by Penny Kline
‘Stepping into dead men’s shoes.’
‘With me it was the other way round. I left the ticket office and Natalie Stevens took over.’
‘Natalie Stevens?’ Karen thought it best not to sound too interested. ‘Oh, you mean . . . You knew her then.’
His eyes were half-closed. ‘Didn’t your friend tell you? I was talking to him earlier on.’
‘Simon?’
‘No the guy with the muscles. Greg, isn’t it?’
Who was deceiving who? Russell knew Glen’s name. She knew Natalie Stevens had worked in the Sports Centre.
‘It was dreadful about Natalie,’ she said. ‘Must have been an awful shock for the people who knew her.’
‘Poor kid. It’s the parents I feel sorry for.’
‘And her boyfriend. And she had a baby didn’t she?’
He studied her face carefully. ‘You don’t know about the boyfriend then? He and that Olive Pearce took over the kid completely, acted as though Natalie wasn’t fit to look after her own baby.’
‘Why did she stay there then?’
‘Where else could she go? Her own parents threw her out as soon as they discovered she was pregnant.’ He paused, seeing her expression. ‘You don’t believe me? Think people don’t behave like that in this day and age. Obviously you’ve never met Walter Stevens. Natalie was a good kid. Intelligent. Full of life. Don’t know what she ever saw in Liam Pearce.’ He was breathing hard. ‘I’ll go along with Natalie’s parents that far. They couldn’t stand the bastard.’
‘Natalie told you all this?’
‘We used to talk. Got on pretty well. Her father sounds like some kind of weirdo. Belongs to one of those churches where you can’t go to the cinema on Sundays and women are supposed to obey their husbands. You know the kind of set-up.’
‘I thought you said you felt sorry for the parents.’
He frowned. ‘Sorry they’re going to feel guilty for the rest of their lives – for treating Nat the way they did. Sorry for anyone who has to live with that on their conscience.’
Chapter Five
Her father answered the door even before she rang the bell, but this time he looked less than delighted to see her.
‘Come in then. Look, I’m expecting a client in five minutes time. If you’d phoned we could have fixed a proper get-together. Gone out for a meal or something.’
‘I don’t like fixing things up.’ She walked into his office. ‘Anyway I’m not staying long. I just needed to ask you a couple of things.’
‘What about?’ He looked so apprehensive it made her laugh. ‘Oh, nothing about you and Mum. Just about my article for the local rag.’
He relaxed. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Not too bad. I thought I’d write a bit about private detectives and how they might find something the police had overlooked.’
‘So that’s where I come in. Look, it doesn’t work like that, Karen. Most of my work’s fairly routine and I certainly don’t see myself in competition with the police.’
‘No, I know that.’ He was treating her as though she was five years old. ‘How much do you charge your clients? Do they pay by the hour and you add on expenses?’
‘Golden rule,’ he said, ‘never have any set fees and never state fees over the phone. In the first place it could be a competitor ringing. In the second–’
‘You want to see how rich they are so you can decide how much they’d be prepared to pay. Robbing the rich to help the poor. Anyway I just wondered if you knew anything about Natalie Stevens’ parents. I saw her sister, Joanne, at the Arts Centre and she looked pretty depressed. And Olive Pearce, Liam Pearce’s mother – did you say her husband died not long ago? What was the matter with him?’
‘Karen.’ He had adopted his most serious expression. ‘This article you’re writing, you’ll have to be careful not to mention any names, especially regarding the death of Natalie Stevens. The case is still open and I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that people are innocent until proved guilty.’
She sighed heavily. ‘Honestly, Dad, as if I didn’t know.’
All this talk about her fictitious article was getting ridiculous. There was no way her father was going to pass on any more information. She doubted if he knew as much about the case as she did.
‘All right,’ she said, picking up a coffee mug that was standing on his desk. ‘I’ll leave you in peace.’ She peered inside the mug and pulled a face. ‘Pan scourer. If you rub hard all those stains’ll come off. It’s because you drink your tea without milk. And you use the same mug all the time. You should buy a few more.’
He took the mug from her hand. ‘I tell you what, Karen, I’ll buy a pan scourer if you’ll concentrate on your coursework. Fair bargain?’
She gave him a quick hug. ‘Oh, absolutely. See you. Take care.’
*
On her way home she took a short cut between the bus station and the back of the shopping arcade. It was cold and windy and the figure ahead of her had a hand on the hood of her grey duffel coat, trying to keep it in place. As Karen watched the woman turned her head, adjusting the strap of her shoulder bag on her shoulder. It was Joanne Stevens.
Karen slowed her pace. There was no way Joanne could have recognised her. If she followed, at a reasonable distance, she might spend a cold, pointless half hour or so. Or she could find out something of interest. It was worth a try.
Joanne turned left at the main road, then crossed over and started along the path that led to a large office block and, beyond that, the ring road. If she turned round again she might become suspicious, but so far she had kept her head down, battling against the wind, and seemed oblivious of everything else.
The pedestrian light was flashing green. Joanne hurried across the ring road and disappeared along the rough track that met up with Chatsworth Avenue. Karen waited impatiently, hoping for a break in the traffic, but it never came. By the time it was safe to cross she was afraid Joanne would be out of sight and there would be no way of knowing which turning she had taken. But there she was, still walking fast but with her hands in her pockets now that she was out of the wind.
Three-quarters of the way up the avenue she stopped to consult what looked like a small diary.
Standing dose to the high wall that surrounded a private school Karen watched Joanne cross the road, walk slowly up a flight of stone steps and pause outside the front door of a large Victorian house. As she lifted the knocker the door opened and a tall man, dressed in an expensive-looking suit, stepped outside, holding the door half – closed behind him.
Karen moved closer but there was no way she could hear what they were saying. A few moments later the man went back into the house.
Joanne glanced over her shoulder nervously and seemed to be making sure no-one was watching her. Then she too disappeared into the house.
The man had looked middle-aged. He could be her uncle, or a friend of her parents. It even occurred to Karen that the ground floor of the house could be a doctor’s or a dentist’s surgery, but when she reached the bottom of the steps she could see there was no brass plate. Paint was peeling off the window frames and the roof had several tiles missing, although there seemed to be scaffolding at the back so perhaps it was in the process of being repaired.
Karen made a mental note of the address. She considered climbing the steps to get a good look at the place, then thought better of it and stationed herself behind a tree on the opposite side of the road. For all she knew Joanne could be there for several hours. She decided to wait for fifteen minutes, then go home and perhaps try following Joanne another day.
The decision paid off. Less than ten minutes later Joanne and the man reappeared in the doorway. Neither of them spoke but Karen could see the man writing something on what looked like the back of an envelope, and Joanne nodding and smiling. It was the first time she had seen her smile.
Twenty minutes later Karen was out of breath but Joanne was still walking at breakneck speed. Every so often
she consulted her watch, as if she was late for an appointment, but from the direction she was taking Karen was certain she was on her way home. There were nearly thirty Stevens in the phone book but since Karen’s father had told her Natalie and Joanne’s parents lived up near the golf course, it had been easy to find the right address. Stevens, Walter. Eleven Burnham Close.
Walter Stevens. Karen tried to picture how he might look. Thin and mousy, like Joanne, or darkly good looking like his younger daughter? How did people react when someone in the family was murdered? By staying at home and refusing to go out? Eventually surely things would have to return to normal? Did they talk about Natalie or was it too painful? Karen wondered what her own parents would do if she was murdered. Kick out Alex and get back together again? Perhaps not.
When she turned the corner she realised they had reached Burnham Close and Joanne was half way up the path leading to number eleven.
A tall, well-built man wearing a tweed hat was working in the front garden. He had a rag in his hand and was bent almost double, wiping the blades of an old-fashioned lawnmower.
‘Oh, it’s you.’ His voice was bad-tempered, harsh. ‘I thought you said that woman was driving you home.’
‘She did, Dad, to the end of the road. I told her it was a cul-de-sac and it was better to drop me off there so she wouldn’t have to turn round.’
So Joanne was quite prepared to lie to her father. Karen smiled to herself. The thought gave her an absurd feeling of satisfaction.
Mr Stevens muttered something inaudible, then straightened his back, grimacing with pain. As soon as Karen saw his face she recognised the man who had been waiting for Joanne in the Arts Centre car park. The man who had been shouting at her. The man who had made her cry.
*
The follower was being followed. Karen was certain there was someone watching her. Not that she ever actually caught sight of him, it was more of a feeling, brought on perhaps by the way she had crept along behind Joanne Stevens.
By the time she reached home she was starting to believe she had imagined it. All the same, now she had some experience of tailing a person – keeping well back and staying in the shadows as far as possible – she realised, if it happened again, it would be relatively easy to trick whoever it was into showing himself – or herself – in the open.
Alex was watching the television news. When he saw her he switched off the set and offered to pour her a drink.
‘What of?’
‘Whatever you fancy.’ He looked exceptionally pleased with himself, as though he had been promoted or given a pay rise.
She accepted a coke with a slice of lemon stuck on the side of the glass, and carried it to the armchair where her mother usually sat, sinking into the Indian cushions and leaning well back.
‘Hard day?’ said Alex. ‘That reminds me, I was going to ask you before. Does your English course include any drama? Practical work, I mean. If it does I might be able to give you a hand, put you in touch with people at the Centre.’
‘Nothing like that, just set books.’
‘Books on books on books.’ He drained his whisky glass. ‘Poem I once read about a dried up kind of guy who spent all his time in the British Museum.’
She smiled her sweetest smile. ‘Alex, you know you said how Joanne Stevens worked at the Arts Centre?’
‘That’s right. In the caff, serving meals, making salads. She’s an odd girl. The sort who looks thirty-five when she’s in her early twenties but stays looking much the same for the next twenty years.’
‘Have you spoken to her?’
‘Have I spoken to her?’ He repeated the words slowly. ‘Must have although I can’t remember when. Why d’you ask?’
‘Oh, no reason.’ She could hear her mother’s key in the front door. ‘I saw Dad earlier on,’ she said, suddenly feeling disloyal. Just because she and Alex had been having a reasonably pleasant conversation? ‘I told him to buy a pan scourer but I don’t think he knows what they are.’
Why did she feel obliged to make out her father was so hopeless and helpless when exactly the opposite seemed to be true? Perhaps that was how she had hoped he would be. Then she could have suggested he found a bigger place to live, somewhere where she could move in and take over the cooking and cleaning, and look after him properly. But was that really what she wanted to do?
‘Hi.’ Her mother, who was starting to sound as nauseatingly false as that awful Jude, kissed Alex on the mouth, then perched herself on the edge of his chair.
‘You can sit here,’ said Karen getting up. ‘I’m going upstairs.’
‘Oh stay for a bit, love.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’d like you to. Isn’t that enough reason?’
At the top of the stairs Karen paused, trying to hear what Alex and her mother were saying about her. She’s so prickly, so over-sensitive. It doesn’t matter what I say it always seems to be the wrong thing. Of course it was the wrong thing. When her father was at home her mother had treated her like most mothers treat their teenage kids. Talking to her in a relatively normal way, not taking much notice of anything she said or did. Now it was as if she had taken lessons in How to Relate to your Daughter. Was it the influence of Jude or was she trying to impress Alex? Ease her own conscience, more like, for breaking up the family.
Karen laughed out loud. She couldn’t stop herself. However much she tried to work up a head of steam the truth was that she was starting to adjust to the situation. Besides she had her own life to lead and as soon as she had finished this assignment she would start work on her ‘File on Natalie Stevens’, making notes, writing down names and addresses, descriptions of the Stevens family, and Olive Pearce and the baby.
She needed to meet Liam Pearce, but that was going to be difficult. Did he ever take the baby for a walk in the buggy? It seemed highly unlikely. If only Mrs Pearce had agreed to let her baby-sit. But there must be another way. All she needed to do was lie on the bed with her eyes closed and let her unconscious mind run free until the solution to the problem suddenly fell into place. Five minutes later she was asleep.
Chapter Six
Simon was leaning against the wall, waiting for her.
‘What d’you want?’ It wasn’t a very nice thing to say but the way he seemed to be following her wherever she went had started to get on her nerves. Only of course it wasn’t really true. Simon was worried about their relationship, that was the reason he hung about, hoping for reassurance that everything was still all right.
‘Had a good time with Russell Donnelly did you?’ he said, referring back to the time at the Sports Centre two days before. ‘I saw him waiting by the counter. I should think he’s just your type. Small brain, large body.’
‘Don’t be so stupid. Natalie Stevens worked at the Sports Centre. I thought he might be able to tell me what kind of a person she was.’
Simon said nothing. He had bought himself a chocolate biscuit, wrapped in the kind of paper you have to tear open with your teeth. The paper came apart in a rush and the biscuit fell in two halves on the coffee bar floor.
‘Simon.’ Karen took a deep breath and spoke very fast, avoiding his eyes. ‘I’ve been thinking. Just lately we seem to be getting on each other’s nerves. D’you think it would be best if we didn’t see each other quite so much? Well, maybe not at all – just for a couple of weeks.’
‘You’re finishing with me.’
‘No.’
‘For that Russell bloke.’
‘Oh, don’t be so ridiculous. I just want a break. You keep acting as though you own me.’
He stuffed part of the broken biscuit into his mouth. ‘Tessie doesn’t seem to mind,’ he said sulkily. ‘The way Glen talks to her you’d think they were married or something.’
‘Yes, well I’m not Tessie.’
Suddenly she felt as if all the people she was closest to were starting to abandon her. Her parents, Tessie, and now Simon. But it wasn’t Simon who wanted to ease up on their relat
ionship. She was the one who had changed, not everyone else. Then it occurred to her that this interest in Natalie Stevens’ murder might just be an escape from everyone else, and her own problems. But what problems? She didn’t have any problems.
‘I saw Dad,’ she said, gathering crumbs into a pile, then sweeping them off the table. ‘Now he has to live in Cobb Street his work’s all squashed into one tiny room. He has to see his clients in the same place where he keeps all his files.’
Simon nodded vaguely. ‘Have cosy little chats, do you, you and your fantastic father?’
Karen erupted. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Simon. It’s all right for you, your parents’ll never split up, they’re not the sort.’
‘You mean they’re boring like me.’
She stood up. ‘Look, I’ll see you around.’
‘When?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Just don’t keep forcing me to behave in a particular way.’
Out in the street she started to breathe more slowly. Why did people keep putting her in situations where she felt guilty? What was she supposed to have done?
Guilty. The word echoed in her head. A memory of some stupid TV movie. The prison door clanging shut on a man condemned to stay locked up for the rest of his life. Who was it that had been guilty of hitting Natalie Stevens on the back of the head with a heavy object, then rolling her unconscious body into a few inches of water and leaving her to drown? But Natalie’s death wasn’t a TV movie. A life that had been supposed to last for seventy years or more had come to an end when she was only twenty, nearly twenty-one, and there was no way whoever had done it should get away with it.
She had left her bike at home but the walk across town would do her good, help her to unwind. If Olive Pearce saw her watching the house she would become suspicious, but just walking past the house couldn’t do any harm.
By the time she reached Arkwright Way the rain had started to fall in cold sheets that blew into her face and turned her hair into rats’ tails. There were lights on in the house and upstairs the curtains had been drawn across. In a downstairs room Karen caught a glimpse of a huge television screen. Justin’s programmes would be over by now and Mrs Pearce would be watching one of the soap operas that came on before the evening news. Was Liam there too? If Glen was right Liam had been unemployed for well over a year, and made very little effort to find himself a job. He played football on Sunday mornings but spent most of the rest of his time lying in bed or watching TV.
