From the way she said it, Liz suspected the friend was male.

  She got up. “Well, thank you for your time, Mrs Martinelli. I’m really sorry about your daughter. It must be terrible, not knowing.”

  “Yeah. Terrible, that it is,” she said. “All these years. Having nightmares about it. Poor little kid.”

  “You aren’t still friends with Mrs Binks, are you?” The thought occurred to her as she walked down the hall towards the front door. “Rosie Binks’s mum?”

  “Haven’t seen her in years,” Mrs Martinelli said. “And we were never real friends, like. Bumped into each other occasionally. But that street got flattened in the Blitz. I heard they’d gone to one of them big new council blocks, out in New Cross, was it? Or Lewisham? Somewhere out there. All right for some. I said to my hubby, ‘Too bad we didn’t get bombed. The council would have given us a nice new flat.’” She glanced out of the window. “But then I wouldn’t have wanted to leave my gnomes.”

  Liz came away with a sick feeling in her stomach. She suspected that Mrs Martinelli had not shed one tear over Gloria. She seemed more attached to her garden gnomes. They were the reason she didn’t want to move away from a sooty little house . . . Liz stopped at the street corner, waiting as a bus went by, considering a dark thought that had come into her head. What if Dottie never took Gloria to the station at all? A child would certainly be an impediment to her very active love life. And the bruises on the little girl . . .

  CHAPTER 22

  It was the beginning of rush hour as she approached the Tube station, but she wanted to find Mrs Binks if possible, conscious of time slipping away before she had to make the decision to go back to work or to hand in her notice and find a new job. She studied the Tube map. No Underground service to Lewisham, so she caught the District line back to Charing Cross. Soon she was on a proper train heading to the southern suburbs. The train was already crowded, and more people got on at Waterloo and London Bridge, but it was only a few stations to Lewisham. Liz was directed to the town hall, where they were not pleased to see her. “We close at five,” the girl said, glancing up at the clock that said 4:40.

  “This shouldn’t take too long. I’m looking for an address on a council estate here. It’s my mum’s cousin, and she’s anxious to reconnect with her.” She tried not to sound posh. “A Mrs Binks. Ada Binks. Or it could be Mrs and Mr Binks.”

  The girl shrugged. “I suppose I can see what I can do. I can’t promise anything.”

  “My mum would be ever so grateful. She hasn’t been well,” Liz said, giving a hopeful smile.

  The woman went away. Liz waited, watching comings and goings. A clock somewhere outside was actually chiming five when the girl returned. “I did find this,” she said. “Binks. Albert. Would that be him?”

  “I think it was Cousin Albert, yes.”

  “Here’s the address, then. Bankside Avenue.”

  Liz took the piece of paper, thanked the girl profusely and hurried out. Crowds were streaming from office buildings and lining up at bus stops. Liz stopped to ask a policeman for directions and walked against the stream of people until she came to the address she had been given. It was a starkly modern concrete building with balconies running along the front. Liz didn’t think it represented a much better way of life than the area she had just left. The lift was out of order, and she climbed four flights of stairs in a concrete stairwell that stank of urine and smoke. She was glad to come out on to the balcony. A couple of front doors were open. Radio music blared from one and from the other the smell of fish frying.

  At last she came to the door she hoped belonged to the Binkses. The sound of TV news was coming from within. This was abruptly turned off and the door was opened.

  “Yes?” The woman looked older than her years, with grey hair and a lined face with sharp cockney features. She eyed Liz suspiciously. “We’re not buying nothing.”

  “I’m not selling anything,” Liz said. “Are you Mrs Binks?”

  “What of it?” Again the cockney suspicion of the outsider was evident.

  “I’m Liz Houghton. I’m with a newspaper,” Liz said “And we’re doing a story about three little girls who vanished during World War II—you know, before Little Lucy. And I was told about your Rosie.”

  “Oh really?” The expression softened. “You’d better come in, then. You’re lucky you caught me home. I only just got back from my daughter’s. I babysit her nipper.”

  “Your daughter? Then your Rosie was found again?”

  “Oh no, love. We had another kid when my hubby came home from the war. This is our Brenda’s little boy I look after while she works. Kevin.” She pointed to a photograph on the mantelpiece. “He’s a lovely little chap. All smiles. It makes life worthwhile to be with him.” And her face looked younger again as she smiled at the thought. “Well, take a load off your feet,” she went on, indicating a chintz-covered armchair. “Now, what was it you wanted to know?”

  “Everything you remember about Rosie and how she went missing.”

  Mrs Binks shrugged. “I remember like it was yesterday. We got the letter from the school saying the kids had the chance to be evacuated. I didn’t want her to go, but then I thought I’d never forgive myself if she got killed by a bomb. So, I packed her little case. She insisted on carrying her stuffed dog, Bow-Wow. She loved him. Took him everywhere. We put the label around her neck with her name and all that. And her gas mask. She had to carry that gas mask at all times. That was the rule in them days. She was right loaded up, poor little kid. But she seemed cheerful enough when we got to the station and saw other kids she knew. Then they got on the train. They didn’t let us parents past the barrier. But I waved and off she went.” She stopped abruptly and stared out past Liz. “And that was the last I saw of her.”

  “The police looked for her, didn’t they?”

  Mrs Binks nodded. “They said they did. It was wartime, you know. The police force had better things to do than look for a little kiddie. But they checked along the line, and it seemed funny to me that nobody had seen her. You know they took kids off the train at every stop—and those were the days when every little place had its own railway station. People came and took kids home with them.”

  “Just like that?” Liz asked. “No sort of official list at each place?”

  “Well,” Mrs Binks said slowly, “there was always some volunteer ladies, and they kept tabs on who went where. The police said they questioned them all. But there was no mention of my Rosie on any of the lists. It was like she just vanished into thin air.”

  “You knew which train she had taken,” Liz said. “Did you think of going to look for yourself when the police didn’t find anything?”

  A look of absolute horror came over her face. “What, me? Go down to the country, like?” She shook her head. “Oh no, dear. In those days I’d never been out of the Smoke, or at least only twice on a work outing to Southend in a coach. I wouldn’t have known where to start.” She sighed. “And it was wartime, wasn’t it? You didn’t travel around.” She gave a sad smile. “These days it’s different, isn’t it? I thought coming out to Lewisham was going to the ends of the earth when we moved here, but then recently my daughter and her hubby have taken us on holiday to Devon. Lovely down there, isn’t it? Have you been?”

  “I have,” Liz said. “It is lovely.”

  “So green, and the people are nice and friendly. I said to the hubby, ‘I wouldn’t mind moving down here when I don’t have to look after little Kevin any more.’” She chuckled. “He thought that was daft.”

  “So no trace was ever found of Rosie?” Liz brought her back to the subject. “The other kids don’t remember seeing her get off the train? Might it have been possible that she fell asleep on the train and didn’t wake up until it arrived at the train yard and . . . someone found her?”

  The hurt returned to Mrs Binks’s face. “That’s my thought. Some railway worker or tramp found her and took her. I console myself that she’s now a bright little angel, looking down on me.” She squeezed her eyes shut, as if this could shut out the pain.

  The front door was not properly closed, and the sounds of the blaring radio down the hall wafted into the room. Suddenly Mrs Binks stiffened. “Listen,” she said. A sweet expression came over her face. Liz recognized the song as Vera Lynn singing “There’ll Be Bluebirds over the White Cliffs of Dover.” A song that had been so popular in the war and was still often requested on the radio for nostalgia reasons.

  “My little Rosie loved that song,” she said. “And you know what she said to me?” She started to laugh. “She asked if we could have a bluebird sofa like the one in the song. She didn’t understand the words properly, you see. Bluebird sofa. Bless her.” She wiped a tear from her cheek. “She had the greatest imagination, Rosie did. So creative. Always dancing, making up songs, dressing up, drawing, painting. Oh, she loved pretending. ‘I’m a fairy, Mum,’ she’d say. ‘I’m going to wave my magic wand and make the war stop.’” Her whole body shook with a big sigh. “Not at all like my other girl. Brenda is all no-nonsense and let’s get on with it. She’s doing really well in her career. Only twenty-two and she’s already been promoted at her bank.”

  “I’m really glad you have her and your grandson, Mrs Binks,” Liz said. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

  The woman thought. “Not really, love. She was a lovely little kid, my Rosie. You’ll make sure your article says that, won’t you?”

  “Oh, I will,” Liz said. “I promise. And I’ll try to find out more for you if there’s any way to do so. You need closure, don’t you?”

  The woman nodded. “I need to know what happened. Even if it’s the very worst thing, I’d rather know. Then I can be at peace.”

  The song ended. Mrs Binks sat staring out of the window with a gentle smile still on her face. “A bluebird sofa. Bless her.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Liz arrived home feeling tired and dishevelled. The Underground had been packed, and it had started to rain when she came out of the Parsons Green Station. There was no evidence that Marisa had been home—no kicked-off shoes or half-drunk cup of tea. The flat seemed cold and empty, and she turned on the gas fire before putting on the kettle. Wondering what there might be for supper, she opened the fridge and then the pantry. Nothing much there, but she was loath to go out again and spend money on takeaway, so she settled on her old staple, tomato soup and grilled cheese. She’d have liked a glass of wine, but she knew they’d drunk the last bottle the week before.

  She turned on the telly, for the last of the six o’clock news. A police spokesman was giving updates on Little Lucy. “We are doing everything within our power to find this child and bring her safely home,” he said. “We have mobilized every unit at our disposal. We have even sent a team over to France, as the child was born there. And we thank the public for continuing to send in tips. We are continuing to display her picture outside every police station, so if you see a child who resembles her, don’t hesitate to telephone us.”

  “You have reason to believe the child is still alive, then?” a reporter’s voice asked.

  “We must always hope for the best until proven wrong,” the police spokesman said. The camera cut away, and Liz spotted Marisa standing in the background. She felt a strange sense of pride that this was her friend and she was doing something positive. “If only . . . ,” she muttered to herself, not sure what that meant. If only she could help to find Lucy? Or find out what happened to Rosie? Gloria? She still couldn’t work out what had happened to herself in Tydeham. She paused, wondering if it might help if she saw a psychiatrist. Or maybe a psychic. She wanted someone to tell her that it was possible, that the dead had communicated with her, that she had channelled someone else’s life. Because she had a nagging fear that she might be going mad.

  She went over to her typewriter and back to her story. Three little girls, at exactly the same time of year, only one of them found . . . and went on to describe Rosie Binks, Gloria Kane and what she knew of Valerie Hammond. Was it possible that a serial killer had reawakened? Been released from prison or a mental hospital, or returned from Australia? Why weren’t the police looking into this pattern? She finished the article and nodded with satisfaction. It was good. She’d take it to the paper in the morning.

  Marisa arrived home close to ten o’clock.

  “What a day,” she said, flinging herself down on the sofa and kicking off her shoes. For once she was not wearing the new boots, but almost looked as if she could be in uniform again. Pleated skirt. Plain black tights and black lace-ups.

  “You must be starving,” Liz said. “There’s not much in the fridge, but I could make you some grilled cheese.”

  “Oh, no thanks. The super took us to the pub, so I’ve had a meat pie and a pint. Not my favourites, but it was good. It sort of energized us all and reminded us to keep on going, even though it’s now almost two weeks.” She sat up again. “Hey, guess what? We interviewed the grandparents today. Susan Fareham’s parents, I mean. They are quite posh, like you. They live in a big house in Chislehurst in Kent. Lovely place. Right on the common. I was sent with a female DI.”

  “Why her parents? Do they suspect she might have something to do with the disappearance of her own child?”

  “No, not that. They want insights into background, including anyone who might possibly have a grudge. The latest theory is that she must have gone willingly with someone she knew. Otherwise, she would have cried out, or at least there would have been some kind of scuffle.”

  “But how could anyone have got her out of the park without the au pair seeing?”

  “It has been suggested that she was small enough to have squeezed between the bars if someone had lured her from outside. But it would have been that she had wanted to go with the person.”

  “So family or friend, right?”

  “Right.” She paused, thinking. “One thing that’s a bit weird is that Susan Fareham doesn’t seem to have any friends. Not close friends in London, anyway. All the friends she mentioned to us are friends of them as a couple. More his friends. Influential people.”

  “It’s not that strange,” Liz said. “You can lose touch with single friends when you’re home with a little child.”

  “But she has a nanny, for Pete’s sake. She can come and go as she wants. And plenty of money.” She wagged a finger at Liz. “And you know what else was strange? The parents seemed ill at ease with us. The wife was quite jumpy, I’d have said. She kept saying what a lovely mum her daughter was and how she adored little Lucy, but all the time her fingers were fiddling with her skirt and she kept glancing at her husband to see if she was saying the right thing.”

  “Gosh,” Liz said. “Do you think they could possibly have something to do with it? That they know something?”

  “I think they might know something,” Marisa said.

  “So where do you go from here?”

  “I go where I’m told,” Marisa said. “But I think we should dig into Susan’s background some more. Former boyfriends. We don’t know much except she went to study in France and met her husband there. We have a team out there, lucky ducks, so maybe we’ll learn more. But what about before she went to France?”

  “How old was she?”

  “They said she was nineteen.”

  “Pretty soon after she left school. Did she stay on to do A levels?”

  “I think so.”

  “Where did she go to school again?”

  “Farringtons. A boarding school near her home. She was a day girl there.”

  Liz came over and perched on the arm of the chair. “So why don’t you go down there and find out who her friends were? She must have had friends in those days.”

  “I’d like to, but I don’t think it’s in the plan. Oh, and by the way, I expounded my theory to the super, about tying this case to the missing girls all those years ago. I don’t think he was very impressed, so if I can find the time, I’m going to do some more digging myself, to see if there’s an obvious case where a convict has just been released. Did you go through those pages I copied for you? At great personal risk, I might add.”

  “I did. And what’s more, I’ve interviewed the two mothers of the missing girls. Very interesting. Complete opposites. Rosemary Binks’s mother still grieves for her and spoke about what a wonderful child she was. But Gloria Kane’s displayed no emotion whatsoever. I got the feeling she couldn’t have cared less. I was told by a neighbour that there may have been a history of child abuse.” She paused, collecting her thoughts before continuing. “The strangest thought came to me after I was there. I read in the notes that Gloria Kane was the only girl who didn’t have a shelter erected in her backyard. It’s all concreted over except a rockery with gnomes sitting on it. I began to wonder whether the child never even went to the station. Whether she was buried there, under those rocks. The mother refuses to move. Perhaps she’s scared of getting found out.”

  “Blimey. I wonder how we’d proceed with that one,” Marisa said. “There’s nothing I could do right now. All our efforts are focused on finding Lucy. But once we’ve concluded this, and if by any chance we’ve found any connection . . . well then, we’ll have that rockery dug up.”

  Liz nodded. “There were no notes on the other girl—Valerie. The one they found in the woods and the bloke was put in a mental hospital. So I couldn’t tell what similarities there might have been.”

  “That’s right. Her folder was with the ones I gave you, but when I opened it, it was empty. Maybe those notes have been moved somewhere else for a subsequent investigation. I’ll have to ask DI Jones, but probably not right now. He’s all caught up in this case and he’s snapped at me when I’ve tried to tie it to his lost girls.”

  “But I thought he was the one who brought up the connection to start with?”

  “I know. He was. But now he tells me to focus on the matter at hand and not throw out any wild theories.” She reached up to pull the clip off her ponytail, letting that luxuriant black hair cascade over her shoulders. “That’s better,” she said. “It’s been too tight all day. No, Liz, if you want to know, I think this case is really getting to him. He should never have requested to be part of the team. He’s upset that we haven’t found the child yet, and he’s fearing the worst.”