Molly had temporarily put aside thinking about Cassie and what might have happened to Petal because of her own problems, but she hadn’t forgotten them. She was desperate to get some answers, and when she’d got them she would go back to the police and demand that they finish the job and bring whoever killed Cassie and took Petal to justice.

Molly had gone to see George at his home the day before to check he could still take her to the station in Bristol. Mrs Walsh had been so welcoming, inviting her in for tea and cake while she waited for George to get in, and it made Molly feel a bit guilty, because she hadn’t told him about the letter and Constance.

George arrived back some twenty minutes later, apologizing for being late and telling her he’d been sent out to get some sheep off the road and, as fast as he got them back in the field, the rest of the flock in the field decided to make their escape, too.

‘Luckily, old Enoch came along with his dog and rounded them all up for me,’ George said. ‘I told him you were going to London tomorrow for an interview for a job, and he wished you luck. “She’s a bonny girl,” he said. “London will be the making of her.” I don’t know why he thinks that – I doubt he’s ever been.’

‘Now, George, you don’t need to go to London to know that it offers a lot more than Sawbridge,’ Mrs Walsh said, reprovingly. ‘And, besides, old Enoch did his bit in the trenches in the First War. So I expect he did go to London on the way to France. You shouldn’t assume that no old person has ever done or seen anything.’

George just laughed good-naturedly. ‘Molly’s going to sail through her interview,’ he said. ‘She’s the best sales girl I know. She always manages to make me buy more than I intended.’

‘Let’s hope they put you in the Fashion Department,’ Mrs Walsh said, as if Molly had already got the job. ‘I can just imagine you selling beautiful evening gowns to smart city ladies.’

‘That would be lovely, but I’m fairly certain they give those jobs to experienced, more mature women,’ Molly said. ‘I’d like to be in Children’s Wear, really.’

Mrs Walsh left the living room then; she said she had to get the tea on.

‘You do know they call us “Swedes” up there,’ George said once she’d gone. ‘They snigger at our West Country accents. When I went on a course there, they never stopped pulling my leg. I thought most Londoners were far too full of themselves.’

‘Oh, don’t say that!’ she begged him. ‘I’ll be afraid to speak. It’s bound to be a bit strange at first. Maybe I’ll hate it and I’ll come back and settle in Bristol. But, whatever happens, I can’t see me coming back here to the village, not while Dad’s still around.’

She couldn’t be certain, but she thought George looked a bit sad. ‘Of course, I’ll keep in touch with you, George.’

He smiled at that. ‘Will you be keeping in touch with that writer chap?’ he asked.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said, secretly pleased that he was bothered at the prospect of a rival penpal. ‘He’s just a passing acquaintance, and he’ll move on soon. I’ll keep in touch with you, because you’re special. I’ve known you all my life. Funnily enough, though, you’ve never so much as asked me to the pictures.’

She was surprised at herself for daring to be so outspoken.

‘Would you have gone if I’d asked?’ he said. He looked bashfully boyish and Molly’s stomach gave a tiny flip.

‘I think it’s a possibility,’ she said, leaning over to pat his cheek affectionately. ‘The last time you held my hand was eleven years ago when we were leaving school. I thought you were going to ask me out that day, but you didn’t. A girl has only so much patience.’

He blushed. ‘I wanted to, but I was afraid you’d turn me down. Then there was the problem of how I’d find any time, because I had so many chores, with Dad being off at the War. Mum kept me busy with the vegetable garden, the chickens and sending me out shooting rabbits.’

‘That’s right, blame me,’ Mrs Walsh called out from the kitchen. ‘I’m the big bad mother keeping her boy close to home. As if! Mind you, I might have warned him off in case your dad skinned him alive.’

George looked at Molly, ‘I’m not frightened of him. Even when I was fifteen I wasn’t.’

Molly smiled. ‘Then you were the only boy in the village that wasn’t. I’m going to stand up to him, starting when I get back from London. But I am worried what he’ll be like to Mum once I’ve gone for good.’

‘We’ll all keep an eye out for her,’ George said, and the sincerity in his voice was touching. ‘I’ll whisper in a few ears, get my scouts out. He’ll need to get help in the shop, and I think that woman who helps out in busy times will be anxious to do more hours.’

Molly nodded. Her mother had said earlier that Hilda Swainswick had often offered to do more hours if she was needed. She would be good for the shop, too: she was hard working, loyal and very fond of Mary, and she had the kind of husband who wouldn’t stand for his wife being bullied by Jack.

‘It isn’t for you to worry about my parents,’ she said. ‘But I appreciate it, and I must be going now. Eight o’clock tomorrow? ’

George got up out of his seat, too, and in two steps reached her and took her hands in his. ‘Be careful up there, won’t you?’

On an impulse, Molly leaned in and kissed him, and all at once his arms went around her and he was kissing her back.

‘I’m sorry to intrude,’ his mother said from the doorway, making them jump apart, blushing furiously.

She didn’t say what she’d come in for, perhaps too surprised at finding them kissing, and Molly and George just stood there feeling awkward.

‘I must go,’ Molly managed to get out, moving towards the door. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, George.’

He didn’t repeat the kiss at the station today, but remembering it now gave her a lovely prickles-down-the-spine sensation and, as she relived it, she got the stomach-flip thing again. How infuriating it was that George couldn’t have kissed her like that two or three years ago! Why did it have to happen just as she was planning to leave?

Molly stood still and looked up at the Braemar Guest House, 32 Sussex Gardens. It was identical to all the other houses in the once rather grand terrace: four storeys, steps up to an impressive door, but in desperate need of a coat of paint.

It had been a very long train journey; she was tired, stiff and her face felt as if it were covered in a layer of grit. Yet she wasn’t scared now. Simon’s map had been easy to follow and, although London was frantically busy, with its countless cars and buses and so many more people rushing around than she’d ever seen in Bristol, it wasn’t as terrifying as she’d imagined. She thought it was exciting.

The door to the guest house was opened by an elderly woman with iron-grey hair, thick spectacles and a frilly white apron over a navy-blue dress. ‘You must be Miss Heywood,’ she said with a wide smile. ‘Come on in, my dear. After that long train journey you must be dying for a cup of tea.’

Molly knew right away why George liked staying at the Braemar: it was cosy and clean and Miss Grady, the owner, was kind and welcoming. Molly’s room was on the first floor at the back. It had a double bed with a cheerful red print bedspread, a dressing table and a small wardrobe, the window looked out on to walled gardens, and there were tall plane trees at the bottom of Miss Grady’s, which stopped the Braemar being overlooked.

The shared bathroom and a separate lavatory were both at the front of the house, but Molly had a washbasin in her room, too.

Over a cup of tea and a slice of fruit cake, Molly chatted to Miss Grady, telling her about her job interview the next day. Miss Grady offered to make Molly something to eat but, as tempting as it was to avoid the need to go to a café, Molly refused, because she felt it was cheating. Besides, it was an adventure coming to London, and it would be a shame to stay in the room on a summer’s evening.