Chapter 13
13
Fiona paced the shop as the woman disappeared into a backroom, returning a short while later.
‘She’s coming in now,’ she said. ‘She should be about five minutes. Are you okay to wait?’
‘You rang her? The previous owner? You know her?’
‘She’s my mother. I took over from her seven years ago. And just so you know, I spend half my time trying to keep her out of here.’
‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’ Fiona grasped the woman’s hands, only to drop them again quickly. Judging from her expression, she was not someone who liked to be grabbed.
The old lady, however, turned out to be exceptionally fond of physical contact, shaking hands and kissing cheeks. Hovering around her late seventies, possibly pushing eighty, her frizzy hair was now a mass of silver curls, although her cheeks retained a glow of colour that lit up her face as she spoke.
‘I remember you,’ she enthused. ‘You used to organise parties, or maybe weddings, I think.’
‘I did.’ Fiona was a little taken aback. ‘That was a while ago though. I mainly do corporate events now.’
‘Oh.’ The woman sounded distinctly disappointed by this. ‘What does that entail?’
‘You know, conferences, seminars. I’ve done a couple of trade shows too.’
The woman’s smile widened uncomfortably, implying she actually had no idea what Fiona was on about.
Deciding that enough time had already been lost, Fiona tried to move the conversation along as quickly as she could. ‘Thank you so much for coming in to see me like this. It must sound ridiculous and I know it’s a long shot, but I wanted to ask you about something I bought a few years back.’
‘How many years?’
‘Quite a few.’ She took a steadying breath. She didn’t know why she was so nervous. ‘There was a particular helium balloon you sold me. It was a silvery material, in the shape of a bird?—’
‘The parakeet.’ The old lady’s eyes widened. She leaned in and squinted at her. ‘Of course. It was you. You’ve obviously seen it too, then. Oh, it made me sick to my stomach when I saw that today. Sick to my stomach.’
Fiona’s mouth went dry.
‘That’s why I came in. I was wondering if you knew how many of those you’d sold?’
‘How many?’ The older woman’s face crinkled up. ‘That was it, dear. Do you not remember?’
‘Remember what?’ She shook her head. ‘I remember you’d almost sold out when I bought it. That was why I couldn’t have any more.’
It was the old woman’s turn to shake her head.
‘I never had any more. It was just the one.’
Turning around, the old woman crossed the shop to a stool. Lowering herself down onto it, she took a deep breath as she started the tale.
‘I remember it because it was that horrible winter we were having. Sleet, snow, rain. Every day. It was like the weather couldn’t make up its mind what it wanted to do. That was why it was so funny that he came in with them that day.’
‘Who came in with what?’ The daughter had abandoned her post at the counter to join them.
‘Some sales rep. Can’t remember his name. He appeared in the afternoon with all these different balloons: boats, suns, flamingos. Summer things.’
‘Parakeets,’ Fiona added, smiling sadly.
‘Well I remember thinking what a ridiculous time it was to come in with them. In the middle of winter. Anyway, I listened to his spiel, and he gave me a few freebies, you know how it is. And, lo and behold, half an hour later, in you came and bought one of them. That bird. You were proud as punch when I told you it was the only one I had.’
Fiona pinched the bridge of her nose. A vague memory fluttered somewhere in the recesses of her mind. It would make sense. That was why she’d been so pleased to get hold of it. No one else had one. It was unique.
‘But after that,’ she asked, trying another angle. ‘You ordered more? You got more in?’
‘Never got a chance. Wanted to, mind. The others sold as well: the flamingo, the dolphin. All of them.’
‘So why didn’t you order any more?’
The old woman rubbed her thumb across her chin. ‘Company went bust, I think, or maybe they were taken over. Can’t quite remember now. To be honest, I hadn’t given it a second thought before this morning.’
Fiona nodded. The numbness that had engulfed her that morning returned, catching her off balance. Grasping a display of wigs, she steadied herself.
‘Hey.’ The old woman was back on her feet, looking her squarely in the eye. ‘Now don’t you do that. Don’t you go blaming yourself. You’ve no way of knowing if that was yours. They probably sold a thousand of those things before they went bust. They might have made ten thousand and dumped them because they didn’t sell.’
‘But, but…’ Fiona could feel herself starting to stammer.
‘No, you listen here. You need to forget about it. It could be anybody’s.’
‘But it?—’
‘No. It could be anybody’s. It’s not like it’s got your name on it.’
‘What did you say?’ she asked, straightening up.
‘I said, it isn’t like your name was on it. It could be anyone’s damn thing. You need to stop?—’
Fiona leapt forward and kissed the old woman on the cheek. ‘Of course, of course!’ She grasped both the previous and current owners’ hands and shook them enthusiastically, whether they wanted her to or not. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? she asked herself as she made a dash for the door. That would have been a much better use of time than coming down here to listen to an old lady rabbit on about weather conditions she freakishly remembered. This way, she would know for sure. She could be absolutely certain she wasn’t to blame. And all she needed was to get to Plymouth.
The midday train from London Paddington was scantily occupied. Four minutes before departure, Fiona found herself a seat in the optimistically named first-class section. She’d quickly grabbed herself some food at the station, which included an extra-large coffee, a small pack of sushi and a random chocolate bar that was on offer at the checkout. A mixture of nerves and excitement bubbled through her.
‘Plymouth,’ she said, handing over her credit card to the conductor as she approached.
The woman took the card and inserted it into her machine.
‘How long will it take?’ Fiona asked, typing her pin into the proffered keypad.
‘Plymouth?’ The woman frowned. ‘Just over three hours.’
Three hours. Shit.
She studied her phone, starting to realise that she was thoroughly underprepared. Had she thought about it, she would have brought her laptop with her, so she could get on with some work. And a power bank in case the battery died. As it was, she was going to have to spend most of the train journey sitting doing nothing.
Empty fields sped past the window as she sipped her coffee. At least it would put her mind to rest, she told herself again as her destination approached. One day out of her schedule for a lifetime’s peace of mind. It had to be worth it.
As luck would have it, the train was on schedule although, after walking for thirty minutes from Plymouth station to the Institute of Marine Life and Conservation – she had ensured she’d saved enough battery on her phone to view the map – it was already gone four o’clock. Standing at the foot of the steps, she looked up at the glass entrance. Nerves fluttered. It was a ridiculous idea. Ridiculous. But what other option was there? She could go back home and forget about the whole damn thing. That was an option. But she had to do something about the images that were haunting her. This was her chance to lay them to rest. All she needed was a little bit of courage. She straightened her clothes and, before she could change her mind, took the steps two at a time.
If the outside was anything to go by, the news programmes hadn’t been lying when they said that the Institute was state-of-the-art. The modern architecture used simple curves to transform what would otherwise have been a plain box into something elegant and imposing.
Realising that she’d been holding her breath, Fiona pushed open the glass door and stepped inside. Minimalism had found a sanctuary. Sanded wood and hammered copper had been used to good effect and in the centre of the large foyer stood a small wooden table, with white computer. Behind the lone attendant, turnstiles lead through to the Institute beyond. That was where Fiona needed to go but she allowed herself a moment to indulge in her surroundings.
Turning in a circle, she gazed in awe. The stone flooring glittered under the spotlights and huge images adorned the walls. Seals basking in the sun, lying belly up on lichen-covered rocks. Puffins, their vibrant beaks loaded with dangling fish. But most of the pictures and, to her mind, the more striking ones, were of whales. Whales breaching, whales in family pods. She drifted from one to the next. Fins by the score, splintering out from beneath the water. And so many colours: greys, blues, whites. She’d seen a lot of pictures of them over the last week, but these were amazing. Magnificent and breath-taking.
‘I’m afraid the last tour left at four,’ said the man at the desk, startling Fiona from her trance. ‘The next one’s tomorrow at nine.’
‘Tour?’ she asked.
‘Were you not looking to go on one of the tours today?’
‘Oh yes,’ she said, her mind in a fog. A second later, it cleared. ‘Actually, no.’
Regaining the air of authority she adopted in situations involving people like this, she strode over to him.
‘Actually, that isn’t why I’ve come. I’m here to see Professor Arkell. Professor Ben Arkell.’
‘Oh.’ The receptionist moved his hands to the keyboard, ready to type. ‘Does he know you’re coming?’
She smiled her most toothy smile. It was fine. She knew it was going to take a couple of white lies to get through this.
‘I was told my people would ring ahead.’
‘Okay. And your name is?’
‘Fiona,’ she replied, realising a fraction of a second too late that it would have probably been better to have given an alias. She struggled for a surname, with disastrous results. ‘Fiona Balloon.’
‘Balloon?’
‘No, sorry… Malloon,’ she attempted to rectify the blunder. ‘Malloon, it’s French.’ She prayed he wasn’t French or didn’t have a grasp of the language.
He frowned. ‘I don’t have anyone of that name down to meet Professor Arkell today. Where did you say you’ve come from?’
‘From London.’
‘I mean which organisation. Are you from the university?’
‘Ahh, yes,’ she hesitated, attempting to backtrack again. ‘Yes. I meant I’ve just returned from London. To Plymouth. To the university, to my faculty.’
‘Which is?’
‘Which is what?’
‘Your faculty. Which faculty do you belong to? Is everything all right?’ He leaned forward with an expression of genuine concern.
She closed her eyes and allowed herself a second to regather her thoughts.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s been a long day. A very long day. Look, I just need to know if it’s possible to see Professor Arkell.’
‘About?’ He was viewing her with more and more suspicion and concern.
‘About the whale. I need to see him about Martha.’
With a resigned sigh, he moved his hands away from the keyboard and sat back in his chair. His face had hardened, any trace of sympathy gone. ‘What is it now? Some kind of conspiracy theory? You’re going to tell me it wasn’t real or that it’s a Russian spy whale sent to keep tabs on us?’
‘No—’
‘Or are you just one of those sickos who wants the blubber for some home-made beauty cream?’
‘No!’ she grimaced. ‘No, of course not. People do that? That’s disgusting.’
‘Well.’ He stopped his tirade, although the scowling continued. ‘It doesn’t matter. You’re still not coming through.’
Fiona pressed the heel of a palm to her forehead. If only she could rewind. She needed him on side.
While she was no longer a slave to her emotions, liable to burst into tears at the drop of a hat, this didn’t mean she’d be averse to producing them if the situation demanded. It wasn’t something she was proud of but she’d been known to coerce a little water from her tear ducts now and again, such as the time a few months back when she was pulled over for a broken headlight that she’d been well aware of but had been too busy to replace. She’d been let off with a strong warning to drive carefully and get it fixed the next day which, in her defence, she did. Of course, this didn’t work on all men. Fortunately, this receptionist looked exactly like the type of man who would respond.
‘I know it sounds insane,’ she whispered in a voice from her childhood. ‘But I just have to ask him about her. It’s crazy, I know it is, but you see, I read all these things, about how she was a mother – and whales are such wonderful mothers, you know? They don’t leave their calves for years.’ She felt the tears forming in her eyes; she was getting there. But she didn’t look up at him. Not just yet. ‘And I’m a mother too, you see. And my little boy, well, he… well he…’
A second later and he was out of his seat and at her side holding a box of tissues.
‘Sit down,’ he said, guiding her towards a bench beneath the puffin picture. ‘It’s all right now, you sit down there.’
‘I’m fine, I’m fine.’ She gulped in a wobbly breath which dislodged a couple more tears. ‘I think I just need a glass of water.’ She looked up at him, sad and tearful.
All suspicion was gone now. Just oodles and oodles of sympathy.
‘Hold on, I’ll just be a minute,’ he said and dashed out of reception.
It had been a bold play to risk, but she’d weighed up the options and thought it worth a punt. From her observations on arrival, it was obvious that there was no place in the immediate vicinity where he could get water. He would have to either go through the door to his left or head past the turnstile and out the back. Either way, he would have to leave her, for a few moments at least, in an entirely unguarded foyer.
The second he disappeared through the door, she grabbed her chance.