‘I know, but Daphne might be able to shed some light on things. The police are questioning everyone who lived here. And,’ she swallows, ‘it would be nice to meet someone who knew your gran. Back when she was young.’
‘We should leave it to the police,’ says Saffy.
‘They’re taking ages.’ Lorna begins to pace the small room, frustration building. Now she’s had the idea she can’t let it go. ‘They have so many people to speak to. Past tenants, old lodgers, and even if they do find and speak to Daphne they won’t tell us much, will they? If Daphne is still alive it would be fascinating to speak to her, wouldn’t it? She knew your gran. Lived here with her. With me. It can’t hurt. She might know something about this Sheila. She’s obviously important or your gran wouldn’t have kept that newspaper clipping. Maybe they were all friends …’
‘I’ve already asked Dad to look into Sheila and the drowning.’
‘Oh. Right. Did you … tell him about the baby?’
Saffy nods. ‘He was surprised. But happy, I hope.’
‘That’s great.’ Lorna lingers by Saffy’s desk until her daughter gives a resigned sigh.
‘Okay. How do we go about this?’ she asks.
Lorna claps her hands together. ‘Right, well, I think maybe you should contact your dad again, if you don’t mind? He can get on the electoral roll through his newspaper and find out if there are any Alan Hartalls still living in the Broadstairs area. But don’t worry about it yet. You’re working.’
Saffy hands Lorna back the article. ‘I’ll give him a call later – let me just finish this.’
‘Great.’ Lorna gives Saffy a quick hug, then retreats back into the living room.
It’s not a lot to go on, she thinks, as she continues rifling through the box. But it’s all we’ve got for now.
18
Saffy
I walk into the living room, mobile in hand. Mum is sitting on the sofa clutching one of the mustard cushions to her chest. She looks up when I enter, her dark eyes sparkling with excitement. ‘And? Did you speak to him?’
‘Yep. Dad said he’ll try to find out what he can tomorrow. He’s not in the newsroom this afternoon.’
Mum jumps up from the sofa. She goes to the window. Her feet are bare and tanned and she keeps hopping from one to the other. Her energy is almost visible, like the glow the kids had in the old Ready Brek adverts that Mum made me watch once on YouTube. ‘I feel like I need to be doing something more to find Daphne.’ She touches the chunky necklace at her throat, threading the aqua beads through her fingers for a few moments, then turns to me, her eyes flashing. ‘I’m going to London.’
‘What? Why?’
‘I’ll go and visit your dad. I haven’t seen him since your graduation. It would be nice to catch up.’
That’s the weird thing about my divorced parents. They still like each other. They spent the whole time at my graduation drinking and laughing with one another, and when I told Tara they were actually divorced she’d been shocked. I’ve often wondered if they’d met later in life, instead of as teenagers, would they have stayed together?
‘Dad might not be able to find anything on Alan Hartall,’ I say. ‘The most he’ll have is an address and you can get that over the phone.’
‘I know, but it will give me something to do. Get out from under your feet. You’ve got work to do and I’m just hanging around here, not being useful. I’ll catch the train tomorrow. Would you mind giving me a lift to the station?’ Before I can answer she’s whipped out her mobile from the back pocket of her jeans. ‘There’s a train tomorrow to Paddington at …’ she peers at the screen more closely ‘… nine twenty-eight a.m.’ She looks up. ‘Not too early for you?’