A Question of Guilt (12 page)

Jeremy Winstanley had been our nearest neighbour and a friend for as long as I could remember. Throughout my growing-up years his family had farmed the land that adjoined ours, and though Jeremy hadn't gone into farming himself – he worked for one of the big financial institutions in the city – whenever he was at home he would drop by to talk to Dad. He was a great horseman, too, riding with the local hunt, and my earliest memories of him were very romantic ones – a big, handsome man in hunting pink, astride a huge grey horse.

It was Jeremy who taught me to ride – Mum and Dad couldn't afford such luxuries as a stable – but the Winstanley family each had a horse of their own, and a pony that had belonged to Jeremy's youngest sister, but which they'd never been able to bring themselves to sell. He was quite old, that pony, by the time I got to ride him, a fat little chap called Mickey, who was quiet and gentle and absolutely perfect for an inexperienced six year old.

I'd spent a lot of time at the Winstanley farm, mucking out stables, hacking on Mickey, and later riding Mrs Winstanley's horse, Duchess, a pretty bay. Mrs Winstanley had developed arthritis, and was no longer able to ride her, so she was glad for me to give her some exercise. Jeremy had once even taken me out with the hunt, but I'd quickly discovered it wasn't for me. I was too worried I might put Duchess at a jump that was too much for her; if she'd fallen and broken a leg I'd never have forgiven myself. I didn't like the kill, either, though of course since the hunting ban that no longer happens. No, I was much happier simply taking Duchess for a leisurely trot around the lanes and the occasional exhilarating canter across the meadows that were almost all Winstanley land or our own.

When Farmer Winstanley and his wife both died, within a year of each other, we'd expected Jeremy to sell the farm. Instead he'd put in a manager, who lived in the farmhouse, and converted one of the outlying barns into a luxury residence for himself. He was no longer working for the city firm, but had set up as some kind of financial adviser, using the new house as a base. But a lot of his business was in the Eurozone and Jeremy spent a lot of time abroad. He'd been away since before I'd come home to recuperate – in Brussels, Dad had said, but judging by the depth of his tan now, I rather thought he'd been somewhere a good deal warmer than Belgium.

‘Good to see you, Sally,' he said, getting up and giving me a kiss on both cheeks, continental style.

‘You too, Jeremy.'

Besides the tan, he'd put on weight, I thought. He'd always been a big man, but now there was a considerable solidity about him. He wasn't fat – yet! – but there was no doubt that he'd been living the good life. Yet it suited him, somehow adding to his not inconsiderable presence.

‘Cup of tea, Sally?' Mum asked.

‘Mm, please! And I could do with one of your drop scones, too.'

‘Haven't you had any lunch?'

‘No, but I'm OK. I had a teacake at Muffins mid-morning.' I sat down, reached for a drop scone anyway and bit into it. It was still warm.

‘You've had a pretty tough time of it, I hear, Sally,' Jeremy said, looking at me sympathetically.

‘She was nearly killed,' Mum, setting the kettle to boil, said over her shoulder.

‘Sounds nasty.' Jeremy brushed away a crumb that had settled in the thick cable pattern of his Aran sweater. ‘No riding for you for a while.'

‘I haven't ridden for a long time,' I admitted.

‘Pity. Ah well, I suppose you've got other things to interest you these days. Didn't I hear you were engaged?'

‘Not engaged, no,' I clarified. ‘I was living with someone, but that's over. I'm fancy free and single again, Jeremy. Just like you.'

He snorted, wagging a finger at me.

‘Very true.'

‘You could do with a good woman to keep you in order,' Dad joked.

‘I'm quite happy as I am, thank you, Jack. I've never had time for all that nonsense,' Jeremy retorted.

‘When you're old and lonely, with no one to make sure you've got a clean shirt to put on, you'll wish you'd made the time,' Mum chided, setting a mug of tea down in front of me.

We all laughed. The idea of Jeremy old, lonely and in need of a clean shirt was a ludicrous one.

‘Seriously, Sally, you must be going quietly mad, stuck out here in the country with nothing to do,' Jeremy said.

‘Oh, it hasn't been so bad . . .' I didn't want to hurt Mum and Dad's feelings by admitting that hadn't been far from the truth.

‘She's got herself a new project to keep her busy,' Mum said, and Dad added:

‘And taken over my computer for all her notes. Nothing changes.'

Jeremy cocked an eyebrow at me. ‘And what project is that?'

I was reluctant to go through it all again, but Mum had other ideas.

‘You remember that awful fire in Stoke Compton?' she said, resuming her seat at the table. ‘Well, our Sally has got it into her head that the man that went to prison for it was wrongly convicted. She's trying to find out who might really have been responsible. Isn't that right, Sally?'

‘Well . . . sort of . . .' I admitted.

‘Wouldn't it be a thing?' Mum went on, ‘if she were to uncover a whole different story? That that poor man has been sent to prison for something he didn't do? She's been to Compton today, haven't you, Sally? Talking to all the people those girls knew. How did you get on, love?'

‘I spoke to Lisa Curry – well, Lisa Holder as she is now. She didn't really tell me anything, but I did find out something awful when I went to Compton Properties. Apparently Dawn Burridge was killed by a hit-and-run driver not long after she went home to Dorset.'

Mum clapped a hand over her mouth, looking shocked.

‘Oh my goodness! That poor girl! What an awful thing!'

‘Yes, and a bit too much of a coincidence for my liking.'

‘For goodness' sake, Sally, surely you don't mean . . .?' Mum said, horrified, and Dad put in:

‘You're letting your imagination run away with you, our Sal.'

‘Maybe. Just let's say I'm on the case.' Then, in an effort to change the subject, I turned back to Jeremy. ‘So when did you get home, Jeremy?'

‘Yesterday afternoon.'

‘And how long are you planning to stay this time?'

Jeremy shrugged elaborately. ‘I really couldn't say. It all depends on the demands of business. But footloose as I might be, it's good to be home. I should think I'll be around long enough to get used to country life again,' he said with a twinkle that included me. He pushed back his chair and got up. ‘I really should be going – I've got a lot of things to do. I just wanted to look in and let you know I'm back. And sample some good English cooking and a cup of tea, of course. Anything you need, Jack, just give me a shout and I'll help if I can. You know that, don't you?'

‘You're a good chap, Jeremy.' Dad clapped him on the shoulder, but I guessed the offer was really nothing more than polite conversation. Jeremy wasn't really a farmer, and Dad was fiercely independent. I couldn't imagine a situation arising where he would call on Jeremy for help. It was just the way things were between them, and always had been. Which made the relationship familiar and comforting.

‘And when that leg's better, come over and take one of the horses out,' Jeremy said to me.

‘Will do.'

But it would be a long time before I was fit to be in the saddle again, I thought ruefully.

Mum was surprised, but pleased, when I told her I was going out that evening with Josh, and – typical Mum – wanted to know all about him.

‘Mum – I don't really know,' I said, laughing. ‘But you'll be able to check him out. He's picking me up at a quarter to eight.'

‘I don't need to check him out!' Mum said a little tartly. ‘It's been a long time since I've done that. And I don't suppose what I think would make any difference, anyway. Since when have you listened to my opinion on your boyfriends?'

‘Since Tim,' I said ruefully. ‘You were absolutely right about him.'

‘Well, let's hope this one is an improvement.'

‘Mum, I'm only going for a drink with him.' I snaffled another drop scone. ‘But it would be good if we could have tea a bit early. He's picking me up at a quarter to eight, and you know how long it takes me to get ready these days.'

‘I'll see what I can do.' Mum was clearing plates and cups off the table. ‘But you'd better not eat any more of those scones, or you'll have no appetite for it, anyway!'

It felt incredibly strange to be getting ready to go on what I supposed could be termed ‘a date', and I was actually quite nervous. I'd been with Tim for so long I was totally out of practice and the prospect of having to relearn the protocol of dating was daunting.

I had a shower and washed my hair, leaving it to dry naturally into the waves that fell almost to my shoulders when I didn't tie them up with a hair band, and set about deciding what to wear. This was something of a problem; I'd brought only a few changes of casual things home with me and most of my ‘going-out' clothes were still at the flat. I was pulling things out of the wardrobe and discarding them when my phone rang. My first thought was that it was Josh, cancelling, and was surprised at how my heart sank before I realized it couldn't be him – I hadn't given him my mobile number. Alice, then? I hadn't expected her to return my call, but perhaps I'd been wrong about that.

I grabbed my phone from the dressing table.

‘Hello?'

No one spoke, though I was fairly sure the line was open.

‘Hello?' I said again. ‘Sorry – I can't hear you.'

Still nothing.

‘This is Sally. Is that you, Alice?'

Still silence. Then the line disconnected. I checked the call log, but whoever had called had ensured that their number stayed hidden. Frustrated, I tossed the phone down on to the bed. Had it been a wrong number? Or was it Alice, and she had changed her mind about speaking to me at the last minute? If it was, I could only hope she'd ring again. And I still had to decide what I was going to wear for my date. Time was getting short, I couldn't waste a minute of it if I was to be ready for Josh.

I went back to pulling clothes out of the wardrobe and eventually found a pair of palazzo pants and a silk tunic that I quite liked. The wide pants really called for high heels, but since they were out of the question I had to settle for pretty pumps. Drop earrings and a narrow silver bangle completed the outfit, and I did a quick make up and sprayed on a squirt of the perfume that Tim had brought me when I was in hospital. I wasn't normally a perfume person, but it did smell rather nice, and very expensive – Tim had picked it up in duty free, I imagined, and with Tim nothing but the best would do.

I was just about ready when I heard a car out in the farmyard and I hurried downstairs as fast as I safely could. All very well to tell Mum she'd be able to check out Josh, but I didn't actually want her or Dad answering the door as if I were a schoolgirl.

I'd just reached the foot of the stairs as the doorbell rang.

‘It's OK, Mum, I've got it,' I called.

Josh was standing on the doorstep, back turned towards me – looking, no doubt, for the source of the frenzied barking that came from the direction of Scrumpy's kennel. As I opened the door he turned towards me, a slightly wary look on his face.

‘It's OK – she's on a leash,' I assured him.

‘I'm glad to hear it! I thought maybe I was on the menu for supper.'

I laughed.

‘She's pretty harmless, anyway.'

‘Don't all owners say that? I've met farm dogs before – even been nipped by one.'

‘That's not going to happen,' I promised. ‘Do you want to come in while I get my coat?'

Josh stepped into the hall. He was wearing his leather jacket over a roll-neck pullover, and looked extremely nice in a very casual way. There was none of Tim's polished grooming – rather it was as though he had no idea how gorgeous he was, hadn't tried too hard, if at all, and I liked it.

Unable to resist, Mum had come into the hall.

‘Oh sorry . . .' she said, as if her presence was entirely unintentional.

‘This is my mother,' I said, a little apologetically. ‘Mum – Josh.'

‘Hello, Josh. Nice to meet you.'

‘And you. I'll take good care of Sally, I promise.'

I shrugged into my coat, recovered my crutches.

‘Let's go then,' I said, thoroughly embarrassed.

Josh helped me into his car, the Peugeot estate he'd been driving this morning, and put my crutches on the back seat.

‘Where are we going?' I asked, as he drove down the lane, his headlights cutting a sharp path through the inky blackness.

‘I thought the King William at Ulverton,' he said. ‘Do you know it?'

‘Um . . . yes! I was born and brought up here, remember?'

Ulverton is a tiny village six or seven miles outside Stoke Compton, and the King William an old coaching inn. Josh parked in the narrow street opposite an archway that led to the pub entrance, then seemed to have second thoughts.

‘Damn! I forgot. It's all cobbles. Are you going to be able to manage?'

‘Oh, I expect so.'

‘Sure? We can always go somewhere else.'

‘No, this is fine, honestly.'

It wasn't actually that easy, but I managed it with Josh's hand hovering over my elbow ready to catch me should I stumble. He pushed open the door to the bar and held it while I manoeuvred my way through, with some relief, on to the relatively flat flagged floor.

Though I'd sometimes come to the King William with friends in my youth, it was a very long time since I'd been here. Yet it hardly seemed to have changed at all. The bar was cosy and warm, with a log fire burning in an open fireplace, and softly lit, so as not to detract from the candles and tea-lights that were scattered about. Over the bar a string of blue icicles, presumably left over from the Christmas decorations, winked, but strangely did not look out of place.