A Question of Guilt

by Janet Tanner

  Tim had the grace to look a bit shamefaced.

  ‘Well . . . yes.’

  ‘And you want me out of the flat. Permanently.’

  ‘Oh, good gracious, no! I wouldn’t expect you to leave, Sally. The plan is for me to move in with Paula. She has a cottage in Winton – very convenient for the airport. But don’t worry, I’ll pay my whack of the rent on the flat until you can find someone else to share with you, or are in a position to afford it yourself.’

  ‘Well thanks, but I couldn’t possibly accept it,’ I said stiffly, my pride kicking in.

  ‘I insist. I wouldn’t leave you in the lurch while you’re incapacitated.’

  ‘Hopefully that won’t be for much longer. I mean it, Tim – I don’t want your money.’

  ‘We’ll see about that. But thanks for being so understanding, and taking it so well, Sally.’

  I snorted. Actually, I hadn’t taken it well at all. Given that I’d been agonizing over how I was going to end things myself I should have been grateful that he’d handed it to me on a plate. Instead, I was surprised how hurt I was, knowing he’d been sneaking around with someone else – falling in love with her – while I was coping with the devastating consequences of my accident.

  I had no intention of letting him know that, though. His ego was quite big enough already.

  ‘Right,’ I said, sounding far calmer than I felt. ‘I suggest we go and have a drink and a spot of lunch somewhere and sort things out.’

  ‘All right, if you feel up to it . . .’

  ‘Might as well get it over with,’ I said. ‘Then we can both get on with our lives.’

  Things were reasonably civil between us by the time Tim took me home to Rookery Farm, and we’d sorted out a lot of the practical issues. Tim would move out of the flat we shared, and would be gone by the time I was fit to return. I was still stubbornly refusing to accept any financial help from him with regard to the rent and so on, and I knew I’d have to sit down and do my sums as to whether I could afford to keep it on alone or whether I’d have to look for a flatmate – something I’d really prefer to avoid if at all possible.

  Mum was in the kitchen, cleaning eggs ready for her stall at the farmers’ market on Saturday morning.

  ‘No Tim?’ she enquired as I went in.

  ‘No. Nor likely to be again.’

  ‘You’ve decided to call it a day.’ Though she was trying to sound non-committal, I could tell she was actually relieved.

  ‘Tim beat me to it,’ I said ruefully. ‘He’s involved with someone else.’

  ‘I knew it!’ Mum stripped off her Marigolds, leaning against the big stone sink. ‘I told you he was making excuses about why he wasn’t coming to see you. Well, good riddance, I say.’

  ‘I know . . . I know . . .’

  ‘So who is she? How long has it been going on?’

  ‘Mum – I really don’t want to talk about it any more right now. I’ll tell you all about it later.’

  Though I could see Mum was bursting to hear all the details, she simply nodded.

  ‘When you’re ready, my love. But I will say this. You’re a lot better off without that one, so don’t go upsetting yourself. Now, why don’t you sit down and have a nice cup of tea?’

  ‘A cup of tea would be good. But . . .’ Not only did I not want to talk about what had happened with Tim, I didn’t want to think about it, either. And there was one sure fire way of taking my mind off the break-up.

  ‘Is Dad using his computer?’

  ‘No. He’s out seeing to one of his cows. He had to have the vet to her this morning.’

  ‘Oh dear!’

  ‘Yes, he’s a bit worried about her. So you can be sure he won’t be wanting to get on the computer for the next couple of hours, at least. Go on, you have it. I’ll bring your cup of tea in to you.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum. You’re a star.’

  I logged on to Dad’s computer, pulled up the notes I’d made so far, and read through them. Mum brought me the promised cup of tea and a slice of her famous lemon drizzle cake and I nibbled on it as I added the information I’d gleaned from Rachel last night, including the name of the estate agency where Dawn had worked, and the fact that Lisa had married Paul Holder, the baker who had rescued the girls. I also made a note of the thought that had occurred to me that it might have been Lisa, not Dawn, who was the intended victim of the arson attack, and, armed now with her married name, I had another look for her on Facebook. This time I found her, but her page stated that ‘Lisa only shares some information publicly’, and her photograph wasn’t a photograph at all, but a white silhouette on a blue background. Could it be that she was a bit paranoid because of what had happened? I didn’t know, but it was important that I kept an open mind.

  I sat back in Dad’s comfortable swivel chair, nursing my mug of tea, and trying to think about this logically. Top of my list of people to see had been Brian Jennings’ sister, Marion, but I was having second thoughts about that. It was unlikely that she would be able to tell me anything more than the basic facts, which I already knew – if she’d learned anything of any interest, then almost certainly she would have taken it to Brian’s solicitor and an appeal would be under way. Almost certainly that was not the case – it was only a few days since I’d heard her radio interview, and she’d not mentioned any new evidence. What was more, I rather thought that the moment she knew a newspaper reporter was taking an interest she’d go public with the fact, as she would see it as support for her cause. I really didn’t want that. Far better if I could talk to the people concerned first. I’d have to admit to an interest in the fire, of course, but if it was known that I was actually trying to find another suspect doors may well slam in my face. I wanted to ask questions as discreetly as possible, and if I became high profile it would be no help at all.

  Time enough to speak to Marion later. My first port of call should be Lisa Curry – or Lisa Holder, as she now was – and Dawn Burridge. And before I could do that I needed to know where she now was.

  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 l
ips.

  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.

  Six

  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 toot
ed 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.