Catching a fleeting glimpse of a white-haired woman through a window, she rapped on the glass and called out. But the woman didn’t respond so Molly continued round the house until she came to a kitchen door. It was propped open, and she rapped on it very loudly and called out.

Her early training never to step into anyone’s house uninvited made it difficult for her to cross the threshold, so she stood there for a while calling out. Still, no one came.

Coming through the open door there was an unpleasant smell of fish. She could see a saucepan on the gas stove and guessed it was being cooked for a cat. She hoped so, as it smelled too disgusting to be for humans.

The kitchen was like so many she’d seen in country houses back home: a central table with a scrubbed top; painted cupboards and shelves lining the walls. Here, though, everything looked neglected, untidy and dirty and with peeling paint.

She spotted a brass handbell sitting on the sink. Maybe Miss Gribble and Mrs Coleman were deaf, but perhaps they would still be able to hear it.

Drawing on all her courage, Molly stepped inside, went over to the sink, picked up the bell and rang it loudly.

On the second ring – and it had been a very loud, long one – the white-haired woman she’d glimpsed through the window appeared.

‘If the door bell isn’t answered, it means we don’t want visitors,’ she barked at Molly.

Molly was scared but stood her ground. She was fairly certain that this was Miss Gribble, not Mrs Coleman. She was perhaps sixty, her face was deeply lined and weather-beaten, but she looked strong, with broad shoulders and thick, muscular forearms, revealed by a faded, short-sleeved blouse. She looked like a formidable woman, and the way she was glowering at Molly was frightening.

‘I’m sorry to intrude, but I have something very important to ask Mrs Coleman,’ she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking with fright. ‘If it hadn’t been so important I wouldn’t have been impertinent enough to come in uninvited. So will you please fetch her and let me get this over and done with?’

‘You can talk to me. Mrs Coleman isn’t well,’ she said.

‘No. In a matter like this, it is important to speak to the right person,’ Molly insisted. ‘It’s about her daughter.’

‘We have nothing to do with her,’ Miss Gribble snapped, drawing herself up very straight, as if doing her best to intimidate Molly.

‘I know that, and the reasons for it are none of my business. But I am not leaving here until I’ve spoken face to face with Mrs Coleman.’

The door through to the house opened slowly, and another woman came in. She was very dishevelled, with long hair the colour of dirty straw, and her shapeless maroon dress did her no favours, yet, even so, Molly could see Cassie’s face in hers, and it shook her. The same speedwell-blue eyes, the pointed chin and an expression of disdain which she’d seen Cassie flash many a time at people when they were mean to her.

‘What do you mean by coming here and demanding to speak to me?’ she asked. ‘Who are you, girl?’

The tone was so scathing, Molly suddenly felt almost happy to give her bad news. She pulled the photograph of Cassie out of her skirt pocket.

‘My name is Molly Heywood, and I came to ask you to look at this picture and tell me if this is your daughter, Sylvia.’

She knew straight off that Sylvia and Cassie were one and the same person, just by the way the woman’s expression changed as she glanced at the picture. Clear recognition, yet it was mixed with fear, perhaps foreboding, as if she were already anticipating tragedy.

‘It is her, isn’t it, Mrs Coleman?’ she asked. ‘I know her as Cassie. She was my best friend.’

The woman’s expression changed to one of confusion, and she looked at the older woman as if seeking guidance.

‘I’m very sorry to be the bearer of bad news,’ Molly said, now wishing she were anywhere but here in this grubby kitchen with these two weird women. ‘Sylvia was murdered last year, and her daughter, Petal – your granddaughter – was taken, presumably by the killer. I would’ve liked to sit down with you and talk about this, but it seems that isn’t going to happen. So I’d better go to the police and let them investigate.’

‘Why go to the police?’ Mrs Coleman asked. Now, her voice wasn’t quite so harsh. In fact, Molly thought she sounded scared.

‘Because this is a murder inquiry. The police have been looking for family members and now I’ve found you they need to talk to you.’

She saw alarm jump into those blue eyes that were so much like Cassie’s and, just as she was about to ask a question, she felt a heavy blow to the back of her head. She reeled and saw both of the women in triplicate before everything went black.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Evelyn Bridgenorth popped her head around the door of the hotel bar. There were only about six or seven people there and Ernest was busying himself polishing glasses. As always, he looked very dapper in a dinner jacket and bow tie, his still-dark hair slicked back with Brylcreem. He’d been working at the George for fifteen years now, except for a gap of six years when he was called up. Evelyn often wondered how they’d manage if he retired or found another job, as he was a great barman and totally reliable.

‘Ernest, have you seen Molly this evening?’ she asked him.

He stopped polishing for a moment. ‘No. Why? Is she missing?’

‘Yes. It’s odd, she’s normally in the kitchen at this time of day, having a bite to eat before going up to turn the beds down.’

‘Maybe she met a friend this afternoon and got chatting. She’ll be back any minute – she’s very conscientious,’ he said.

‘Yes, of course. And it doesn’t matter if the beds aren’t turned down right now. It was just that I wanted to talk to her about the Beauchamps’ wedding next week, a few little wrinkles that need ironing out.’

‘She went out on a bike, so she won’t want to be riding it in the dark,’ Ernest said. ‘Of course, she could’ve got a puncture and had to walk back.’

‘Oh, I do hope not.’ Mrs Bridgenorth looked anxious. ‘She’s such a dear girl.’

By nine thirty, when Molly still hadn’t returned although it had been dark for some time, Mrs Bridgenorth began to get really worried, and consulted her husband, who was doing some paperwork in his office up on the third floor. She explained that Molly hadn’t returned for her evening shift. ‘She isn’t the kind to forget she had a job to do, Ted,’ she said. ‘If something unexpected had cropped up this afternoon, she would have found a phone box and telephoned us.’

Ted put down his pen and turned his chair round to give his wife his full attention. ‘What about that boyfriend of hers?’ he asked. ‘Could he have turned up and whisked her off somewhere?’

‘I doubt that very much, because she borrowed a bicycle. And I saw her minutes before she left. She was plainly dressed in a skirt and twinset, didn’t even have lipstick on, so she wasn’t meeting anyone, and especially not him.’

‘Didn’t she tell you or someone else where she was going?’

‘She said she was just going for a ride to explore. I did tell her the other day that it was a nice easy ride to Lydd, because it’s all flat. But Lydd hasn’t got much to keep you there for long.’

‘There’s the army camp,’ Ted reminded her. ‘Maybe a soldier picked her up.’

‘Oh, Ted, she’s not the kind of girl to allow herself to be picked up by a soldier, or any man, for that matter. She’s too smitten with Charley.’

‘Calm down, dear,’ he said. ‘It’s not the first time we’ve had a girl go missing for the evening, is it?’

‘No, of course not!’ she snapped at him. ‘But all those other girls had family close by; they swanned off because of some disagreement with someone. Molly hasn’t got anyone near here. Neither has she fallen out with anyone. Now tell me, should I phone the police?’