Even though she knew where to look, she still wasn’t sure how to go about it. She could hardly hang about outside the factory gates, check everyone’s appearance and ask all likely suspects to say a few words. But what else could she do but watch? She had thought of applying for a job there to get her foot in the door, but that would raise questions of identification, references and National Insurance stamps. She couldn’t afford that. Another alternative was to find out if the workers had a favorite pub. Whatever she decided, she would have to start with hanging around the place at five o’clock, when the workers left for the day. Then she could take it from there.
Much as she wanted to, she couldn’t rush things. The plan left so much time on her hands, and time was a gift to the enemy. Also, today was not the kind of day for sitting on the beach reading, and her room at Mrs. Cummings’s was far too depressing to spend a whole day in. She had the perennial problem of the English person at the seaside: what to do on a rainy day. She could always look for a cinema that showed afternoon matinees, she thought, or spend her time and money on the one-armed bandits in an amusement arcade. Then there were the Museum and Art Gallery, and Captain Cook’s house. There would also be bingo, of course, last resort for the truly desperate.
But Sue knew she wouldn’t be able to concentrate on things like that. She had to be actively engaged in her search or her fears would get the better of her. At least she could walk up to the factory and reconnoiter; that would be a positive step. It was in a part of the town that she had never seen before, and she needed to know its layout, its dark corners, its entrances and exits. She also had to find a suitable spot to watch from. There was a chance that she might even need binoculars, though they would look a bit too suspicious if she had to use them in the open.
But first, she realized, there was something else she must do: something she had decided on during her restless, guilty, paranoid hours awake in the night. She needed something to replace her holdall. It wasn’t especially conspicuous, just a khaki bag with side pockets and an adjustable strap, but she had been carrying it all the time she had been staying in Whitby, whether as Martha Browne or as Sue Bridehead. It was exactly the kind of mistake that could get her caught. Far better, she thought, to buy something else, fill the holdall full of stones and dump it in the sea along with all her Martha Browne gear-jeans, checked shirt, quilted jacket, the lot. It would be a shame to throw away such good-quality clothing, but it would be dangerous not to. Apart from those few moments on the front at Staithes, it was only as Martha Browne that she could be linked with Keith McLaren and Jack Grimley, so Martha Browne would have to disappear completely.
She paid her bill, then crossed the bridge and walked up to one of the department stores on Flowergate. There she bought a smaller, dark gray shoulder bag-for she wouldn’t have as much bulky clothing to carry around-a lightweight navy-blue raincoat and a transparent plastic rainhood. In the toilet, she transferred all the things she would need-paperweight, money, makeup, underwear, book-into the new shoulder bag, and put the old one in the empty plastic bag bearing the store’s logo. Anyone who noticed her would think she was simply carrying her shopping. That would do for the moment, but sometime soon she would have to go for a walk along the cliffs and get rid of the holdall permanently.
She walked back over the swing bridge, and instead of turning left onto the touristy part of Church Street, she went right and continued about half a mile along, past New Bridge, which carried the A171 to Scarborough and beyond over the River Esk. To her right, rain pitted the gray surface of the river, and on her left she came to one of those functional, residential parts of town that every holiday resort tucks away from public view. Consulting her map, she turned sharp left, perpendicular to the river, and walked a hundred and fifty yards or so up a lane at the southern edge of a council estate. Finally, she turned right and found herself in the short cul-de-sac that ended at the large mesh gates of the fish-processing plant.
It was the kind of street that would look drab and uninviting whatever the weather. Terraced houses stood on both sides, set back from the road by small gardens complete with privet hedges and wooden gates with peeling paint. The houses were prewar, judging by the crust of grime and the white patches of saltpeter that had formed on the gray-brown brick. On the road surface, the ancient tarmac had worn away in spots, like bald patches, to reveal the outline of old cobbles beneath. To Sue’s left, a short section of the terrace had been converted into a row of shops: grocer, butcher, newsagent-tobacconist, video rental; and on the right, about twenty yards from the factory gates, stood a tiny café.
Certainly from the outside there was nothing attractive about the place. The white sign over the grimy plate-glass window was streaked reddish brown with rusty water that had spilled over from the eaves, and the R and the F of ROSE’S CAFE had faded to no more than mere outlines. Hanging in the window itself was a bleak, handwritten card offering tea, coffee and sandwiches. The location was ideal, though. From a table by the window, Sue would just about be able to see through the film of dirt, and she would have a fine view of the workers filing out of the gates down the street. As far as she could tell, there was no other direction they could take.
She walked all the way up to the gates themselves. They stood open, and there was no guardhouse or sentry post. Obviously, national defense wasn’t at stake, and a fish-processing plant had little to worry about from terrorists or criminal gangs. A dirt path ran a hundred yards or so through a weed- and cinder-covered stretch of waste ground to the factory itself, a long two-story prefab concrete building with a new redbrick extension stuck on the front for clerical staff. Inside the glass doors was what looked like a reception area, and the windows in the extension revealed offices lit by fluorescent light. Apart from the front, the only other side of the factory that Sue could see was the one closest to the river, and it was made up entirely of numbered loading bays. Several white vans were parked in the area and drivers in blue overalls stood around talking and smoking.
As Sue stood by the gates memorizing the layout, a loud siren sounded inside the building and a few seconds later people started to hurry out toward her. She looked at her watch: twelve o’clock, lunch hour. Quickly, she turned back and slipped into the café. A bell pinged as she entered, and a wrinkled beanpole of a woman in curlers and a greasy smock glanced up at her from behind the counter, where she had been buttering slices of thin white bread for sandwiches.
“You must have nipped out early, love,” the woman said cheerfully. “Usually takes them all of thirty seconds to get here after the buzzer goes. Them as comes, that is. Now the Brown Cow up the road does pub lunches, there’s plenty ’as deserted poor Rose’s. Don’t hold with lunchtime drinking, myself. What’ll you have then? A nice cup of tea?”
Was there any other kind? Sue wondered. “Yes, thanks, that’ll do fine,” she said.
The woman frowned at her. “Just a cup of tea? You need a bit more than that, lass. Put some meat on your bones. How about one of these lovely potted-meat sandwiches? Or are you one of them as brings her own lunch?” Her glance had turned suspicious now.
Sue felt flustered. It was all going wrong. She was supposed to slip into the place unobtrusively and order from a bored waitress who would pay her no attention. Instead, she had gone and made herself conspicuous just because she had run for cover when the siren went and everyone had started hurrying toward her. She was too jumpy, not very good at this kind of thing.