A Question of Guilt (11 page)

I climbed out of the 4 x 4 again and set off back towards the High Street and the library. When I got there, however, it was to find it all locked up. A notice stuck to the inside of the glass-panelled door gave today's opening times as ten a.m. to one p.m., and the next session wasn't until Monday morning. It hadn't occurred to me that the library would be closed on a Friday – when I'd lived at home and used it, it had always been open every day but Wednesday. The reduced hours were, I supposed, a sign of the times.

This was, to put it mildly, something of a blow. I didn't want to have to wait until Monday to gather the information I needed. I stood for a moment, staring balefully at the locked doors, turning over my options. I could go back to the café, have something to eat, and have another crack at Lisa, or I could go to the newspaper office. They'd probably know how I could contact someone from the dramatic society – they must cover their productions. There was a good chance they'd have something on file about Dawn's fatal accident, too, but when I'd been there before no one had mentioned it because they thought it was the fire I was interested in.

A sudden thought struck me – why hadn't Lisa told me about it when I asked about Dawn? She must have known her former flatmate was dead. Very strange. But it confirmed my suspicion I'd get very little out of Lisa, and certainly nothing at all at this time of day, when she was busy with lunches.

I hoped the
Gazette
office didn't close for lunch. The
Western News
offices didn't, but this wasn't a big-city newspaper, but a small-staffed local weekly. Mentally crossing my fingers, I made my way down the High Street.

I was in luck. The lights were all on, and through the plate-glass window I could see the receptionist, Tara, at her desk. I pushed open the door and went inside.

Besides Tara and one girl working on a computer the office was empty. No one in the chief reporter's office where I'd done my research when I was here previously, as far as I could see, and – thank goodness – no Josh. Tara's suspicious look was bad enough; she'd obviously recognized me as the person who'd taken liberties with her boss's files – hardly surprising given my rather conspicuous crutches!

‘I was wondering if you could tell me anything about the Compton Players,' I said. Tara looked at me blankly and a little mutinously. ‘I'm trying to find out when and where they meet,' I went on, ‘and, ideally, a contact number for the secretary.'

Tara shook her head. ‘I'm sorry, I can't help you.' Then she thought better of it, her resentment of me losing out to the call of duty. ‘Katie!' she called in the direction of the girl at the computer. ‘Do you know anything about the Compton Players?'

Katie looked up from what she was doing.

‘I've done a couple of reports on them. Why?'

I crossed the office to her desk and repeated my question.

‘As far as I know, they meet in the town hall,' Katie said. ‘I think their regular night is a Monday, and a couple of other evenings as well when they've got a production coming up. They've only just done their annual pantomime, though, so they may be having a bit of a break.'

‘You wouldn't have a contact name or number, I suppose?' I asked.

‘Should have, yes.' Katie scribbled on a post-it and handed it to me. ‘There you go. And good luck. They're a friendly bunch, and they put on some excellent shows. Quite professional for a small town.'

Obviously she thought my interest was as a prospective new member. Well, I wasn't going to disillusion her, though I rather thought my next question might.

‘There was something else . . .'

I never got any further.

‘Well, well!' A familiar voice came from behind me. I swung round to see Josh Williams looking at me with one eyebrow cocked and a half smile making a deep and unsuspected dimple play somewhere between his mouth and his ear. ‘Twice in one day! I suppose it's too much to hope you're here to tell me you've changed your mind about that drink!'

Katie did a double-take, looking from Josh to me with an exaggerated expression of bewilderment.

‘Nothing, nothing, Katie, my love. You need not worry I'm playing fast and loose with you.'

‘I should hope not, since I'm a happily married woman!' Katie retorted.

‘And Steve is one lucky man,' Josh said in a tone of mock regret. Then, to me: ‘So what brings you here if it's not to make my day?'

‘She wants to join the Compton Players, and you'll have no chance once she's set eyes on the gorgeous George Clancy,' Katie said tartly, and added to me: ‘Half of Compton is in love with him, and the rest are either too blind, too old, or the wrong sex.'

I smiled. This was much more like the office banter I was used to.

‘I can assure you he's in no danger from me.'

‘Hmm, I don't think it's a leading man you're interested in, is it, Sally? Josh said enigmatically. ‘It's Dawn Burridge on your agenda, if I'm not much mistaken.'

I pulled a rueful face. I had been rumbled.

‘Guilty as charged. And actually that's the other reason I'm here. She was killed, I understand, in a hit-and-run accident, and I wondered if . . .'

‘You want to raid Belinda's cuttings files again.'

‘Well . . . yes . . .'

Josh huffed good-naturedly.

‘You'll get me hung, drawn and quartered. Come on.'

He headed off towards the partitioned-off office, I threw a smile and a ‘thank you' at Katie, and followed.

‘Belinda not here again?' I asked when I caught up with him.

‘She's out interviewing a local artist who's running an art trail,' Josh said. ‘And guess who's got to go and take pictures of pictures?' He pulled down one of Belinda's files, flipped through it and got out a clear plastic envelope.

‘There's not much here, by the look of it. Have a quick shufti and we'll get it packed away again before Belinda comes back and catches you at it.'

This time he clearly had no intention of leaving me alone with the cuttings; instead he lounged against a filing cabinet, hands in his trouser pockets – he was wearing cords today – head on one side, watching me. It was oddly disconcerting.

As he'd said, there was very little in the file, just a brief piece headlined ‘Local Girl Dies in Hit-and-Run Accident', and another reporting the inquest. The paper had re-run one of its archive photographs of Dawn, but much smaller than the one that had accompanied the reports of the fire. Neither told me anything I didn't know, beyond that the accident had happened in Wedgeley, the Dorset town Dawn had returned to after the fire. Presumably Alice at the estate agent's had been correct in saying the driver had never been caught, as it was almost certain a report on that would have been included in the file if he had.

What did surprise me a bit was that Belinda hadn't put the accounts of the accident in the same file as those of the fire. But she had her own methods, I supposed, and she hadn't made a connection between the two events. Which may well mean that I was barking up the wrong tree entirely.

I finished reading the cuttings and slipped them back into their sleeve. Josh Williams was still leaning against the filing cabinet; when I handed him the file he slotted it back into the place on the shelf that he'd found it, then turned back fixing me with a direct look.

‘There's something that's puzzling me, Sally. Just what is your interest in Dawn Burridge?' Taken aback by his directness, I floundered, and he went on: ‘You're not writing a thesis on the miscarriages of justice at all, are you?'

So – I'd been right. I'd been rumbled.

‘What makes you think that?' I asked, stalling.

‘Well, for one thing, I can't see why Dawn being killed in a road accident would have anything to do with Brian Jennings' conviction,' he said, watching me narrowly. ‘Are you a private investigator?'

‘No!' I laughed at the preposterous suggestion, glad at least to be able to answer that one truthfully. ‘Absolutely not!'

‘What, then? Because you sure as heck are not a mature student.'

I sighed, and decided my only option was to level with him.

‘OK – I'm a journalist,' I confessed. ‘I work for the
Western News
. But this has nothing to do with them. I'm at home, recuperating . . . well, you can see why . . .' I indicated my crutches, ‘I'm bored out of my mind, and I came across this story. I thought I'd find out a bit about it – see if Brian Jennings' sister has any grounds for believing he was wrongly convicted. That's it.'

‘And have you discovered anything of interest?'

‘I hadn't. Until now. Nobody seems very keen to talk about Dawn, or what happened, and it seemed like an open-and-shut case. But now . . . since I've found out that Dawn is dead . . . I'm not so sure. Killed in a hit-and-run accident, not that long after the fire. By a driver who has never been caught. That's one hell of a coincidence – and I don't believe in coincidences.'

Josh was silent.

‘Don't you think it's suspicious?' I asked.

Josh shrugged.

‘I wouldn't know. I'm a photographer, not an investigative reporter. Now, if you've finished, we'd better get out of here. Belinda will be back soon.'

‘Finished. Thanks for all your help.'

‘That's OK.' He treated me to a boyish grin. ‘Now, are you sure you won't change your mind about letting me buy you that drink?'

On the point of refusing him again, I had second thoughts. The newspaper office was a valuable source of information, but I couldn't continue to keep dropping in and asking to see their files. So far I'd been lucky – Josh was a very helpful ally.

Perhaps it would be wise to keep him on side.

And besides . . .

I gave him an appraising glance, taking in his angular face, with its clearly defined jaw, his wicked hazel eyes, his broad shoulders beneath the leather jacket, his long, cord-clad legs. Josh Williams was, I had to admit, rather attractive. I actually quite fancied him, and it was a long time since I'd been on a date, especially one with a man I fancied. Perhaps this would be a good time to mix business with pleasure.

‘All right,' I said nonchalantly. ‘You're on. As long as you realize you'll have to drive way out into the country to pick me up and take me home again.'

Those hazel eyes twinkled wickedly.

‘I'm sure it will be worth it. Shall we say half past seven?'

‘A quarter to eight.' I wanted to keep the initiative.

‘A quarter to eight it is. So – give me directions . . .'

I did.

I was halfway home when I remembered I had intended to call Alice when she returned from her lunch break. I pulled into a lay-by and left the engine idling while I punched in the number for Compton Properties.

The phone was answered quite quickly, but the voice on the other end of the line sounded very like Sarah, and it occurred to me that she would probably recognize my voice too. People used to dealing with the public had a good ear for things like that, and the fact that I hadn't given my name when I called earlier wouldn't have prevented her from knowing who I was. Well, there was absolutely nothing I could do about that.

‘Would it be possible to speak to Alice now?' I said. ‘I rang earlier, but she was at lunch.'

‘I'm sorry, but she's with a client.' The answer was a little too quick, a little too convenient.

‘When will she be free?'

‘I really couldn't say. In fact, I think she's taking her client on a viewing. If you leave me a number, I'll ask her to call you back.'

Really, I thought, I didn't have much choice. I couldn't keep ringing the office. They'd quickly realize – if they didn't already – that something was going on. Somewhat reluctantly I dictated my mobile number to Sarah, thinking that at least she wouldn't recognize it as the one I'd given her for the property receipt – Mum and Dad's landline. But somehow I didn't think Alice would be returning my call. It might be true, of course, that she was busy, but I had the feeling that Alice was avoiding me, and her colleague was fending me off.

It really was very odd, I thought, as I set off again. Why was Alice so reluctant to speak to me? Was it just that personal phone calls of any kind were frowned on? Certainly the office had the sort of professional formality that was almost old fashioned. Or was it more than that? When I'd first asked about Dawn, Alice had said as little as possible, making the excuse that Lewis Crighton didn't want her talked about, and I supposed that was understandable – at the time of the fire the office had probably been bombarded by press and even curious members of the public. But the more I thought about it, the more I thought that it was just that – an excuse. Alice wanted to avoid the subject of Dawn Burridge. But why?

I was beginning to get the unavoidable feeling that Dawn was a taboo subject where a lot of people were concerned. And in spite of Joss's warning, it was only making me all the more determined to find out the reason.

When I turned into the farmyard, a car I didn't recognize was parked beside the barn. Had Dad had to have the vet out again to his sick cow? But this car didn't look as if it belonged to a vet – it was too clean, and too expensive – a top-of-the-range BMW. I parked Dad's 4 x 4 and went in through the front door. I could hear voices coming from the kitchen.

‘I'm home!' I called.

‘In here, Sally,' Mum called back.

Puzzled, I headed for the kitchen. Mum, Dad, and the owner of the BMW were seated around the table with steaming mugs of tea beside them and a plate of Mum's freshly made drop scones within easy reach.

‘Look who turned up on the doorstep!' Mum said, smiling.

‘Jeremy! Hello! What a surprise!'