There was a long pause and some shuffling, then the gate started to rise.
‘Where do I go once I’m inside?’ she asked.
‘Ah, just pull into the waiting bay by the site office.’
She drove in and pulled up outside a shed, grateful for a sign by its screen door that said SITEOFFICE. It had more in common with a shipping container. A fat man in a yellow high-vis shirt hauled himself up from a seat and came out, pulling up his trousers. He knocked on her window and gestured for her to open it.
‘Sorry, love, it’s all a bit disorganised down here since Paul left. Ah …’ He rubbed his ginger beard. ‘Were we meant to know you were coming? Visitors are usually logged on the system but there’s no note of it.’
‘Yes,’ she said. This all seemed quite unprofessional. ‘I’m here to oversee the final stage of the project.’
Warwick frowned. ‘To oversee the project?’
‘Yes. My father sent me down here to get things back on track.’
‘Righto,’ he said slowly. ‘All good. I’m Warwick. Acting project manager.’ He wiped his hand on his shirt and held it out.
Issy shook it despite her hygiene concerns. ‘Isobel.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘So, Warwick, next question. There’s meant to be a suite organised for me to stay in while I’m down here. One of these?’ She pointed to the upper floors of the development. ‘I don’t suppose there’s a note about that in the system somewhere, is there?’
He looked up at the apartments overhead, scratching his greasy hair. ‘One of these?’
She nodded. ‘That’s what I was told.’
‘Unlikely,’ he said. ‘They’re not finished yet.’ He must have read something on her face, because he started back-pedalling. ‘Although don’t take my word for that. Sit tight while I try and sort this out.’
He stepped away from the car and made a call, gesticulating as he explained her unexpected arrival to whoever was on the other end of the phone. She tried to eavesdrop, but it was difficult to hear over the cacophony of construction. When a high-pitched drilling sound started, she gave up entirely and looked over at a group of sweaty-looking workmen standing around doing very little, as far as she could tell. They all wore high-vis vests, like Warwick, and she wondered vaguely if she would be expected to wear one. Did they come in other colours? Or just that specific shade of yellow? She massaged her temples, trying to relieve the dull throb of a headache, and looked back at Warwick. Surely he’d sorted this out by now.
After a moment, he hung up and returned to the window. Unfortunately, he was still frowning.
‘Ah, no one seems to know anything about this.’
She sighed.
He went on. ‘Why don’t you leave the car here and go grab a coffee while I sort this out?’
Chapter 11
Meg fiddled with the air-conditioning as she turned off the freeway onto a smaller road. It was on the lowest setting, but warm air blew from the vents. One more thing that was broken in her old Mazda, which she’d bought from a colleague at the paper a couple of years ago.
She’d hardly noticed the heat until now. She’d been distracted, plagued with irritation at how Jenny had treated her that morning. It was silly to be offended, she knew that. It was just the disease. But it was hard not to take it personally when your own mother demanded that you leave and ordered you not to come back. It was only mildly reassuring to hear Jenny call her by the wrong name. Tina. Another crack in the wall. Was there a book of Tina?
She shook off the thought. So what if there was? If she was honest with herself, jostling alongside her offence at her mother’s behaviour was a distinct sense of relief. If her mum didn’t want her there, that was just fine. She wouldn’t go. And she wouldn’t feel guilty about it either.
She blew air up over her face and wound down her window. The landscape outside had changed. Luminous green hills rolled into the distance, dotted with black-and-white cattle and topped with old homesteads surrounded by trees. The road dipped down into a valley and followed a fast-flowing river. When it turned a corner, a spectacular suspension bridge came into view. She inhaled sharply at its unexpectedness, its magnificence, as she passed under a stone archway between two turrets. It belonged in a fairytale. On the other side of the bridge, a sign on her left heralded the entrance to the town.Welcome to Historic Hartwell. Established 1834.
She sat up taller in her seat, her eyes darting left and right, as she followed the winding road. It was lined with fertile gardens beyond wrought-iron fences and pretty sandstone cottages with tin roofs. She rounded a corner past an ivy-covered church and a quaint bed and breakfast with a sign advertising free wi-fi, then found herself in the town centre: one wide street with the tall jail walls on one side and a dozen shops on the other. At least half of the shops were boutiques, the kind that sold candles and jam and loose linen clothing in various shades of beige. Tourist shops.
It wasn’t hard to find the Red Lion Hotel, where she’d booked a room. It was a sandstone building at the top of the street, with a long veranda under a rusty corrugated-iron roof. She pushed the heavy door, half-expecting it to be locked, but it swung open and she stepped into the cool, dark, empty space. It was a typical country pub, with wood panelling, tartan carpet and a fireplace that probably made the atmosphere cosy in winter. Today, the grate was empty.
‘Hello?’ she called out.
Nothing.
After a moment, she wandered over to the far wall, which displayed black-and-white historical photographs. The first one showed the exterior of the Red Lion Hotel in 1845. A group of expressionless, bearded men in suits stood on the veranda.Albert Ashworth, the caption read,owner and licensee 1838-55 (third from left). It had been typed on an old-fashioned typewriter.
