A Question of Guilt

by Janet Tanner

  ‘Mm, yes.’ I shuddered, imagining how terrifying it must have been for them. ‘But what made the police think it was this Brian Jennings and not the yobs? And what on earth possessed him to do something like that?’

  Mum shook her head. ‘Who knows? He was a strange one, by all accounts, a real loner, and he’d had a crush on one of the girls for ages. It was a case of “if I can’t have you, no one else will”, I think. They found a lot of stuff in his flat, strange stuff, you know what I mean? Pornography, lots of photographs of Dawn that he must have taken with a long-lens camera – and she reckoned he’d been stalking her, hanging around outside, just watching the place, and following her if she went out. I think a couple of witnesses said they’d seen him lurking about on the night of the fire, which put the police on to him. But the final nail in his coffin was when they found traces of petrol in the pocket of his jacket. They had him up in court, and he was found guilty. Arson and endangering life, I think it was. He got put away for a good long time.’

  ‘But his sister maintains he’s innocent?’ I said.

  ‘She does. Poor soul, she’s put her life on hold trying to get the case looked at again. She’s given up everything, from what I hear, to fight to prove his innocence, and like I say, it’s all been for nothing.’

  I sipped my tea, but prickles of excitement were darting in my veins as if it were champagne and my brain had gone into overdrive.

  It was so long now since I’d been able to go after a story, I’d almost forgotten the adrenalin rush, the singing anticipation. But I was feeling it now.

  I didn’t know if this Brian Jennings was guilty or not; it could very well be that his sister’s love and loyalty was misplaced. But her fight for ‘justice’ was a compelling story, and who knew what I might discover if I did some digging into the facts? For the first time in months, I had something other than my own aches and pains to think about. It was a great feeling.

  Two

  I could hardly wait to begin looking into the case, but, before speaking to Marion Jennings, I needed to have all the information that was out there at my fingertips and decided the best starting point was probably the local newspaper office, where it was sure to be archived. I might have been able to discover most of the facts by going online, but Dad was busy on the computer, bringing his accounts up to date, and in any case I thought I’d get more of a feel for things if I could chat to the reporter who had covered the case. Even if he or she was busy, the girls in the office would probably be able to fill me in on most of the background; the premises occupied by the Stoke Compton Gazette were practically next door to the shop that had been petrol bombed.

  ‘There’s no chance you’re going into town today, I suppose, Mum?’ I asked, as we shared a cup of coffee in the kitchen.

  ‘You mean you’d like to go into town?’ Mum gave me a straight look, but the corners of her mouth were turned up into a half smile.

  ‘Well . . . yes . . .’

  ‘I usually do my supermarket shop on a Friday . . .’ This was Wednesday. ‘But if you give me half an hour to check the cupboards and see what we need, I don’t suppose there’s any reason why I shouldn’t do it today.’

  ‘I wasn’t really thinking of going to the supermarket,’ I said.

  ‘No, I know you weren’t. But if I dropped you off in town, did my shopping and popped back to pick you up . . . How long would you need?’

  ‘How long does it take you to do your shopping?’

  ‘A couple of hours, usually.’

  ‘That would be great.’

  I still hated being dependent on other people, even my mum, but I wasn’t going to think about that now.

  ‘OK,’ Mum said, and then, as if she’d read my thoughts, she added: ‘You’ll soon be able to drive yourself again. And your dad’s car is an automatic. You’d better start wheedling your way into his good books.’

  My spirits lifted another notch. She was right. I probably could manage an automatic. And though Dad could be crusty, and he’d always been fiercely possessive about his car, I could usually twist him round my finger.

  ‘Not this morning, though,’ Mum said with a smile. ‘He’s never in the best of tempers when he’s got to do the accounts, and he wouldn’t thank you for interrupting him.’

  She found a pencil and one of the envelopes discarded from the morning’s mail and began opening cupboards.

  ‘Go and get ready, Sally. This won’t take me long.’

  The rain had stopped overnight, but the sky was still grey and leaden, and the air felt cold and clammy. As Mum drove slowly up the track that led to the lane beyond, the wheels sunk into patches of thick mud and splashed through puddles. The lane was not much better; a delivery van came up behind us, tailgating in his impatience to overtake, and splattering grime all over the rear windscreen of Mum’s little hatchback.

  ‘White-van man,’ I said, through gritted teeth. ‘I didn’t know they’d infested the country too.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Mum shook her head as the van finally took his chance and roared past. ‘I just hope we don’t round the corner and find him crashed into a tractor or a hedge cutter.’

  ‘Or some innocent motorist coming the other way.’

  ‘He’s headed for trouble in these winding lanes, that’s for sure,’ Mum said.

  But this time, it seemed, white-van man had got away with it. We didn’t see hide or hair of him again, and soon we were approaching the outskirts of Stoke Compton.

  ‘Where do you want me to drop you?’ Mum asked.

  ‘The High Street would be good.’

  As we turned into it, Mum nodded her head to the left.

  ‘That’s where the fire was; like I said, it’s a café now.’

  I looked in the direction she was indicating and saw a large plate-glass window bearing a bright, arched logo – Muffins.

  ‘They put tables and chairs outside on the pavement in the summer,’ Mum said, but I was looking up at the windows above the café frontage, small casements, and the dark, funnel-shaped stain still evident on the grey stone of the wall.

  For all that I’m a seasoned reporter, used to remaining uninvolved no matter how traumatic the scenario I’m faced with, a small chill prickled over my skin. Perhaps because this was my hometown, the place where I’d grown up and always felt safe; perhaps because I was going soft. It was a year now since I’d had to deal with the harsher side of life – apart from my own problems. I hadn’t had to attend road accidents where people were trapped in cars, I hadn’t been standing on the bank when bodies were pulled out of the river, I hadn’t had to try to interview grieving relatives or horribly mutilated soldiers wounded in Afghanistan. This was nothing compared to some of the stories I’d covered in the past. Just a fire – nobody had died. And yet it was getting to me.

  Fire has always frightened me, I must admit. There is something about the relentless roar of flames and clouds of thick black smoke, the crash of falling masonry and roofs caving in, the awesome power of a blaze that has really taken hold, that gets to me on a very primitive level. And afterwards, the charred devastation, dripping water, the smell . . . it frightens me and also fascinates me. But even so . . . it was weird that I was reacting so strongly to the scene of a fire that happened five years ago. I really needed to toughen myself up again!

  Mum pulled into a space by the kerb.

  ‘Will this do?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘I’ll see you here then – or as close to here as I can get.’ She checked the dashboard clock. ‘Midday – OK?’

  ‘OK.’ I opened the car door and got out, holding on to it while I retrieved my crutches from the rear seat. Managing without crutches was something else I was going to have to get used to, but this morning, not being sure how long I was going to be on my leg, or how far I would have to walk, I’d brought them with me.

  Mum waited until I set off down the High Street in the direction of the newspaper office, then pulled out and drove off with a toot and a
wave.

  The newspaper office had once been a shop. Through the plate-glass window I could see a girl sitting behind a reception desk. I juggled my crutches, pushed open the door and went inside.

  The receptionist was on the telephone, taking the details of a small ad, from what I could make out. Whilst I waited for her to finish I looked around with professional interest. The long, narrow room was lined with work stations, at two of which girls were busy on computers; at the rear an office had been partitioned off, plaster board up to waist height, glass above. Inside was a man I assumed must be the chief reporter. His back was turned towards me, so I couldn’t see his face, just a dark head of hair and a country-style checked shirt. Then I was denied even that paltry view of him as he sat down and disappeared behind the plasterboard partition.

  Taken all in all the newspaper office could hardly have been more different from the one I worked in. The Western News took up a whole building, and every department from the news room to the family announcements had its own separate space. Yet in spite of that the atmosphere was somehow exactly the same, the frenetic buzz that comes from deadlines to be met, the feeling of being at the heart of things, even the smell of fresh newsprint emanating from the latest editions that were stacked on a rack close to where I was standing.

  ‘Can I help you?’ The receptionist had finished her call and was flipping the docket she’d been writing on into a wire tray as she spoke, ready to be delivered, I guessed, to the mother paper’s main office in town.

  ‘I hope so,’ I said. ‘I’m interested in the case of Brian Jennings, who was convicted of arson here in the High Street five years ago. I was wondering if the reporter who worked on the story could spare me a few minutes?’

  The receptionist looked startled, then recovered herself though I could see her trying to work out just who I was and what my interest in the story was.

  ‘You’d need to speak to Belinda Jones, our chief reporter,’ she said crisply. ‘She’s not in today though.’

  ‘Ah.’ My heart sank.

  ‘Belinda is never in on a Wednesday. The paper comes out on a Wednesday, so it’s our quietest day, with no deadlines to meet.’

  ‘When will she be in again?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, tomorrow. But I’m not sure . . . She has a very full diary . . .’ She gave me a narrow look from behind dark-rimmed spectacles. ‘Perhaps it would be best if you were to leave me your name and a contact number I’ll get her to give you a call.’

  Immediately I was on the back foot. I might not be exactly the most famous reporter in England but the Western News does sell in the Stoke Compton area and I have occasionally had a byline. Plus there’s quite a network of journalists who move from paper to paper. If my name was recognized then it was quite possible lines of communication would rapidly shut down. Far from practising professional solidarity, the chances were that the chief reporter on a local paper would think the ‘big boys’ were muscling in on her territory, which she would guard like a lioness with her cubs. But my mobile number would mean nothing to anyone but my friends and family. Safe enough to give her that, and if I used my mother’s maiden name it wouldn’t shriek ‘competition’ to anyone.

  ‘Sally Jacobs,’ I said without batting an eyelid, and followed on by dictating the number of my mobile. She wrote it down.

  ‘What about your archives?’ I asked, mindful of the two-hour wait I’d have before Mum came back for me. ‘I’d really like to take a look at the reports that appeared at the time of the fire and the trial.’

  ‘Oh, they’re all on microfiche,’ she said. ‘You could access them at the library. It’s just down the road.’

  Again my heart sank. I loathe microfiche – it takes forever finding what you’re looking for, pulling it up to a readable size and then flicking from page to page.

  ‘You don’t have original copies of the papers?’ I asked.

  ‘You must be joking! We’ve hardly any storage space here.’ She was looking at me curiously again. ‘Are you part of Brian Jennings’ legal team?’

  ‘No, I’m not.’ I was thinking on my feet now. ‘I’m doing a thesis on questionable convictions for my degree,’ I lied. ‘I was really hoping I might be able to . . .’

  ‘Belinda has a cuttings file on the Jennings case,’ a man’s voice behind me said.

  I swung round and found myself looking into an angular face and a pair of hazel eyes. From the checked shirt he was wearing I knew instantly he was the man I’d seen in the partitioned-off office, whom I’d assumed was the chief reporter, but clearly wasn’t. Besides the shirt, he was wearing brown denim jeans and trainers – the reason I hadn’t heard him come up behind me as the soft soles had made no sound on the carpeted floor.

  ‘Oh, but I don’t know that we should . . .’ The girl receptionist’s mouth had tightened disapprovingly.

  ‘Where’s the harm? It’s all published material. Nothing more or less than could be found on the microfiche. And it looks to me as if this young lady doesn’t want to be walking any further than she has to.’ He indicated my crutches and flashed me a grin.

  ‘That’s hardly the point,’ the girl said crisply.

  ‘Oh, lighten up, Tara!’ He grinned at me again. ‘Come with me and I’ll sort you out.’

  The phone on the reception desk was ringing again.

  ‘On your head be it,’ Tara said grimly and turned away to answer it, effectively distancing herself from what was going on on our side of the desk.

  The young man led the way between the work stations towards the portioned-off office and I followed, swinging on my crutches, something I’d become proficient at by now, though the calluses on the palms of my hands were testament to the chafing it had inflicted on them.

  The office was small but uncluttered, the desk clear but for the computer, a notepad and a pot of pens and pencils. Files were stacked neatly on shelves and a large calendar, a clock and a corkboard adorned the walls. The only jarring feature was a table at the rear of the office on which a number of photographs had been spread out haphazardly.

  ‘This is very kind of you,’ I said inadequately.

  ‘Consider it part of the service.’ The young man was running his finger along a row of box files, all neatly labelled. ‘I’m Josh Williams, by the way. And in case you’re wondering, I’m a staff photographer.’

  ‘Oh right.’ That would explain his cavalier attitude – and also his easy charm.

  ‘And you are . . .?’

  ‘Sally . . .’ I almost said Sally Proctor, but caught myself it time. ‘Sally Jacobs,’ I said, and immediately felt guilty for the deception.

  ‘Here we are.’ Josh Williams pulled out a box file, placed it on the desk and rifled through, extracting a purple folder.

  ‘Belinda likes to keep files of important local stories for easy reference,’ he explained, ‘and this one seems to run and run. Pretty well everything we’ve ever printed about the Brian Jennings case should be here – and a few more bits and bobs besides, I shouldn’t wonder. Belinda’s hot stuff as a chief reporter. Not much gets past her.’

  Certainly the file was encouragingly fat.

  Josh Williams pulled out the chair – a high-backed, comfortable-looking swivel covered in brown faux leather – from the well in the desk.

  ‘Will this be all right for you, or would you prefer an ordinary upright?’

  ‘This will be fine.’ I lowered myself into it, glad to take the weight off my leg.

  ‘You look as though you’ve been in the wars,’ Josh said conversationally.

  ‘Skiing accident.’ I pulled a rueful face. ‘You don’t want to know.’

  ‘Skiing, eh? Never done it myself. A group used to go every year from my school but my parents didn’t have that sort of money to throw around.’

  ‘It’s not that expensive a holiday,’ I said, a bit defensively. ‘And it’s terrific fun.’

  He cocked an eyebrow. ‘Yes, I can see that,’ he said, his tone heavy with irony. ‘But I
think I’ll stick to sailing in Greece, thanks all the same. That’s what I call a holiday. Anyway,’ he tapped the purple folder, ‘I’ll leave you to it. I’m off to take some pictures of a couple who are celebrating their diamond wedding. Sixty years – can you imagine it? When you’ve finished just leave the file on the desk. I’ll put it away when I get back. Keep Belinda happy.’

  He reached for a leather bomber jacket that was hanging on a hook on the back of the door and shrugged into it.

  ‘If you need anything, just ask Tara, Her bark is worse than her bite.’

  ‘I’ll believe you.’

  ‘Honestly. She’s only been here a couple of weeks, and she’s very much in awe of Belinda. Don’t take any crap from her and you’ll have her eating out of your hand.’

  ‘Hmm.’ I could well imagine Josh could wind the redoubtable receptionist around his little finger – he was a very likeable character. Whether I could do the same I rather doubted. And I had not the slightest intention of pushing my luck.

  When he’d gone, closing the door after him, I opened the purple file on the desk in front of me, glad that the plasterboard meant I was now out of sight of the receptionist. With her suspicious gaze on me I would have found it difficult to concentrate and I suspected the other girls working in the outer office would probably have me under surveillance too. As a journalist myself my skin should be thick enough to work despite it, another sign I was going soft. But perhaps that wasn’t such a bad thing. Sometimes in the past I’d taken a good hard look at myself, the professional trying to piece together stories that often exposed vulnerable people to the glare of publicity, and not much liked what I’d seen. But this was different. It might well be a chance to right a wrong. The idea of becoming a crusader buoyed me up again, adding to the excitement that always went with starting on a new and juicy assignment and I felt alive for the first time in months. With a sense of anticipation I slid the wodge of cuttings out of the file.