A Violent End

COPYRIGHT

Harper An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain in 1990 by Collins Crime

Copyright © Emma Page 1990

Emma Page asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

Source ISBN: 9780008175801

Ebook Edition © MARCH 2016 ISBN: 9780008175818

Version [2016-02-18]

DEDICATION

FOR CHRISTOPHER

with much love

(To say: Well done!)

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

About the Author

By Emma Page

About the Publisher

CHAPTER 1

On this Friday morning in mid-November the long spell of golden autumn weather showed signs of coming to an end. Swirls of cloud, gunmetal grey, slipped along through the lower sky, the freshening wind held a threat of rain.

In the scattered hamlet of Overmead, a mile or two to the east of Cannonbridge, lights shone out from isolated homesteads. Three-quarters of a mile beyond the silent, shadowy expanses of Overmead Wood, a neglected stretch of open woodland, a side road, scarcely more than a glorified lane, branched northwards from the main thoroughfare running out of Cannonbridge. Some five hundred yards along the side road stood Jubilee Cottage, the home of Ian and Christine Wilmot, in a sizable garden still bright with Michaelmas daisies, chrysanthemums, yellow poppies.

The cottage had been converted a few years ago from a pair of semi-detached Edwardian dwellings set at right-angles to each other. It was now a handsome, substantial, many-gabled residence with ornamental windows and or­nate chimneystacks, its mellow, rosy brick elegantly set off by cream-coloured paintwork, brilliant swags of scarlet pyracantha berries round the doors and windows.

In her comfortable bedroom on the first floor, furnished, like the rest of the house, with carefully chosen Edwardian furniture bought from auctions and salerooms, Karen Boland, a cousin of Christine Wilmot, was up and dressed, washed and groomed, ready for her day’s studies at the Cannonbridge College of Further Education. She had been a student at the college since September, following a full-time course in general education.

Karen was sixteen years old, slightly built, delicately pretty, with small, soft features and a smooth, rounded forehead that gave her a lingering look of childhood inno­cence, a little at variance with the veiled expression of her wide hazel eyes; they held a suggestion of wary containment, the look of one who has already learned some of the harsher lessons of life.

She was dressed in a sweater and slacks, ankle boots. She wore no make-up; her fine, clear skin had a peachy bloom. Her wavy, shoulder-length hair, a shining golden brown, was taken back and secured with a 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 – which was indeed precisely what had happened, the someone in question being Paul Clayton, his wife Joan remaining at home, feeling herself unfitted to take part in the foray.

The Claytons were eating a cooked breakfast. Joan Clayton punctiliously cooked a good breakfast for them every morning, winter and summer, one area of endeavour in which she could feel in control.

Paul Clayton was an electronics engineer, with his own prospering, expanding business. He was just turned forty, a tall, handsome man with a rangy figure, chiselled features, thick dark hair, grey eyes. His look was intent, unsmiling, the look of a man with a quick temper, who didn’t suffer fools gladly. Beside his plate lay his usual pile of newspapers. As he dealt with his breakfast he glanced rapidly over the financial pages of each paper in turn, here and there marking something with his pen.

Opposite him, anticipating every need of her husband and two children, Joan Clayton sat drinking her coffee with a tense, frowning air, watching in simmering silence Paul’s brisk manœuvres with the newspapers.

The children ate their breakfast as always, without fuss or complaint. Ten-year-old twins, boy and girl, they carried on their customary running mealtime conversation with each other in subdued undertones. Well-disciplined and well-behaved, they knew better than to try any larking about in front of their father.

Clayton drained his cup and pushed it forward without so much as a glance at his wife. She at once refilled the cup and pushed it back to him, watchful that not a drop spilled into the saucer.

She was a plain woman, the same age as her husband to within a few weeks. She looked every year of her age and more, with her despondent, anxious air. Carefully dressed and groomed, but without any natural feel for clothes, the end result was invariably the same: dowdiness.

She had known Paul all her life. They had grown up next door to each other in a working-class street of small, rented, terrace houses in Wychford. They had attended the same schools, sat in the same class. Paul was the son of a factory hand with little money to spare, Joan the daughter of a building labourer content to drink his pint of beer in the pub at the end of his day’s work, invest his weekly few shillings in the football pools, an occasional flutter on a horse or dog.

By nature Paul was a clever, hard-working, ambitious lad with an interest in science, always experimenting in the garden shed. Joan was neither clever nor ambitious and she had no interest in any form of science. She was a plain, hefty child, asking no more than to run errands for Paul, clear up his many and varied messes, her greatest pleasure to be permitted to help in an actual experiment.

When Paul was ten years old his father died. There was now even less money to spare. It became very clear to him that his path in life was to work still harder, help his mother as much as possible, make his way in the world as best he could. He left school at the earliest opportunity, got a job in his father’s old workplace, went to night school, studied hard, but still spent many hours in the garden shed experi­menting. Over the next few years he had several bright ideas which he passed on to his firm, receiving modest lump sums by way of token recognition.

As soon as Joan left school she went to work as a kitchen-hand in a working men’s café nearby. She still thought the sun rose and set with Paul Clayton, she was still ready to fetch and carry, lend a hand, in the evenings and at week­ends. They never courted or dated in any conventional sense but neither of them ever had any other dates. Paul had no interest in any kind of social activity. He was interested only in getting on. His mother died when he was twenty but his goals and ambitions were undiminished. He remained in the same house, on his own now; he continued to live the same kind of life.

The years slipped by. Then, one evening in his garden shed, Paul had an exceptionally bright idea. He knew at once he was on to a winner. This one he didn’t pass on to his firm, this one he hung on to. He was by now twenty-eight; if he was ever going to amount to anything he must make a start soon. Joan knew what was in the wind. She took it for granted he would pass the idea on as before, but he told her no; this one he was going to develop himself.

He called on more than one bank manager, he approached other conventional sources of capital, but without success. The world was sunk in recession, it was no time for a young man from the back streets to be welcomed through the portals of finance houses, no one wanted to know.

And then one winter Saturday some months later, Joan’s father won a substantial sum on the football pools he had unsuccessfully patronized for decades. His immediate re­action was that he would give up work and enjoy himself, but Joan thought otherwise. She said not a word about the win to Paul but sat talking long and earnestly, first to her mother and then to her father; she talked more in the next few days than she had ever talked in her life.

At the end of this sustained onslaught her father caved in. He put on a clean shirt and went next door. He was a simple, direct man, anxious for his daughter’s welfare and future happiness; he put his proposition to Paul simply and directly: if Paul would marry Joan he could count on a good chunk of the winnings–at a fair rate of interest–to set up in business. It was by no means a fortune but he could at least make a modest start.

It took Paul thirty seconds to make up his mind. The wedding took place at a register office four weeks later. Joan moved into the little house next door and Paul began operations in a small rented unit on the local industrial estate.

Joan was overjoyed. She remained overjoyed for some years. After two years the twins were born and she was even happier and busier. Paul worked harder than ever, still going to evening classes, still studying, still spending hours in his shed, although she no longer joined him there but sat contentedly knitting or sewing in front of the living-room fire when the twins were in bed. She never felt herself neglected or lonely.

The business prospered. Paul moved into larger premises. The twins went to school. Paul decided that the time had come to leave the little house, move somewhere more suited to their improved position. Joan would have been happy to stay where they were but she fell in as always with whatever Paul decided. The new house was fitted out with every kind of labour-saving device; there was a good deal more leisure now for Joan, a good deal more money to spend.

She had nursed hopes that Paul might at long last begin to relax, they might branch out into a more social life together. But Paul brushed aside all such tentative sugges­tions. He looked on social life with contempt as the shallow activity of vain people without enough to do or to think about. ‘Find some outside interests,’ he told her. ‘Spend some money on yourself. Take things easy, enjoy your­self.’

She did her best. She joined the Parent-Teacher Associ­ation, took part in church activities, went to classes in cookery and flower-arranging. She made an effort to do something about her appearance, bought new clothes in the latest fashions at prices she could scarcely credit. But they never felt right on her. She settled in the end for upmarket versions of the plain, functional, serviceable garments she had always worn.

And still there remained a wilderness of leisure she didn’t know how to fill. Paul didn’t appear to notice as she began a slow slide into depression, punctuated by unnerving, seem­ingly random attacks of panic.

Now, on this November morning, she glanced about and saw that the children had finished breakfast. She sent them upstairs as usual to wash their hands and faces, brush their teeth, make themselves ready for school. It was always she who drove them to school; Paul’s works lay in the opposite direction.

She sat watching her husband with tense concentration. He looked at his watch, drained his cup and pushed back his chair. At once she nerved herself, launching precipitately into speech.

‘Will you be coming with me to the musical evening next week?’

He paused, surprised.

‘In the church hall,’ she added rapidly. ‘Tuesday, half past seven, it’s for Third World charities. I mentioned it to you last week. You promised to think about it and let me know.’

‘I’m afraid I forgot all about it,’ he told her amiably.

She twisted her hands together. ‘It’s a good programme, in a very good cause.’

‘I’m sorry.’ His tone was still easy and amiable. ‘I simply haven’t the time. We’ve got a rush on just now.’ He stood up, smiled down at her. ‘Anyway, it’s hardly my style. But don’t let me stop you going. You get out and enjoy yourself. There must be some woman from the church you can go with.’ He gathered up his newspapers. ‘I may be late this evening. Don’t bother about any supper for me, I can get a bite somewhere. If I want anything when I come in I can get it myself.’

She sat gazing up at him, her hands tightly clasped. ‘That’s three times this week you’ve been late home.’

He made a comical grimace. ‘Is that so?’ He patted his pockets, checked his keys. ‘You know how it is, the business won’t run itself. If there’s work to do, it’s got to be done.’ He kept impatience from his voice, kept his expression friendly and smiling. ‘Competition’s fiercer than ever these days. If you don’t keep pushing forward you very soon grind to a halt.’ He went round the table, stooped and gave her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek, straightened up, turned to go.

She suddenly overflowed with anger and resentment. ‘You’re seeing that girl again! That’s why you’re late!’

The muscles tensed along his jaw. He didn’t turn back to look at her. ‘What girl?’ he asked lightly.

‘What girl?’ she echoed fiercely. She was on the edge of tears, but she kept her voice low because of the children. She had an air of being astounded at her own temerity but she pressed resolutely on. ‘Have you got half a dozen girls on the go, then, that you don’t know who I’m talking about? I’m talking about Karen Boland.’

‘You’re talking nonsense,’ he said soothingly. He half turned, half smiled. ‘You’re upsetting yourself for nothing. I haven’t laid eyes on Karen since she left Wychford, months ago.’

There was a brief silence. ‘Is that the truth?’ She looked beseechingly up at him.

He patted her shoulder. ‘Of course it is.’ He glanced again at his watch. ‘I may have been a fool but I’m not a damned lunatic. That’s all water under the bridge, best forgotten.’ He gave her shoulder another encouraging pat and left the room. She heard the front door open and shut, his car starting up, moving off down the drive.

She got slowly to her feet, shaken and trembling. From force of habit she began to gather up the breakfast things, set them down on the draining-board. She stood beside it with her head lowered and her eyes closed, fighting back the tears.