess why she was so withdrawn.

It was dark when they came out of the Old Bailey, and very cold. George led her across the road to a café nearby for a cup of tea.

‘You mustn’t take it personally,’ he said once they’d sat down, taking her hand across the table and squeezing it. He had wanted to cuddle her as soon as they got out of the court, but he couldn’t, not while he was in uniform. ‘Lawyers are like that with everyone. They have to pick at things witnesses have said and done, it’s the only way to draw out the full picture so the jury can make a fair assessment of the guilt or innocence of the person in the dock.’

Molly gave a weak smile, but he could see she felt humiliated. ‘Want to tell me?’ he asked. ‘Or would you rather forget?’

She told him the gist of it and admitted the lawyer had been right: she should have taken the letter from Constance to the police.

‘Well, it is a shame you didn’t give it to me,’ he said. ‘I would’ve pushed for the London mob to go and talk to her. But I can see why you didn’t – it was hardly a thorough investigation. I’ve seen the police put more effort into a burglary or a road accident.’

‘He said Petal might have been found much earlier but for me withholding that letter. It makes me feel terrible to think I prolonged her suffering.’

George reached out and wiped a tear away from her cheek with his thumb. ‘If you hadn’t acted, she might never have been found,’ he said. ‘So stop blaming yourself and let’s go back to the hotel so I can change and you can put on something warmer, then we’ll go up to the West End, see the Christmas lights and have a swanky meal somewhere.’

‘I thought you wanted to see On the Waterfront?’ she asked.

‘Not as much as I’d like to see you smile again,’ he replied.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Molly woke to hear banging on a door close to her room.

‘Mr Walsh!’ a woman called out.

She pricked up her ears at George’s name.

‘There’s an urgent telephone call for you,’ the woman continued.

Molly turned on the bedside light to look at her watch. It was six in the morning.

While they had been having dinner the previous night in an Italian restaurant just off Oxford Street, George had said he thought he would be called back to Sawbridge in the morning. ‘I wish they’d let me stay to hear the verdict, but it’s as if the DI wants you to have all the worry about being a witness but not the pleasure of the result.’

But if this was George’s DI calling him, Molly thought it was a bit extreme to ring so early. He could have left it till after breakfast.

She heard George come out of his room and go down the stairs, she turned the light off and snuggled down again.

The next thing she knew George was tapping on her door. ‘Open up, Molly,’ he whispered. ‘I have to talk to you.’

Assuming he wanted to say goodbye, she got out of bed, pulling the eiderdown around her, as it was freezing cold. She wondered if she was brave enough to go back to the Old Bailey on her own to hear the closing speeches and the verdict.

She unlocked the door and George came in. He had a jacket on over his blue-and-white striped pyjamas, his hair was sticking up and his face was very pale.

‘What on earth’s wrong?’ she asked. ‘Why did they phone you so early? Is it an emergency?’

He didn’t answer for a minute, just looked at her as if unable to speak.

‘George, you’re frightening me. What is it?’

He ran his fingers through his hair distractedly. ‘I’ve got to tell you, but I don’t know how to,’ he said.

‘Tell me what? Is it Petal?’ she asked in alarm, clutching the eiderdown around her even more tightly. ‘Has something happened to her?’

He came closer, and his face was contorted with anguish. ‘No, it’s not about Petal, it’s your parents.’ He paused, putting his hands up on his head as if trying to force himself to get the words out. ‘I’m so sorry, Molly. There’s no easy way to say this. The shop caught fire last night and they both died.’

For a few moments Molly thought she was dreaming. Yet George had pulled her to him tightly as he spoke and his tweed jacket felt real enough against her cheek, and she could hear him breathing hard as he leaned his face against her head.

‘A fire?’ she exclaimed. ‘How could that happen?’

‘It started in the store room at the back of the shop. The firemen think your dad must have left the electric fire on in there and it was too close to a cardboard box or something. Once it got going, it found plenty to burn, and the staircase up to the flat is right over the store room.’

‘You mean they were trapped upstairs and were burned alive?’ Molly moved back from him and looked at him in horror.

‘I think they were overcome by the fumes long before the flames reached them,’ George assured her. ‘They probably didn’t even wake up.’

Molly went over to the window and pulled the curtain back. She thought she ought to cry, but she felt curiously numb, as if she’d been told about a couple of strangers. It was still dark outside; all she could see of Russell Square was a golden circle of light beneath the lamp post outside the hotel. But she could hear the rumble and clinking sound of the milkman’s float on its round.

‘Molly! Speak to me!’ George said.

‘What is there to say?’ she asked, turning towards him. ‘It’s one of those times when there are no words. Mostly, I hate Dad, but I wouldn’t want anyone, not even my worst enemy, to die like that. And Mum! What did she ever do to deserve such a death?’

‘I know. It’s so cruel,’ he agreed. ‘Oh, Molly, she certainly didn’t deserve such a death. She should have grown old surrounded by grandchildren who loved her. She should have been around to see you and Emily make the peace with your father, and for him to change his ways. But we’d better get dressed and get a train back there. I’ll go down and get a tray of tea first.’

When he had left the room Molly tossed the eiderdown on to the bed and began pulling on some clothes. She got as far as putting on some slacks and a jumper when, suddenly, the enormity of what had happened hit her like a tidal wave, and the tears came.

It was over fifteen months since she had left Sawbridge, and she hadn’t seen her parents in that time. She’d spoken to her mother on the phone, written dozens of letters, but that wasn’t the same as seeing her, putting her arms around her and kissing those soft cheeks. She could offer perfectly good reasons why she hadn’t been home – lack of opportunity and money and, of course, the bad feelings about her father – but now they all looked like petty excuses.

George came back into the room carrying a tea tray. Seeing her tears, he put it down and took her in his arms, rocking her silently.

‘This is so awful,’ he said. ‘I can’t imagine anything worse, and I can’t think of anything to say which would make it better. But let’s have some tea. I’ll find out what time the trains are, and ring the Bridgenorths for you.’

‘I always thought when I went home again it would be in triumph because I’d got a good job and a future,’ Molly said brokenly. ‘I wanted to rub my dad’s nose in it.’

‘You have got a good job and a future,’ he said. ‘And don’t make the mistake of blaming yourself. No one could’ve been a better daughter than you were. Your dad really was a nasty piece of work – his death doesn’t change that. But of course you’re going to grieve, for what is past and for what could’ve been. Your mum was a lovely lady; she’ll be missed by so many people. I know you must feel you’ve got no one now but remember you’ve still got me.’

Molly clung to him, soothed a little by his calm manner and his kindness.

‘Cup of tea now,’ he said, edging her back so she could sit on the bed. ‘I’ll pack your stuff for you.’

It was late afternoon, dark and very cold when they arrived back in Sawbridge. There were Christmas lights up in the high street, and most of the shops had cheerful Christmas window displays. But Heywoods, which had always been the most prominent shop in the street, was in darkness. There was just enough light from the street lamps to see that all the windows were broken, the frames burnt, and there were marks where the flames had licked right up to the first floor.

‘It looks much worse at the back,’ Jack Ollerenshaw volunteered. He was a friend of George and had come to pick them up from the station. ‘But you don’t want to even think about that now, Molly.’

Mrs Walsh hugged Molly wordlessly for several minutes before drawing her into the living room, taking her coat and making her sit down.

The room was very neat and tidy, and a delicious smell of roasting meat was coming from the kitchen. ‘You must think of this as your home, my love,’ Mrs Walsh said. ‘My hubby and I feel deeply for you, and if we can do anything to make you feel just a bit better, you just shout.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Walsh, I really appreciate your kindness. I’m very glad I had George to travel home with. It would’ve been awful on my own.’

‘You are to have George’s bed, and he’ll go in with our Harry,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what the procedure is in cases like this one. You weren’t here, so there would be no point in the police asking you questions, though I expect you’ll have to contact the insurance company. Will there be a post mortem, George?’

‘I imagine so,’ he said, frowning at his mother, as if to warn her to keep off such subjects. ‘I’m just going to nip along to the police station to let them know we’re here. Will you be all right, Molly?’

Four days later Molly wanted to scream each time someone asked her if she was ‘all right’. Of course she wasn’t. How could anyone be all right when their parents had just died in a fire?

She wasn’t just angry at people who asked such a senseless question, but with her father. A fire investigator had found a whisky bottle in the store room. It had broken in the heat of the flames, but there was evidence that the bottle and a glass had been on the desk and the pathologist had found that her father had been drinking heavily.

Even if Molly had been away for a long time, she could imagine the scene as clearly as if she’d been in that store room. He would’ve been skulking there with the one-bar electric fire keeping him warm while he drank his whisky. He had always made out he did paperwork on his nights in there, but Molly knew he just sat and got drunk. Upstairs, her mother had to go to bed to keep warm when the coal ran out because he was so miserly with it.

The investigator’s report said they believed that Mr Heywood had forgotten to turn the fire off when he went upstairs. He may have accidentally kicked it too close to one of the many cardboard boxes in the store room. It would have taken as much as an hour for the first box to go from singeing to bursting into flames but, from that point on, there would have been no stopping it, because the room was full of flammable goods, including a tank of paraffin.

It was some small comfort that her parents hadn’t been burned. They had died of smoke inhalation in their sleep, and the closed bedroom door had kept the flames at bay.

The shop, staircase, kitchen and sitting room were all gutted only her parents’ room and Molly’s were intact because the doors had been closed, although they were badly smoke damaged. The whole building was unsafe and would have to be demolished.

George managed to find out where Molly’s sister, Emily, was living – Molly had no address or telephone number for her – and sent a telegram asking her to ring. Emily telephoned the Walshes’ house when she received it but, although she was as shocked and horrified as Molly, and concerned about her sister, she refused point blank to come back, even for the funeral.

‘What point would there be?’ she said in a cold voice. ‘I hated Dad. Have you forgotten that he threw me out just for seeing Tim? He put me through hell my whole childhood, and he stopped Mum and you contacting me once I’d gone.’

‘I know, but come back for Mum and me now,’ Molly pleaded.

‘No, I won’t. Mum should’ve stuck up for me. She didn’t even write to me more than once a year. I wrote and asked her to the wedding, said she could come with you. She never even replied.’

‘You married Tim?’ Molly was shocked to hear that. ‘I didn’t know. She told me you hadn’t written. You can bet your boots Dad took the letters! Oh God, Emily, if I’d’ve known I would have come to you, but I thought you didn’t want me or Mum in your life.’

‘I’m sure Dad did take the letters, but that doesn’t excuse Mum. What sort of a mother abandons one of her children?’

Molly was too upset to continue. George took the view that she couldn’t make Emily come to the funeral, and maybe it would be for the best if her sister stayed away if she was so bitter.

‘Write to her once it’s all over,’ he suggested. ‘Maybe you can salvage something then.’

Molly didn’t know what she would have done without George. He was everything she needed – adviser, confidant, brother, friend and sweetheart all rolled into one. He cuddled her when she cried, listened when she wanted to talk, took her for brisk walks when he felt that fresh air and exercise would help, and often made her laugh when she least expected it.

His parents and brother, Harry, were all kind, too, attentive but not intrusive, caring but not to the point of suffocation. They fended off nosy neighbours and gossip-mongers, too, because, as if the fire wasn’t enough for people, there was the trial, too, which the newspapers went to town reporting.

Miss Maud Gribble was found guilty of the murder of Reg Coleman and the manslaughter of Sylvia Coleman and sentenced to be hanged. But, for the locals, the real shock was that Petal had been Cassie’s sister, not her daughter, and she’d been trying to keep the child safe.

Suddenly, even those who had said the nastiest things about Cassie were admiring her courage and kindness. Mrs Walsh got quite angry that they couldn’t have been more tolerant and caring while she was alive.

‘I hate this about people,’ she ranted. ‘They can make a person desperately unhappy because of some blind prejudice and then, when something happens to change that opinion, they never admit they were wrong, or apologize. It makes me see red!’

Evelyn Bridgenorth had rung twice to offer her condolences, to keep Molly abreast of how Petal was, and to remind her she had a job and a home to come back to. ‘It’s crazy here at the moment, everyone talking about Miss Gribble and Christabel. If they don’t know anything, they make it up. I’m hoping that, after the hanging, it will all die down. It’s not good for Petal.’

Molly’s parents’ funeral took place on 18 December. It was raining heavily and very cold. The church was packed, giving Molly some comfort that, even if people had disliked her father, they chose to put that aside for her mother’s sake.

George held her hand firmly and, even if she had doubted his feelings for her before, she could now see his love for her in his face. She had chosen the hymn ‘Love Divine, All Loves Excelling’, because she knew her parents had chosen it for their wedding. She would never learn now what had turned her father into such a hard, cruel man but, for today, she tried not to think of him that way but to remember that her mother had loved him.

As for her mother, Molly could remember only good things. Being handed a buttered scone still hot from the oven and a cup of tea when she came home from school on a cold day. Picnics in the woods, going to Weston-super-Mare on the bus in the summer holidays, picking strawberries at a nearby farm and her mother teaching her to ride a bicycle.

She may have been weak, but she was so loving, and when Molly glanced around the church she saw many of her mother’s friends crying.

Some of them had laid on food and drink in the village hall after the interment. The cakes and tarts were all home-made, the tablecloths hand embroidered, brought out to honour Mary Heywood. Even the china was Sunday best. Molly noted it all, and knew her mother would have been very touched.

One by one, people came up to her and offered a hug or a loving little anecdote about her mother. Every one of them said how proud Mary had been of Molly. They also said how much they admired her for rescuing Petal.

No one asked why Emily wasn’t there, and they didn’t comment on her father either. Maybe they would discuss them when they got home, or in the pub over the next few days, but Molly didn’t care about that. She’d laid her parents to rest, and her mother, at least, had gone with everyone remembering her for her kindness and warmth.

Enoch Flowers even made her laugh. He’d put on a suit, which obviously passed in his eyes for ‘best’, but it was shiny with age, had mildew marks on the jacket and stank of it, too. He approached Molly to compliment her on getting justice for Cassie and rescuing Petal. He said Cassie would rest easy knowing she had such a good friend.

‘Yer ma was a kind soul, too,’ he said. ‘Many’s the time she slipped me a few rashers of bacon or a lump of cheese when the old man weren’t looking. She seemed to always know when I was skint. Now yer dad was a miserable bastard and no mistake. I can’t bring meself to lie about him just to cheer you. Wouldn’t be right, but you just make sure when you get the insurance money that you go over to his grave and pour a drop of whisky on it to thank him for sparing you the need to care for him when he was an old codger like me.’