‘Paranoid? About what?’
‘Convinced she was being followed. I often wondered if she owed money to her dealer or some such.’ He laughs. It’s deep and throaty like he’s getting over a bout of bronchitis. ‘I’m probably reading more into it all now, with hindsight. But she was cagey. That’s the right word.’
‘So what happened when you got to the beach that night?’
‘Sheila wandered off by herself. I asked her if she wanted any company but she shook me off, told me she was feeling maudlin, that she always did around New Year, and that she’d like to be on her own. Me and my mates were sitting and drinking and then I noticed Sheila was stripping off and getting into the sea. Mad, if you ask me.’ He shudders. ‘Bloody cold, the sea in December.’
Lorna grins. ‘I can imagine.’
‘I sat with a couple of my mates, sinking a few cans. We all got drunk and we forgot about Sheila. It was only later, when we started walking home, that we realized she wasn’t with us. My mate, Phil, and I ran back down to the beach, where she’d left her clothes but couldn’t see her in the sea. It was like she’d just been,’ he grimaces, ‘swallowed by the water.’
‘And that was when you raised the alarm?’
‘Yes. She obviously drowned. Maybe she’d drunk more than we knew. We felt terrible.’
‘That’s awful,’ says Lorna, and despite the heat of the day, she feels goose-bumps pop up on her arms. The sea, as much as she loves it, has always terrified her. It’s like a mighty beast, and you never know what mood it’s going to be in. It deserves respect. ‘Do you think it was an accident or suicide?’
‘I honestly couldn’t say,’ he replies. ‘It was sad, really, afterwards like. Nobody came to clear out her flat. I don’t think she had any family. So I did it. And she hardly had any belongings. Just clothes left behind and food in the cupboards and fridge. It was a furnished flat. Nothing belonged to her. There were no personal items. No clutter, no mess. Nothing, really, that gave any clue as to what kind of person Sheila Watts had been.’
‘What about a purse? Or keys?’
‘The keys to her flat were in the trousers she’d left on the beach. No purse, or handbag. The police at the time suggested they might have been stolen when she was in the water. There were a few people on the beach that night.’
An idea begins to form in Lorna’s head, like a photograph being developed. ‘Do you think she could have faked her death?’
Alan sits back in his chair, his mouth an O shape. ‘That’s a bit of a leap.’
‘It’s just …’ She’s trying to arrange all the images she has in her head into some kind of picture that makes sense. ‘It’s weird that my mother has this newspaper clipping about Sheila, and her lodger was called Daphne Hartall. It’s not like Daphne Hartall is a common name, is it? It’s too much of a coincidence. There must be a link.’
‘What are you trying to say?’
‘I could be so wide of the mark here. But …’ her heart flutters with excitement ‘… isn’t it possible that the Daphne Hartall my mum knew and the Sheila Watts you knew could be the same person?’
‘You think Sheila faked her death and stole my sister’s identity?’ He sounds incredulous.
‘People do. Did she ever seem particularly interested in Daphne?’
‘Well,’ he rubs his chin, ‘yes, I suppose, now you mention it. And there was one thing that niggled at me. After Sheila died, I was tidying away Daphne’s things that I kept in a little box on my bookcase, and I couldn’t find her birth certificate, but that could just be down to me being disorganized …’
‘Do you think Sheila could have taken it?’