Текст книги "Without a Trace"

Автор книги: Lesley Pearse

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

CHAPTER THREE

It was just after seven and still raining when Molly came out of the police station. Hearing music coming from the Pied Horse, she stopped in the middle of the road. She knew that the Percys had booked a small band to play tonight. If the weather had been good, they’d have played in the street and Molly would be helping to serve drinks.

She was astounded that the Percys hadn’t cancelled the band the minute Sergeant Bailey had informed them at the village hall that Cassie was dead. It wasn’t right to carry on with all the jollity when a young woman had been murdered and her child was missing.

Rage bubbled up inside her at the thought of people laughing, chatting and drinking at such a time, and the tears that welled up in her eyes were scalding. She already had a picture in her head of Petal stumbling around in the woods, hungry, soaked to the skin and too scared to go to anyone because she’d seen her mother being killed.

Yet now there was an even worse picture nudging out the previous one. That of Petal’s small body shoved hastily under a bush to conceal it. Killed purely so she could never identify her mother’s murderer.

Molly’s usual timidity left her, and she marched across to the pub, flung the door open wide and, holding it like that, she launched into a loud and bitter tirade.

‘You should not be in here drinking tonight!’ she shouted out at the top of her lungs.

The band stopped playing and everyone turned to look at her. The blank expressions on their faces incensed her even further.

‘Surely you all know that Cassandra March was found dead today and her six-year-old daughter is missing? Little Petal may have been murdered, too, but just in case she ran away from the man who killed her mother, is there anyone in this pub who feels able to carry on drinking and chatting while a frightened six-year-old is hiding in the woods in this rain?’

She let her question sink in for a few seconds. ‘Right, who is going to come and help me search? It won’t be dark until nearly ten tonight. We’ve got three hours to find her.’

There was a buzz of discussion. Normally, there would’ve been very few women in the pub but, because it was a special day, there were around twenty or so this evening. Yet they, the very ones Molly had expected to urge their husbands to join the search, looked indignant at the request.

‘Come on!’ Molly called out, wondering where on earth this new courage had come from. ‘Imagine if it was your little girl alone in the woods.’

The first two men to make a move were in their fifties: John Sutherland and Alec Carpenter, both farm labourers.

‘Thank you,’ Molly said. ‘You are true gentlemen. Now, who else is coming?’

It took a while, and a great deal of whispered discussion with their pals but, gradually, the men began to come over and join John and Alec. In the end, there were eighteen of them.

Three dropped out as soon as they realized they would have to walk up the hill. Halfway up, another four turned and went back down.

‘So a pint is more important than a child’s life, is it?’ Molly called scornfully after them.

When the remaining eleven reached the track that led down to Stone Cottage, they stopped and looked at the mud in alarm.

‘I’d like to look for her, but I’m not dressed for it,’ Ted Swift admitted, looking down at his highly polished brogues. ‘You need wellingtons to walk in that.’

‘There’s a big police search arranged for the morning, I heard,’ Jim Cready, the local window cleaner, said. ‘We should wait for that, Molly. None of us is dressed for tramping through rain and mud.’

Like sheep, they all turned and followed Jim back down the hill.

‘What’s a bit of rain and mud compared with saving a small child?’ Molly yelled out as they retreated, then burst into tears of frustration.

She stomped down to Stone Cottage and followed the well-worn small track into the woods made by Cassie and Petal. But the track petered out after about two hundred yards; this was clearly as far as mother and daughter were in the habit of going.

Molly had been calling out for Petal as she walked, but it occurred to her that no child would stay so close to home if something had frightened them there; they would run to somewhere they perceived as safe – school, the church or a favourite shop – so there was no sense in staying in a wood where the undergrowth was too thick to walk through.

Reluctantly, she turned round and made her way back to the road. She felt foolish now that she’d tried and failed to organize a search party. She would search the church, look in the schoolyard and along the backs of the shops, but maybe she should wait for the police search tomorrow morning at first light to go further afield. After all, they were pulling in men from both Bath and Bristol.

It was gloomy in the church, and the usual smell of polish and damp had a layer of rose scent added to it from the two very large vases of roses either side of the altar.

She looked around, including in the vestries, calling out Petal’s name, but to no avail.

On an impulse she sank down on to her knees at the altar rail and prayed that Petal would be found unharmed.

As she got up she remembered that the last time she’d made a plea to God was when Emily said she was leaving home after their father had given her that beating. They were in the bedroom. Emily was sobbing; her face was swollen and red where he’d slapped it, but that was the least of her injuries: he’d hit her again and again on her back with a cane. As she was only wearing a thin blouse, her back was a mass of weals, and some were bleeding.

‘I hate him!’ Emily sobbed out. ‘I’m going and I’m never coming back and, what’s more, I’m going to steal the week’s takings to teach him a lesson.’

Molly had always looked up to her big sister, because she consistently stood up to their father and had stuck up for Molly hundreds of times. But this beating wasn’t just because Emily had carried on seeing Bevan Coombes, ‘the lout’, as her father called him, after she’d been warned she wasn’t to but because she’d dared to tell Jack Heywood he was a deranged bully who ought to be locked up in a loony bin.

Molly did everything she could that night to sooth Emily’s wounds, gently applying antiseptic cream, cuddling her sister and stealing some of their father’s brandy to help her sleep. Later, she got on her knees to pray for a miracle; that Jack would wake up a changed man and beg Emily not to go. It didn’t work, of course: her father was still as nasty the next morning. Emily waited until Saturday night when he’d gone to the pub, opened the shop safe and pocketed the week’s takings, then picked up her suitcase and went to catch the last bus into Bristol.

She didn’t tell Molly or their mother when she was going, and neither of them knew she’d found out what the combination number for the lock on the safe was. Jack found a note from her inside it. It said, ‘Treat people badly and they’ll behave badly. You deserve this and more.’

That last defiant act of Emily’s still impressed Molly. Time and again when her father hit her, she wished she could find her older sister’s guts. Now, as she walked from the church to her home, she thought about the prayers she’d just offered up. They were simply that she wanted God to keep Petal safe, and that if someone was holding her to let her go without harm. She hadn’t prayed that her father would be pleasant when she got home, because she knew he wouldn’t be.

News travelled fast in the village so, by now, even people who hadn’t been at the hall or in the pub would know exactly what had happened. Her parents may have even watched from the window as Molly passed the shop with the men as a search party.

Molly let herself in the side door, passed along the corridor by the stock rooms and went up the stairs to the flat. She was tempted to go straight to her bedroom instead of going into the sitting room where her parents would be, but if she did that her father would only come in and ask her what she was playing at. So there was nothing for it but to join them and get it over with.

Opening the door to the sitting room, she found her parents sitting just as they always did. Her father was in the wing-back armchair to the right of the fireplace and closest to the new, small, cube-like television placed on a table in the alcove. Her mother was on the left side, her back to the window overlooking the high street. Her chair was smaller, and rather hard, but she claimed it supported her back well. Neither of them ever sat on the couch, and the cushions on it were arranged with precision.

Jack turned his head as Molly came in, his mouth already twisted into a sneer rather than a welcoming smile.

‘I always knew that little tart would come to a sticky end,’ he said, his accent broad Somerset. ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish, that’s what I say.’

Molly’s eyes prickled with tears at his nastiness. She hadn’t expected him to show any concern for Cassie but, even so, delighting in her death was appalling.

‘That’s very cruel, Dad,’ she replied, wishing she had the courage to say something stronger. But she could see the glint of malice in his eyes, and knew by the way his mouth was twisted that he had plenty more to say on the subject and that one wrong word from her could make him flare up. She always promised herself that the very next time he was horrible she would tell him what she thought of him, but the truth was she was far too scared of him, so much so that she usually fled when she thought he might be about to hit her.

Mary, her mother, put her finger to her lips to warn Molly. With her back to the light from the window, she looked younger than her fifty-five years, but that was only because she’d had her brown hair permed recently and was wearing a flattering duck-egg-blue twinset and a little powder and lipstick for what was a special day. Close up, her face was very lined, and there was a deep sadness in her eyes that was very aging.

Jack Heywood was sixty and, although her mother always said he’d been a fine-looking man and old photographs bore this out, bitterness, thinning hair, bad teeth, a paunch and a greyish tinge to his complexion had taken those good looks.

Molly felt bad that she didn’t like him, much less love him, but then he’d never been a real father. He’d never played with her and Emily, never taken an interest in their schoolwork or hobbies. All they’d ever got from him was criticism and scorn. Maybe if he’d had a son he might have been different, but he saw all females as his inferiors, and there to be used and abused.

Even the decor of their flat above the shop was evidence of his laziness and lack of interest in the home.

Paint and wallpaper had been in very short supply after the war, and most ordinary working people didn’t have the money to spend on non-essential things. The more affluent people soon began making an effort to spruce up their homes and businesses, but not Jack Heywood, even though he could easily afford it.

The parade of shops in which his business stood had been built back in about 1850, and in 1910 the previous owner had extended his shop, Greville’s, into the one next door and the flat above. The older residents in the village often said what a high-class establishment it was. The installation of a bathroom and a large kitchen and other renovations to the living quarters had made it an attractive and spacious home. But it hadn’t been redecorated since then, and the Edwardian wallpaper, although probably once lovely, was now stained and shabby. All the furniture – a mixture of handed-down and wartime utility pieces –looked as if it had seen better days.

‘Cruel! I’ll give you cruel,’ Jack snarled at Molly, rising in his chair a little as if about to strike her. ‘Everyone but you knew that girl was a wrong’un. You’re just too stupid to see it.’

‘Yes, I suppose I am stupid,’ she said meekly, thinking she must be stupid to work so hard for him for nothing. She moved out of his reach as a precaution. ‘But even if you didn’t approve of Cassie, I’m sure you feel some concern for Petal. She’s missing, you know, and for all we know she could be dead, too.’

‘Petal!’ he exclaimed. ‘What sort of a name is that to give a child?’

Molly knew it was an odd sort of name but she’d never known one that had fitted a child better, and anger rose up inside her that just this once he couldn’t show a little concern for a child in danger.

‘The name suits her beautifully,’ she said in a quiet voice. ‘I can’t believe that you can’t say you hope she’ll be found soon, and how terrible it is that a young woman should be murdered in our village.’

She turned on her heel and left the room swiftly, ignoring his protest that he knew the truth about people and that Cassie had probably brought her death on herself.

Going into the kitchen, Molly paused for a moment to take a deep breath.

The kitchen was a large, pleasant room, the walls lined with glass-fronted cupboards which her mother kept immaculately, with her best glass and china on display. On the central, scrubbed-top table was the special cake Mary had made for today. She’d put a model of the Coronation coach on to the white icing but it had sunk to halfway up its wheels because the icing was too soft. Molly had noticed some plates of vol-au-vents, cheese straws and other food on the sideboard in the living room; the cake must have been intended to be the centrepiece. But as no one had cut into it she guessed that her father had been so scathing about it that her mother had brought it into the kitchen to hide it from any visitors.

Aware that she’d eaten virtually nothing all day, Molly cut a slice of it. Like all her mother’s cakes, it was perfection, a soft and moist fruit cake, and very delicious. Molly stood for a moment or two eating it, thinking about how many people in the village really liked Mary Heywood. Before her nerves got the better of her, she had been involved in everything from singing in the choir to being a leading light in the Mothers’ Union. Jack had no real friends, only people who toadied around him because he owned a shop and was on the parish council and therefore a useful person to keep in with. Some of them must have been around this afternoon, and it was likely that’s how he’d heard about Cassie.

Molly was just putting the kettle on for some tea when her mother came out of the living room, shutting the door carefully behind her.

‘I’m so sorry about your friend,’ she said once she was in the kitchen. She held out her arms to her daughter. ‘I’m sorry, too, that your father had to be so nasty about it.’

Molly allowed herself to be drawn into a tight embrace, remembering that, just before Emily left for London, she’d remarked that it was shocking that their mother couldn’t even hug or cuddle them in their father’s presence. As she pointed out, a man who resented his own daughters being shown affection was worryingly strange.

‘Oh, Dad’s just a grumpus,’ Molly said lightly, because she knew her mother’s nerves got worse when she thought her youngest had been hurt by him. ‘I’m sure he doesn’t really mean to be that way. I’m really tired now, so I’m going to bed. I hope you don’t mind?’

‘You’re such a good girl,’ Mary said, holding her daughter tighter still. Her voice sounded as if she was about to cry. ‘I wouldn’t blame you if you went off like Emily did. I know it’s no life for you here.’

‘How could I leave you?’ Molly replied, forcing herself to laugh, as if she’d never even considered leaving home.

‘Go and get into bed,’ her mother said. ‘I see you’ve had some cake, but I’ll bring you some tea in and you can tell me all about what happened earlier. John and Sonia Burridge called round and told us you’d found Cassie dead and were in the police station giving a statement. They heard it from Brenda Percy. Then Mrs Pratt rang and said you’d gone into the pub to try to get a search party together. Your father scoffed, of course, but I thought it was very commendable of you. Poor little Petal, I do hope she will be found.’

Molly went into her bedroom then, got undressed and into her nightdress, and she was just getting into bed when her mother came in.

She sat on the end of the bed, and Molly related the whole story, excluding only what she’d told the police about the men in Cassie’s life. She knew that would offend her mother.

‘Cassie was murdered,’ she said once she’d finished. ‘My first thought was that it was an accident, but I soon realized she wouldn’t have fallen backwards onto the hearth, she’d have gone face down. Besides, if Petal had seen her fall, she would have run and got help, wouldn’t she?’

‘Yes, I suppose she would,’ Mary said thoughtfully.

‘So it stands to reason that whoever killed Cassie took Petal so she couldn’t identify him.’

Mary moved closer to her and took one of Molly’s hands in hers. ‘Your dad believes Cassie was selling herself and she upset one of her customers.’

‘Trust him to think of something like that,’ Molly said indignantly, pushing her mother’s hands away, irritated that she might be inclined to believe her husband’s theory rather than thinking for herself. ‘People are so narrow-minded and stupid, especially Dad. Just because she was an unmarried mother and was a bit unconventional doesn’t mean she had to be a criminal or a prostitute. She was a good mother to Petal; she taught her to read even before she started school. I’ve never known such a happy child.’

‘From what I saw of her, I’d agree totally,’ Mary said, twisting her hands together, as she always did when she was agitated.

Molly relented and took hold of her mother’s hands to stop her. ‘There’s nothing for you to worry about, Mum,’ she said. ‘But I’m going out on the search first thing tomorrow, so Dad can bloody well take care of the shop.’

‘Don’t swear, dear! And he wasn’t always this way,’ Mary said in a small voice, a tear rolling down her cheek. ‘He was never the same after he was attacked.’

Molly had heard the story a hundred times of how her father was hit over the head with an iron bar and robbed. She was only four in 1930, when it happened. Her father had been on his way to the bank with the week’s takings from the furniture shop he managed in Bristol. He was badly hurt, needing a great many stitches in his head, but it was still rumoured that he was in league with the thief. This was later proved to be untrue, when the police caught the culprit, but by then Jack had been fired from his job and his reputation was in the gutter.

‘We had such a hard time for over a year,’ Mary said. ‘He was in pain from his injury, he couldn’t get another job, our landlord threw us out because we couldn’t pay the rent. We’d have ended up in the workhouse if Jack hadn’t managed to get a job on a farm out here, with a little cottage for us all to live in. I know you and Emily enjoyed it at the farm, but for me and your father it was like slavery. He worked from four in the morning till late at night, back-breaking work it was, too. I had to help him milk and muck out the cows, along with caring for you and Emily.’

‘Yes, I know all that, and it must have been awful for you,’ Molly said impatiently. ‘But Dad got a public apology from Dawson’s, the furniture-shop people, didn’t he? And they compensated him, too; they gave him enough to get this shop.’

‘But you don’t understand how much he suffered, and I did, too. That takes a lot of getting over,’ her mother said, her eyes welling up with emotion.

‘It was twenty years ago, Mum! High time he stopped wittering on about it and realized he was lucky, just as he was lucky being turned down when he went to enlist in the First War. That’s another thing he goes on about as if he’d been deprived. What man in their right mind would resent missing out on that?’

‘He said he hated the way people looked at him because he wasn’t in uniform.’

Molly shook her head in disbelief. ‘He’d have preferred to lose an arm or leg, or be blinded, then? Though I suppose that would have given him something worthwhile to moan about. But, getting back to the attack: if it hadn’t been for that, he would never have got a business of his own. So why should he still be angry and take it out on us?’

Mary hung her head. ‘I think it changed him mentally, and I haven’t been much of a wife to him in the last few years. That doesn’t help.’

Anger welled up inside Molly. ‘I’d say he was the one who caused your problems,’ she said sharply. ‘If only you’d stood up to him years ago, he might not be ruining all our lives now.’

Molly lay awake for a long time after her mother had gone back into the living room. She felt bad that she’d blamed her mother; after all, Jack Heywood was a very frightening man. But her father was the least of her worries right now. The possibility that Petal was cold, wet and frightened in the woods was her main concern.

It seemed almost unbelievable that she’d lost Cassie in such a dreadful manner, and when she tried to close her eyes, all she could see was her friend lying on the hearth, her blood pooling on to the floor.

No one could appreciate what light Cassie had brought to Molly’s life. Until she arrived in Sawbridge, Molly had felt like a horse wearing blinkers must feel, seeing only what was directly in front of it. Her life was so narrow. All she had was her work in the shop, small roles in the drama club, and singing in the choir. She never went anywhere; even Bristol, Bath and Wells were like distant lands. She spent hours dreaming of finding a wonderful husband who would whisk her away to a home of her own where she would never again have to clean the bacon slicer or deliver people’s groceries.

But even if, by chance, a really nice, single man happened to come into the shop and be attracted to her, Molly knew her father would pull out all the stops to ruin it for her. Over the years he’d put off several potential boyfriends by being aggressive towards them. She felt that his reputation was so well known now that no local young man would even attempt to ask her out.

Cassie was the first person she’d ever met who looked beyond the normal and the humdrum. She had told Molly she wasn’t to dream of a man coming to change her life, she was to do it herself. As her sister, Emily, had done. But even if Molly wasn’t yet brave enough to change her life, Cassie had opened it up for her because she knew about so much more than other people. Not just world news, films, books or music, but about customs in other countries, different religions, about science, history and all manner of other subjects. Yet, despite being clever and knowledgeable, she was also great fun, and so interesting. An hour in her company always felt like only a few minutes.

And she also gave good advice. She’d told Molly over and over again that she should leave home. She said if she stayed in Sawbridge she’d either marry the first man who asked her just so she could have a home of her own or end up the noble spinster who looked after her parents and missed out on everything.

Molly had often wondered if Cassie’s understanding of her situation came from similar experiences. Her father had been killed in the war, but she might have had memories of him being a bully, or there could have been a nasty grandfather. It could even have been her mother who hurt her, and perhaps that was why she didn’t want to say anything at all about her past.

Along with offering good advice, Cassie had also pointed out how many talents Molly had, that she was brilliant at window dressing, a good actress with a lovely voice, and that she could run a business single-handed if necessary. ‘You don’t see the big picture because you are far too close,’ she had said on more than one occasion. ‘Your father is grinding you down, making you think you’re worthless. In fact, you’re multi-talented. I believe you could do anything you put your mind to. But if you stay working for that ogre for much longer you’ll become as pathetic as your mum.’

Molly didn’t like Cassie saying her mother was pathetic, but she knew her friend had a point. Yet what could she do about it? What sort of a daughter would walk out and leave her mother alone with Jack?’

She hoped so much that the police had already found Petal, and that the search tomorrow would be unnecessary, but that only solved one problem. Petal would still need to come to terms with the death of her mother and, unless close relatives could be found who were willing to take her in, she’d have to go to a children’s home. She remembered Cassie’s strong views on such places, the way her face would darken and her eyes flash. Molly wished she was in a position to take care of Petal. She couldn’t bear to think of how awful it was going to be for her.

At five thirty the next morning around forty people were gathered outside the police station, ready for the search. It was still raining and quite cold, making everyone all too aware of how important it was to find Petal quickly. Molly was wearing her raincoat, sou’wester and wellington boots; it didn’t bear thinking about how badly the child would be faring if she was out there somewhere dressed only in shorts and a blouse.

Molly knew everyone there. They were mostly men, including three or four who had joined her on the previous evening, but there were around ten women, too. Over half were the same people who always turned out when asked, whether to help at the village fete, tidy up the churchyard or raise funds. The rest were younger, in their late twenties and early thirties, and Molly knew almost all of them had young children themselves. Normally, a band of such volunteers would be laughing and chatting, but not this time. The seriousness of the situation was etched into the faces of each one; they were barely even speaking to one another.

A police officer Molly didn’t know came out of the police station. He was tall and slender with a pock-marked face and a slightly hooked nose.

‘I’m Detective Inspector Girling,’ he said in a loud, clear voice. ‘Thank you all for turning out this morning. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how important it is to find this little girl. Half of you will be starting the search from the village, working up towards Stone Cottage. The other half will be driven up there by bus, and you will search the woodland area above and around the cottage.

‘You will not only be looking for Petal,’ he said, looking at each face in the crowd in front of him, ‘but for clothing, shoes, hair ribbons – anything, in fact, that either doesn’t belong in the woods or which looks out of place and suspicious to you. Should you find something, I ask that you don’t touch it but stay at the spot and call out to alert the officers searching with you. Does anybody have any questions?’

The only question was about how long they would be searching, from someone who had to go to work later that morning. There was a hum of conversation at that, some saying they would search until Petal was found, however long that took.

Molly had put some sandwiches, some water and an apple into her small haversack. She noted that most people had something similar. She had barely slept at all for imagining Petal alone and frightened out in the dark, but that image was preferable to the one of finding her dead in some undergrowth.

A green-and-white coach drew up, and Molly was told to get on it, along with about twenty other people and some policemen, all of whom were strangers to her, because they had been drafted in from Bristol. There were dog handlers, too, but they were using their own transport to get themselves and the dogs to the cottage.

The coach dropped them by the track down to Stone Cottage, because after that it was so narrow. It was even harder to walk on than it had been the previous day, because all the vehicles going to and from the cottage had churned up the mud.

Molly was put into a group that was to go directly north, up behind the cottage. In her group was a man who had only moved into the village a couple of months ago. Customers had been talking about him in the shop; it was said he was a writer and a bachelor. His looks alone were enough to make women chatter, because he was tall and very nice-looking, with a mane of curly brown hair and lovely dark-grey eyes. At any other time Molly would have welcomed an opportunity to speak to him, but it seemed all wrong even to smile at him under such sad circumstances.

The dog handler who was leading their group explained that they needed to remain within six feet of the people to the right and left of them as, that way, they could thoroughly search the area.

‘Don’t rush. Scan the ground for anything unusual. Rake through the undergrowth with your sticks,’ he said. ‘Disturbed ground, a shoe, a handkerchief or some other small thing could help us work out what happened here. Yell out if you do find something, but don’t pick it up or touch it.’

Molly had brought a walking stick from home, as had many others. A walker had left it in the shop; it was a slender, lightweight, metal one with a spike on the end to get a grip in muddy conditions.

They set off immediately. The new man was to her right; on her left was Maureen French, a middle-aged, rather horsey woman who sang with Molly in the church choir.

The dog was very busy at first, going here and there, and sniffing wildly. Molly thought this must be because Petal had played close to the cottage and he was getting her scent strongly. But by the time they’d gone about a hundred yards into the woods the dog appeared to lose the scent. This wasn’t surprising, as Cassie had always told Petal not to go out of sight of Stone Cottage and, as the undergrowth was very thick – in places, really hard to get through – Molly couldn’t imagine a little girl with bare legs attempting to force her way in.

‘Tough going, isn’t it?’ the writer man said to her after about an hour. ‘I believe you know Petal well. Do you think it’s likely she would have come this way?’

‘Not if she was on her own, but then, if she was taken, the person might have carried her,’ Molly replied. ‘The police must know what they’re doing. By the way, I’m Molly Heywood. I don’t think we’ve met before.’