If Kevin McCloud from Grand Designs were to cast a critical eye over the Southbourne community centre, he might say that it had the ambience of a flat-roofed pub, and was just as uninviting — and that would be on one of his more generous days. Pretty, it was not. Practical, well, possibly. Adequate would be closer to the truth. It was a building in the loosest sense of the word, having more in common with underpasses and multistorey car parks than with the traditional buildings around it that were far easier on the eye. Wrapped in seventies’ salmon-pink brick — which should have no place in a civilised society — it was a landmark for all the wrong reasons. A bland and plain post-war box only fit for dereliction.
The cold aluminium doors put up a fight as Fiona tried to open them. Metal scuffed against metal, leaving her to wonder how the community centre’s more fragile visitors made it in. At least they’d added a ramp. Inside, the ambience wasn’t much better. Though the place was packed and resonated with chatter, the disinfectant-laced air smelled of schools. Essentially it was a large hall with a suspended ceiling, a little too low for Fiona’s liking, the white polystyrene tiles hiding a multitude of sins, no doubt. It put Fiona in mind of the type of place where a murderer would stash a body. She always thought a suspended ceiling would make a terrible hiding place, as it would make such a mess, especially if it came crashing down in the middle of an important meeting where some committee or other were discussing the colour of what highlighter pens they should order. Cracked lino covered the floor and had strips of blue tape, also worn and broken in places, running this way and that, presumably to mark out a badminton court. Fiona pictured the shuttlecock rebounding off that low ceiling and annoying the players.
Despite her reservations about the interior that had seen better days, it had no effect on the atmosphere. For those who lived alone, who craved a bit of company, it was beloved and cherished. A little haven of tea and chat, there was warmth and friendship here. Tables were arranged in no particular order — organically, you could say. Some had just a couple of people around them, while others teemed with ten or more people of pensionable age parked around the edge, cups and saucers in their hands. Some played board games, others just enjoyed one another’s company, giggling and laughing.
An elbow nudged Fiona gently in the ribs. Partial Sue nodded towards a rather smartly dressed gentleman clad in brogues and tweed. He sat alone, engrossed in a large slab of an iPhone. Partial Sue gave Fiona a look, as if attempting to prove a point: the gentleman appeared to be well into his eighties, using both thumbs to rapidly craft a message with the deftness of a teenager.
Partial Sue edged closer. “Excuse me, is that the new iPhone?”
He broke off from whatever he was doing online and smiled proudly. “Oh, yes.” He held it up for her to see. “Got a twelve-megapixel camera on this bad boy. It’s a doddle for posting on Instagram.”
Surreptitiously, Partial Sue turned to Fiona and gave her an I-told-you-so look.
Fiona stepped forward. “That’s a nice phone.”
“Thank you.” The man pulled out a cloth and gave the screen a clean, as if he were polishing his two-seater MG sports car on a Sunday morning.
“Have you been coming here long?” Partial Sue asked.
The man stopped cleaning his phone and regarded Fiona, perhaps wondering if this was his lucky day and some sort of chat-up line.
Fiona cottoned on and brought the conversation back on track. “We were wondering if you might know our friend, Sharon Miller. Have you heard of her?”
The man’s wrinkled forehead wrinkled some more. “Can’t say I have. Still, I don’t know that many people here. Your best bet would be to ask Malorie. Oh, look, here she comes now.”
Through the throng of people and plastic chairs, came the striding, determined and intimidating shape of Malorie. Red-headed, rosy-cheeked and heavy-breasted, she wore a horsey, green quilted vest over a checked shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled up, revealing two freckled forearms. She looked as if she should be organising grouse shoots on an estate rather than running a community centre.
“Which is it?” she blustered.
“I’m sorry?” Fiona said.
“Which is it? Member or volunteer? Can’t come in here unless you’re one or the other. So, what shall I sign you up for? New membership or some jolly helpful volunteering? Could really do with some help in the tea-making department. My girls are good, but they can’t keep up with this lot. They go through it like billy-o.”
“Er, neither,” Fiona replied.
Malorie recoiled theatrically. “Ah, I can see I have my work cut out for me with you two. Need the old sales pitch, eh? Well, come on, follow me.”
Reports of Malorie’s bullishness had not been exaggerated. Fiona and Partial Sue followed her, chicaning past the various tables, each one adorned with a plate of Family Circle biscuits, judging by the selection.
Malorie pointed out activities happening at each table. “This is our knitting group, the Yarn Birds.”
Five ladies looked up and chorused, “Hello,” while continuing to clack, click and purl, the interruption not breaking the incessant rhythm of their needles. A man knitting on the end gave Malorie a harsh stare.
“Sorry, Harold. Yarn Birds and Boys, I should say.” His grimace transformed into a grin. As they moved away from them, Malorie whispered, “Lucky I came up with that name. Otherwise they wanted to call themselves the Needle Exchange.”
The next few tables had been given over to board games. “Mind my presumptuousness but you two look like Scrabble aficionados. Am I right?” Malorie wasn’t wrong. Being both crossword fans, Scrabble was Fiona’s and Partial Sue’s natural go-to board game.
“We are partial to a bit of Scrabble,” Partial Sue answered.
“Well, there’s a cracking little Scrabble club here. You could see if you can knock Dickie off his perch. He’s the reigning champion.”
Ears burning, a rotund gentleman in a chunky-knit cardigan hunched over a handful of lettered tiles slowly turned and smiled at them. “Yesterday, I scored fifteen points with just three letters.”
“Really?” asked a shocked Fiona. “What was the word?”
“Fizz.”
“Doesn’t fizz have four letters?” Partial Sue asked.
“Yes, but it’s a little-known fact that you can also spell it with one ‘Z’,” Dickie informed her, as if he were discussing an important legal issue. “It’s lawful and permitted. Would you like to join us for a game?”
“No can do, Dickie.” Malorie wagged a finger at him. “Only members of the community centre are allowed to play.” She winked. “Good news is, I can sign you up right now.” Almost as if she had anticipated this moment, Malorie reached inside her quilted vest and whipped out a ream of folded forms. She unfurled them and slapped them on the table, interrupting the game. From another pocket she retrieved a ballpoint pen, clicking the top of it purposefully. “Right, who’s going first? You, I think.” She pointed at Fiona with the nib. “What’s your name?”
“Er, we’d like some more time to think about it,” Fiona replied.
Malorie harrumphed. “More time! Nonsense! What is there to think about? What’s not to like, as the young people say these days. Now come on, don’t be a wet blanket.”
“No, really. We just came in to have a look around.”
“And you’ve done that, so it’s time to sign on the dotted line.”
Fiona’s tinnitus rose like a kettle approaching boiling point. One time when she was on holiday in Magaluf, she’d been followed down the street by a man and woman trying to sell her a timeshare. They had flanked her and wouldn’t leave her alone, banging out their well-rehearsed sales pitch as they followed her back to her accommodation. They would have continued had she not had the bright idea of heading into the local police station.
This felt similar. That dogged, not-taking-no-for-an-answer attitude. Fiona feared if she signed up, she’d never hear the last of it and would have Malorie hounding her for the rest of her life, demanding to know why she hadn’t been back to the community centre. She and Partial Sue were here strictly on a fact-finding mission and had to stick to that.
“No, thank you,” Fiona said as sweetly as she could.
“We’re good,” Partial Sue added.
“Well, this is utterly unbelievable. Why don’t you want to join? I’m sure everyone here would like to know.” Malorie folded her arms. Her last question had gained her quite an audience. Anyone within earshot had swivelled around to observe Malorie guilt-shaming and browbeating two people into joining when they clearly didn’t want to.
Was this why the place was so busy? Had all these people once stood where Fiona and Partial Sue were? Put on the spot, bullied into joining, and from then on afraid that if they didn’t keep up their attendance, Malorie would be on them, following them home, badgering them to come back. The people seemed happy enough, but she knew how easy it was to put a brave face on things. Daisy had said she didn’t think Malorie had it in her to kill. That was yet to be proved. However, Malorie was clearly a bully. Used to getting her own way, and she certainly didn’t like being challenged.
“Why on earth would you not want to join our happy brood?” Malorie was laying it on thick, more for the benefit of those around her, wanting to garner support and draw attention to the pair who weren’t complying. “Come on, give me one good reason.”
Fiona had had enough. She wouldn’t let anyone bully her or Partial Sue, and her tinnitus was playing up something atrocious. Time to shut it and Malorie up.
“What can you tell me about Ian Richard?” she asked.