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.
She unlocked the door and George came in. He had a jacket on over his blue-and-white striped pyjamas, his hair was sticking up and his face was very pale.
‘What on earth’s wrong?’ she asked. ‘Why did they phone you so early? Is it an emergency?’
He didn’t answer for a minute, just looked at her as if unable to speak.
‘George, you’re frightening me. What is it?’
He ran his fingers through his hair distractedly. ‘I’ve got to tell you, but I don’t know how to,’ he said.
‘Tell me what? Is it Petal?’ she asked in alarm, clutching the eiderdown around her even more tightly. ‘Has something happened to her?’
He came closer, and his face was contorted with anguish. ‘No, it’s not about Petal, it’s your parents.’ He paused, putting his hands up on his head as if trying to force himself to get the words out. ‘I’m so sorry, Molly. There’s no easy way to say this. The shop caught fire last night and they both died.’
For a few moments Molly thought she was dreaming. Yet George had pulled her to him tightly as he spoke and his tweed jacket felt real enough against her cheek, and she could hear him breathing hard as he leaned his face against her head.
‘A fire?’ she exclaimed. ‘How could that happen?’
‘It started in the store room at the back of the shop. The firemen think your dad must have left the electric fire on in there and it was too close to a cardboard box or something. Once it got going, it found plenty to burn, and the staircase up to the flat is right over the store room.’
‘You mean they were trapped upstairs and were burned alive?’ Molly moved back from him and looked at him in horror.
‘I think they were overcome by the fumes long before the flames reached them,’ George assured her. ‘They probably didn’t even wake up.’
Molly went over to the window and pulled the curtain back. She thought she ought to cry, but she felt curiously numb, as if she’d been told about a couple of strangers. It was still dark outside; all she could see of Russell Square was a golden circle of light beneath the lamp post outside the hotel. But she could hear the rumble and clinking sound of the milkman’s float on its round.
‘Molly! Speak to me!’ George said.
‘What is there to say?’ she asked, turning towards him. ‘It’s one of those times when there are no words. Mostly, I hate Dad, but I wouldn’t want anyone, not even my worst enemy, to die like that. And Mum! What did she ever do to deserve such a death?’
‘I know. It’s so cruel,’ he agreed. ‘Oh, Molly, she certainly didn’t deserve such a death. She should have grown old surrounded by grandchildren who loved her. She should have been around to see you and Emily make the peace with your father, and for him to change his ways. But we’d better get dressed and get a train back there. I’ll go down and get a tray of tea first.’
When he had left the room Molly tossed the eiderdown on to the bed and began pulling on some clothes. She got as far as putting on some slacks and a jumper when, suddenly, the enormity of what had happened hit her like a tidal wave, and the tears came.
It was over fifteen months since she had left Sawbridge, and she hadn’t seen her parents in that time. She’d spoken to her mother on the phone, written dozens of letters, but that wasn’t the same as seeing her, putting her arms around her and kissing those soft cheeks. She could offer perfectly good reasons why she hadn’t been home – lack of opportunity and money and, of course, the bad feelings about her father – but now they all looked like petty excuses.
George came back into the room carrying a tea tray. Seeing her tears, he put it down and took her in his arms, rocking her silently.
‘This is so awful,’ he said. ‘I can’t imagine anything worse, and I can’t think of anything to say which would make it better. But let’s have some tea. I’ll find out what time the trains are, and ring the Bridgenorths for you.’
‘I always thought when I went home again it would be in triumph because I’d got a good job and a future,’ Molly said brokenly. ‘I wanted to rub my dad’s nose in it.’
‘You have got a good job and a future,’ he said. ‘And don’t make the mistake of blaming yourself. No one could’ve been a better daughter than you were. Your dad really was a nasty piece of work – his death doesn’t change that. But of course you’re going to grieve, for what is past and for what could’ve been. Your mum was a lovely lady; she’ll be missed by so many people. I know you must feel you’ve got no one now but remember you’ve still got me.’
Molly clung to him, soothed a little by his calm manner and his kindness.
‘Cup of tea now,’ he said, edging her back so she could sit on the bed. ‘I’ll pack your stuff for you.’
It was late afternoon, dark and very cold when they arrived back in Sawbridge. There were Christmas lights up in the high street, and most of the shops had cheerful Christmas window displays. But Heywoods, which had always been the most prominent shop in the street, was in darkness. There was just enough light from the street lamps to see that all the windows were broken, the frames burnt, and there were marks where the flames had licked right up to the first floor.