A Question of Guilt (8 page)

Lisa should be able to tell me that, I imagined, but the other line of contact with her was the estate agents' where she had worked – or maybe still did if she'd come back to Stoke Compton when all the hoo-ha had died down.

I skidded my chair back to the computer, Googled ‘Compton Properties', and in no time at all their website was on the screen in front of me.

My first impression was that Compton Properties appeared to be a thriving business. There was page after page of houses for sale, ranging from humble terraced cottages to large family homes, and even the odd barn conversion. Some of them bore the banner ‘Sold' or ‘Under Offer'. There was also a section of property to rent and a page explaining what the company could do for prospective landlords in terms of managing the lets. Another wing of the business appeared to be house clearance – a service required when the homeowner had died, presumably, or was moving abroad. The furniture and effects from such clearances then went into a monthly auction, also run by Compton Properties, which was held in a warehouse-style building on one of the local trading estates.

I took a look at the ‘About Us' page and was surprised to see that the business was owned and run by one man – a Lewis Crighton. ‘Lewis Crighton has twenty years of experience in the property market,' the blurb proclaimed. ‘After working for an old-established agency, he founded Compton Properties, his own business, in 2001, and has thousands of satisfied clients.'

The photograph showed a good-looking man of perhaps forty seated behind the wheel of what looked to be an open-topped sports car. Dark hair sprung from a high forehead, the features were strong in a narrow face, the mouth wide and smiling above a neatly trimmed beard. It was the sort of face, no doubt, that would inspire trust in clients, but I couldn't help feeling it was also the face of a man who knew exactly where he was going, what he wanted, and how to get it. The sort of man who would find talking easy – I could just imagine the convincing patter that would flow from those full lips.

But would he talk to me? If I could get myself into Stoke Compton tomorrow, then perhaps I would find out.

‘Any chance of me getting into town tomorrow?' I asked.

Mum, Dad and I were seated around the kitchen table eating tea. Dad was still worried about his cow, I could tell, but it didn't stop him tucking into an enormous plate of toad in the hole. Farming is the sort of job that makes you hungry – all that fresh air and physical effort. I, on the other hand, had very little appetite.

Mum gave me a knowing look. ‘I suppose you want to get on with looking into this story of yours.'

‘I do really,' I said.

‘Are you going to want your car tomorrow, Jack?' Mum dished up seconds on to Dad's already empty plate. ‘I reckon our Sally could manage that, what with it being an automatic.'

Dad came out of his reverie.

‘Well, I wasn't planning on going anywhere. You're welcome to borrow the car if you think you can handle it, Sally.'

‘Oh Dad . . . are you sure?'

I was a little nervous of taking responsibility for the 4 x 4, but I was also anxious to be independent. I couldn't expect Mum to go on ferrying me round forever.

‘I will,' I promised.

‘I hear you were on my computer again this afternoon, too,' Dad said.

‘I was, yes,' I confessed.

‘Hmm, quite like old times, eh? My car, my computer – anything else you want?' His tone was dry, but his eyes were twinkling, and it occurred to me that Mum and Dad were actually enjoying having me at home again.

I grinned.

‘That'll do nicely for now. Thanks, Dad.'

‘So what exactly is it you plan to do in Stoke Compton tomorrow?' Mum asked.

We'd finished tea, the dishwasher was stacked and the kitchen tidied. Dad had disappeared into the living room to watch the national news from the comfort of his armchair and Mum and I were lingering over a cup of coffee.

‘For starters, I want to talk to Lisa Curry. Try to find out if there was anyone else who might be in the frame for starting the fire.'

‘That's not likely, surely?' Mum sipped her coffee. ‘Why on earth would anyone do something like that? Brian Jennings . . . well, he was known to be an oddball. But it's not the sort of thing that would even occur to a normal person, let alone actually do it.'

‘You'd be surprised what people do,' I said. ‘I've come across all sorts of cases where someone has committed murder for what seemed like the most trivial of reasons. But to them, it had gone right out of proportion and pushed them over the edge. That's what I want to find out. If there's anyone else who might have had a motive for starting that fire.'

Mum still looked unconvinced. ‘What sort of motive?'

‘Anything, really, that seemed important enough to them. Greed, jealousy, the feeling they've been betrayed, you name it, it could be the trigger. Suppose, for instance, that one of the girls was having an affair with a married man and she threatened to tell his wife. That could result in him losing his family, his home, his reputation, perhaps even ruin him financially. If he was sufficiently frightened, he might have thought the only way out was to get rid of the threat.'

‘It doesn't seem a very sensible way to go about it,' Mum argued. ‘Never mind that it would be a terrible thing to do, there was no guarantee of the outcome. As was the case. The girls were rescued.'

‘Desperate people don't always think rationally,' I said. ‘I've come across it more than once. And then, of course, there's jealousy. That's always a powerful motive. Dawn was a very pretty girl, very much in the limelight. Perhaps she'd stolen someone else's boyfriend, or been in line for a promotion at work. Another girl with her nose put out of joint might have thought she'd teach her a lesson.'

‘It's possible, I suppose,' Mum conceded. ‘Though I must say I can't see a girl creeping about in the middle of the night with a petrol can and a load of old rags.'

‘I'm trying to look at this from every possible angle,' I said. ‘And the best way to find out if there's anyone who might have been pushed over the edge into doing such a terrible thing is to talk to the girls themselves, and the people who know them.'

‘Oh well, I suppose you know what you're doing.' Mum finished the last of her coffee. ‘How are you going to go about it, though? They might not take very kindly to being questioned about their personal lives.'

‘No, I know. Oh, by the way, what do you think? Lisa married the baker who rescued her!'

‘Well, well!' Mum looked astonished. ‘No wonder the café is doing so nicely. A chef and a baker – you couldn't get much better than that.'

‘I don't know that he actually works there,' I said. ‘He may still be in his old job – probably is. However well the café is doing, I can't imagine it supporting both of them.'

‘I'll bet he's responsible for all the fresh rolls and bread for sandwiches, though,' Mum said.

‘Probably. Which brings me to how I'm going to approach the girls.' I rested my chin on my steepled fingers, thinking. ‘The café's the perfect excuse for meeting Lisa. But the estate agent Dawn worked for is a different matter. I could go in on the pretext of looking for property in the area, but I suppose one of the girls in the office will just give me a load of literature and that'll be it. And she might not even have been there when Dawn was. What I really need is an excuse to get to talk to the boss . . . Ah!' I brightened suddenly as a brainwave struck me. ‘Have you got anything that could be put up for sale at auction?' I asked.

Mum gave me a look which suggested she thought I'd taken leave of my senses.

‘Compton Properties also run monthly auctions,' I explained. ‘Mainly it's the stuff they get from house clearances, but I imagine they'd include anything saleable for a commission. That would almost certainly be run by Lewis Crighton himself. If there was something I could take in – ask for a valuation – I expect I'd have to see him. Then my options would be open if the girls in the office aren't any help.'

‘Oh Sally, whatever next!' Mum sighed.

‘Do you have anything?' I pressed her. ‘Something you don't need any more, but which might sell?'

Mum gave it some thought.

‘We've got a couple of hurricane lamps somewhere. Brass, with a glass funnel and a wick. They haven't been used for years. But being as you're on your crutches, you'd have a job to carry them . . .' She broke off, thinking again. ‘I know! There's the candle snuffer that belonged to your Great-Aunt Mabel. That would fit in your bag, wouldn't it? And there's a set of apostle spoons, too.'

‘Are you sure you don't mind parting with them?' I asked, doubtful suddenly.

‘It'll just be a bit less cluttering up the drawer of the dresser. We'd better check with your father, but as far as I'm concerned, you're welcome to them, if they'll be any help to you. And if they don't sell, I suppose we get them back anyway.'

‘You can count on it. You never know, though, they might be worth a fortune.'

I was grinning from ear to ear now, and feeling much perkier knowing I had a good excuse for both the calls I intended making tomorrow. And my renewed enthusiasm was making me forget all about Tim and the way he'd cheated on me.

Next morning soon after ten I was ready to leave for Stoke Compton. I'd slipped the case containing the apostle spoons into one capacious pocket of my Berghaus jacket and the candle snuffer into the other – much better than weighing down my bag. Then I drove Dad's car round the farmyard a couple of times, getting used to it before taking it out on to the road. It was a long time since I'd driven, and the Range Rover was much bigger and higher than anything I'd ever handled before. But very soon I was enjoying myself. After being so helpless for so long, the sense of freedom was exhilarating.

When I felt sufficiently confident, I tooted to Mum, who was watching from the porch, gave her a wave and drove off.

I reached Stoke Compton without incident, but as I'd guessed, there were no parking spaces in the High Street, and I headed for a car park on a minor road running parallel to it. There was plenty of room there and I was able to find a space wide enough to fit into easily after considering, and rejecting, one of the disabled bays that was closer to the exit. I was disabled, yes, but I didn't have a permit, and I didn't want to risk coming back to find I had collected a parking ticket.

I locked up the car and set off, ignoring the soreness of my hands and swinging along on my crutches at a reasonable pace. After crossing the road and making my way between blocks of rather dilapidated buildings, I reached the High Street once more and headed in the direction of Lisa Curry's café. As I passed the newspaper offices I glanced in through the plate-glass window and was able to see Tara, the receptionist, sitting behind her desk. But beyond that I could see no one. If Josh Williams and Belinda Jones were in today, they were tucked away, well out of sight. For some inexplicable reason I felt a tad disappointed.

Muffins was just beyond the
Gazette
office. In contrast to the still smoke-blackened wall above the entrance, the paintwork was fresh and bright – pristine white and sunshine yellow – and the windows sparkled, although the traffic in the busy High Street must produce an awful lot of petrol fumes and grime every day. I pushed open the door and went inside.

Small tables spread with what looked like proper tablecloths took up most of the interior, but there was also a counter where cakes and a selection of breads were on display. Lisa was obviously into the take-out trade, too. Just inside the door, two young mothers were enjoying a cup of coffee and a chat while their offspring gurgled at one another from dinky-looking white-painted high chairs. A pushchair was obstructing the gangway; the young mother pulled it closer, out of my way, and I squeezed past, heading for a table towards the back of the café, next to one occupied by a middle-aged woman in a beret and raincoat, whose chair was surrounded by a pile of shopping bags.

As I dumped my crutches and sat down, a young girl emerged from a beaded curtain that hung over a doorway behind the counter. She was wearing a frilly apron and carrying a buttered teacake and a pot of tea, which she placed on the table of the woman in the beret.

‘Here you go, Brenda. Anything else I can get you?'

‘No, that'll do me nicely, thanks,' the woman responded, and the girl approached me.

‘Morning.'

‘Morning.' This wasn't going according to plan. I'd expected Lisa to serve me. But I could hardly say that. ‘Could I have a coffee please?'

‘Americano? Espresso? Cappuccino?'

That surprised me. It sounded more like a Starbucks than a small-town teashop and café.

‘I'll have a cappuccino.'

‘And a pastry?'

‘Oh, no thank you.'

‘I can recommend the teacakes.' The woman in the beret had no qualms about butting in. ‘Lisa makes them herself, or Paul does. You couldn't get fresher or better.'

‘I'm sure,' I said politely, ‘but I don't think . . .'

‘Oh go on! Spoil yourself! You could do with a bit of feeding up!'

I eyed the teacake on her plate. After one of Mum's farmhouse breakfasts, I was far from being in need of sustenance, but it did look tempting, nicely browned and oozing butter, and besides . . . this woman was obviously a regular at the café. If I wasn't going to be able to speak to Lisa, she was the next best thing – or maybe even better. She seemed exactly the sort of person who would know the answers to a lot of my questions, and be only too happy to gossip.

‘You've talked me into it,' I said.

The young waitress headed for the kitchen with my order.

‘You look as if you've been in the wars, my love,' the woman called Brenda said, shifting her chair around her table so that she was even closer to me. ‘What have you been up to?'