A Violent End. Emma Page
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fashionable clip on the crown of her head.
Across the landing she heard her cousin Christine leave the bedroom she shared with her husband, Ian, and go downstairs. Karen crossed to the door of her own room and opened it a fraction. She could hear the muted tones of the kitchen radio giving out the morning’s information and opinions, the sounds of Christine preparing breakfast. Along the corridor she could hear Ian splashing in the bathroom.
She closed her door quietly and went to her desk. On a shelf above her books were neatly ranged. She took down an old maths textbook and opened it. The last few pages had been pasted to the back cover along the outside and bottom edges, forming a concealed pocket.
She fingered a snapshot out from the pocket and sat down at the desk, gazing intently at the likeness. After some moments she opened a desk drawer and took out a magnifying-glass. She sat closely studying the photograph.
Along the corridor the bathroom door opened, she heard Ian’s footsteps going back to the bedroom. Karen at once replaced the photograph, restored the book to the shelf and put the magnifying-glass away in the drawer.
A delicious fragrance of percolating coffee greeted her as she entered the kitchen. On the radio a weatherman spoke of lowering skies, falling temperatures, strong winds springing up, scattered showers and rainstorms later in the day, some of them heavy.
‘That sounds like the end of the fine weather,’ Christine said with a grimace. She was a markedly competent-looking woman of thirty-four, with an air of vigorous health, of all her energies being strongly directed towards clearly defined ends. She ran a mail-order agency and also acted as a party organizer for more than one enterprise.
She cut bread for the toaster. Everything done swiftly, with economy of movement. She was sturdily built, somewhat above average height. Her naturally straight hair, of an indeterminate brown, was becomingly curled, cut in a trouble-free, up-to-the-minute style. She was trimly dressed in distinctive casual clothes of good quality. She had few natural advantages in the way of features or colouring but where another woman, less determined, would have appeared decidedly ordinary, Christine achieved a result attractive to the eye.
Karen set about laying the table. Christine was her first cousin. Both Karen’s parents were dead and she was in the care of the Social Services Department of the local authority. She had come to live at Jubilee Cottage in July, when the school year ended. She had previously been living with foster parents in Wychford, a small town ten miles to the west of Cannonbridge. Difficulties had arisen and the foster parents had refused to keep her. She had been returned to the residential children’s home in Wychford from which she had originally been sent to the foster parents. It was from this residential home that she had been transferred at the end of term into the care of the Wilmots.
As Karen took plates from the dresser Ian Wilmot came down the stairs and into the kitchen. Easy and unhurried, with his usual amiable, half-smiling expression. Good-looking, with fair hair and blue eyes; four years older than his wife. He worked as a planning assistant for the Cannonbridge Council.
He spoke a few good-humoured words to Karen and Christine, picked up a newspaper and glanced through it as Christine set a packet of muesli on the table. ‘There’s a cold chicken in the fridge for this evening,’ she told them. She wouldn’t be in for supper herself, Friday was always her busiest day, she would be out from shortly after lunch. Always important on a Friday to make sure she got her dues from the paypackets before the weekend spending began in earnest. And there were always a couple of evening parties she must look in on, sales parties she had helped to organize: clothes, lingerie, kitchenware, jewellery, make-up, toys, children’s wear.
Ian looked up from his paper. ‘I’ve got that meeting at seven-thirty,’ he reminded her. The meeting, to be held in a school hall in Cannonbridge, had been organized by a local action group drumming up opposition to a proposed building development. Ian had to attend as an observer for the Council.
Christine glanced across at Karen. ‘What about you? Will you be going to Lynn’s after college?’ Lynn Musgrove was a fellow student of Karen’s, on the same course. She lived close to the college and Karen sometimes went home with her after classes; they did their homework together.
‘I’m not sure what I’ll be doing.’ Karen reached cups and saucers down from the dresser. ‘I might go along to the library.’ The public library stayed open till eight on Friday evenings. ‘It depends what homework I have.’
‘Are you making any more friends at the college?’ Ian asked in an easy tone from behind his newspaper. She seemed to be settling into the course well enough but she hadn’t so far brought any friend home, not even Lynn Musgrove.
Karen shrugged. ‘There’s no one special.’ She took knives and spoons from a drawer. ‘You’ve no need to worry. I’m getting on fine.’
‘You know you’re always more than welcome to bring anyone here. For a meal, or to stay the night. For a weekend, if you like.’
‘Yes, I do know that. Thank you.’
Ian gave her a little nod by way of reply, an encouraging smile. Christine didn’t smile. She stood watching as Karen went into the larder and came out again with honey and marmalade.
‘Has Paul Clayton been in touch with you at all?’ Christine asked suddenly.
Karen came to an abrupt halt. She stood staring at Christine, holding the jars in a tight clasp. A bright flush rose in her face.
‘Has he been in touch with you since you’ve been here?’ Christine persisted. ‘Has he attempted any kind of contact?’
Karen drew a long, quavering breath. She moved again, went to the table and set down the pots. She didn’t look at Christine.
‘No, of course not.’ She put a hand up to her forehead, shielding her face. Clayton was a married man with a young family, a neighbour of Karen’s foster parents in Wychford. An association had formed between Karen and Clayton and had inevitably come to light; this was why the foster parents had refused to keep her, why she had been sent back to the children’s home.
‘You’re quite sure?’ Christine pressed her. ‘He’s made no attempt at all to get in touch with you?’
The colour ebbed from Karen’s cheeks. She remained motionless by the table. ‘Yes, of course, I’m sure.’ She still didn’t look at Christine, still kept her hand up to her brow. ‘He’s made no attempt.’
Ian folded his paper and put it down. ‘You would be sensible and tell us if Clayton did make any approach?’ he said gently.
Karen lowered her hand and grasped the back of a chair. Her head drooped. ‘Yes, of course I would.’
‘You know we’re only thinking of what’s best for you,’ Ian added in the same gentle tone.
‘Yes, I know that.’
‘You do realize,’ Christine put in with a quick frown, ‘that if you were foolish enough to start seeing Clayton again and it came out, the Social Services would consider we weren’t exercising proper control over you. You’d probably be moved from here, very likely back into another residential home. You wouldn’t want that, would you?’
Karen raised her head and looked her full in the face.
‘No, I would not.’ She spoke with fervour. ‘That’s the last thing I’d want.’
Ten miles away, in an exclusive, expensively landscaped development on the edge of Wychford, the Clayton family sat at breakfast. The house was large, as modern houses go, set among tall old trees, smoothly sculptured lawns, still emerald green.
In the big breakfast kitchen the four Claytons ate almost in silence at a central table under the glow diffused from an up-to-date light fitting. The entire house was done out in the same impersonal, businesslike way: Scandinavian-type styling, clean lines, new materials, everything of good quality, functional, hard-wearing, trouble-free. As if someone had chosen the lot in a single rapid swoop on a high-class furniture store –