‘I only just met him.’
‘Want to see a picture of his dick?’
Flo stares at her. Rosie laughs.
‘I sucked him off once. For a bet.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Why? You think he’s special? Trust me – he’s just like any other boy. He doesn’t care where he sticks it. Grow up.’
Flo shrugs. ‘Like I care.’ Even though she does. Kind of. There’d been something about him. Or so she’d thought.
‘Got a nice picture, which I’ve shared everywhere. You’re probably the only person in this village who hasn’t seen it. Quite big, actually.’
‘You’re sick.’
‘What. You don’t like dick? Is pussy more your thing?’
‘Just fuck off.’
‘Actually, I came over to give you a friendly warning.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Has Wrigley told you about his last school?’
‘Like I said, I only just met him.’
‘He got kicked out.’
‘So?’
‘Aren’t you curious as to why?’
‘I’m curious as to why I should believe a word you say.’
‘He tried to burn it down. Almost killed a girl.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘Look it up. The school is in Tunbridge Wells – Ferndown Academy.’
‘Like I said, I don’t care.’
Rosie stand and shrugs. ‘Your funeral. But if I was you, I’d stay the hell away from Wrigley.’ She winks. ‘If you know what’s good for you.’
Flo watches her sashay off, willing someone to accidentally throw hot coffee in her face. She looks down at her phone. There’s a message from Kayleigh. Her thumb hovers over it. Then she opens Safari and types in ‘Ferndown Academy’.
TWENTY-EIGHT
‘You used to write for the local paper.’
Joan totters over to the table with two mugs of coffee. They wobble somewhat precariously in her twisted hands, but she manages to make it without spilling a drop.
‘That’s right.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’
‘Give someone all the answers, they won’t ask questions.’
‘But maybe I would have taken what you said about Reverend Fletcher more seriously.’
She feigns surprise. ‘You mean you didn’t? Perhaps you thought it was just the ramblings of a mad old lady?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. I’m used to it. When you’re old, no matter what you have accomplished in your life, people only ever see your age.’ She winks. ‘Of course, you can use it to your advantage too. I haven’t carried a shopping bag to my car in years.’
I smile. ‘The girls’ disappearance must have been a big story for the local paper.’
‘At the start. But, gradually, that changed.’
‘Why?’
‘Small villages are strange places. Backward, in some ways. Oh, I know people don’t like to hear it, but it’s true. They’re resistant to change. Families have lived here for generations, and they have their ways.’
I sip my coffee.
‘Everyone knows everyone,’ she continues. ‘Or rather, they like to think they do. The fact is, they know what they want to know and believe what they want to believe. Anything that threatens their community, their traditions, their church, they close ranks to protect it.’
She’s right. And not just villages. Any small community. It happens in cities too. It’s how some areas become ghettos. Us and them. However bad the ‘us’ are, you still protect your own.
‘Did someone tell you to stop writing about the girls?’
‘Not directly. But my editor certainly discouraged me from asking too many questions. I think the police officer in charge, Inspector Layton, didn’t want to be seen as incompetent, and the church was a big influence in the community. To suggest any wrongdoing was almost heresy.’
‘By wrongdoing, do you mean by Benjamin Grady, the curate?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you know him?’
‘I knew of him. I lived over in Henfield back then. I only spoke to him once, properly, after Joy’s disappearance.’
‘And?’
She hesitates.
‘I didn’t care for him …’
‘Why?’
‘There was just something about him. I couldn’t put my finger on it. However, I know that a lot of the village girls were rather keen on him.’
‘It often happens. Girls developing crushes on priests. Of course, most would never abuse their position.’
She nods. ‘Grady was certainly aware of his physical attributes. And Joy was a beautiful girl.’
‘That makes it seem romantic,’ I say tightly. ‘He was an adult in a position of power. She was fifteen.’
She nods. ‘Yes.’
‘Was he ever considered a suspect in Joy’s disappearance?’
‘Not seriously. The police spoke to him, of course. But when Joy was last seen by a witness, Grady had an alibi. He was preparing a service with Reverend Marsh.’
‘The witness couldn’t be wrong?’
‘Her description tallied with what Joy’s mother said she was wearing.’
‘Who was the witness? It’s not mentioned in any of the reports.’
‘Clara Rushton.’
I stare at her. ‘As in Reverend Rushton’s wife?’
‘Yes, although back then she was still Clara Wilson. She taught at the secondary school.’
‘I know … I mean, she mentioned it.’ I consider. ‘So, she knew the girls and Grady?’
‘Yes. In fact, Clara and Grady grew up together in Warblers Green. Then Grady went away to university and theological college. When he returned, Clara helped out a lot at the chapel. Reverend Marsh didn’t drive, so Clara would often run errands for the church.’
‘You really did your research.’
She smiles. ‘Oh, I always do.’
Something about the way she says it suddenly makes me wonder if she’s done her research on me. I continue quickly: ‘So, it’s possible Clara might have covered for Grady?’
‘But how would she have known what Joy was wearing that evening?’
‘Maybe she saw her earlier, when Grady didn’t have an alibi?’
‘Maybe. But to lie and pervert justice?’
‘Perhaps he manipulated her?’
‘Possibly. As I said, Grady was well aware of his looks. Clara may have had a crush. But back then she was rather overweight, awkward with her height. I think I might have some pictures somewhere.’
She starts to rise, easing her frail body up out of the seat. I had almost forgotten her age as we talked; her mind is still so sharp. She walks out into the hall. I wait, wondering about poised, elegant Clara who was once awkward, overweight Clara. But then, the years change us all. For better, and for worse.
When Joan returns, she’s clutching two old photos. She holds them out. I take them and stare at the pictures. The first shows a much younger Clara. Plump, dark-haired, barely recognizable. Her face is serious, her attire dated. It’s obviously a photo taken for the school where she worked. I can picture it pinned up in the entrance hall. Her name beneath it. Miss Wilson.