‘I’m not at liberty to divulge that,’ DI Girling said. ‘But on that note I’d like you both to come to the police station now to give me yours, so they can be compared with any others we might have found. After that, I trust neither of you will leave the village, in case we need you to answer further questions.’

Simon and Molly turned down the offer of a lift back to the village, both saying they’d walk. Molly wanted to delay going back to work and seeing her father. Simon gave no reason.

‘I don’t get the impression the police are going to try very hard to solve this,’ Simon said thoughtfully as they made their way up the muddy track. ‘For a start, he never asked me where I was at the time of Cassie’s death.’

‘No, he didn’t, did he?’ Molly said. ‘How odd! In fact, he ought to have taken you in for questioning, not just chatted with us both in the woods.’

‘Exactly! Hardly first-class detective work. But, as it happens, I have a cast-iron alibi. I was staying with some friends – a doctor and his wife – for two days before Coronation Day. I watched the ceremony on their television, along with some of their family. I only left there at five in the evening, and heard about Cassie in the Pied Horse last night.’

‘Well, that puts you in the clear then,’ she said.

‘Yes, but isn’t it awful to think that the prejudice there was about Cassie when she was alive is still there now she’s dead, and that any investigation will only be half-hearted?’

Molly hadn’t thought of that. She had always believed that the police would take the same care with every case they were trying to solve.

‘Maybe we can whip up a bit more concern, if not for Cassie, for Petal,’ Molly suggested. ‘I mean, most people thought she was a very cute little girl. I’m sure they’d want to know where she’s gone.’

Simon grimaced. ‘I’ve got a feeling, Molly, that you and I are the only people who give a jot about either of them. I’d love to be proved wrong, of course, but I don’t think I will be.’

CHAPTER FOUR

Two weeks on from Coronation Day Molly and her mother were stacking a delivery of canned goods in the stock room behind the shop and talking about the investigation into Cassie’s death and Petal’s disappearance, which appeared to have ground to a halt.

‘Maybe something new will be revealed at the inquest,’ Molly said.

‘Perhaps, and I hope they can release Cassie’s body for burial after that,’ Mary replied. ‘Thank goodness the vicar stepped in and agreed the cost of the funeral would be met by the church, as she had no known family.’

The first week after the tragedy, it had been the main subject of conversation in the village; even the Coronation, the wonder of television or Sir Edmund Hillary conquering Everest took second place. Most people had cast Petal’s father into the role of murderer. Without knowing anything about him, where he came from, or what he did for a living, suddenly he was the murdering child-snatcher and possibly responsible for every unsolved crime in the country.

That first week there were police everywhere. Door-to-door inquiries were made across a ten-mile radius of the village, and dozens of people with only the most tenuous link to Cassie were questioned. It seemed to Molly that Simon had been wrong in saying he didn’t think the police would make much of an effort to solve the crime.

The national newspapers had all taken up the story, and published pictures, urging people to come forward if they had seen Petal or knew anything at all about Cassie.

Then, suddenly, like a light being turned off, everyone lost interest.

The journalists who had been knocking on doors to try to get extra titbits of information, disappeared, and so did all the extra police brought in from Bristol.

To Molly, who was still grieving at the loss of her friend, this was an outrage. She couldn’t sleep at night for worrying about Petal, and she couldn’t understand how anyone could just forget a small child in danger.

She was particularly incensed by the indifferent attitude of the parents of children who were at school with Petal. She felt they should all be scared for the safety of their children, if nothing else.

‘Even the local police don’t seem to care much any more,’ she said bitterly. ‘George does, of course, but he’s far too junior to influence anyone higher up. He told me they didn’t get one lead about Cassie’s background from the pictures of her in the papers. As for Petal, all the sightings reported turned out to be false. But someone, somewhere must have seen her, she’s a distinctive-looking child. They should be putting up posters of her face everywhere and running the story again in the newspapers to keep it fresh in people’s minds.’

All at once her father appeared in the doorway through to the shop, his face flushed with anger. ‘If I hear another word about that dead tart and her darkie kid, I’ll throttle you!’ he yelled out.

Molly quaked. Normally, she would’ve said nothing; anything to keep the peace. But this time she had to speak out.

‘She was my friend, and I was very fond of Petal,’ she said, trying not to show her father how scared she was of him. ‘Besides, I was talking to Mum, not you.’

‘How dare you!’ he roared, stepping forward and striking her hard across her face. ‘You’ve been hanging around with that uppity tart so long you’re becoming just like her.’

Molly reeled, but did what she always did when he hit her: curled her arms over her head to protect herself and looked for the best way to run to escape him, because she was terrified. But when she looked towards the door at the end of the stock room which led to the outer side door, she saw her mother cowering against the shelves, shaking with fright.

Molly’s cheek stung from the blow. She knew there would be more unless she got out, but she couldn’t leave her mother to take the brunt of her father’s violence.

‘No father should hit their daughter for voicing her opinion,’ she said, biting back tears and aware her voice was shaking. ‘If you don’t apologize right now, I’ll leave. And it will be for good, too.’

‘You’ll never leave home,’ he sneered at her. ‘You wouldn’t last a day without your mother fussing over you. You’re pathetic and weak, like her.’

Something snapped inside Molly. All her life she’d lived with his sarcasm, violence and sheer nastiness. She’d had more slaps from him than she could count, but enough was enough. He had no right to treat her and her mother this way.

‘The only pathetic thing about Mum is that she’s stayed with you all these years,’ she said, standing up straight to face up to her father. ‘Not through weakness, but because she truly believes that marriage is for better or worse. And she did get worse, didn’t she? You are a lazy, whining bully with no joy in you at all, and I’m ashamed to be your daughter.’

He stood still, staring at her open-mouthed while she made her impassioned speech, and she thought when he turned from her that he was going to skulk away with his tail between his legs.

But he didn’t. He picked up the long, metal pincher-like gadget they used for reaching packets on high shelves and, before she could move away, he brought it crashing down on her head.

‘You dare to oppose and insult me!’ he snarled, while raining blows down on her. ‘I am the head of this household and you will do as I say.’

The first blow had felt like she was being branded with a red-hot poker, and was quickly followed by more, and Molly screamed at the top of her lungs. Mary yelled at him to stop and tried to catch hold of his arm, but he pushed her away, sending her crashing into a shelf unit and sliding down to the floor.