‘No, I stayed in the house and went to find her,’ Molly said. ‘I guessed they must be holding her in one of the rooms upstairs, and I went to look for her.’

‘And when you found her locked in, you broke down the door to set her free, isn’t that so?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘But your troubles weren’t over just yet: you had to get out of that house, with the child. She was undernourished, neglected and frightened, but you carried her downstairs. And what then?’

‘Miss Gribble was there, a poker in her hand,’ Molly said. ‘I whispered to Petal that she was to run when I put her down. Luckily, that was enough of a distraction for Miss Gribble, and I managed to grab a heavy ornament and throw it at her. It stopped her in her tracks.’

Barrington-Sloane told the remainder of the story, asking Molly to confirm that Christabel Coleman had knocked her unconscious with an axe. Later, she and the child had been taken to Hastings Hospital by ambulance. The defence lawyer, Mr Myers, began his turn by spending a few moments strutting around the court, his hands behind his back, before starting his cross-examination. Molly quaked, fearing he was going to bring up her having got the sack from Bourne & Hollingsworth, or some other incident from the past which would suggest that her word couldn’t be trusted.

‘Miss Heywood,’ he said, with the kind of sneer smile that confirmed her worst fears about what he intended to bring up, ‘we have heard that you diligently took part in the search for Pamela after her abduction, but I would like to know why you weren’t so diligent when you found a letter in Stone Cottage that was a link to Sylvia Coleman’s past. Why didn’t you take this letter to the police?’

‘Because I knew they wouldn’t follow it up,’ she replied. ‘They’d already lost interest in the case by then.’

‘I’m sorry. I hadn’t been informed that you were an expert on police procedure,’ he said sarcastically. ‘So, instead of informing those who have access to a huge network to track people down, and the benefit of forensic science to assist them, you chose to play detective?’

‘I suppose so. I thought Sister Constance, the lady the letter came from, would be more likely to open up to me.’

‘Can you tell me the date on which you found the letter?’

‘No, sir, but it must have been July or so.’

‘July or so. In 1953?’

‘Yes, sir,’ she responded, her heart sinking even further.

‘Didn’t it occur to you that by withholding this piece of evidence you might be responsible for prolonging the length of time that vulnerable little girl was held captive? Or, even worse that during that time she might have died?’

‘Sister Constance didn’t know anything,’ Molly retorted. ‘Even if I had given the letter to the police they wouldn’t have found Pamela through Sister Constance.’

‘Is that so?’ Mr Myers asked, fixing her with dead, shark-like eyes. ‘Isn’t it true you were given a notebook belonging to Miss Coleman?’

Molly felt nauseous now. ‘Well, yes, but it didn’t have addresses or anything, just odd references to things she did, places she’d been to. It was very hard to understand.’

‘And you didn’t believe that an experienced detective would have been able to decipher a young woman’s jottings faster than you?’

‘Like I said, the way the police had left the case led me to think they would just ignore me.’

‘Yet you went to school with Constable George Walsh, who was involved in the investigation. You were such close friends that he rode his motorbike to Rye from Somerset when he suspected you were in trouble. Are you telling me he wouldn’t have taken your concerns seriously?’

Molly squirmed. She couldn’t even be indignant at the barrister’s questions, because he was right. She should have given that letter to the police and she should have at least informed George what she was up to.

‘With hindsight, I should have shared all information I received or had worked out for myself with the police,’ she admitted. ‘But I didn’t imagine I was going to find Petal – or Pamela, to give her her correct name – in a village out on the Kentish marshes. I was just trying to find my friend’s relatives.’

The defence lawyer said he had no further questions, and Molly was able to leave the witness stand.

At four o’clock the judge adjourned for the day. George had given his evidence that afternoon, and tomorrow morning both sides would make their closing speeches. Molly had hardly said a word since giving her evidence that morning and, although George hadn’t been in court to hear what the defence lawyer had asked her, he’d been at enough trials to guess why she was so withdrawn.

It was dark when they came out of the Old Bailey, and very cold. George led her across the road to a café nearby for a cup of tea.

‘You mustn’t take it personally,’ he said once they’d sat down, taking her hand across the table and squeezing it. He had wanted to cuddle her as soon as they got out of the court, but he couldn’t, not while he was in uniform. ‘Lawyers are like that with everyone. They have to pick at things witnesses have said and done, it’s the only way to draw out the full picture so the jury can make a fair assessment of the guilt or innocence of the person in the dock.’

Molly gave a weak smile, but he could see she felt humiliated. ‘Want to tell me?’ he asked. ‘Or would you rather forget?’

She told him the gist of it and admitted the lawyer had been right: she should have taken the letter from Constance to the police.

‘Well, it is a shame you didn’t give it to me,’ he said. ‘I would’ve pushed for the London mob to go and talk to her. But I can see why you didn’t – it was hardly a thorough investigation. I’ve seen the police put more effort into a burglary or a road accident.’

‘He said Petal might have been found much earlier but for me withholding that letter. It makes me feel terrible to think I prolonged her suffering.’

George reached out and wiped a tear away from her cheek with his thumb. ‘If you hadn’t acted, she might never have been found,’ he said. ‘So stop blaming yourself and let’s go back to the hotel so I can change and you can put on something warmer, then we’ll go up to the West End, see the Christmas lights and have a swanky meal somewhere.’

‘I thought you wanted to see On the Waterfront?’ she asked.

‘Not as much as I’d like to see you smile again,’ he replied.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Molly woke to hear banging on a door close to her room.

‘Mr Walsh!’ a woman called out.

She pricked up her ears at George’s name.

‘There’s an urgent telephone call for you,’ the woman continued.

Molly turned on the bedside light to look at her watch. It was six in the morning.

While they had been having dinner the previous night in an Italian restaurant just off Oxford Street, George had said he thought he would be called back to Sawbridge in the morning. ‘I wish they’d let me stay to hear the verdict, but it’s as if the DI wants you to have all the worry about being a witness but not the pleasure of the result.’

But if this was George’s DI calling him, Molly thought it was a bit extreme to ring so early. He could have left it till after breakfast.

She heard George come out of his room and go down the stairs, she turned the light off and snuggled down again.

The next thing she knew George was tapping on her door. ‘Open up, Molly,’ he whispered. ‘I have to talk to you.’

Assuming he wanted to say goodbye, she got out of bed, pulling the eiderdown around her, as it was freezing cold. She wondered if she was brave enough to go back to the Old Bailey on her own to hear the closing speeches and the verdict.