The Killing of Katie Steelstock (4 page)

“O.K.,” she said. “It is a bit hot.”

There was a curtained opening on the right-hand side of the stage, which led to the back door of the hall. To the left the path led back to Church Lane. To the right a gate gave directly onto the churchyard.

“Let’s sit down for a moment.”

It was a black night, with the rind of a new moon just showing over the church tower. The seat was set back between an ancient yew tree and an elaborate tomb. On the headstone of the tomb an angel was poised on one toe, ready to take flight at the sound of the last trump. Walter, as they sat down, slid one arm around the girl in a practiced sort of way. The angel looked disapproving.

Not quite as steady as people make out, thought Lavinia, who was nearly eighteen but not inexperienced. That was pretty smooth.

“There’s something I wanted to tell you,” said Walter.

“Now’s your chance.”

“You mustn’t laugh at me.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“The fact is, I haven’t been able to take my eyes off you all evening. Last time I saw you, I was still thinking of you as a schoolgirl. Now you’ve changed—did you know it yourself, I wonder?—into someone quite, quite different.”

A small shadow moved under the darkness of the yew tree. A twig snapped. Walter swung around and said fiercely, “Who’s there? Come out of it.”

“The same again, Sam,” said Vigors. The round had reached him for the second time. Five drinks had inflated them all, but they were far from drunk.

“The real problem of today,” said Mariner, “is mindless violence. The sort of violence that ruins football matches, breaks unoffending shop windows and wrecks railway carriages. It’d be easier to forgive if there was some point to it.”

“Like hijacking and kidnapping, you mean?” said Vigors.

“I don’t condone that sort of thing, of course. But the people who do it do at least have an objective.”

“Even if it’s only money.”

“Certainly. But they’re
not
doing it because they’re bored. And they’re
not
doing it because they enjoy violence for its own sake.”

“Doing it for kicks. Isn’t that the modern expression?” said Gonville. “There was a case in the papers the other day. A girl of fifteen and a boy of twelve—
twelve,
mind you—got their evening’s entertainment out of kicking an old woman to death. What can you do with people like that?”

“Half the trouble is our attitude,” said Mariner. “The Government positively encourages us to be weak-kneed. That White Paper they put out, ‘Children in Trouble.’ What a load of drip! It’s not the children who are in trouble, for God’s sake, it’s their victims. The women and old people they beat up and rob.”

“It’s not only the Government. The newspapers play the same game.”

“Some of them.”

“Including,” said Vigors, “that outstanding example of progressive pink journalism, the Hannington
Gazette.”

“You mean the gospel according to Jonathan Limbery,” said Gonville. “I thought that last article of his was practically contempt of court.”

“I read it,” said Mariner. His face, which was normally a placid and unrevealing mask, had sharpened into more than mere disapproval. Looking at him, Vigors thought, Something personal there, I fancy. “In my view, for what it’s worth, that young man should have been prosecuted. Isn’t it a crime to advocate the destruction of our existing institutions by force?”

“Sedition,” said Vigors doubtfully. “You’d need a very strong case to carry a jury in these libertarian days.”

“It was the savagery of the article that appalled me. The sort of gloating pleasure about the prospect of anybody with more money or position than him having their faces stamped on.”

“He’s a savage young man,” agreed Gonville.

“A few years ago it wouldn’t have been so dangerous, because people would have laughed at him. Now one isn’t sure any longer.”

“One can’t be sure of anything these days,” said Vigors. “Except that if the price of drink goes up much further we shall all have to take the pledge. Cheers.”

“Cheers,” said Gonville.

Mariner was still angry. He said, “Mark my words, there could be trouble coming, and if it does come that young man and people like him will be to blame for it.”

Noel Vigors was dancing with Katie. He was describing the strategy which had led the firm of Vigors and Dibden to an unexpected decision in their favour in the Reading County Court (“with costs”) when Katie said, “I’m sorry, Noel. I’ve simply got to get out.”

“Get out? Where to?”

“Out of this place.”

“You’re not feeling ill, are you?”

“No. I’m perfectly well. And all I’ve had to drink tonight is one glass of gin and lime – without much gin in it. Be a dear. I think this dance is nearly over. Steer me close to the door, so that I can slip out the moment it stops.”

This was the main entrance and exit of the hall. The inner door led into a small lobby, with a gentlemen’s cloakroom on one side and a ladies’ cloakroom on the other, and then to the outer door, which gave onto Church Lane.

Noel said, “O.K. If that’s what you want.” The floor was now crowded. He timed his manoeuvre with precision, reaching the door as a roll of drums marked the end of that bout of mixed wrestling. Katie awarded him a quick smile, picked up the bag off the chair beside the door, slipped through the door and was gone.

At least two other people saw her go. One was Tony Windle. The other was Sally Nurse. She never took her eyes off Katie for long. Katie represented her ideal. She admired the way she dressed and she modelled her own appearance unobtrusively on it. She admired the success Katie had made of her career, without much hope that she could do the same. It was selfless admiration, unspoiled by jealousy.

“For goodness’ sake, Billy,” said Mrs. Gonville. “Get your father out of that bar. He’s been there for hours. I don’t know why he bothers to come to these dances. It’d be much cheaper and easier for him to do his drinking at home.”

“It’s time all we oldsters were in bed,” agreed Beaumorris. He had not stirred an inch from his chair during the whole evening and had enjoyed himself enormously.

Rosina, the youngest of the three Havelock children present, whirled past with Tony Windle in what they imagined was a Highland schottische.

Mrs. Havelock said, “I left Roney and Sim in charge at home. I tremble to think what they’ll have been getting up to.” She waved to Roseabel Tress, who wandered up in an absent-minded manner which suggested that her mind was more on Vedic Hindu mythology than on the Tennis Club disco.

“If you’re ready to go,” said Mrs. Havelock, “I’ll give you a lift. I don’t suppose the children want to come home yet, but they’ll have to do what they’re told, for once.”

“Very kind of you,” said Roseabel, staring around the room. “Very kind.” The overhead lights had been dimmed and a zoetrope, operated from the stage, was throwing alternate jets of red and green light across the room. The tempo of the band had quickened to a jungle stomp.

“Quite, quite pagan,” murmured Roseabel

“Like demented traffic lights,” said Mrs. Havelock, heaving her bulk out of the chair. “Are you coming, Olivia?”

“Walter will be driving me back,” said Mrs. Steelstock. “I expect he’ll be here in a moment.”

“You’re so lucky to have such a reliable child.”

Joe Cavey had many jobs. His main one was running the boathouse, seeing that the private boats were looked after and club boats shared out equitably. Another of his jobs was keeping an eye on the Memorial Hall. When it was used for a function, as it was that night, he undertook to see the last people off the premises, to turn off the lighting, to see that all the windows were shut and finally to lock the doors. He exercised a similar guardianship over the Tennis Club premises and ran the bar. He was paid a retainer for these activities and had the use of a cottage which stood at the point where Church Lane ran out onto the towpath.

On this evening, he was standing outside his back door listening to the sounds of dance music coming from the Memorial Hall at the far end of the lane. His own dancing days had been ended by a shell splinter through his right thigh at the crossing of the Santerno River. It had severed an artery and he had been lucky not to bleed to death. Fortunately the medical orderly had known his job and had clapped on a tourniquet in time. Joe could still see the bright red frothy blood which had pumped out at such an alarming speed. He sometimes dreamed about blood. His right leg was stiff and ached in the cold weather.

Mr. Cavey drew on his pipe and blew out a gust of smoke. His wife, who had objected to his smoking in bed, had been dead for fifteen years. He thought of her without regret. He preferred doing for himself. Most of his spare time was spent looking after his back garden, with its rows of early and main-crop potatoes, sprouts, onions and peas. He kept a shotgun in his kitchen and waged ceaseless war on the pigeons.

Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw black shadows moving across the field beyond his garden hedge. The night was so dark that it was impossible to be certain. Dogs? Too big for dogs and the wrong shape. No. They were human, going fast and keeping low. Boys, he guessed. Or girls. Youngsters certainly. Mr. Cavey removed his pipe and bellowed out in his Army voice, “Oo’s that?”

The figures checked for a moment, then accelerated. They seemed to throw themselves at the fence which bordered the towpath. No doubt about it, they were boys. Mr. Cavey heard the sound of ripping cloth.

“Young monkeys,” said Mr. Cavey. “One of them’ll need a patch in his breeks.”

He stood for a few minutes more. The incident had disturbed him. The boys, whoever they might be, were clearly up to no good. Either they had been doing something they should not have been doing, or were intending to do something. Their flight had betrayed their guilt

Mr. Cavey’s mind did not move quickly. But having thought the matter through, he came to a conclusion. The only place which concerned him where they could do any mischief was the boathouse. A window had been broken there a month or more ago. The culprit had not been discovered. Nor, now that he came to think of it had the window been mended. Something must be done about that

Mr. Cavey knocked out his pipe, leaving it on the window ledge to cool. Then he walked slowly back to his front gate, paused to enjoy the mixed smell of the honeysuckle and night-scented stock, emerged onto the towpath and set out for the boathouse, the bulk of which he could see dimly in the distance against the blackness of the western sky.

“You three can squeeze into the back,” said Mrs. Havelock. “You come in front with me, Roseabel.”

“It’s very kind of you,” said Miss Tress.

“Why
have we got to go home?” said Rosina. She was fourteen and it was the first grown-up dance she had been allowed to go to.

“Don’t argue with your mother,” said Michael. “It’s time all little girls were in bed.”

“I was only just getting going.”

“You were getting going all right,” said Lavinia. “Who was that character you were dancing with? It was meant to be an old-fashioned waltz. It looked like all-in wrestling.”

“It was Harvey Maxton. As you know very well.”

“He’s quite a useful rugger player,” said Michael.

“He certainly tackled Rosina low.”

“It’s the new grip,” said Rosina. “It’s called the bear hug.”

“Two minutes more and you
would
have been bare. He almost had your dress off your shoulders.”

“Get in,” said Mrs. Havelock. “Or walk.” The three children climbed aboard mutinously.

Their mother drove as she progressed through life, ponderously but steadily. The scattered lighting of the street ceased opposite West Hannington Manor. A few hundred yards farther on, at the point where Brickfield Road came in on the left, a narrow lane branched off to the right toward the river. The bungalow at the far end, as you approached the towpath, was a sprawling construction called “Heavealong.” Here the Havelocks, all eight of them, contrived to lead their ramshackle lives. “Shalimar,” the last bungalow, was smaller and neater. In it Roseabel Tress dwelt in lonely state. Both bungalows were built on brick piles and were regularly subject to flooding in the winter.

“Come in and have a cup of tea before you go to bed,” said Mrs. Havelock. “Rosina can put the kettle on.”

“I always put the kettle on. Why can’t Lavinia do it for a change?”

Mrs. Havelock waved a massive arm at her children and they disappeared up the path, still arguing.

“It’s very kind of you,” said Miss Tress. “I think perhaps I would like a cup of tea.” It was always a little daunting, the prospect of going back, particularly on such a dark night, to her empty home. Vishnu the Preserver might be there, but so too might Siva the Destroyer.

“I’ve had a lot of ups and downs in my life,” said Mrs. Havelock, “and I’ve never known any circumstances where a good strong cup of tea with plenty of sugar in it didn’t do me a power of good.”

The tea had been made and Mrs. Havelock was on the point of pouring it out when she paused. In the silence they all heard the click of the lock.

“Someone at the kitchen door,” said Rosina.

“Burglars,” said Lavinia. “Go and see, Mike.” Michael was sixteen and big for his age. He got up with a fair assumption of nonchalance and went out. There was scuffling; batlike voices were raised in protest; and he reappeared dragging the nine-year-old Sim by one ear. Roney followed, looking apprehensive.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” said Mrs. Havelock. “You ought to have been in bed hours ago.”

“Well, Mum, you see—”

“And what’s happened to Sim’s trousers?”

“It was old Cavey shouting at us. It startled us. Sim got caught in the barbed wire.”

Roney was a very good-looking boy with an engaging smile which had extracted him from countless tight corners. He switched it on now. His mother seemed far from placated. She said, “It was very naughty of you. You know you were meant to be looking after the babies.”

“They were all right,” said Roney. “They were asleep. Snoring like anything. We didn’t think you’d mind if we went out, just for a short time. After all, you were all enjoying yourselves.”