Bad Little Girl(34)

‘I do trust you,’ she whispered.

‘Mr Pryce? Lorna? What about Mr Pryce?’ The child looked down and took some deep breaths, but didn’t answer. Claire bent down to see her face, but she kept it stubbornly averted. ‘Please, if there’s anything happening, please call me. You have my number, still, don’t you? I’ll do anything I can to help—’

‘You should get on the bus now.’

And Claire stood up again, helpless. Lorna stood impassively by the bus until Claire was seated, and then ran alongside, like a puppy, waving and laughing and Claire, fighting tears, waved back, until the bus rounded the crest of a hill and the tiny figure disappeared from view.





13





That night, Claire couldn’t settle. She sat on Mother’s special chair, sipping brandy. Mervyn Pryce. At least I have his full name now, she thought. If I can do some proper research on him, get hold of something concrete, PC Jones wouldn’t be able to dismiss me so easily. She searched the desk for the library opening times. And why on earth hadn’t she got a computer of her own? She could be doing some digging right now, instead of wasting time drinking and making futile notes in her nearly full notebook.

By nine the next morning, she was waiting at the library doors, foot-tappingly awake. She headed straight for the computers at the back, next to the children’s section, where a brightly painted banner proclaimed: ‘Where do we go to grow our brains? The library!’

She scanned the court notices as far as they went back, but Mervyn hadn’t been arrested or convicted of anything. Or not caught. A UK address search gave her over a hundred Mervyn Pryces, and, yes! There he was, living under the right postcode, aged 50–54. She smiled triumphantly, her heart quickened, and then she realised that that was hardly new information. It was no mystery where the man lived, after all.

One of the local papers made a mention of an M Pryce raising money for a children’s heart charity. That could be him. Shuddering, she typed the words ‘M Pryce children’. There. A picture in the local free sheet, an article from ten years before. A younger Mervyn Pryce, but apparently wearing the same muscle top, in the midst of a gaggle of children, mostly boys, but some girls. And the story: Kids Boxing and Fitness Gym Gets Go-Ahead.

Ex-serviceman Mervyn Pryce hopes his new venture will pack a powerful punch – by promoting fitness and training future local champions. The former army captain, who served in Northern Ireland, wants to share his life-long love of fitness with the local community. Mr Pryce, a former amateur boxer, credits the sport with helping him recover from bypass surgery five years ago.

‘Boxing isn’t all about knocking out your opponent,’ he says. ‘It’s a game of strategy and skill, and is great for all-round exercise.’ Mr Pryce hopes to open the as-yet-unnamed gym by March next year. In the meantime he is available for private fitness sessions and continues his volunteer work in the community.





Claire noted down the premises address, and looked it up, but there had never been a boxing club there. Perhaps the council had rescinded the licence. Why?

She made a note to phone the council later to find out about the club premises certificate, and why it wasn’t granted. She tried to find out what schools he’d volunteered in, but had no success. Finally, wincingly, she visited a self-proclaimed ‘Paedo Catcher’ website – all British flags, exclamation marks and insistent pop-ups. She typed in his name, waited for over a minute, but nothing came back bar an advert for some Ancestry website.

Feeling tired and grubby, Claire walked stiffly out of the library. OK. She had some information. Not enough to call PC Jones about, or social services, but it was a start. A man like that, running a club for kiddies . . . she shuddered. She’d keep digging, that’s all, keep digging and something was bound to come up. Men like that – so contemptuous of children, so sickly sure of their superiority – they always fall in the face of vigilance. And Claire intended to be vigilant, yes, and try her hardest to get the girl to totally trust her, to tell her everything.



* * *



‘Why’re you still here anyway? What’s wrong with your old flat, Claire? Nice enough place, for one.’ Derek had come over to ‘help sort out the furniture’. He’d already offered to take a couple of lamps and the nearly new TV off her.

‘Oh, he’d hate my little flat, this is his home. Anyway, I’m staying here for a while. He’s good company.’

‘Well, if there’s a break-in, he’s not going to be much use to you, is he? Practically toothless.’ Derek squatted down and rubbed Johnny under the chin. His knees cracked.

‘Why would anyone break in?’

Derek stayed crouched down, but looked up at her with amused irritation. ‘I don’t know what it’s like in your fantasy world, Claire, but here on planet earth there are bad people; people who know that Norma’s passed and know that you’re on your own. In this big house, with all these valuables—’

‘Oh Derek—’

‘“Oh Derek” nothing. You don’t know how the world works. And you putting the death announcement in the paper like that. You might as well have left the door wide open with a welcome mat for all the burglars in town.’ Claire closed her eyes. The conversation was back on familiar tracks. Derek was convinced of the depravity of his fellow man.