Bad Little Girl(36)

The child shuffled, stared at the ground, and suddenly leaped up, and hugged Claire tightly, fiercely, around the waist. ‘There there,’ she said. ‘There there.’

She was a special creature. Truly special. After everything that had happened to her, to be this caring towards an adult, well, it was testament to her character. And Claire held back her own sobs, thinking desperately how much she wanted to help the girl, how much she could help, but only once Lorna fully opened up, trusted her just that little bit more.

They swayed together to the music of the snowglobe. Then Lorna picked up her bag and, with a quick wave, she ran up the quiet, empty street.

Claire walked, dazed, to her car, still seeping tears, but determined. At the library she went about her research with fresh vigour. It was a strange name, Mervyn Pryce. Easy to misspell. She tried other permutations, and here, yes. Three years ago, a Mervin Pryce, not here, but in a town not too far away (fifteen miles wasn’t that far, was it?) had been convicted of possessing and distributing indecent images, category B . . . a six-month custodial sentence suspended for two years. What did that mean precisely? Had he gone to prison? What constituted ‘indecent’? And what did category B mean? She didn’t want to search for that, not in the library. But it must be bad. Very bad. And it had to be the same man.



* * *



The next day she called the council, but their records didn’t go back far enough to check why the club licence wasn’t granted, and as for convictions, they weren’t able to give out that information. Claire put the phone down, took some deep breaths, got out her notebook and read what she’d read so many times already.

A man with a history of working with children, a man who obviously terrifies the little girl (oh, the tears in her eyes, how she’d scurried away from him, the evil laughs of the men!) shares a name with a convicted paedophile! It was cut and dried, surely? Call, Claire. Make the call. You’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t.

‘PC Jones? It’s Claire Penny. Again. Call me back, please. I might have important information for you.’





14





Claire spent the rest of the morning tidying the front garden, sweeping the path clean of leaves, and waiting, hoping for the phone call. A few times she thought she heard the familiar ring, and rushed in, but it was nothing. The temperature had plummeted, and her hands ached with the cold, but she had to stay occupied, and when there was nothing else to do, she drove into town and shopped aimlessly, hoping that if PC Jones did call, he’d leave a message.

It was getting dark when she came back, and saw the girl shivering on the corner – the pink anorak gone but not replaced – hunched in her thin school jumper, standing on one leg and then the other as the cold seeped through the thin soles of her shoes. Lorna waved ecstatically at the car, capering around like a much younger child.

‘I’ve been waiting for you! I’ve been waiting for ages!’

‘Lord, Lorna, you must be freezing!’

‘I am. But I wanted to see you. I wanted to see if you’re all right. Are you? Because you were sad, before.’ She peered at Claire closely. ‘You’re not still sad, are you?’

‘I’m very well, thank you,’ smiled Claire gently. ‘Why don’t you have a coat?’

Lorna smiled, embarrassed. ‘Forgot it.’

‘Well, look, how about I give you a lift home?’

‘Can I come to yours and warm up?’

‘Lorna—’

‘I mean, I really am freezing cold.’

‘Well. It is cold, isn’t it? Maybe you should have a hot drink. Hop in, and I’ll call home, just to tell your mum what’s happening.’

‘There won’t be anyone there. No-one’s ever there until The Simpsons or later.’ The girl climbed into the front seat, shivering extravagantly while Claire drove the last few metres home. ‘I was waiting for ages for you. Where’ve you been?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Claire apologised automatically, and parked. When she unlocked the front door, she noticed the answer machine light was winking. ‘Why don’t you sit by the fire in the sitting room, just there, and I’ll bring you some cocoa? And a biscuit?’

‘OK.’

‘Just let me hear this message and then I’ll call your mummy, OK?’

Claire took the phone with her to the kitchen and listened to the message while the kettle boiled. It was PC Jones, but he just said he was returning her call. What time is it? Oh Lord, he won’t be at work now. I’ll just have to wait until tomorrow. Does he even work on a Saturday? Why did I have to spend so much time in the shops, anyway? Poor old Johnny hadn’t even been walked today. She’d have to do it later, although he didn’t like the dark, bless him.

Oddly, she’d bought juice, sticky buns and sugary biscuits; things she never normally even looked at, as well as mini sausage rolls and scotch eggs – she’d loved them when she was a child. Perhaps Lorna would too? She arranged them all on a tray.

In the sitting room, Lorna was standing on her toes, squinting at the row of photographs above the fireplace. ‘Is that you?’

‘Oh golly, no. That’s my mother. That’s me, can you see? The little baby in the pram?’

‘That’s you?’ The girl laughed. ‘You look all scrunched up.’