Tears choked her and slid down her face as she thought of it. She stroked her hands over her stomach and started to sob with misery for the first time since she’d taken that vicious beating.

Her baby – Dickie Cole’s baby – was dead inside her.

The bruises had faded, of course they had – but the damage had been done. The kid was gone, and sooner or later it would be delivered and then she could kiss it goodbye. Dora sniffed, choking back her sobs, trying to get a grip on her feelings. It was tragic, awful – but she was going to have to be strong. She was going to have to live through it, and come out the other side. Somehow.

How?

She didn’t have a clue.

But the stranger looking back at her from the mirror looked confident; a coper, a bit like her sister Lil.

She swiped at her wet cheeks and sniffed. Yeah, maybe a secretary. Prim. Upright.

Or . . . maybe a singer. Once, she’d been a singer. It felt like an age ago, but she had, she’d stood on stage at the Café Royale, all blonde and glamorous and singing upbeat numbers in her silvers and pinks and soft starry midnight blues.

This singer would be a brunette. Sultry. She would sing torch songs of all-consuming love and bitter loss while wearing black velvet gowns and long cocktail gloves.

Yeah.

That was it.

But first? She had to get the hell out of here.

47

Donny Maguire checked in at the Majestic and stayed overnight, giving the people on reception a description of the girl he was trying to trace. No result. Next morning he checked out and tried the Old Swan; then he tried a couple of other, smaller hotels, flashing his warrant card and asking after a blonde called Dora O’Brien, but maybe using another name, a married name, since he knew she’d purchased a wedding ring in the pawnbroker’s.

Next he started checking out the B & Bs all around town, and by lunchtime he was footsore and weary and trying the next to last one, set in a curving Georgian row of terraces. A hard-faced cow with frazzled dark hair told him no one of that description had stayed here last night, and that she was very busy, she didn’t have time to stand around half the day jawing to him.

Donny then loitered near where the buses pulled in, scanning the faces of the crowds moving around. He couldn’t see her. She could be fucking anywhere. She could have taken a cab to the train station, or walked it. He tried the nearest taxi rank next, and drew another blank. Then he legged it to the station and went up and down the platform, studying the timetables. He talked to the guard. Had the man seen her? Blonde? Pretty?

‘Nah mate,’ said the guard.

That was it. He was out of ideas.

He sat on the platform, watched the York train pull in. There were clusters of holidaymakers piling on board, families with kids. Donny scrutinized each one of them. Not a sign of her. Once the passengers were all on, the guard blew his whistle and the train chugged out again.