A Watery Grave (Karen Cady Book 1), Penny Kline [book recommendations for young adults txt] 📗

Joanne smiled a little, holding out her hands to show that she had no bags of washing. ‘I was only going to check how much it costs. I know it’s a bit of a walk but you could come back to the flat.’

‘Your flat? Yes, of course.’ It was almost too good to be true. What had she said that had made Joanne want to confide in her? Perhaps she had no-one to talk to and thought a stranger was better than nothing. But was that the real reason Joanne wanted her to go back to the flat? Perhaps she had something else in mind?

*

What Joanne called the flat turned out to be one room with the use of a shared kitchen and bathroom. Even so it was a pleasant enough room and Joanne seemed delighted with it. Two cans of white emulsion stood in the corner near the fireplace. On a small formica-topped table a brush and a bottle of white spirit had been placed neatly on a sheet of newspaper.

‘I thought white paint would make it look bigger,’ she said, noticing Karen staring at the cans. ‘The landlord said he didn’t mind.’

‘I should think he’d be pleased,’ said Karen, gazing at the walls that still had the marks of the previous tenant’s posters, and wondering how she would feel if it was her flat.

Joanne had switched on an electric kettle. ‘I’m afraid I don’t drink tea so there’s only coffee.’

‘Suits me fine.’ Karen strolled across the room and looked out of the window at the garden – a square of straggly grass, surrounded by empty flower beds on three sides and a strip of concrete close to the back of the house. A man was hanging a grey-looking sheet on the washing line, but it wasn’t the man in the suit. He probably lived in some luxurious place, paid for with the rent money his tenants paid out each month.

‘My parents live up by the golf course,’ said Joanne.

‘Oh, yes.’ Karen decided to feign ignorance of Mr & Mrs Stevens’ home, then realised they would have mentioned her visit while Joanne was away on holiday.

Joanne was watching her. ‘It was you who talked to them last week, wasn’t it?’

There was no point in lying. ‘Yes, I’m sorry. Look, I wasn’t checking up on you. It’s just that–’

‘Oh, I don’t care.’ Joanne took a couple of mugs from a rickety wooden cupboard. ‘You were curious about Natalie. That’s why I thought it would be better if I told you about her. She was younger than me. I expect you know that already. Younger and prettier and more intelligent. Not that she did any work – at school I mean – but she was never in bad trouble.’

She spooned instant coffee into the mugs, then opened the smallest refrigerator Karen had ever seen and took out a carton of milk. ‘You know how some people seem to be able to get away with murder?’ She gulped a little, realising what she said. ‘Most of the teachers seemed to think she was funny. Even when she cheeked them.’

Karen sat on the edge of Joanne’s bed. It had a cover made of striped Indian cotton, the kind of thing Karen’s mother sold at the shop. If Joanne wanted any wall hangings or brightly coloured ornaments she might be able to get her ten per cent off. More, since she had a feeling the shop hadn’t been doing too well during the last few months.

‘I’m an only child,’ said Karen, responding to Joanne’s obvious jealously of her sister. ‘I’ve often wished I had a brother or sister but I expect it can be difficult. People comparing you all the time, only I thought being the younger one would probably be worse.’

‘I hated Natalie,’ said Joanne, ‘but that doesn’t mean I wished her any harm. Now that she’s dead. Well, you can’t hate someone who’s . . .’

‘No.’ Karen’s voice came out as a whisper.

‘It wasn’t Liam who did it. He hasn’t got the guts. The police are so sure it was him they haven’t bothered to look for the real murderer.’ She passed Karen a yellow mug, then balanced her own on the mantelpiece and stood leaning against the wall.

‘Joanne?’ Karen had to find out as much as she could. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking but did you have some kind of row with your parents? Is that why you moved out?’

‘I’m twenty-three. Would you like to be still living at home? Ever since it happened my father’s insisted on driving me to work, then picking me up at the end of my shift.’

‘Yes, that must be awful, but I suppose it’s understandable.’

‘Oh, it’s only because he feels people blamed him for Natalie’s death. It’s only so he can be seen to be doing his duty.’

Her voice was cold, bitter. Suddenly she changed the subject. ‘You’re still at school. I heard Alex talking about you. I failed most of my exams, but I’m not stupid.’ She glared at Karen – but perhaps she was thinking about someone quite different. ‘You don’t have to be brilliant to do well. I didn’t realise at the time. I’m going to take them all again.’

‘Good idea. So you moved here to have some peace and quiet. They have classes in the evening, don’t they? It must be pretty tiring, working at the cafe all day, then–’

‘I like it,’ she said. ‘It’s what I want to do. And besides . . .’ The pallor of her skin had returned. So had the sweat on her upper lip. ‘When the truth comes out, when they find what really happened, I want . . . I want . . .’ She never completed the sentence.

‘What truth, Joanne?’

But she seemed to be miles away. Then two bright spots of colour appeared on