The first address is in Pierremont Avenue, a five-minute walk from the station, according to Google Maps, which she has up on her phone. She follows the little blue dot, her heels clipping the pavements, past unremarkable houses until she arrives there. It looks like a long road with houses in varying degrees of attractiveness and eras. She could be anywhere, she thinks, but apart from the cries of seagulls she doesn’t feel as if she’s in a seaside town. The blue dot flashes in front of a 1970s-style house with a skip at the front. She hesitates, righting her jacket and pushing her shoulders back. She feels anticipation sizzle through her. Buoyed by hope, she marches to the front door and knocks loudly. It takes a while before someone answers: a woman around her age in leggings and a baggy T-shirt who looks harassed. A little girl is clinging to her leg.
‘Sorry to bother you,’ Lorna begins.
‘If you’re selling something, I’m not interested,’ says the woman, without smiling.
‘No, I’m trying to find someone,’ Lorna says quickly, before the woman can shut the door on her. ‘An Alan Hartall.’
She shakes her head. ‘Sorry. No Alan Hartalls live here. We’ve only just moved in.’
‘Do you know anyone called Alan Hartall?’
The woman looks irritated now. ‘No.’ The little girl starts to cry. ‘If you’ll excuse me …’ She doesn’t finish her sentence before the door is closed in Lorna’s face.
Lorna lets out a long sigh. This is a waste of time. Why did she ever think the Alan Hartall who was friends with Sheila Watts would still be living here?
Hoisting her bag further up her shoulder she wanders out of the gate and stands by the wall, tapping in the other address she has. It looks like it’s by the sea. At least if she has no luck there she can wander down to the beach, maybe grab a coffee and bask in the late-afternoon sunshine. Thank goodness the two places are close to each other.
God, she’s hot. She takes off her jacket and threads it between the straps of her bag. The sun burns the back of her neck. She glances down at her mobile. The next address is at the end of Wrotham Road and, as she heads down the street, she can see a haze of blue in the distance. The sea. This is more like it, she thinks, excitement bubbling up inside her. This address is a converted flat in a large red-brick Victorian building. She buzzes Flat C and waits, mentally keeping everything crossed that she’ll get some kind of lead.
But nobody answers, even though she rings the bell three times, then holds the button down for at least ten seconds. The disappointment is acute. What does she do now? Put a note through the door hoping that Alan Hartall still lives here? Hoping it doesn’t get picked up and thrown away by a resident in one of the other flats?
She’s rummaging in her bag, trying to find a pen and something to write on, when she hears a crackle of the intercom and a man’s voice: ‘Hello.’
Adrenalin ripples through her. ‘Hello. Is this Alan Hartall?’
‘Yes?’ His voice sounds croaky. Old. ‘Who is this?’
She can hardly believe it. Can it really be the Alan Hartall?
‘My name is Lorna. I hope you don’t mind me coming over out of the blue like this, but I’m trying to find the Alan Hartall who knew a Sheila Watts, back in the 1970s.’
‘Right,’ says the disembodied voice. ‘Are you police?’
‘No, no, nothing like that. Just … it’s someone I think perhaps my mum used to know as well. Did you know a Sheila Watts?’
There is a pause, just the crackling of static. She wonders if he’s even heard her. ‘Hello,’ she says again. There is no answer. Has she said something wrong? Maybe he’s got the beginnings of dementia too. Maybe he’s hard of hearing. Or …
Her thoughts are interrupted by the main door swinging open. On the other side of the threshold stands a man in his seventies with a white thatch of thick, wiry hair. He’s holding a walking stick but he looks sprightly, in jeans and a T-shirt.