Without a Trace (10 page)

‘We’re assuming that because he’s the most likely candidate. For one thing, he must have been a bad lot for Cassie to be hiding away from him in Stone Cottage.’

‘But we don’t know that is who she was hiding from. Petal’s father could be just a man she slept with once and never saw again! Maybe the killer had some entirely different grievance with her? She’d run out on him, stolen his money, told his wife he’d been a naughty boy? Anything.’

‘Yes, that’s a good point. But can you tell me, Molly, if the murderer wasn’t Petal’s father, why would they take her with them? She would only make the culprit’s escape harder and, like you said earlier, it would be far less risky to kill her there in Stone Cottage.’

‘Okay, so if it was Petal’s dad, what do you think his plan was?’

‘I don’t think he had one. I suspect it was just instinct to flee with her.’

‘He was organized enough to take some clothes and her toy with him.’

‘Yes, well, maybe he stopped for long enough to think that through. And there are places that a black man could be invisible – an area like St Pauls, for instance,’ George said. ‘She’d be just another child of an immigrant. He could always say her mother had died or run off. So many people come and go there, no one would think anything of it. And they aren’t likely to tell tales on anyone either.’

St Pauls was an area of Bristol quite close to the Coroners Court. With its elegant, large Georgian houses and close proximity to the city centre and the docks, it had once been a very desirable place to live. But back in the thirties the owners found their property too expensive to maintain and many sold it on to people who turned the houses into flats or lodgings. As there had always been a sizable proportion of black people in Bristol because of the docks, many of them gravitated towards St Pauls and its cheap rooms.

Bristol had suffered a great deal of bomb damage during the war and this had made housing very scarce. The local council had concentrated its efforts on building new homes in the suburbs of Bristol, ignoring inner-city areas like St Pauls. At the same time, immigrants from the West Indies were flooding into England, too, lured by the prospect of work as nurses, as bus and train drivers, and in factories. Unable to find homes in the better parts of Bristol, they, too, made for St Pauls, and unscrupulous landlords were quick to exploit the situation.

St Pauls was now a ghetto. The poorer tenants had no choice but to share their accommodation to pay their rent, and the ensuing overcrowding and unsanitary conditions were shameful.

‘And I suppose there is no accurate record of everyone living there either?’ Molly said.

George shrugged. ‘It’s impossible to keep tabs on everyone,’ he said. ‘We think there must be many babies born after the parents arrived in England that were never registered, purely out of ignorance. People come to join relatives, then move on to other cities. The children might be in school for a year, then they’re gone. It’s just not possible to check up on them all. I just hope that whoever it is that’s got Petal – if someone has got her – he’s taking good care of her. Of course, he could’ve taken her to London, Birmingham, or Cardiff – anywhere with a sizable immigrant community – and finding her will be like looking for a needle in a haystack.’

‘But Petal was a very bright little girl. I couldn’t imagine her not telling someone about her mother. And if she saw what happened to Cassie, she’s likely to be distraught,’ Molly said.

‘That has occurred to me,’ George said. He looked hard at her face, as if taking in the fading but still visible black eye. ‘It also occurs to me that you are avoiding discussing what you’re going to do about your violent dad!’

Molly was embarrassed. ‘I’m planning to leave home as soon as I can get a job. I’d put off applying for any until after the inquest, and now there will be the funeral. As soon as that’s over, I’m going. But don’t tell anyone, because if it gets back to Dad, he’ll go mad.’

‘I thought perhaps you were waiting for the posh writer chap to sweep you off your feet.’

Molly looked at him. Had someone seen her go into Simon’s flat? She couldn’t think of any other reason for him saying such a thing. ‘Simon’s just a friend,’ she said indignantly. ‘I’m surprised at you. I never had you down as a nosy parker.’

‘I’m not, but I have to confess I’ve been keeping an extra sharp eye on you, what with the murder, and your dad.’

‘That’s very kind, but unnecessary now. Thanks to you, Dad has calmed down. I like Simon, and it’s good to talk to him, because he’s the only other person in the village who liked Cassie. But if you want to keep your eye on someone after I’ve gone, I’d appreciate it if it was my mum. Could you do that?’

George put his hand over hers. ‘Of course I will, and if you send me your address when you’re settled, I’ll write and tell you all the gossip. I think it’s the best thing for you, Molly, but I’m going to miss you, all the same. Have you decided where you’ll go?’

Molly looked at his big hand over hers and thought how nice it felt. ‘London seems the best bet,’ she said. ‘Maybe I could get a job in one of the big shops? I believe Selfridges and Harrods are both very special.’

‘You’ve always been a bit special to me,’ George suddenly blurted out, his face flushing a bright pink.

Molly was surprised at him saying such a thing, but touched, too. ‘What brought that confession on?’ she asked.

He shrugged. ‘I was just suddenly aware that I’ll really miss you. But if you do go and you want to come back and see your mum sometimes, without having to face your dad, you can come and stay with my folks. They would love to have you.’

‘That’s such a kind thought,’ said Molly, moved to find George so empathetic. She’d already wondered how she could see her mother away from her father. ‘I might very well take you up on that.’

George smiled. ‘I’ll be hoping!’

‘Not many people here are there?’ George said in a whisper as he and Molly took a pew in the church for Cassie’s funeral.

Molly glanced round and saw there were around twelve mourners in all, including Simon and Enoch Flowers, Cassie’s landlord.

‘I’m relieved to see this many,’ she whispered back. ‘I thought it might be just you, me and Simon, especially as it’s raining so hard.’

It had been warm and dry for several days, but at seven this morning the heavens had opened and the rain hadn’t let up since.

Molly’s mind had been all over the place since her long chat with Simon. One minute she could think of nothing but moving to London and working in a smart department store, the next she was plunged back into mourning for Cassie and feeling desperately afraid for Petal. She was finding it hard to dance attendance on the customers in the shop the way she used to, and she often forgot to order items they were low on. On top of this she kept slipping into little romantic fantasies about Simon.

He was so much more mature and articulate than the boys she’d grown up with. Most of them could barely string a sentence together, let alone talk coherently about the situation in Europe or equality for women. She knew, of course, that the attention he paid her was just his gentlemanly way, but she couldn’t help but wish it was more.

Looking across the nave at him now, he looked so handsome in his dark, well-cut suit. She wondered what a kiss from him would be like, or even to be naked beneath the sheets with him, his slim body pressed against hers.

She pulled herself back from that titillating thought. It was entirely inappropriate in a church. She glanced sideways at George beside her, almost afraid he’d read her mind, but he
was looking off into space. She wondered if he ever had such thoughts about her.

The organ wheezed and sighed before one of the Bach Preludes began. Reverend Masters has asked Molly what music Cassie would like, but that was just another thing Molly didn’t know about her friend. Cassie hadn’t even had a wireless, so the subject had never come up. But Molly had chosen ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’ as the hymn, because she’d heard Petal singing it once, and, even though Cassie had claimed to be an agnostic, she would like that, just because of her daughter.

The responses to the prayers were muted, the hymn was sung only marginally louder, and Reverend Masters’ eulogy could have fitted almost any average housewife. He mentioned Cassie’s love of books and gardening, but not her indomitable spirit, her sense of humour or her intelligence – all things Molly thought she had impressed on him. He mentioned Petal being missing still almost as an afterthought, and didn’t even speak out to tell the congregation that, if they knew anything at all about where she was, they should go straight to the police.

It was exactly the kind of funeral Molly had expected, yet she had hoped she would be pleasantly surprised and uplifted. As it was, she felt that, once again, she’d been slapped in the face with the knowledge that no one apart from her and Simon had liked Cassie. Even George hardly knew her. She guessed the other people here, with the exception of Enoch Flowers, had only come to the funeral to make themselves look good.

The second Cassie’s coffin was in the grave and the last prayer intoned, they all scuttled off. Even Simon went, though,
to be fair to him, as he’d seen her and George arrive together, perhaps he thought it inappropriate to hang around when no one else was.

Molly stood silently in the rain, looking down at the casket, which she knew had been paid for from church funds, and cried. It wasn’t right that such a memorable, bright and fascinating woman should have such a weak and meaningless send-off.

George let her cry for a few minutes, holding his umbrella over her without saying a word. Finally, he touched her shoulder. ‘Let’s go and have a drink. Not here, where people will talk, but in Midsomer Norton.’

Molly smiled weakly at him, touched that he’d sensed that she really needed someone, or something, to delay her return home. It was bad enough having to say her last farewell to Cassie, but she was also anticipating a great deal of ridicule and sarcasm from her father when she got back.

There had been an atmosphere ever since he’d hit her. He hadn’t apologized, not even when her eye was black and swollen and she had weals on her cheek and neck, but he had let her stay upstairs until the swelling went down without saying anything nasty again. It was tempting to think he felt bad about attacking her as, even when she went back to work, he restocked the shelves in the shop, a job he normally left to her, and unpacked several deliveries, too – he hadn’t even admonished her when she’d forgotten some orders, but she thought it was more likely he was just brooding and waiting for an excuse to pounce again.

‘I’ve borrowed Dad’s car,’ George said, pointing out the green Austin A40 Devon which was parked by the churchyard gates. ‘He said if I scratch it he’ll wring my neck.’

Molly smiled. Very few ordinary people in the village had cars yet, and she’d often seen people admiring Mr Walsh’s when he parked it outside the pub or the post office. She felt quite honoured to be getting a ride in it.

‘We’ll have lunch at the pub I’m taking you to,’ George said as he drove away from the high street. ‘I always think that after something distressing you need food to lift your spirits.’

Molly half smiled. George was always making rather odd remarks and she rarely knew how to respond to them. ‘Did you find the funeral distressing, then?’ she asked.

‘In as much as there were no family there to mourn Cassie,’ he said. ‘I hardly knew her, unlike you, but it
is
tragic for someone so young, with so much to live for, to lose their life in such an awful way. As for all the sadness and mystery about Petal, that’s really getting to me. I know you don’t believe we’re doing anything about it down the nick, but I promise you I’ll be keeping it in the forefront of everyone’s mind.’

‘So what would be your plan?’

‘Well, it seems to me that one thing I could do is to try and find out what Cassie’s real name was. I’ve already spoken to Miss Goddard, the headmistress, and asked her if she saw Petal’s birth certificate when she enrolled her at the school. But she didn’t. Miss Goddard said she asked Cassie to bring it in, but she said she had mislaid it. Unfortunately, Miss Goddard didn’t chase it up. I’d say Cassie had made up both their names, and she’d only do that if she was running from something or someone.’

‘What do you mean, “from something”? Something illegal?’

‘Possibly, or maybe she got involved with villains and found out stuff they didn’t want her to know. But I have other questions, too. What did she live on? Do you know?’

‘No, I don’t. She might have got some national assistance, I suppose, but she always struck me as too proud for that, and as the kind of person who manages on very little.’

George glanced round at her. ‘However careful she was, she’d still need some money. I think she got it on her weekly trip to Bristol.’

‘Out of a bank, you mean?’

‘No, Molly, from some kind of work. But what kind of job only requires you to be there one day a week?’

‘She did cleaning.’

‘I don’t think that would pay enough to keep herself and Petal.’

‘So how do you think she got by?’

‘Prostitution?’

Molly was shocked and surprised by him. ‘No, she wouldn’t do that,’ she said indignantly.

‘You’re being a bit illogical, not to say naïve,’ he said with a shrug. ‘You told me about Cassie’s lovers, and that she had very liberal ideas, compared with most women. You even said she had sex with a man she’d just met in the library.’

‘Yes, but she wouldn’t do it for money.’

‘Why wouldn’t she?’

Molly thought about that for a little while. She had never seen a prostitute, but she had always imagined them as raddled-looking women with tight clothes and too much make-up standing on street corners in slum areas of the cities.

‘Cassie just wasn’t the type to do that,’ she said at length.

George chuckled. ‘Molly, all kinds of women over the years have turned to it when they have no money and children to feed,’ he said. ‘It’s the oldest profession, as I’m sure you know. But maybe Cassie had just one man who paid her and that’s
where she went every Thursday. Is that any different, really, to having a lover who is a married man and buys you a dress or gives you jewellery?’