Chapter 23
It was late morning when Meg arrived at Hartwell Gaol and slipped behind the temporary fence that blocked access to the site.
She glanced around, surprised by the lack of activity.
It looked so different to the chaos that had greeted her on Monday.
The rumbling, beeping thrum of heavy machinery was all but gone.
She could see now what the finished space would look like, with a stage at the far end and restaurants opening onto the large, rectangular space where she stood.
The old exercise yard, she supposed. She imagined it full of people dining al fresco, live music in the night air.
Above the original building, a stationary crane loomed over the unfinished modern addition.
She walked towards the site office, which reminded her of the demountable classrooms of primary school, and stuck her head in the open door.
Cool air blew from an air conditioner mounted on the wall above a man sitting with his back to her, browsing second-hand motorbikes on Gumtree.
She watched him scroll down the listings, then click on one he must have liked the look of.
‘Hello?’
He spun around, startled. It was the man who’d mistaken her for a protester a few days before.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to give you a fright.’
‘No worries.’ He swivelled in his chair to face her, frowning. ‘What can I do you for?’
‘My name’s Meg … Megan Hunter … Bainbridge,’ she said slowly, realising mid-sentence that she hadn’t thought of an alternative name.
She cleared her throat. ‘Megan Hunter-Bainbridge,’ she said again, more confidently.
Short e, like the duchess. Bainbridge was the name of a precocious intern she’d supervised at The Times.
‘I’m doing a PhD on historic jail sites and I wondered if you had time for a quick chat.
The redevelopment you’re doing here is really amazing. ’
‘Ah, right. I’m just in the middle of something …’
‘Oh.’ Meg glanced at the bright green motorbike on his monitor. He followed her gaze, then clicked the browser window shut.
‘Even just five minutes?’ She gave him a pleading smile.
He held her gaze, as though he was sizing her up. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘My work is on the privatisation and redevelopment of historic sites. From what I can see, this development is the gold standard for preserving the integrity of the building and its historical significance, while repurposing it for future generations to enjoy.’ Inwardly she cringed, feeling like it was too much.
‘Yeah, yeah, I agree,’ he said tentatively.
‘My thesis is essentially that privatising buildings like this and reinventing the spaces is the key to preserving them. There’s always a lot of controversy around this sort of thing, but ultimately it’s in the best interest of the local community.
I mean, what’s the point of having a magnificent building like this sitting here empty, becoming more rundown year after year? ’
‘Couldn’t agree more, love. Jeez, honestly, the way some people talk, you’d think we were bulldozing the place.’
‘Did you have a lot of pushback from the locals then?’ Meg asked, keeping her tone casual.
‘You wouldn’t know the half of it.’
‘That must have been annoying. What were the main objections?’
He frowned. ‘Oh, you know … this and that,’ he said, frustratingly vague.
‘Like?’
He shrugged. ‘Some people wanted it to be a museum, others wanted it to remain untouched. I don’t think it helped that it was the Ashworths doing the development.’
‘People don’t like them?’
He scoffed. ‘You could say that.’
‘But they do a lot for the local community, don’t they? I heard they funded some upgrades to the cricket ground.’
Hartwell Cricket Ground was a picturesque, picket-fenced oval with a brand-new grandstand, lights and state-of-the-art electronic scoreboard—two million dollars’ worth of infrastructure upgrades funded by the Ashworths, according to an article Meg had found.
Malcolm was quoted as saying it was ‘a chance to give back to the town that made him’.
He let out a cynical laugh. ‘Yeah, yeah, they did.’
Meg frowned, waiting for him to go on.
There was a voice behind her. ‘Excuse me.’
Meg turned to see the austere woman with the sharp grey bob.
‘Sorry.’ Meg stepped aside.
The woman didn’t move. She met Meg’s gaze and held it.
‘I was just talking to …’ Meg looked at the man, realising he hadn’t introduced himself.
‘Warwick,’ he said.
Meg nodded. She swallowed, feeling the need to explain herself to this woman. ‘I’m doing a PhD on historical buildings—’ God, this story was starting to sound stupid now, ‘—and how privatisation and repurposing is the best way to ensure the conservation of the sites for future generations …’
The woman glared at her as though she’d never heard such nonsense. ‘Fascinating,’ she said eventually, with a deadpan expression and a quick raise of her eyebrows.
‘Anyway, I’m just leaving now,’ Meg said.
The woman gave her a tight-lipped smile.
‘Thanks, Warwick,’ Meg added. ‘I appreciate your time.’
At that moment, a black Mercedes came through the boom gate and rolled to a stop beside them. Behind the wheel, Meg could see the ice-blonde hair and oversized sunglasses of Isobel Ashworth.