Friday's torrential downpour had kept all but the hardiest or most determined of souls indoors. The rain was coming in sideways, in large pummelling drops that stung the flesh, walloped against window panes and reduced visibility on the narrow streets of Port Wenn to almost zero. It was bleak, unpleasant and unseasonably cold.
Up at the top of the village, where the cottages were most exposed to the fury of Atlantic storms, the young Constable who had been directed to remove the posters from Louisa's wall did so carefully. As he worked, quietly and methodically, in the cold, damp room, he was reminded of his younger sister whose walls were also covered with posters of pop stars and baby animals, and adorned with pinned polaroids of grinning teenagers. As he searched, he noticed the water stains on the ceiling, and where the peeling wallpaper beneath the windows had been reattached with drawing pins. He saw the threadbare curtains, the water pooling on the sill where the wind forced the moisture in through the ill-fitting sashes, and felt the draught through the cracked panes as the gale outside rattled the glass.
Like most of the buildings he searched, the sparsely furnished cottage filled him with a strange sort of sadness. He got to see a lot of poverty and depravation in his job and he wondered if he'd ever get used to it. At least this room was clean and relatively tidy; though that thought made him feel sorry for the futile efforts of the faceless teenage girl who usually occupied it.
She'd probably end up pregnant within months, he thought grimly, already having seen so much multi-generational dysfunction in his brief time in the Force. As they called it at the station: hooking on another carriage to the Train Wreck. He took one last look around him, hesitating momentarily, and then picked up the diary that he'd discovered underneath the mattress, and popped it into an evidence bag.
"All done in here, Gov." He called out, and made his way back out to the kitchen. Wiping away the condensation with the sleeve of his jacket, he peered out of the window and was pleased to note that the weather was starting to ease.
The rumours about Terry Glasson had started mid morning when Isobel's mother saw plain clothes police cars parked outside his cottage. Then, after lunch, Reverend Counter was seen, grim faced and thin lipped, in the Off License. He bought two bottles of Brandy and a bottle of Gin and, as he handed over the cash, his hands trembled even more so than usual. Young John behind the counter noticed his extreme agitation and asked him if he was okay but all the vicar would offer in explanation was a repeated shake of his head and his usual, multi-directional, bloodshot-eyed stare.
"Dreadful state of affairs. DREADFUL!" He muttered and staggered out into the rain.
As he fumbled with his car keys, a rather unpleasant thought struck him. He wondered if Terry Glasson's arrest had anything to do with the crates of unlabelled Scotch whisky that he'd been delivering late in the evening to the back door of the Vicarage. Reverend Counter suddenly felt quite perturbed. He climbed into the driver's seat of his old Austin, eased the top from the bottle, and took a long swig of brandy. Moments later, nerves soothed, he reversed blindly and rapidly from his parking spot, and accelerated unevenly off up the road.
A while later, the brightly coloured raincoat-clad parents began to undertake their usual procession through the winding streets and along to the school gates. Karen Freethy, the Senior Teacher, was on duty, wrapped in a large, oversized oilskin. She was cold, and very keen to shepherd the last straggling children toward home so her weekend could begin. On Friday nights, she had initiated the habit of rewarding herself with a large glass of wine and a long soak in a hot bath; Brian Ferry on the stereo and her latest novel propped up against the shampoo bottles. It was often the high point of her week.
However, this afternoon, despite the persistent drizzle, she noticed that the parents seemed reluctant to leave, and were engaged in even louder and more animated conversation than usual. Advancing toward the largest group, bracing herself against the wind, she was annoyed to see a plump man standing in the middle of a semi circle of shocked looking mothers, gesticulating angrily.
"Bert Large, what are you doing here?" The teacher thought, irritatedly. "You don't even have any kids at school."
Bert paused mid sentence as Miss Freethy approached; his funny, little round mouth open, eyes wide, cheeks sagging. He looked like a surprised baby. But when he spoke to her, there was a fear and anger in his voice that she hadn't ever seen from him before.
"Terrible business! What was he thinking? With the little'un and all. By herself now, god bless her. I knew he was a rum'un but I never seen this comin'. Whass the world comin' to eh?"
She'd been expecting a cheeky retort but what he was saying made no sense and she was taken aback. One of the circle of mothers obviously saw the confusion on her face and put her hand on Ms Freethy's arm.
"It's Louisa Glasson," she blurted out. "Her bloody dad's only just gone and got himself really in the crap."
"Police been up at his cottage all day, gatherin' evidence" said another mother earnestly. "I seen 'em carrying bags of stuff out and loadin' up their cars."
The teacher felt a horrible, cold, sickening feeling in her gut. She'd taught the girl in her last year at the primary school and, try as one does not to have favourites, she had become very fond of Louisa.
She stared at the group for a moment and then indicated that they needed to leave the playground.
"I'm sorry but I need to close the gate now." She said sternly, and ushered them toward it.
Sensing her agitation, they all did as they were told. She slammed the gate, hooked the chain around it and walked as fast as she could back toward the staff room, feeling overwhelmed, and sick with anxiety.
By now, the village was rife with rumour and opinion but there was nothing other than speculation until PC Tregurtha was seen picking up young Louisa from the bus a short time later, and whisking her away out of the town. That alone was enough confirmation for most villagers that the story was true. A few people were titillated but, generally, a genuine feeling of despondency came over the town. Terry Glasson might be an outsider but Louisa was one of them, a village girl, and a popular one at that.
Also waiting for the bus was Caroline's mother, Tamzin Curnow. Every school day, she sat in her Range Rover opposite the bus stop. Usually, she listened to the radio, grumbling at the poor reception and lamenting the fact that Port Wenn didn't have its own radio station. But today she sat in silence. She'd been to the Co-op to pick up a few groceries and the shop assistant had been only too keen to fill her in on the gossip. As Tamzin stared at the rain drops, they collected on the windscreen in ever expanding blobs, and then ran in rivulets down the tinted glass. She absently stroked the smooth leather of the steering wheel and digested everything she'd heard with a growing sense of apprehension.
The Curnows lived in the well-appointed manor house about ten minutes out of the village. It was very elegantly situated, Grade 3 listed, and very luxurious by Port Wenn standards. Jago Curnow was the middle son of an old established Cornish land holding family, and his wife was the youngest daughter of the Bishop of Exeter
Caroline Curnow wasn't the easiest child. In fact, her mother spent a lot of time walking on eggshells. She'd been an obstreperous child but puberty had taken her to extremes of anger that sometimes terrified her mother. She had a spiteful tongue and often fell out with her classmates. Her only consistent friend was Louisa Glasson.
Despite her difficult family circumstances, Tamzin had always been fond of Louisa, not least because she seemed to be a stabilising influence for Caroline. She was seemingly immune to Caroline's mean riposte and caustic commentary, always seeming to maintain her sunny disposition and cajoling Caroline back into good humour. And, when Caroline did go too far, Louisa had the diplomacy to put her back in her place without the situation escalating.
At fourteen years old, with no parents on hand, and no means of financial support, Tamzin realised that it was odds on that Louisa would be taken into care. The consequences of that for the Curnow family could be catastrophic and she knew that she would have to do everything in her power to prevent it happening. She started to formulate a plan.
Karen Freethy finally made it home just after 5pm and collapsed, damp and exhausted, onto the couch. After she'd got back to the staff room, there had been a very emotional meeting. All of the teachers and support staff knew Louisa and understood the trials she'd experienced at the hands of her irresponsible parents so they were all united in grief for the young girl who was now facing obstacles even she probably couldn't overcome.
Karen had wept. She'd always thought of Louisa as having special abilities and had followed her progress at secondary school closely, feeling proud of the way this gutsy kid had conquered adversity and maintained her focus on getting the best education she could.
Poor Louisa, so clever and motivated, so kind and friendly; the girl they always got to take care of the new kids, show visitors around, water the pot plants and take responsibility for the classroom pets. Always the first to volunteer and the last to give up. So much potential. And now this.
Karen looked around her, tears welling again her eyes. She had to do something to help, she felt that desperately in her core. An idea was beginning to take shape. She would have her bath and mull her options over.
Darkness came and, down in the harbour, the Crab began to fill and patrons spilled out onto the Platt. As people sat down for supper, put their children to bed, and settled in for the evening, and as the awful news sank in across the village and to outlying farms, the implications of Louisa's father's actions were a cause for mass and overwhelming dismay.