Except, it wasn’t all gone. The very building in which the family had worked had been moved to a different location—just over a mile up the road—and Morton was keen to see it. He crossed to the wide promenade, which ran the entire length of the beach, and strode contentedly in the morning sunshine, his pursuer trailing a few feet behind him.
Shepherd Street sat in an obviously deprived area, book-ended by dreary houses with peeling paint. A stretch of box-shaped properties ran the length of the narrow road, interspersed with the odd house whose irregular shape hinted at a past more interesting than the residential function that they now served. One such building was The Forester’s Arms, or number 2 Shepherd Street, as it had now become, in front of which Morton now stood. A simple oblong shape, the property was painted spearmint green with decorative white cornicing and five arched windows, its remarkable past safely locked behind the modern front door. Only the name The Forester’s Arms emblazoned in white letters hinted at the nature of its former life.
Morton removed his phone to take a photograph of the house and noticed that he had a text message from Jonathan Greenwood. Morton, found a chap! Drop off the lease & release at your leisure. J. Short and to the point. Morton tapped out a response to say he would drop them off later today then raised the phone to take a picture.
‘Oi, what you doing taking photos of my house?’ a fiery female voice demanded.
Morton lowered his mobile and found the source of the outcry—an open door adjacent to The Forester’s Arms, where a large woman wearing a pink track suit and holding a cigarette glowered out.
‘I wasn’t photographing your house,’ Morton answered defensively and gestured towards the former pub. ‘I was photographing that one.’
‘Why?’ she asked, taking a long drag on the cigarette then blowing the smoke in the air above her.
Morton hated moments like this. To try and whittle down the Lovekin Case to a synopsis that she could understand was almost impossible. ‘I’m interested in it,’ he answered simply.
‘You the new owner? What you doing with it? More bedsits, I suppose?’
‘No, I’m not the new owner. Is it for sale, then?’
She shrugged indifferently. ‘It was. Been empty for a few months now.’
‘Oh, right. Did you know the previous owner?’
The woman sniffed, took another drag and shifted her weight to one side. ‘What if I did?’
‘I’m just interested in old pubs,’ Morton lied. ‘I’d like to speak to the people who lived there.’
‘Yeah, well he’s dead, so good luck with that,’ she laughed, flicking the remnants of her cigarette into the road then slamming the door shut behind her.
Lovely lady, Morton thought, crossing the road and pressing his face up against the grimy windows. Thick netted curtains prevented him from seeing anything inside; taking one last look at the exterior of the building, he set back off along the seafront, his pursuer safely in tow.
He walked briskly along the promenade, enjoying the salty breeze blowing up over the sea. He continued past the former America Ground site, taking in the rows of houses, hotels and shops that now stood where once more than a thousand people had lived, declaring themselves to be an independent state of America.
He tried to imagine the scene before him when the inquiry had gone against the American Ground residents and they had been faced with the prospect of abandoning their homes, shops and businesses or literally taking them apart, brick by brick and moving them to a new location. It couldn’t have been an easy task, Morton realised, especially as Harriet was pregnant with her own child whilst also looking after her two younger sisters.
With his mind picking over the pieces of the Lovekin Case, Morton soon found himself in George Street—the heart of the Old Town—a pedestrianized road bounded by quaint, quirky shops and trendy coffee houses. In the centre of it was Bunny’s Emporium. Morton slowed his pace as the shop came into view, slightly dreading this visit. At this moment in time, he wasn’t sure whom he feared seeing more, Bunny or Madge.
From the displays he could see through the huge plate glass windows, Bunny’s Emporium sold an assortment of odd and eccentric antiques. Morton’s eyes glided over a bizarre collection of items, each with their own hefty price tag. Did people really pay seventy-five pounds for a crate of empty brown bottles? Or ninety pounds for a vintage milking stool?
A grating, high-pitched laughter suddenly shattered the calmness of the street, causing several passers-by to seek out the cause of the shrill racket. Morton looked up, although it wasn’t necessary in order for him to identify the source. It had to have been Bunny.
‘Morton!’ she shrieked. ‘How absolutely delightful!’
He smiled and offered his hand, which was promptly crushed as she flung her arms around him, embracing him like a long-lost relative. ‘Nice to meet you,’ he managed to say.
She took his hands in hers and beamed at him. ‘Have you come with more news of my dear Eliza? Please don’t tell me there are more horrid stories to tell, I’m not sure I could stand it.’
‘Well, I just wanted to give you a quick update,’ he stammered uncomfortably. She was just as he’d imagined her to be; a buxom bohemian in her fifties, covered in beads, bracelets and elaborate swathes of oriental clothing. Her eye make-up was heavy and the attempt at containing her wild dyed red hair in the headband had failed miserably.
‘Come inside—you’re just in time for a peppermint tea—grown and nurtured in my own humble garden, I must add,’ Bunny chirped, turning dramatically and swishing her colourful kaftan behind her.
