Chapter Thirty-One
It was the day of the interim meeting with the council.
Sariah sensed that Conference Room Three at the council offices had seen better days.
There was a whiteboard, on which someone had written Aims and Objectives in red marker pen before realising it was not wipe-off ink.
There was a flipchart that had run out of paper, a water cooler with no cups and the corner of a carpet tile was stuck down with brown parcel tape.
Della clocked it too. ‘Not sure what Health and Safety would have to say about that,’ she remarked, but no one replied.
Despite the unimpressive setting, there was a nervous excitement in the air.
Evelyn was wearing a curious brown dress with two flaps over the bust but, more worryingly, she had barely said a word since Sariah had picked her up.
She supposed Evelyn was nervous about the fate of her museum, but then she remembered her saying she’d been on a ‘wild goose chase’ to London and Sariah resolved to sit down and have a good chat with her – once all this council stuff was out of the way.
‘You OK, Evelyn?’ she asked.
‘Sorry, I am a little tired. Overwhelmed, you could say.’
Jacob didn’t look much better: his black eye had turned an alarming shade of green and he kept making sad spaniel eyes at the door, no doubt hoping Alison would put in a last-minute appearance. But Alison hadn’t answered any of their messages and Sariah didn’t have high hopes.
If she was honest, Sariah also felt on edge, as if she’d been called into the headteacher’s office. This had been such a regular feature of her schooldays that she had to quell the urge to slide down in her chair, chew gum and say, ‘Yeah, what of it?’
Only Della seemed composed and confident.
She’d eschewed her usual trippy traveller clothes for a black polo-neck sweater and jeans and tied her hair back in a tight bun, which meant you could see more of her dark blond roots and less of the crazy purple.
She sat with her shoulders back, a folder and a laptop placed on the table in front of her.
It was Della who had made sure they were all there on time and had asked (i.e. instructed) Sariah to drive them here. Now, Mr Palmer and his colleagues were precisely three minutes late for their 9 a.m. meeting.
At 9.05 the door opened and three men and a woman entered, wearing uniformly uninspiring grey suits that Sariah guessed were from the office wear section of Primark.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ bumbled Mr Palmer, offering a damp hand to each of them.
Sariah noticed that Della did not stand up.
As another power move, she had taken a chair at the head of the table and they all watched as Mr Palmer hesitated, then took his place at the other end, next to the unemptied bin and the sticky-taped carpet tile.
As introductions were made, Sariah couldn’t help looking at the empty chair between Jacob and Evelyn and she wished Alison was here too.
An officer called Leanne Cobb read out from a pre-prepared document, talking at length about budgets and visitor numbers and how Portheast offered scope for growth.
‘Hence our need for a few more questions,’ Mr Palmer interjected.
‘Not a problem,’ Della said, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms. ‘In fact, I’ve taken the liberty of preparing a short promo.
To help you envisage our full potential.
’ Then she flipped open her laptop and turned it around so the screen faced the officials.
Mr Palmer started to say something, but it was too late; Della had already clicked the Play arrow and loud, rousing music drowned out his words.
A booming classical composition accompanied a video of the boat sheds, beginning with a drone shot of the quay.
It hovered above a few boats that bobbed prettily, then swooped down towards the sheds.
A series of still images flipped and whooshed across the screen: customers queuing at Della’s ice cream parlour (Who?
Had she paid them? Sariah wondered) and then photos taken at the Second Chances exhibition.
There was a shot of Sariah laughing with Jacob, another of Evelyn looking shyly proud and one of Roy and his brothers gathered around the free drinks tray.
Mrs Moran and her dogs struck a pose with Jude and Kayla, while Alison’s dad, Keith, and old Bob, the fisherman who got seasick, were pictured peering at the exhibits.
As the music rose to a crescendo, Sariah was embarrassed to feel the prickle of tears: chord changes got her every time. A voice intoned: ‘Portheast – celebrating our past, looking to the future’ and the screen faded to black.
‘Well, that was . . . unexpected,’ Mr Palmer managed.
‘Furthermore, Evelyn and I are considering linking the two boat sheds, so people are taken on a retail journey from museum to café. We may add a small gift shop, with a tasteful selection of replica items,’ Della said breezily.
‘For many museums, this accounts for a large proportion of their revenue stream.’
‘We are?’ Evelyn, who had been doodling on a pad, looked up.
Della ignored her. ‘Discussions are ongoing,’ she said firmly.
An impassive Mr Palmer smoothed down his tie and said it would be good to see some figures. ‘Projections for visitor numbers, revenue and so on.’
‘Not a problem,’ Della replied and got to her feet, indicating the meeting was over. The two of them shook hands again, each seeming intent on gripping the other’s hand more tightly. The handshake went on for some time.
‘I’d like to extend our decision date by a further six weeks,’ Mr Palmer added. ‘Shall we say, the nineteenth of May?’
Was this good or bad news? Sariah wasn’t sure. Meekly, they all followed Della out of the meeting room and into the council car park, where they were greeted by the unedifying sight of two seagulls scrapping over an empty chip wrapper.
‘Well, you are full of surprises,’ Evelyn said to Della.
‘Got to keep them on their toes,’ Della replied. ‘And just as well I am, because you kind of checked out in that meeting, hey?’
‘Sorry. Lots on my mind,’ Evelyn replied.
Sariah put the minibus in gear and set off towards the quay, where she dropped off Della and Evelyn. Next, she pulled up outside the newsagents. Turning off the ignition, she faced Jacob and asked, ‘Did Evelyn seem a bit odd to you? I mean not the usual Evelyn oddness, something else?’
‘Well, it’s her world, that museum.’
‘True. Anyway, how’s your eye?’
‘Better than it looks,’ Jacob replied. ‘Just feel a bit of an idiot.’
‘Roy Pinlow is the idiot, always has been.’
Jacob undid his seatbelt, but didn’t move. ‘Hey, do you think Alison’s OK? I’m worried. But I’m probably not the best person to go and check on her,’ he said.
The easy option would be to say that she was sure Alison was fine and that she’d soon be back at work, but Sariah had a bad feeling about Alison and Roy and what went on behind the shiny green door of their house up on the estate.
Before she could change her mind, she said, ‘How about we both head up and see?’
It was a relief when they pulled up outside the house and saw that the red Toyota Corolla was gone from the drive: unless Roy came home for lunch, they would be able to talk to Alison without him interfering.
As before, Sariah knocked on the door, but there was no sound of anyone stirring inside and when she pushed open the letterbox all she could see was a shoe rack holding two sets of trainers and a small shelf for keys.
Above it, a white wooden sign read Love lives here, but Sariah had her doubts.
‘Alison,’ she shouted through in her loudest voice, the one she used to call last orders in the hotel bar. ‘Are you in?’
When she pressed her face up to the letterbox a second time, Sariah smelled the trapped odours of furniture polish, bleach and laundry detergent.
The smells reminded her of the holiday homes she used to clean: empty and perfectly impersonal, ready for the next guests to imprint their personalities on the place.
But Alison and Roy had lived here for almost two years.
‘You don’t need to come outside. Just let us know you’re OK,’ she called out.
Then she straightened up and began to walk back, so she could take another look at the house. All the curtains were open, but the windows were dark. She thought she saw a flicker of movement at the living-room window, but she couldn’t be sure.
‘What do we do now?’ Jacob said, both hands pushed into the front pockets of his jeans. He couldn’t look more uncomfortable if he tried. ‘Police?’
‘Maybe,’ said Sariah, but she had a feeling that rather than putting a stop to whatever was going on, that could be the touchpaper to ignite something far worse.
‘Let’s wait for a bit,’ she said. The two of them climbed back into the minibus and for the next hour they did just that, alert for any sign or sound.
She watched two starlings flit from one stunted bush to another, then the wind sent a scrap of paper spinning along the newly tarmacked pavement.
But at number 12b Pinewood Crescent, nothing moved.