‘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
