Chapter 10
Issy glanced out the window as she approached the sandstone suspension bridge on the outskirts of Hartwell, surprised how quick the drive was. And how small the bridge seemed. She tried to remember the last time she’d driven into town. It must have been years.
She usually bypassed the town entirely by taking the helicopter and landing at the Ashworth Park Hotel, or Kilmore, her parents’ place just outside town.
This time, though, she was staying for a while, so she’d packed up her tiny Mercedes and driven the ninety minutes from Point Piper.
Once she’d got her head around the whole Hartwell thing, she’d decided her father was right.
It was a chance to show him what she was capable of.
If she succeeded here, he’d have no choice but to move her into a more strategic role. And it was only for a month.
She’d be missing all the usual Christmas parties that typically filled her Instagram at this time of year, so she’d spent hours the night before scheduling generic posts to drop while she was away.
Close-ups of shoes and handbags, throwback pics from recent social events, a photo taken when Nathan blow-dried her hair last week, tagging his salon.
With any luck, her followers wouldn’t even notice that anything had changed.
And she consoled herself with the thought that Sydney was just a short drive up the freeway.
She could go back and forth if the small-town situation got too much for her.
The road wound past the old church and a bed and breakfast towards the main street of Hartwell. She glanced at the shops. All vaguely familiar, except for a little café, which was new. Or newish. It was hard to say. She barely went into town when she was here for Christmas or family events.
Hartwell Gaol was on the other side of the shopping strip.
She pulled into the driveway and pressed a buzzer at the boom gate.
Nothing. While she waited, she studied some graffiti on the wall to her right, trying to work out what it said.
Why did graffiti artists (if you could call them that) use such illegible writing?
Why go to the effort of breaking the law to write something in the first place, if no one could read it?
It seemed illogical. She made a mental note to ask someone to have it removed and pressed the buzzer again.
‘Yes?’ a gruff male voice said.
‘Hello, it’s Isobel.’ She watched the gate, waiting for it to open.
‘Who?’
‘Isobel Ashworth,’ she said slowly. The intercom must be fuzzy. They would be expecting her. Her father said he would ask the relevant people to arrange accommodation for her in the new luxury apartments above the original building.
There was a long pause and some shuffling, then the gate started to rise.
‘Where do I go once I’m inside?’ she asked.
‘Ah, just pull into the waiting bay by the site office.’
She drove in and pulled up outside a shed, grateful for a sign by its screen door that said SITE OFFICE.
It had more in common with a shipping container.
A fat man in a yellow high-vis shirt hauled himself up from a seat and came out, pulling up his trousers.
He knocked on her window and gestured for her to open it.
‘Sorry, love, it’s all a bit disorganised down here since Paul left. Ah …’ He rubbed his ginger beard. ‘Were we meant to know you were coming? Visitors are usually logged on the system but there’s no note of it.’
‘Yes,’ she said. This all seemed quite unprofessional. ‘I’m here to oversee the final stage of the project.’
Warwick frowned. ‘To oversee the project?’
‘Yes. My father sent me down here to get things back on track.’
‘Righto,’ he said slowly. ‘All good. I’m Warwick. Acting project manager.’ He wiped his hand on his shirt and held it out.
Issy shook it despite her hygiene concerns. ‘Isobel.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘So, Warwick, next question. There’s meant to be a suite organised for me to stay in while I’m down here. One of these?’ She pointed to the upper floors of the development. ‘I don’t suppose there’s a note about that in the system somewhere, is there?’
He looked up at the apartments overhead, scratching his greasy hair. ‘One of these?’
She nodded. ‘That’s what I was told.’
‘Unlikely,’ he said. ‘They’re not finished yet.’ He must have read something on her face, because he started back-pedalling. ‘Although don’t take my word for that. Sit tight while I try and sort this out.’
He stepped away from the car and made a call, gesticulating as he explained her unexpected arrival to whoever was on the other end of the phone.
She tried to eavesdrop, but it was difficult to hear over the cacophony of construction.
When a high-pitched drilling sound started, she gave up entirely and looked over at a group of sweaty-looking workmen standing around doing very little, as far as she could tell.
They all wore high-vis vests, like Warwick, and she wondered vaguely if she would be expected to wear one.
Did they come in other colours? Or just that specific shade of yellow?
She massaged her temples, trying to relieve the dull throb of a headache, and looked back at Warwick. Surely he’d sorted this out by now.
After a moment, he hung up and returned to the window. Unfortunately, he was still frowning.
‘Ah, no one seems to know anything about this.’
She sighed.
He went on. ‘Why don’t you leave the car here and go grab a coffee while I sort this out?’