‘It’s forty years ago. Alan Hartall could be dead now.’

Lorna mentally rolls her eyes. Typical response from her pessimistic daughter. ‘And if not he’ll be around your gran’s age. We need to try. He might be able to tell us about this Daphne.’

‘Yes . . . but . . .’ Saffy takes a scrunchie from her wrist and ties her hair back with it. ‘I’m not sure what the point would be, Mum. It’s doubtful Gran was even living here when the murders happened.’

‘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.’