On April the twenty-sixth there was an account of the inquest. Death by drowning. A blow on the back of the head indicating foul play. There was too much to take in and remember. Karen glanced at the bearded assistant, who was still poring over his list, then placed the relevant sheet of paper on the photocopier and searched in her pocket for the right coins to put in the machine.
The first copy came out with half the story missing. She pulled the newspaper into a better position, then found a couple more coins and managed to copy the news items in two earlier editions. She felt on edge, as though any minute now the man was going to ask what she was doing. But why should he? She had as much right as anyone else to use the library facilities. For all he knew she might need the stories for her school work.
When she returned the pile of newspapers to the information desk he looked up briefly and managed a feeble smile. ‘Found what you wanted?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ She folded the photocopies and stuffed them into her jacket pockets. Later, in the safety of her bedroom, she would study them in detail, but before she returned home there was one more place she had to visit.
*
In the entrance to the Arts Centre a group of laughing, chattering people were studying a poster advertising a French film about a serial killer. She remembered the name. Alex had said it was a work of art, nothing like the American rubbish that appealed to people’s morbid wish for sex and violence.
‘Hypocrites.’ She had meant to speak under her breath but the word came out louder than she expected.
A woman in a long black dress turned round and glared. Karen knew her by sight but couldn’t remember who she was. One of Alex’s fancy friends?
The cafe was deserted, apart from two men sitting at a table by a high window. Karen approached the counter and asked for a cup of tea. She disliked tea, but according to the prices scribbled on a blackboard on the wall, it was the cheapest drink available.
A man with a partly-shaved head and designer stubble dropped a tea bag into a thick mug, then held it under an urn.
Karen had hoped it would be a girl behind the counter, but as she waited she noticed there was someone in the kitchen, slicing up a greasy-looking block of cake. The girl was dressed in a white shirt and black skirt and her light brown hair was tied back and kept in place by what looked like a blue rubber band. Could it really be Joanne? Alex had said Natalie’s sister and a guy called Ray were the only people who worked in the cafe during the day, but as far as Karen could see, the girl in the kitchen bore no resemblance to the photograph of Natalie in the newspaper.
Taking her mug of tea to a nearby table and choosing a chair that gave her a good view of the counter, Karen watched, hoping the girl would bring the slices of cake to a display cabinet containing an unappetising assortment of brown scones and slices of cold pizza.
The place was filling up. A fat man with a beer belly that hung over the belt on his jeans was holding forth on his life-drawing class, saying what a fascinating subject the human body was, especially an older woman with a face that showed all the experiences she had been through. Karen curled her lip, storing up his words to repeat to Alex as an example of the kind of people who frequented the Arts Centre. At least the class hadn’t been forced to gawp at the fat man’s body.
Just for a moment she had forgotten about Joanne Stevens. Then she noticed that the girl was now standing behind the counter. She looked about twenty-five, but she could have been anything between about twenty and thirty. Her skin was very pale and she had thin colourless lips. In fact she was about as unlike Natalie as it was possible to imagine and if it hadn’t been for the badge on her shirt Karen would have assumed she must be someone else.
JOANNE. The badge had been written in blue ink and was slightly smudged. It drooped, as did everything else about her, and as Karen watched, she felt a mixture of irritation and sympathy.
She stood up and placed her empty mug on the counter. ‘Thanks.’
‘Thank you.’ The girl’s voice was deep, husky, but perhaps she had a sore throat.
There were so many things Karen wanted to ask, but how could she? Hello, my name’s Karen. I’m interested in your sister’s murder. Do you think Liam Pearce did it and the police just can’t find enough evidence to charge him, or could the killer be someone entirely different?
Joanne took the mug and carried it to a draining board. She spoke briefly to the man with the shaved head, then started putting on her coat.
Karen hesitated. If Joanne was going home it might be possible to follow her, even catch up with her and introduce herself, perhaps pretending she thought they had once attended the same school. On the other hand Joanne could have a car. On her wages from the Arts Centre cafe? It seemed unlikely.
Karen hurried towards the swing doors and ran down the steps, crossing the street, then pausing by the row of shop windows that would provide her with an excuse for hanging about.
The first shop sold handmade shoes, the kind Karen loathed. Repulsive things, all colours of the
