A Watery Grave (Karen Cady Book 1)

by Penny Kline

  But it was only hearsay. For all Karen knew Liam was desperate for work, sending off scores of applications but never being called for an interview.

  No-one in the house was likely to come out in this much rain. Karen turned up her collar and headed back towards the town, half running, half walking. She had arranged to go round to Tessie’s house during the evening but already she was regretting it. Tessie wanted to show her something. A catalogue of wedding dresses? A brochure advertising three-piece suites?

  When a car hooted Karen didn’t turn round and even when it slowed down and drew level she ignored it.

  ‘Don’t be crazy, you’re soaked to the skin.’ It was Alex, leaning across to open the passenger door. ‘Jump in and I’ll drive you home. I was on my way to the printers but that can wait.’

  She climbed in, taking off her wet jacket and throwing it on the back seat.

  Alex switched on the radio, then lowered the volume. ‘What on earth were you doing? Where’ve you been?’

  ‘Nowhere in particular. Just walking.’

  ‘Where’s your bike?’

  ‘At home.’

  ‘Listen.’ His voice was irritatingly cheerful. ‘This’ll interest you. Joanne Stevens has gone on holiday without telling anyone where she’s going. Her father called round at the Arts Centre late last night, frantic with worry because she hadn’t come home.’

  ‘Not surprising really,’ said Karen, trying not to sound too interested. ‘I mean after what happened to his other daughter.’

  ‘Exactly. Anyway the only person who knew anything about it was Ray, that bloke who works behind the bar. Joanne had arranged some leave but refused to say where she was going. He couldn’t be certain but he had a feeling her boyfriend was taking her to Paris or the south or France.’

  Karen sat up straight, trying to take in every word Alex was saying. ‘Boyfriend? Has she got a boyfriend? Is he much older than her?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue. Never seen her with anyone.’

  ‘Why France?’ said Karen. ‘Why did Ray think it was France?’

  ‘Oh, some phrase book she had, something she said. I’ve no idea, could’ve been a wild guess on Ray’s part. Anyway, I thought you’d like to know.’ He looked at her suspiciously. ‘I don’t know why you’re so interested in the girl but no doubt you have your reasons and I’m not daft enough to imagine you’ll tell me what they are.’

  *

  Tessie’s brother, Robin, answered the door. He was dressed in yellow pyjamas and looked angelic, the way little boys always look when they’ve just had a bath.

  ‘I’ve come to see Tessie.’

  He stared at her for a moment as though she had said something quite extraordinary. ‘Shall I tell my mum?’

  ‘If you like, or I could go on upstairs.’

  ‘OK.’ He disappeared back into the playroom and Karen started up the stairs, wondering how a house with five people in it could be so amazingly quiet.

  Tessie was waiting on the landing with her finger to her lips. ‘Dad’s got a migraine. In there.’ She pointed to a closed door.

  ‘Right.’ Karen’s voice came out in a croaky gasp and they both put their hands over their mouths to smother the sound of their laughter.

  Inside Tessie’s room they collapsed on the bed. ‘It’s not funny,’ said Karen. ‘Migraine’s horrible. Well, it sounds horrible, I’ve never had it myself.’

  Tessie wasn’t listening. ‘Listen, I must tell you only don’t tell anyone else because it may turn out looking absolutely awful.’

  ‘Go on.’ Tessie’s sliding cupboard door was half open. Hanging on a rail was the kind of dress Karen wouldn’t have been seen dead in.

  Seen dead in. It was a stupid expression. Horrible.

  ‘You’re not listening,’ said Tessie, sitting on a padded stool and staring at herself in her dressing table mirror. ‘Tomorrow I’m having my hair cut short, completely re-styled, and highlights!’ She touched the sides of her head, just above the ears.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘You don’t mean that?’

  ‘Yes, I do, it’ll suit you.’ Karen wanted to show Tessie her notes on the Natalie Stevens case, but most likely Tessie would say it was morbid and didn’t just thinking about the murder give Karen nightmares?

  ‘Glen’s pleased,’ she said. ‘He thinks it’ll make me look older.’

  ‘Oh, about thirty I should think,’ said Karen, glancing at Tessie, then shocked to see how miserable she suddenly looked. ‘Hey, are you all right? What’s the matter?’

  ‘Oh, nothing.’ Tessie slammed shut the drawer in her dressing table, catching the tip of her finger and gasping with pain. ‘D’you see Glen quite often?’

  ‘When? Oh, you mean at school.’ Karen looked out of the window at the large beautifully-kept garden that was Mrs Livingstone’s pride and joy. ‘Now and again, but he’s usually with a bunch of friends, doesn’t want to bother talking to me.’

  ‘Glen’s not like that,’ said Tessie crossly. ‘Which friends? I always seem to be in another part of the building.’

  ‘Mm? Well, there’s this loud-mouthed guy called Graham. Always making stupid noises, you know the type. And then there’s one called Buzz or–’

  ‘All boys are they?’

  Karen turned away from the window. ‘Tessie, you’re not jealous?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ She stared at Karen for a moment, then looked away. ‘Only I’ve been thinking . . .’

  ‘Thinking what? Look, you don’t need me to spy on Glen. He’s crazy about you.’

  ‘No, it’s not that. It’s just – well, you always seem in such a bad mood these days. Is it because of Alex?’

  ‘Alex? Oh, you mean . . .’

  ‘It’s not just me. Poor Simon’s really upset. He thinks there must be someone else.’

  ‘Well, there isn’t.’ Karen felt uneasy. Simon, who usually kept everything to himself, must have been talking about her to Tessie and Glen. She decided to change the subject. ‘Look, I’ve got something to show you.’ She felt in her bag and pulled out her notes and the bundle of newspaper cuttings she had photocopied at the library.

  ‘What are they?’ Tessie’s face stayed expressionless, but she smoothed out the first sheet and stared at the headline, running her fingers across the large black letters. BODY FOUND IN RESERVOIR. ‘Oh, Karen, you’re not still interested in that.’

  ‘Yes, of course I am. Whoever did it is still free. Living in this town.’

  ‘You don’t know that for certain. It could’ve been a stranger passing through. Anyway, I thought Liam Pearce did it.’

  Karen arranged the cuttings on the bed. ‘Natalie Stevens’ sister works at the Arts Centre. I’ve met her – well, seen her.’

  ‘What about it?’ Tessie was opening a drawer, searching through a pile of jumpers. ‘Are you cold? I think it’s cold in here, but when Dad’s ill he likes the heating turned down low. Anyway, what’s she like then, this Joanne Stevens? I suppose you’ve been snooping about, watching the poor girl wherever she goes.’

  ‘She’s nothing like Natalie,’ said Karen. ‘It’s almost like she wants to look as dowdy as possible. Old-fashioned clothes, horrible hair. I don’t think she’s that much older than Natalie was, but she looks kind of middle-aged, d’you know what I mean? And the funny thing is – she’s gone away on holiday but nobody seems to know where to. I don’t mean she’s disappeared. It’s just that she didn’t even tell her parents who she was going with.’

  ‘You mean she still lives at home?’ At last Tessie seemed to be taking an interest. It was the description of Joanne that had done it.

  She looked at the photocopies, then started reading them one by one. Finally she picked up the picture of Natalie in a bikini and carried it over to the window to get a better look.

  ‘I was thinking,’ she said slowly, ‘wouldn’t it be funny if everyone was terribly sorry for you because your sister had been murdered and all the time you were really glad to be rid of her
.’

  Chapter Seven

  The lights were on in the house in Burnham Close. As Karen watched, a figure at an upstairs window drew the curtains across, then switched out the bedroom light.

  She had her story ready but would it work, or would the Stevens’ become suspicious straight away and refuse to talk to her? The only thing she knew about Joanne – apart from the fact that she worked at the Arts Centre – was that she played badminton twice a week at a club up near the hospital. Ray had been on duty in the cafe when she called in pretending to have made an arrangement with Joanne that she would have to cancel.

  You play badminton with her, do you? His words told her all she needed to know. Nodding vaguely she had said she hadn’t realised Joanne was on holiday and would get in touch with her in a week or two. No, there was no message.

  A woman from the next door house was calling to her cat. ‘Ribby. Ribby!’

  Karen saw a black streak shoot out from under a hedge and enter number nine. Breathing as slowly and deeply as possible, trying to slow down her racing pulse, she crossed the road, walked quickly up the path to number eleven and pressed the bell.

  It played a jangling tune but the sound failed to blot out the argument going on inside the house. Were they arguing about who would answer the door or had the row started long before Karen rang the bell? Since showing Tessie the newspaper cuttings Karen had become obsessed with the idea that Joanne could have hired someone to kill her sister. The man in the expensive suit? Joanne looked so depressed, so defeated – but that could just be an act.

  A whining voice inside the house protested that something wasn’t fair, then a deeper voice told her to be quiet and not make such a bloody fuss.

  When he opened the door Mr Stevens’ face was shiny with sweat. ‘Yes?’ He put up a hand and ran his finger along his left eyebrow.

  ‘Mr Stevens? I’m sorry to bother you but I’m a friend of Joanne’s.’

  He hesitated, turning to look back into the house. ‘What kind of a friend?’

  ‘We play badminton together. Karen. My name’s Karen Cady.’

  He seemed to be inspecting her closely and just for a moment she was afraid he had recognised her. Perhaps from when she was standing near the Arts Centre as he drove past with Joanne? He had been far too busy ranting and roaring. He hadn’t even been driving the car properly, let alone looking at passers-by.

  ‘You’d better come in.’ He held the door open and gestured for her to go into the front room. ‘My wife suffers with her nerves. She’ll want to meet you if you’ve news about Joanne.’

  Mrs Stevens was standing with her back to a gas fire that had been turned down so low it looked as though the flames might flicker out at any moment. The room felt cold, but it was the look of it more than the actual temperature. A large three-piece suite, made of shiny grey vinyl, took up most of the space. There was no other furniture, apart from a heavy carved sideboard and an ugly glass-fronted corner cupboard.

  On one side of the fireplace was a rack, containing what looked like some kind of printed newsletter. The Society for Moral Awakening. Under the title she caught a glimpse of a photograph of two men, one dark-skinned, the other with a long white beard.

  A blue glass vase, which held a single artificial carnation, stood on the mantelpiece next to a picture of a girl, aged about twelve or thirteen. Her short dark hair was parted in the middle and held back by two slides in the shape of butterflies. She was extremely pretty, smiling as though she was about to burst out laughing, self-conscious but aware that she would come out looking good whatever her expression.

  ‘Our younger daughter,’ said Mr Stevens. ‘When she was still at school.’

  ‘Yes.’ Karen couldn’t think of anything else to say. She wondered why they didn’t have a more recent photo – Natalie as she had looked a year ago – but perhaps that would have been too upsetting.

  Mrs Stevens held out her hand and Karen responded, disliking the soft, lifeless grip, which matched the woman’s tone of voice. ‘Have we met before? I’m sorry, I’m not very good at remembering names.’

  She was very thin, with sucked-in cheeks that made her face look almost skull-like. In contrast, Walter Stevens was broadly-built and well over six foot.

  ‘No, we haven’t met.’ Karen tried a pleasant smile but it was difficult when both the Stevens had such expressionless faces. ‘I’ve only known Joanne a few weeks. We met at the badminton dub.’

  ‘I’m afraid she’s away on holiday,’ said Mrs Stevens, staring at Karen and making her feel even more uneasy than she already was.

  ‘Yes, I know. I wondered if you’d heard from her. The thing is I was a bit worried. She left so suddenly without telling any of us where she was going.’

  They were watching her in silence. Mrs Stevens’ eyes were large and dark, and the skin surrounding them was blotchy and red. Natalie seemed to have inherited both of her parents’ best features. Her mother’s eyes and her father’s straight nose and firm jaw line. Joanne hadn’t been so lucky.

  Walter Stevens spoke first. ‘I was hoping you might be able to tell us something,’ he said slowly. Joanne’s always been so thoughtful, considerate. Going off without saying a word – it’s not like her at all.’

  Mrs Stevens’ mouth twitched a little but she made no comment.

  ‘Have you told the police?’ said Karen, wishing as soon as the words were out of her mouth that she had said something quite different. They must have seen enough of the police to last them a life-time.

  ‘She told them at the Arts Centre,’ said Mr Stevens, ‘so there’s no cause for any real alarm. She’s twenty-three, not a child, she can go where she pleases.’

  A cat had come into the room. A large tabby with a red flea collar and part of its left ear missing. It wrapped itself round Mrs Stevens’ ankles, writhing and mewing, and she bent down to pick it up, clutching it against her chest until it wriggled free and jumped to the ground. She looked close to tears. ‘If Joanne had just told us where she was going. It was all arranged in such a rush.’

  ‘We don’t know that, Ann,’ said Mr Stevens, his voice raised in anger. ‘She could’ve booked up months ago, just didn’t choose to tell her father and mother.’

  ‘But why? Why would she do such a thing?’ Mrs Stevens took hold of Karen’s arm and held it uncomfortably hard. ‘She didn’t say anything to you – when you saw her at the badminton club?’

  ‘No.’ Karen felt distinctively guilty. ‘No, nothing at all.’

  Mr Stevens sunk into one of the cold shiny chairs. ‘I blame the television,’ he said. ‘All those soap operas with people behaving as though they had a right to do exactly as they pleased. No thought for others, no moral standards.’

  ‘Don’t, Walter.’ She turned to Karen. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name.’

  ‘Karen.’

  The skin on Walter Stevens’ neck had turned red and the colour was creeping up his face. ‘If you write to the television companies they say if you don’t like it you can always switch off. Wonderful! You’ve paid your licence fee and they turn round and tell you . . . In the old days people listened to their parents, followed their example, now–’

  ‘Is there someone who could have gone on holiday with Joanne?’ said Karen, interrupting fast, afraid he might lose control of himself completely or have a heart attack or something. ‘Someone she met at the Arts Centre perhaps.’

  ‘That place.’ Mr Stevens’ voice implied that the sort of people Joanne was likely to meet at the Arts Centre would hardly be suitable friends for his daughter. ‘If you ask me parents might as well give up altogether. You do your best but it’s all a wasted effort.’ His whole face seemed to sag. ‘I thought Joanne was different. I thought she understood what matters in life. We wanted her to work at the council offices. They used to take on twenty or thirty school leavers each year but now they’re laying people off. She was unemployed for nearly eighteen months. Then she worked in a shop but they treated
her like dirt.’

  Mrs Stevens’ hands were shaking. ‘You have to take whatever job you can these days and she left school without getting the right grades.’ She moved to within a few inches of Karen’s face. ‘How long have you known her? I don’t remember her mentioning your name.’

  ‘Oh, not very long. Just a few weeks.’

  ‘You work at the Arts Centre, do you?’

  ‘No, I met Joanne at the club.’

  One lie was leading to another. If she wasn’t careful she would give away the truth – that she and Joanne had never actually been introduced, even though she was starting to feel as though she had known her all her life. If Walter Stevens asked her where she lived should she tell him the truth and risk a phone call, answered by Alex or her mother?

  But the problem never arose. Ann Stevens had lifted the photograph off the mantelpiece. ‘You only moved here quite recently did you? So you wouldn’t have known our other daughter.’

  ‘No. No, I didn’t.’

  ‘But you know what happened? She was planning to leave that Liam, you know. We’d a room prepared for her and the baby. She was moving back here the following week.’

  Somewhere at the back of the house a clock was striking the hour. At the other end of the living room Walter Stevens was tugging at a cord that was supposed to draw the curtains across but seemed to have stuck. When he turned towards his wife the expression on his face was a mixture of anger and disgust. He opened his mouth to speak, then decided better of it. A moment later he left the room.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Mrs Stevens. ‘He doesn’t like me talking about Natalie. They say when something terrible happens you should find people who’ll listen. People who don’t mind you going over and over . . . Walter says it’s best to try and forget.’