‘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
