'Sweet memories never fade. Your old friend, Aiden.'

The simple posy of summer garden flowers that Camellia had given had gone on the coffin. She felt her heart had too.

Cleaning the flat and destroying anything that would bring further shame to Bee was all Camellia could do now. She separated seedy mementoes from more innocent ones. She buried her saucy underwear in the dustbin, sorted her clothes, the more outrageous items to go to a second-hand stall in Chelsea market, the quiet, ordinary ones folded neatly and put in the drawers.

She found an unfinished letter written by Bee in a maudlin moment's desire to be forgiven by her parents. Camellia tucked it into an address book so they would find it. She remembered Bee reading it to her, eyes filling with tears, then tossing it aside knowing she would never send it. It might soften their stony heartsthey wouldn't know it had been penned and forgotten months earlier.

While packing her own things Camellia came across the file from her mother, almost forgotten under a pile of old sweaters.

'Oh Mum,' she whispered, hugging the stiff card to her chest, as if merely holding it would bring some comfort. 'I'm sorry I judged you so harshly once. You, me and Bee, we're all flawed, but none of us were entirely bad. Is that what you wanted to teach me?'

The inquest held no surprises. Just a cold verdict of death by misadventure. For Camellia it was like being transported back five years to her mother's inquest, a similar Coroner's Court full of sensation seekers and journalists hoping for a few last thrills. But this time Camellia took everything in, she was no longer protected by innocence.

Mr and Mrs Jarret sat close, but not touching, clearly not fully understanding the implications of the lethal cocktail their wayward daughter had taken on her last night. The words amphetamines, cocaine and barbiturates went over their heads, only the word alcohol made them exchange knowing glances.

A statement from a neighbour who had watched Jake carrying out equipment to his car and leaving just before midnight proved he wasn't responsible for, or witness to her death. But to Camellia he was a murderer, just as if he'd taken a knife and cut her throat.

Camellia didn't notice the summer ending, or even the transition to winter. She threw herself into work in an attempt to soothe the pain inside her.

Almost invisible in drab, plain clothes, her hair tied tightly back, she started her day at seven in the morning as a chambermaid, then moved on to a busy restaurant for the lunch-time, to a fish-and-chip shop for the evening. She ate at work, saved her money and avoided conversation with anyone.

Jake was apprehended in late September, stopped by customs men coming in at Dover with a quantity of cannabis. While he was awaiting trial, the police finally uncovered his pornography business: a small studio in Kentish Town and a far larger one in Amsterdam, with a network of mail order customers both in England and Holland.

Camellia was interviewed several more times, but whether it was because Mike had used some influence or just that the police had enough evidence without asking her to be a witness, the inspector in charge of the investigation made it quite clear she wouldn't be involved further.

Jimi Hendrix died of a drug overdose in September, and Janis Joplin followed him a few weeks later. In November a hurricane in Bangladesh killed 100,000 people, Camellia cried for all of them. Her twenty-first birthday in December came and went without celebration. Just one lone card from Denise. At Christmas she was compelled to put on a little make-up, smile and look joyous for the customers she served, but nothing broke through her reserve. She didn't contact anyone in all this time. Outside work she spent much of her time lying on her bed, sometimes reading, but mostly thinking.

Although she thought of Bee a great deal, and her own mistakes and misfortunes, it was Bonny who occupied her mind the most. She found herself dwelling less on her bad points. In the light of things she'd done herself she felt she couldn't be self-righteous anymore, and remembered instead the happier times with sweet nostalgia. Now and then she found that incidents which had once embarrassed or shocked her now made her smile. Bonny had always been such an extrovert.

As Camellia sifted through this store of old memories, considering how much of it was responsible for forging her character, it came to her that she knew very little about Bonny prior to her marriage. Bonny had never been one for reminiscing, she lived for the moment just the way Camellia had until now.

It was this which made her dig out the file of old letters again. She had read them many times when she first came to London, but in the past four years she hadn't touched them, except for once showing them to Bee.

To her surprise she found she viewed them now from an entirely different perspective. Maybe it was just that she had a better understanding of human nature that she no longer felt the same hurt or sense of betrayal. It was possible too that she had idealised her parents' marriage, they might never have been as happy together as she'd always supposed as a child.

She sorted out the letters from each of the three men. The ones from the man called Jack Easton were the most dog-eared, infuriatingly none of them were dated. She studied these first.

The most worn one, written on a piece of paper torn from a cheap notebook, had the address Tollgate Garage, Amberley, Sussex. Camellia knew this was the village Bonny had been evacuated to in the war to live with the dancing teacher she called Aunt Lydia. She had vague memories of being taken to visit there, both before and after her father died. It was a pretty village full of thatched cottages and Aunt Lydia had seemed almost like a grandmother, though tall and slender and not a bit like her real granny. She wondered now why Bonny had lost touch with her. Could it have had something to do with this man Jack?

'Dear Bonny, I can't say I'm sorry about what happened the other night. It was wrong but it was too beautiful to apologise for. I just wanted you to know that I'll be thinking about you next Saturday, I really hope it all works out for you and you end up happy. We had some good times, didn't we? You'll always have a special place in my heart. Love always, Jack.'

Camellia wondered what had happened on the Saturday referred to. Was it an audition for a show? Moving to a new town? The letter sounded as if it was intended to be a final goodbye. She wished Jack had dated it.

The one Camellia felt came next was on proper writing paper, from the same address in Amberley. This one was quite formal, merely congratulating Bonny on Camellia's birth, with a mention of his own daughter and a couple of references to Lydia who he said was dying to see the new baby. It was signed 'Yours affectionately, Jack'. She marked it 1950.

Camellia felt several years had passed before the next letter. It was on thick headed notepaper, this time from a garage in Littlehampton. Jack seemed to have become more successful. But his tone was cool and guarded.

'Dear Bonny, Of course it was good to hear from you, though I was very surprised. But no, I can't meet you. It wouldn't be right. We're both married, we've got kids and responsibilities. I'm sorry if you have some sort of crisis in your life. I'd like to be just a friend and listen, but we both know why that won't work. My fondest regards, Jack.'

Bonny must've written again pleading with him, as the next was virtually the same as the previous one, only this time it was a firm and emphatic 'No'.

But the second to last was the one which intrigued Camellia most.

'Dear Bonny, I thought I was through with being shocked by your lies, but this one is the biggest and most vicious yet. What you hope to gain from it I really don't know. I've seen pictures of your kid round at Lydia's, she's nothing like me and I've got the kind of colouring that gets passed on.

'You have everything a woman could want, a lovely home, a beautiful child and an old man who by all accounts adores you. Why screw it up, Bonny? What's going on in your scheming little head? You had your chance with me and you chucked it away. Even if we were both free, you wouldn't want a bloke with dirt under his fingernails. I just laughed when you said you still loved me. Come off it!

'If blackmail's your game, it's a sick one. Just remember you've got even more to lose than me. Just one word from you to Ginny, and so help me, I'll swing for you.

'Jack.'

The last letter was one of condolence on John's death and made no mention of his previous ones. Like the first of the batch, it was warm and affectionate, offering sympathy and hopes that things would get better in the future. Jack was either a very forgiving man or he'd written this letter in the presence of his wife.

One of the old photographs was of a small group of children. Camellia recognised Bonny immediately: she was sitting right in the middle with hair ribbons sticking up on top of her head like rabbit's ears. She had a feeling the skinny, untidy looking older boy next to her might be Jack. He had a freckled face and a wide grin and his arm was round Bonny. Was he the boy she used to refer to as 'her childhood sweetheart'?

Next came the only letter from the man who signed himself 'Miles'. This one was dated September 1954, two years before her father died. The writing paper was top quality, cream heavy vellum with a hand-finished edge and an embossed address in London's Holland Park. The man's handwriting was a beautiful script, very different from Jack's scrawl.

'Dear Bonny,' she read. 'I am in receipt of your recent letter and astounded by the preposterous claims you make. My first reaction was to call on you and insist you retract this malevolent statement, but because of my high regard for your husband and Mary's affection for you, I have decided to ignore what you have said and put it down to a lapse of intelligence on your part, probably caused by jealousy and the consumption of alcohol.

'In your moment of spite, you have failed to appreciate that a blackmailer always comes off worse than his victim if he or she is exposed. You have a loving husband and a young daughter to consider, where as I am too old now to be concerned at a little mud slinging.

'Think on these things before you cast another stone into the pool.

'Yours sincerely, Miles.'

There were a great many letters from the last man Magnus Osbourne, written from several different addresses and over a long period. These told an almost complete story, about an older married man who'd fallen for a young dancer.

When Camellia first read back in Rye, she had known nothing of love, or passion. But now, as she read them again, she understood the undercurrents. The man was tormented, loving Bonny, yet his wife too. This was an honourable, highly intelligent man, she felt, caught up in a net he couldn't untangle himself from.

She gathered that Magnus had met Bonny while she was dancing at a theatre in Oxfordthe first letter mentioned a show, a hotel, and a building project Magnus was about to embark on. He spoke of 'middle-aged madness', and in the same sentence he told her there could be no more between them, he asked her to write and tell him how she was getting on in her new show in Brighton.

In another letter he wrote nostalgically about a house on the Thames in Staines, Middlesex where he had taken her boating. He told Bonny she was a little witch who had enchanted him, and yet again said it must end before it was too late.

Presumably it was already too late. The letters kept coming, nine or ten of them in the period from 1946 to 1947. Camellia found these letters amusing, for by her more liberated standards they were very chaste.

She wished she knew where all these letters were sent. It seemed Bonny must have been touring and living in digs: he sometimes commiserated with her on the indignity of outside lavatories and no bathrooms. There were references to the pier at Brighton, and a charity event in London which might help her career. But after a mention of the Hippodrome in Catford, South London, where he hoped to find time to see her show, the letters stopped.

Camellia assumed that Bonny had met John Norton around this time and perhaps broken off her affair with Magnus.

He didn't write again until August 1954, from an address in Bath. This letter was puzzling. Camellia couldn't tell whether the Nortons and the Osbournes had been moving in the same social circle for some years, or whether Bonny had used a chance encounter to her advantage. The crucial element was the date. Just a month earlier she had received a remarkably similar letter from Miles.

'My dear Bonny, My first intention was to ignore what you said. You'd been drinking heavily and perhaps you just wanted to stir things up a little. Maybe you got some sort of sadistic pleasure in giving me such a shock when both John and Ruth were within earshot, but whatever your reasons or excuses, I find myself dwelling on it constantly. You must tell me the truth. John clearly adores you and Camellia; from what I understand you have a happy life together. I would ask that you think of their happiness and security before making any further rash statements. Yours, Magnus.'

Again there was a long gapthe next letter was a note of condolence on John's deathbut it was obvious that they had been in touch with one another during that interval. Bonny had clearly found a way of convincing Magnus that he was Camellia's father.

'My dear Bonny, I am so very sorry to hear of John's death. It seems unspeakably cruel that such a young man should die from a heart attack. It is always a difficult task to write letters of condolence, but in this case it is doubly difficult because of our past relationship. I liked and respected John, as you know, and it was my hope after our last talk that you would concentrate whole-heartedly on your marriage and be the kind of wife he deserved.

'But now on his death I find myself deeply troubled. I grieve to think of any child losing such a loving father. Knowing that Camellia is really mine puts me in an impossible position. I cannot acknowledge her: not only would it hurt my wife and other children, but it would hurt Camellia too. For all intents and purposes, John was her real father.

'I ask you now to consider only her. John has left you both well provided for. For her sake, let her take pride and comfort in his memory. Let old secrets lie buried, at least until she is of an age to understand them.

'I will of course give you financial assistance should you ever need it. But I would ask that you address any correspondence not to Oaklands but to my solicitors, marking the envelope for my attention. I trust you will continue to behave with discretion in this matter, not for my sake, but for Camellia's.

'Yours, Magnus.'

Presumably Bonny did ask for help as the few letters in the years from 1956 to 1962 were short and businesslike. Camellia felt the only reason for them was that a cheque was enclosed. She felt Oaklands was a hotel as in one of the more recent letters there was a reference to guests. She wondered why there were no more letters after '62. Had Magnus refused to help out any longer? Or could it be that Bonny began to meet him again? Could he have been the man she went to see on her last trip to London?

Finally there was a single letter from a woman, written on saxe-blue paper, from an address in Bayswater Road, London. It was undated and signed 'H'.

'Dearest Bonny, How are things back there? I'm getting through, somehow. My hair feels like steel wool, my voice like a foghorn from lack of practice, and I'm so flabby I've joined up for a few classes. Saw "M" yesterday, I found it hard to look him in the eye, but it seems everything's going to plan. Meanwhile, I've got a job as a cocktail waitress to keep my mind off things.

'Yes, of course, my heart's down there with you and Camellia, but you know that don't you? Reassure me we did the right thing! Sometimes late at night I have panic attacks, but I suppose that's understandable. You know what I want, all the little details. Write soon and tell me. Kiss Camellia for me, and give my love to John. You are all in my thoughts, night and day. Love H.'

Camellia read and reread this letter. Clearly the woman was another dancer, and although there were no references to the past, the cryptic, almost code-like way she wrote suggested a long-term close friendship. Who was she? Was the 'M' she mentioned Miles or Magnus? And why couldn't she look him in the eye? 'Reassure me we did the right thing!' Had they hatched up something together? Was this 'H' woman in on the plot to blackmail all three men?

There was a well-worn black-and-white photograph of Bonny and another showgirl, wearing spangled costumes and feathered head-dresses. Between them was a man in a dinner jacket. Was the other girl 'H'?

But if she and Bonny had been such close friends, why had Bonny never spoken of her?

The man in the photograph was handsome, though probably over forty, strong rugged features, with thick fair hair and a wide endearing smile. Camellia felt sure this was Magnus. Miles didn't sound the sort of man who'd smile like that!

It was an intriguing puzzle, she decided, and an incomplete one at that. Her mother was always so disorganised. When they left the house in Mermaid Street she chucked out hundreds of old letters without even glancing at them. So why had she kept these and stored them away so methodically?

When Camellia first came upon them, she had assumed Bonny had intended the police to find them to create further trouble for the men. Looking at the letters now she found that unlikely, they were all so old. Bonny would have needed something far more recent to create any real mischief.

It could be that Bonny had put them under the mattress for safe-keeping, then forgot them. But a far more likely explanation was that Bonny was still in contact with one or all of these men prior to her death, perhaps even working on a new scheme to turn the screws on them.

Camellia didn't like that thought at all. She put the letters back in the file and put them away. She would have to deal with it one day. But not now, not yet.

It was not until February 1971, six months after Bee's death, that Camellia learned that Jake had been convicted and sent to prison. Overnight a blanket of snow had fallen and when she got to the restaurant for the lunch-shift she found it was closed. Her employer, a Greek called Costa, had been infuriated recently by power cuts, which had become a regular afternoon trial. And now decimalisation had just started. No one seemed to understand the new money at all, least of all Costa. Everyone was asking 'But what's that in old money?' Costa must have decided the snow was the final straw and stayed at home.

Camellia rarely bought newspapers or went into coffee bars, but she took a seat by the window of the Wimpy Bar on Earls Court Road and waited to see if Costa turned up.

If Camellia hadn't had time to kill, she might never have discovered about Jake's sentence. The front page of the Daily Express was devoted to a jokey story of decimalisation and the problems people were encountering, the second and third to a follow-up story about some of the victims of the Ibrox Park disaster back in January, which had killed 66 people when the crowd barriers collapsed. Jake's trial took up only one column on the fourth page and if it hadn't been for a small picture of him she might have missed it. His real name was Timothy Reading: it sounded like a middle-class bank clerk, not the perverted animal she knew him to be.

A year ago she might have thought six years' imprisonment a harsh penalty for smuggling cannabis and distributing dirty pictures. Had it been Aiden Murphy or John Everton she might have argued they didn't deserve anything more than a fine. But for Jake she felt six years wasn't nearly long enough. She knew he'd killed Bee.

When Costa didn't turn up to open the restaurant she went for a long walk, but it wasn't until she found herself in Kensington Gardens that she became aware of her surroundings. For months now she'd trudged through the days as if she was blinkered and her ears stuffed with cotton wool. Maybe it was just the beauty of the crisp snow underfoot, heavily laden trees glistening in the weak sunshine, but all at once she had an urge to run and even to smile at the rosy-faced children in their thick coats, bright woolly hats and mittens.

She stopped to watch a man and his children building a snow man, and dug into her pockets for two big black buttons to offer them as eyes. They'd come off weeks ago and she'd managed quite well without them all this time.

There was a holiday atmosphere everywhere in the park. Children were skipping school, businessmen disguised in sheepskin coats and Wellingtons. Dogs gambolling in the heavy drifts, mothers dragging small children on sledges. A group of students pelted one another with snowballs and for once even the usual background roar of traffic had ceased.

The icy lump inside her was thawing. She felt it enough to scoop up a snowball and throw it for a dog. She laughed aloud as he ran to catch it, then turned in bewilderment when he couldn't find it.

Camellia knew then that it was time to move on. London held nothing for her but ugly memories.

She would travel, see the world and try to find something to like about herself. Maybe then she'd be strong enough to approach each of those three men and find out who she really was.

Chapter Twelve.

Ibiza, September 1972 Perspiration dripped down Camellia's sides and onto the grass mat. Lying face down her arms outstretched, wearing only the scrappiest of bikini bottoms, she was lost in the bliss of the sun's rays searing into her salt-flecked bronzed body and the sound of sea lapping just beyond her toes. The small beach was almost deserted and she was exquisitely happy.

'Inner peace,' Dozens of hippies arrived in Ibiza daily, chanting that phrase like a mantra. More often than not it eluded them, so they passed onto Morocco or even India. But Camellia had found it, without the aids of gurus or drugs, by looking deep into herself and recognising her failings and her abilities.

London, with all its bad memories seemed light years away. Even the scar on her knee had faded to just a thin pink line. But now she knew she must go back. Soon the bars and shops which relied on tourists would close for the winter. She was tempted to stay on, but she had plans and a career to find.

She sat up as she heard the sound of the ferryman's small motorboat coming in to the small rock-bound cove, slipped her bikini top back on and stood up. It was time to go.

A lump came up in her throat as she took a last look at her beach. The sand was almost white, the sea turquoise, so clear you could see right down to the bottom even in deep water. There were no amenities here, no toilets or even a bar. Just a few scrubby-looking cactus-type plants separating the beach from the olive grove behind it, but it was the closest place she'd found to heaven.

The ferryman rang a bell to warn her and the other few sun-worshippers his was the last boat today. Camellia picked up her loose cheesecloth dress, slipped it over her head, rolled up her mat and stuffed it into a string bag with her towel.

She sat in the bows of the boat on the return trip to Ibiza town. She didn't wish to get into conversation with anyone for fear of missing all the last sights. She wanted to photograph them clearly in her mind, so that if anytime in the future she felt she was losing her grip again, she could instantly recall it and the inner strength she found here.

Camellia had heard about Ibiza from other hitchhikers as she travelled down through France and Spain. They spoke effusively about it being a Mecca for hippies, with the freedom to sleep on beaches without hassle and its low police profile. She had caught a ferry from mainland Spain and, even before the boat docked, she was enchanted. A mediaeval fortress high on a hill dominated her view; clustered precariously round it was the old town. No modern bars or ugly concrete hotels spoiled the sleepy harbour, just small restaurants and bodegas offering a warm welcome.

Everything she saw that day delighted her: the narrow winding streets, the old ladies in long black dresses, the ragged but smiling children who ran after her begging for pesetas. The smell of the fish in the market took her back to when she was four or five, holding her father's hand on the quayside in Rye and watching the fishermen turn out their baskets of gleaming herring. But here there were so many other fish, small pinky red ones, huge fearsome speckled ones, squid, sprats, crab and lobster.

On that first day she had climbed up and up the narrow steep streets, drinking in the colour and beauty: purple bougainvillaea, scarlet hibiscus, brilliant against white painted walls, faded green shutters on ancient houses, terracotta tiles on roofs. She was panting when she finally got to the fortress, but it was worth the climb. Sitting on a low wall, she surveyed the town beneath her, with its backdrop of brilliant blue sea and sky, loving the higgledy-piggledy way the houses were crammed in on different levels, no two identical. It seemed to be telling her that there was room for her here too.

Work was accountable for much of her newfound happiness and pride in herself. All summer she had worked as hard as any of the lean Spanish waiters. She was given a small room in a hotel down by the harbour in return for making the other guests' beds and cleaning their rooms. At lunch-time she waited at tables in a cafe by the market. Then in the evenings she was back by the harbour, serving drinks to the throngs of sun-baked thirsty people who sat at tables outside watching the sun go down over the sea and the world go by. Afternoons were the time she had to herself. Mostly she took this small ferry alone to her beach, and read and dozed in the sun, letting the peace and beauty of the place heal and cleanse her.

As the small boat chugged into the harbour, Camellia leaned on the bow and silently said goodbye to the fortress. Tonight she would climb up there one last time to look down on the town, but it was from this angle coming in from the sea that its true Moorish magnificence should be seen.

The ferryman tied up the boat and held out a hand to help them step onto the quayside. The town was just waking up from its siesta now. Plump olive-skinned Spanish women hung flimsy garments up on hooks, wheeled out the postcard stands and the stacks of embroidered tablecloths.

Camellia could smell sardines cooking, and the acrid, smoky smell made her stomach rumble. She hadn't eaten anything all day except for a rather stale roll left from breakfast. Groups of hippies were gathering together, almost identical in their long hair, cut-off Levis and shapeless faded tee shirts. Some were arranging boards of handmade jewellery to sell, others unpacking tie-dyed tee shirts and sarongs, still more just smoking and chatting. Camellia had admired their fearless adventurous lives when she first arrived, but she'd turned a full circle now and decided they were merely aimless and lazy. She smiled as Pete Holt, a Nordic-looking six-footer from Birmingham gave her the peace sign, but although she liked him, she wasn't going to get embroiled with him, his chums or any large joints on her last night.

'Buenas tardes, senorita,' Pedro one of the snake-hipped waiters called out as she passed by Diego's bodega. Camellia smiled and waved. Pedro was sweet on her and very handsome, but tangling with a Spaniard wasn't her scene. In fact tangling with any man wasn't her scene anymore. She'd discovered back in July after a briefly promising affair with Christian from Cornwall, that although sunshine, sea and cheap Spanish wine might make you think a man was a god, there was also a price to pay. In Christian's case pay was the operative word: he had expected her to earn the money for them both, while he spent all day and night getting stoned.

It was nearly one in the morning when Camellia crept into her tiny room on the top floor of El Tora after an evening of eating, drinking and saying goodbye to friends.

Although by day it was unbearably hot up here under the roof, a cool breeze was coming in off the sea now. Camellia had little to pack: she'd learned the wisdom of travelling light as soon as she discovered how heavy a rucksack could become after a couple of hours. She was down to mere essentials nowa pair of jeans, two pairs of shorts, underwear and a few tee shirts. She would donate her three cheesecloth sundresses to Michelle, the French girl who she'd worked alongside all summer. They wouldn't be much use back in London, but Michelle was going on to Morocco next week.

Sitting down on her narrow bed, she opened the window wide and lit a cigarette. She wasn't nervous about hitchhiking up through Spain and France alone, there was always someone to pal up with on the way and she'd learned the ropes coming here. Besides she had money from working all summer and living frugally. Once she got her pesetas changed up she reckoned on close to sixty pounds, enough to get a cheap bedsitter when she got back and tide her over till she found a job. All her belonging were at Denise's and she might offer her a bed for a few days anyway.

She turned to the small table by her bed and picked up a photograph of Bee and herself, taken in the Don Juan. Camellia was in white with a feather boa, Bee in black, her hair a golden storm of curls.

At one time she couldn't look at it without crying, but now she knew why she'd always kept it with her despite the pain it brought. Bee's sweet plump face was a reminder of all the dangers out there. It had kept her straight, even in moments of extreme temptation. So often this summer she'd been teased for refusing joints, for not giving friends free drinks in the bar, for not stealing so much as an orange in the little shops. But those people who travelled with their battered copies of Jack Kerouac's On the Road and the Prophet, who scorned materialism and lived on their wits, dope and other people's half chewed over philosophy, had never lost anyone dear to them. They had that to come.

Four days after leaving Ibiza, some hundred kilometres from Calais and the ferry home, Camellia discovered she'd been robbed of her money belt.