Without a Trace

  Petal was playing outside with a doll, wearing the pair of faded red shorts she always wore when it wasn’t a school day. She was small for a six-year-old, but well rounded, which made liars of those who claimed her mother half starved her. Her light-brown skin had a sheen to it, and her features were small and neat, except for her dark eyes, which were huge and soulful. Molly had only seen about three or four black people in her life, and then only in passing in Bristol, but she knew their hair was usually wiry, with tight curls. Petal’s wasn’t like that. It was curly but it felt silky, easy to put a comb through, but Cassie normally plaited it in neat little braids. That morning it was loose and hadn’t been brushed, as it stood up like a dark fuzz around Petal’s face. She had one front tooth missing, which gave her bright, welcoming smile a lop-sided look.

  She shouted with delight to see Molly and ran towards her. Molly got off her bike, hugged the child and then lifted her on to the saddle and wheeled her over to the cottage.

  ‘I like Saturday best of all ’cos I don’t have to go to school,’ Petal said. ‘And it’s the best Saturday because you’ve come.’

  Cassie must have heard Petal speaking, because she came out of the cottage. She was wearing a loose, flowery smock and had bare legs and feet. She often wore this dress while doing her chores. It looked like a maternity dress, but Cassie said it was comfortable and cool.

  ‘Great to see you!’ She beamed. ‘Petal said just a little while ago she hoped you would come to see us today. Would you like some ginger beer? It’s home-made, and good.’

  ‘Go on, then,’ Molly replied, and lifted Petal down, laid her bike on the ground and sat on an old bench.

  Cassie disappeared into the cottage, and Petal came and perched herself on Molly’s lap, leaning into her shoulder. ‘You don’t come here enough,’ the child said.

  ‘I can’t. I have to work in the shop and look after my mum,’ Molly explained.

  ‘Yes, I know. Mummy said everyone puts on you. I don’t know what that means really, but I think it means you are a nice person, and I wish you could come here more.’

  Molly chuckled, because Petal was such an old-fashioned little thing. They had a brief conversation about school and reading. Petal could read very well; it seemed Cassie had begun teaching her before she went to school. Then Cassie came back with the ginger beer and she began to tell Molly how she made it, a long, quite involved process using yeast and sugar.

  Molly had become aware during their friendship that this was one of Cassie’s tricks, to talk about something random and complicated rather than anything personal. It usually meant she had a problem.

  It had been a surprise to Molly that Cassie was a real home-maker. The cottage might not have any modern conveniences, but she’d made it homely with jumble-sale finds and things that had been given to her. An old wardrobe had been transformed by Cassie painting it white and stencilling flowers all over it. The chairs around the scrubbed wood table were all painted primary colours, there was a colourful old blanket over the shabby sofa, bright cushions, and the walls were covered in pictures she and Petal had painted.

  Outside, she’d fixed a checked table cloth up like a sun shelter over the old table and chairs. There was even a vase of wild flowers on the table, and cushions on the chairs. She made her own bread, wonderful soups with vegetables she grew, and during the winter there was always a pot of rich, tasty stew simmering on the fire.

  ‘Right, out with it,’ Molly said. ‘What’s the matter? You only tell me long, boring things like how to make ginger beer when you’ve got something on your mind.’

  Cassie sighed. ‘Oh, it’s nothing really, just that bastard Gerry I’ve told you about. He got a bit nasty with me yesterday. He thinks I’m seeing someone else.’

  ‘Are you?’ Molly asked.

  ‘Yes, of course, I’ve told you before I like different men for different things. Gerry is good in bed, but he’s a mean bastard and no fun. Brian is boring, but he’s kind and lovely with Petal. Mike is really good fun, generous, too, but he’s as unpredictable as the weather and I never know when he’ll turn up.’

  ‘Did you admit to Gerry that you were seeing other men?’

  ‘Yes, no names, of course, and I said they are just mates, not lovers. But Gerry went mad, saying I was a tart, and a whole lot more, which I won’t go into.’

  ‘Did Petal hear all this?’

  ‘No, at least I don’t think so. We were outside. She had gone to bed and was asleep before he arrived. She was still asleep when he left.’

  ‘How did you leave it with him?’ Molly asked.

  Cassie shrugged. ‘Told him he had no right to tell me who I could or couldn’t see, and if he didn’t like the way I was he could sling his hook. Or words to that effect. He took a step towards me like he was going to hit me, but I picked up a bottle to let him know he’d have a fight on his hands. He left then.’

  Cassie dropped the subject and began to talk about the vegetables she was growing, and Molly left soon afterwards to get back to the shop.

  She realized she had to tell George about this, but she didn’t know how to. Cassie was the only person she’d ever met who talked about sex openly; other girls either didn’t mention it at all or used prim little euphemisms. Molly knew that if she repeated what Cassie had told her word for word, George and the other policemen would think her friend was a common tart, and she couldn’t bear the thought of them sniggering about her and making crude remarks.

  ‘I only stayed for about half an hour with them,’ she said carefully, trying to give herself time to think of a way to tell George what she knew. But just as she was preparing herself, the door opened and Sergeant Bailey came in. He was a burly man in his fifties and he’d been at Sawbridge police station for as long as Molly could remember.

  ‘How are you bearing up, Molly?’ he said, crouching down by her chair, his big face soft with sympathy. ‘It must have been an awful shock to walk in on something so nasty. You were right, Miss March is dead, and I’m very sorry to have to tell you, but we think it was murder.’

  ‘No!’ Molly shrieked in horror. It was one thing thinking it, but quite another to have it confirmed. ‘Why would anyone want to kill her? And where is Petal? Has she been killed, too?’

  ‘There is nothing at the cottage to suggest Petal has been hurt. We made a quick search of the surroundings, but found no sign of her. I’ve called in some of my men and some reinforcements from Bristol to do a thorough search, but I doubt they will arrive today. As to your question about why would anyone want to kill Miss March, that’s what we need to find out. And you can help us with that by telling us all you know about her.’

  ‘But all your men should be searching for Petal now,’ she burst out. ‘She’s only six, she must be terrified; cold and wet, too. You can’t leave her out there till tomorrow.’

  Sergeant Bailey and George exchanged glances. ‘Molly was telling me about the last time she spent some time with Miss March,’ George said. ‘But I could go up to Stone Cottage now and start searching if you like.’

  The sergeant looked from George to Molly, then patted her on the shoulder. ‘Carry on talking to PC Walsh. I have to get in touch with CID at Bridewell in Bristol, and talk to people to see if anyone saw or heard anything unusual today. Couldn’t have picked a worse day for a serious crime – half the force are on leave and the rain is likely to wash away evidence. But we’ll try to get a search going today, I promise you.’

  Molly still thought that finding a missing young child should be the priority, not questioning villagers. But she could hardly argue with him.

  George touched her elbow as the sergeant left the room. ‘Before Sarge came in, I got the feeling there was something you wanted to tell me about Cassie,’ he said. ‘Am I right? Was it about a boyfriend?’

  Molly was still a virgin and had every intention of staying that way until she got married, so she was crippled with embarrassment at having to tell George what Cassie had told her. But one
of those men might be the murderer, so she had to spill it out.

  Keeping her eyes downcast, she began to tell him what Cassie had said about the men in her life.

  ‘She said Gerry was “good in bed”, but mean,’ she managed to get out, not fully understanding what the first phrase meant.

  From sixteen until she was eighteen she’d been courted by Raymond Weizer. They occasionally went to the pictures but mostly just went for walks. When he was called up for National Service, it fizzled out. And, as she had once confided in Cassie, there hadn’t even been any fizz to start with; they’d never done anything more than kiss. Her parents had approved of Raymond because his family were farmers and he would inherit the farm in due course. Raymond married Susan Sadler six months after he was demobbed and they now had three children. Since then Molly had been to the pictures and to the village dance lots of times with various young men, but kissing was still as far as she went and, with just one exception, none of the men had been exciting enough to make her wish she dared go further.

  However, realizing that the men in Cassie’s life were vital to the investigation into her death, she had to tell George exactly what Cassie had told her, albeit blushing and stumbling over her words sometimes.

  George looked a little embarrassed, too.

  ‘It was hard to tell you something like that, which was a confidence,’ she admitted when she’d finished. ‘Especially as, sometimes, I didn’t fully understand what she was telling me, and I didn’t like to ask her to explain.’

  ‘You did very well,’ he said, and she noticed he had a little dimple in his chin when he smiled. ‘I don’t suppose you know these men’s surnames, or where they live,’ he asked.

  ‘No, but they can’t live far away, not if they just turn up when they feel like it,’ Molly said. ‘Have you looked to see if Cassie had an address book? I’ve seen her in the phone box lots of times. She could’ve been phoning one of them.’

  George gave her one of those ‘you don’t need to make suggestions to the police’ looks.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m being bossy.’

  ‘It’s okay. Better to be bossy than say nothing. Would you be able to tell us what Petal was wearing today?’

  ‘No. Yesterday she was wearing her blue checked school dress, but Cassie didn’t let her wear her school clothes at any other time. My guess is that she was wearing red shorts, but I could probably tell you better if you let me look in the bedroom. I could see what was missing.’

  ‘Has Cassandra ever said she was troubled by anyone?’ George asked. ‘Someone that turned up there, made a nuisance of themselves – maybe someone from her past?’

  ‘She never said – well, except about Gerry,’ Molly replied. ‘But she was tough, George! If someone was being a nuisance, she’d see them off. She wouldn’t just put up with it.’ She almost added, ‘Like I would’; after all, she’d put up with her father saying the most horrible things to her for years, and hitting her, too. Cassie had been very blunt about it, saying her father was a brute and her mother almost as bad for letting it happen, so Molly should walk out on the pair of them. ‘Did she tell you where she lived before she came to Sawbridge?’ George asked, breaking across her thoughts.

  Molly pondered the question; it was something she’d always been curious about. ‘I can’t give you a straight answer because Cassie never told me, but I think she’d spent most of her life in or near London, because she would mention art galleries and theatres there in a kind of personal, knowledgeable way. I think she was in Bristol, too, for a short while before she came to Sawbridge. She mentioned Devon, Glastonbury, Wells and other places sometimes, but I got the impression she was wandering around the area looking for a permanent place to bring up Petal and, when she got to Sawbridge, she felt this was it. She once told me she’d dreamed of a home like Stone Cottage for years.’

  All at once Molly felt exhausted, as if all the energy in her body had drained away. She didn’t want to talk any more and, anyway, she had nothing more to say.

  ‘Go on home after you’ve signed this,’ George said, as if he’d picked up on how she was feeling. ‘You look all in – not surprising after what you’ve been through – and I know you were up and about at seven o’clock this morning. I saw you carrying an armful of stuff to the village hall as I came on duty.’

  ‘I’ve got a feeling nothing is ever going to be the same after today,’ said Molly sadly as she got unsteadily to her feet. ‘Is that silly?’

  PC Walsh caught hold of her two hands in his and looked down at her. ‘We’ve known each other a long time, Molly,’ he said. ‘Perhaps nothing will be the same again, but that doesn’t necessarily mean it will be worse than before. Sometimes it takes something bad for us to see where we want to go, and who with.’

  Molly smiled weakly. She wanted to think he was expressing an interest in her but, after all that had happened, it wasn’t appropriate to think like that.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Molly,’ he said. ‘If you think of anything else that might be useful to the investigation, jot it down so you don’t forget.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  It was just after seven and still raining when Molly came out of the police station. Hearing music coming from the Pied Horse, she stopped in the middle of the road. She knew that the Percys had booked a small band to play tonight. If the weather had been good, they’d have played in the street and Molly would be helping to serve drinks.

  She was astounded that the Percys hadn’t cancelled the band the minute Sergeant Bailey had informed them at the village hall that Cassie was dead. It wasn’t right to carry on with all the jollity when a young woman had been murdered and her child was missing.

  Rage bubbled up inside her at the thought of people laughing, chatting and drinking at such a time, and the tears that welled up in her eyes were scalding. She already had a picture in her head of Petal stumbling around in the woods, hungry, soaked to the skin and too scared to go to anyone because she’d seen her mother being killed.

  Yet now there was an even worse picture nudging out the previous one. That of Petal’s small body shoved hastily under a bush to conceal it. Killed purely so she could never identify her mother’s murderer.

  Molly’s usual timidity left her, and she marched across to the pub, flung the door open wide and, holding it like that, she launched into a loud and bitter tirade.

  ‘You should not be in here drinking tonight!’ she shouted out at the top of her lungs.

  The band stopped playing and everyone turned to look at her. The blank expressions on their faces incensed her even further.

  ‘Surely you all know that Cassandra March was found dead today and her six-year-old daughter is missing? Little Petal may have been murdered, too, but just in case she ran away from the man who killed her mother, is there anyone in this pub who feels able to carry on drinking and chatting while a frightened six-year-old is hiding in the woods in this rain?’

  She let her question sink in for a few seconds. ‘Right, who is going to come and help me search? It won’t be dark until nearly ten tonight. We’ve got three hours to find her.’

  There was a buzz of discussion. Normally, there would’ve been very few women in the pub but, because it was a special day, there were around twenty or so this evening. Yet they, the very ones Molly had expected to urge their husbands to join the search, looked indignant at the request.

  ‘Come on!’ Molly called out, wondering where on earth this new courage had come from. ‘Imagine if it was your little girl alone in the woods.’

  The first two men to make a move were in their fifties: John Sutherland and Alec Carpenter, both farm labourers.

  ‘Thank you,’ Molly said. ‘You are true gentlemen. Now, who else is coming?’

  It took a while, and a great deal of whispered discussion with their pals but, gradually, the men began to come over and join John and Alec. In the end, there were eighteen of them.

  Three dropped out as soon as they realized
they would have to walk up the hill. Halfway up, another four turned and went back down.

  ‘So a pint is more important than a child’s life, is it?’ Molly called scornfully after them.

  When the remaining eleven reached the track that led down to Stone Cottage, they stopped and looked at the mud in alarm.

  ‘I’d like to look for her, but I’m not dressed for it,’ Ted Swift admitted, looking down at his highly polished brogues. ‘You need wellingtons to walk in that.’

  ‘There’s a big police search arranged for the morning, I heard,’ Jim Cready, the local window cleaner, said. ‘We should wait for that, Molly. None of us is dressed for tramping through rain and mud.’

  Like sheep, they all turned and followed Jim back down the hill.

  ‘What’s a bit of rain and mud compared with saving a small child?’ Molly yelled out as they retreated, then burst into tears of frustration.

  She stomped down to Stone Cottage and followed the well-worn small track into the woods made by Cassie and Petal. But the track petered out after about two hundred yards; this was clearly as far as mother and daughter were in the habit of going.

  Molly had been calling out for Petal as she walked, but it occurred to her that no child would stay so close to home if something had frightened them there; they would run to somewhere they perceived as safe – school, the church or a favourite shop – so there was no sense in staying in a wood where the undergrowth was too thick to walk through.

  Reluctantly, she turned round and made her way back to the road. She felt foolish now that she’d tried and failed to organize a search party. She would search the church, look in the schoolyard and along the backs of the shops, but maybe she should wait for the police search tomorrow morning at first light to go further afield. After all, they were pulling in men from both Bath and Bristol.

  It was gloomy in the church, and the usual smell of polish and damp had a layer of rose scent added to it from the two very large vases of roses either side of the altar.