It wasn’t Joanne’s car. It belonged to a middle-aged man with a bald head and steel-framed glasses. The two of them exchanged a few words, then the car moved off, negotiating the exit from the car park much too fast, then passing within a few feet of Karen and almost mounting the pavement. Looking through the fingers of the hand she was holding up to her face Karen saw that the man was still talking. His mouth opened and closed, showing large uneven teeth, and his face looked red with anger – or may be it was always that colour.
Joanne was crying.
Chapter Four
In a couple of hours time Karen was meeting Simon at the swimming pool. Tessie and Glen would be there too. The pool was part of the Sports Centre and the tickets cost nearly twice as much as the ordinary baths. On the other hand the Sports Centre pool had a wave machine, glass walls that let in the sun – if there was any – and a collection of leafy plants that made the place feel like a jungle – well, almost.
First there was something else Karen needed to do. It was just before three. For once the Art class had ended early. It was one of those strokes of luck. Steve Whitrow had spilled a load of paint and some idiot had stepped in it and skidded halfway across the room. Mrs Eaton had kept a few volunteers behind to clear up the mess, and let the rest of them go.
If Karen cycled fast she could reach the park in about fifteen minutes. It was only a long shot but she had looked up the television programmes and the ones for little kids began at three-thirty: a cartoon about a spotty dog on BBC 1 and something with three dolls who lived in a cottage in the country on ITV.
Surely anyone with a small baby breathed a sigh of relief when they could dump it in front of the television screen? But, if Karen was in luck, during the half hour or so before the programme began Liam Pearce’s mother might take the baby to the park for a breath of fresh air. Babies grizzled if they stayed at home all day. That’s what Tessie said and she ought to know since her younger brother, Robin, was still only six and Karen could remember what a pain in the neck he had been before he started school.
The gates to the park were open but the entrance was a sea of mud. Karen padlocked her bike to the iron railings, took a book of nineteenth century poets from her pocket, jumped two puddles and started walking towards the pond.
There was no-one in sight except a man with an Old English sheepdog on a lead. Dire warnings were written up at intervals, explaining what would happen to the owners if they allowed their pets to foul the grass. Karen sat on a wooden bench with some of its struts missing and turned the pages of her book. Tennyson, Browning, Gerald Manley Hopkins. Two or three of the poems were quite good, if you liked that kind of thing. Actually the course wasn’t turning out to be all that bad – not that she would let her mother and Alex know how she felt about it. Her father – she might tell him. As far as she knew he had no particular interest in English Literature. That meant he would listen without interrupting, without having to demonstrate his superior knowledge.
A woman was walking in Karen’s direction. She was wheeling a buggy with the transparent plastic hood pulled over where the baby was sitting, although it wasn’t raining, it wasn’t even cold. As she came closer Karen recognised the same hideous blue trousers and dark red sweater that Olive Pearce had been wearing on the previous occasion. On top of them, but left unbuttoned, was a grey padded anorak with white fur trim on the collar.
If Karen spoke to her would she recognise the person who had been spying on the house from the other side of the road? It seemed unlikely. She and Simon had been well away and Mrs Pearce had been busy with the washing, and then with the baby.
Karen stood up. ‘I’m sorry to bother you but d’you know what time it is?’
Hearing her voice the woman hesitated, then slowed down. ‘Sorry, were you talking to me?’
Karen smiled. ‘I was wondering if you knew the time.’
‘Twenty past.’ She seemed in no hurry to move on.
‘Thanks. I think there’s something wrong with my watch. It’s one of those ones with no numbers, just a picture of some skiers on a mountain and you have to guess where the hands have got to.’ She held out her wrist, expecting the woman to ignore it but Mrs Pearce seemed quite interested. Then to Karen’s amazement she sat down on the bench and bent over, puffing a little, to fix the brake on the baby’s buggy.
‘Live near here do you?’
Karen shook her head. ‘Came here on my bike.’ She jerked her head in the direction of the railings. ‘Supposed to be meeting a friend but she hasn’t turned up.’
‘I come every day – to give the baby an airing.’
Karen wanted to laugh. Giving him an airing made him sound like a pile of washing. She peered through the plastic cover, although the only part of him that was visible was his rosy-cheeked face. The rest of his body was enveloped in a bright blue snowsuit and his hands
