She's Leaving Home by William Shaw

Breen’s eye and hastily put the photo back. “Sorry.”
    Miss Pattison was still, brow furrowed, looking at the other photograph; the dead one. The unglamorous one. “Do you recognize her?” asked Breen.
    “No. But we have tens of thousands of girls. I can’t know everyone.”
    Breen tried a different approach. “Have you ever come across any men who try and take advantage of the fans, perhaps?”
    “Take advantage?” said Miss Pattison. “What? Rapists?”
    “Possibly.”
    “Was she raped?”
    “She may have been.”
    “How awful.”
    “There might be someone out there who the fans know…somebody who they were already suspicious of.”
    “We have fifty thousand members. Do you expect us to call them up? Or write to their parents?”
    “Fifty thousand? You have a newsletter. Couldn’t you put a notice in that?”
    “Oh no. That would not be at all suitable. Not at all.”
    “Suitable? A girl is dead.”
    “And I am sorry. But our newsletter is not the place to discuss it.”
    “There must be other people we could show this photograph to?”
    “You can leave the photo with us if you like. Perhaps someone will recognize it.” Miss Pattison folded her arms. This was her world. She was not going to be helpful.
    “Are they doing a Christmas record for the fans again this year?” asked Tozer.
    Miss Pattison broke into a sudden smile. “Of course.”
    “I have all of them. I think they’re super.”
    “You’re a fan?” Miss Pattison’s eyebrows danced.
    “Of course,” said Tozer.
    “A member?”
    “Yes.”
    Miss Pattison paused. “What did you say your name was again?”
    “Tozer. Helen Tozer.”
    Miss Pattison stood and walked through the door into the next room. “Wait there,” she called, leaving them alone in her office.
    Breen blinked. The smell of the woman’s scent was eye-watering.
    “Do you like the Beatles, sir?” asked Tozer. “Or are you more of a Rolling Stones man?”
    “Neither.”
    “Bob Dylan?”
    Breen paused a second. “Are you really a member of this fan club?”
    Tozer looked at him like he was impossibly old.
    Miss Pattison returned beaming with two brown folders in her hands. She read from the top one. “Helen Tozer. Coombe Barton Farm, Kingsteignton, Devon.”
    “That’s me!” said Tozer in a high squeak. “Farm girl.”
    “You’re one of the older fans, then?” Miss Pattison said approvingly. “The newer ones don’t get envelopes. They just get index cards.”
    Tozer smiled back at her.
    “And up to date with your subs as well,” said Miss Pattison. “Good girl.” Breen looked at the policewoman, surprised. Returning to her desk, Miss Pattison read. “Join date: September 1963.” A broad smile filled her face. “My, my.” Then she looked at the second folder. “Now look at this. I have an Alexandra Tozer. Same address.”
    “That’s my little sister,” said Tozer. “She was the reason I joined. She was a much bigger fan than I am.”
    “She sent in a photograph of herself. A lot of you do that.” She pulled out a photograph of a girl, around fifteen or sixteen years old, standing in a snowy field. She was wearing a short tartan miniskirt and woolen tights, a blue denim hat with a little peak on it, and smiling at the camera. Her features had none of the solidity of her older sister; she was willowy and pale-skinned. “I see she’s stopped sending her subscriptions,” Miss Pattison said disapprovingly. “That is a shame. We lose a few more every year.”
    “Yes,” said Tozer.
    “You should persuade her to join again, you know.”
    There was a pause. “Don’t think so,” said Tozer.
    Miss Pattison did not notice the way Tozer avoided her gaze as she answered. Breen recognized a familiar rawness in Tozer’s voice, something which had always been there but which he had never noticed before. He stood and said, “We’ll be in touch, Miss Pattison.”
    Tozer remained seated. She reached her hand across the table and took one of