A Watery Grave (Karen Cady Book 1) by Penny Kline (rm book recommendations TXT) 📕

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