by Janet Tanner
I twisted it to one side, but still I could see the following lights in my wing mirror, and for some reason I began to feel uncomfortable. I slowed down, thinking I’d let him overtake me, but he slowed too. I sped up, but still the lights remained exactly the same distance behind me. I took the fork leading to our lane and checked again; the car was still there behind me. My discomfort was fast mutating into full-blown panic now. That car was following me, I was sure of it.
Josh’s warning popped into my mind in a very unwelcome fashion, and I realized just how vulnerable I was. Away from the street lights of Compton, the inky blackness was complete but for the path cut by my headlights on full beam and the following pinpricks, and I was absolutely alone. To meet other traffic on the lane at this time of night was practically unheard of. If my pursuer decided to overtake and box me in there would be no one to come to my aid, and I didn’t think I’d be able to reverse to safety in Dad’s unfamiliar car – more likely I’d run into the ditch. My heart had begun to beat very fast and I could feel the adrenalin of fear pumping through my veins.
Who the hell was it? And why were they following me? But I wasn’t going to hang about to find out. I put my foot down hard and the 4 x 4 shot forward. Not too far to our track now – the trouble was that was even lonelier than the lane – and I couldn’t even be sure of being safe when I reached the farmyard. Mum and Dad would probably be in bed – Dad certainly would be. They’d never hear me calling for help. And if my pursuer followed me into the yard he’d catch me easily before I could find my keys, get the front door unlocked and be safely inside.
I was practically sobbing now, my hands moist with perspiration on the steering wheel as I rocketed along the narrow lane between the high hedges, fighting to keep the 4 x 4 on the road around the bends. The entrance to our track was coming up – should I turn into it, or just keep going?
At the last moment the pull of home was too strong. I stood on the brakes and veered wildly to the left. The tyres screeched, mounted the bank, and for a horrible moment I thought I would lose control. But the 4 x 4 was equal to the challenge. With a jolt and a slither I was back on the track.
It struck me suddenly that the darkness was more complete than ever – no reflected lights hurting my eyes. Shaking with terror I checked – nothing. Just the inky blackness. At first, unable to accept I was no longer being followed, I kept my foot down, jolting over the rough ridges and gulleys made by the tractor. Then, as I made it into the farmyard, I slowed and stopped right beside the door, my hand poised over the horn, ready to blare hard enough to wake the dead if the following car appeared again. It didn’t, and when I switched off the engine and opened the door, the silence was as complete as the darkness.
For a moment I sat there, waiting for my breathing to steady and my heart to stop thumping, and as it did I began to wonder if I’d blown up this whole thing out of proportion.
The car hadn’t followed me into the track – perhaps it hadn’t been following me at all. Why would it? Who would do such a thing? But there was no denying that it had been there, all the way from Stoke Compton. It had adjusted its speed to mine.
Could it simply have been a couple of lads on a night out, having a bit of fun? They’d seen a lone woman in a car, guessed from my reactions that I was rattled, and decided it would be a lark to carry on with the game, and really frighten me.
Well, if that was the explanation, they’d certainly succeeded!
Calmer now, I found my keys, locked up Dad’s car and got myself into the house. But the unpleasant feeling lingered.
Was I stirring up a hornet’s nest with my investigations? Was I putting myself in danger – the same sort of danger that Dawn had been in? Even now it seemed preposterous. But if I was being targeted, it could mean only one thing – there was something sinister waiting to be uncovered, and I was getting too close to whatever it was for the perpetrator’s comfort.
It was all the incentive I needed. I was going on with this if it killed me!
Eleven
In spite of my fright of the previous evening, I was more determined than ever to pursue my story. Dad, bless him, phoned his local computer man, and as luck would have it, he had a laptop in stock that suited my needs and my pocket. He’d get it all set up for me, he promised, and I could pick it up any time after four.
‘This is getting to be a bit of a habit, Sally,’ Dad said, putting his car keys where I would be able to find them if he was out on the farm when I needed them. ‘I reckon you should buy yourself a car while you’re at it.’
‘Ha ha!’ I’d got rid of my little run-around when it had become clear it would be a very long time before I could drive it – I didn’t want it sitting around gathering rust. But there was no way I could afford to go out and buy myself something suitable just at the moment.
Something else I needed to do was to get in touch with Josh and tell him I’d have to postpone our Wednesday date. The trouble was I didn’t have the number of his mobile; the only way I could contact him was at the Gazette office.
The phone was answered by the receptionist, Tara. Josh was not in the office, she told me, and she didn’t know when he’d be back. Naturally enough, she wouldn’t give me a contact number, but she offered to ask him to call me. I dictated my name and the number of my mobile, which she read back to me, very slowly and deliberately.
‘You will be sure to pass on the message, won’t you?’ I said, all too well aware of how chaotic a newspaper office could be.
‘I’ll see he gets it . . .’ She broke off, and I could hear a woman’s voice in the background. I was about to hang up when she said: ‘Could you hold on a moment? Belinda would like to speak to you.’
My heart sank. The redoubtable chief reporter, whom I had not yet met. It had got back to her that I’d been making use of her cuttings, and I was about to be torn off a strip.
There was a hiatus in which I could hear footsteps – the clacking of high heels – and I guessed Belinda was heading back to her office to speak to me on her own extension. Then a couple of clicks were followed by a voice that carried all the authority of the woman who was queen bee at the Gazette.
‘This is Belinda Jones. You are the Sally who’s called in here a couple of times recently, I take it?’
‘I am, yes,’ I confessed.
‘I thought so. Tara and Katie have filled me in, though Josh has been remarkably reticent,’ she said dryly. ‘You’re interested in the fire in the High Street a couple of years ago, I understand. And Dawn Burridge’s death. As a mature student writing a thesis, rumour has it.’ Again her voice was heavy with irony.
‘Um . . . yes . . .’
‘Let’s not go there, shall we?’ she said crisply, and I thought: Oh, here it comes. So I was completely taken by surprise when she went on: ‘I’m going to suggest you pop in and see me sometime, and I can fill you in on a few things I gleaned at the time that never made my reports. I’m busy this morning, but I should be free for a short while this afternoon. If you’d like to, that is.’
‘That would be great!’ I managed.
‘Right. Shall we say about three?’
I thought quickly. Actually that would fit quite nicely with my plans. I could go to see Belinda before picking up my new laptop, making one journey instead of two. Besides which, I might get to see Josh.
‘I’ll be there.’
I rang off, scarcely able to believe my luck. At last someone was actually willing to talk to me about what had happened! Someone who, if she was any good at her job – and I was pretty sure she was – wouldn’t have missed a trick.
Hardly had I put the phone down than it rang again and I answered it quickly, hoping it might be Josh. It wasn’t. It was Rachel.
‘Hi there, Sally! How are you doing?’
‘Rach. Fine, actually. You’re not going to believe this . . .’
I told her about the two dates I’d had with Josh – she was delighted for me, saying she was really glad I’d met someon
e to help me forget Tim once and for all – and I filled her in on the progress of my investigation.
‘I’m really beginning to think I’m on to something,’ I enthused. ‘Wouldn’t it be marvellous if I could prove that Brian Jennings was innocent all along? I’m going to see the chief reporter at the Gazette this afternoon, and to another meeting of the Compton Players tomorrow, and then I think I’m ready to go to Dorset and talk to Dawn’s parents.’
‘How are you going to get there?’ Rachel asked.
‘Borrow Dad’s car, I suppose. He’s being really good about letting me use it.’
‘It’s a long way for you to drive, though. Listen, why don’t I take you? I was going to suggest we went out somewhere. If we left early enough one morning we should be able to be sure to be back in time for me to pick the children up from school.’
‘Oh, Rach, are you sure?’
‘I’d quite enjoy it. When do you want to go? What about Thursday? Or one day early next week?’
‘I’ve got to find out exactly where they live,’ I said. ‘Let me give you a ring when I’m ready.’
I was less than enthusiastic about the thought of being driven by Rachel all the way to Dorset, but if she was willing, it did seem to be the answer. It was quite a way for me to drive, and in any case it would save me having to ask Dad to borrow his car yet again. Besides which it would be quite nice to be able to chat over my findings on the way home.
Things really were beginning to look up!
I was lucky enough to be able to find a parking space in the High Street quite close to the Gazette offices. I’d allowed myself plenty of time, and was actually a good twenty minutes early for my appointment with Belinda Jones, so I decided I’d pop into Muffins and try for another quick word with Lisa. It was possible the café would be less busy at this time of the afternoon, and she might be more ready to talk to me. At the very least, I was hoping to get an address for Dawn’s parents. At the moment I only knew that the accident had happened in Wedgeley, but Wedgeley is a fairly sizeable town, and in any case Dawn’s family might live anywhere within, say, a ten-mile radius.
I’d been right in thinking there would be a lull in business in the café. The tables were all vacant, and there was just one woman at the counter buying cream cakes. As I waited for Lisa to serve her, I feigned interest in the iced buns, doughnuts and cup cakes, but the trays were seriously depleted, and I guessed that Lisa had done brisk trade earlier in the day.
When my turn came, I chose a lardy cake, which looked delicious with its sticky glaze, and would, I thought, be something Mum and Dad would enjoy. I’d intended to wait until Lisa had served me before trying to open a conversation about Dawn, but she had other ideas. As she slipped the lardy cake into a paper bag she looked up at me suspiciously.
‘You were in here the other day, weren’t you?’
‘I was, yes.’
‘You’re not from round here though, are you?’ Her beady little eyes were sharp in her rather doughy face.
‘Actually I am,’ I said. ‘I think we went to the same school, though I was a couple of years above you. Sally Proctor.’
‘Sally Proctor,’ she repeated. ‘Yeah, I do remember you.’ She was still staring at me, trying to reconcile my thirty-something face with the girl I’d been then, I supposed, but it was rather disconcerting all the same. ‘You were good at sport.’
‘Not so good now,’ I said ruefully, trying to establish a rapport.
‘Weren’t you friends with Becky Auden’s sister?’
‘Rachel. That’s right. We’re still friends.’
I held out my hand for my lardy cake, but Lisa didn’t pass it to me.
‘Dawn wasn’t at our school, though,’ she said.
‘No, I know.’
‘So what’s your interest in her?’
That took me by surprise. Though I had asked where Dawn was now on my previous visit, I’d done it quite casually, and thought it would have sounded like nothing more than idle curiosity. But for all that she looked a bit of a country bumpkin, there were clearly no flies on Lisa. On the spur of the moment I decided the best thing would be to level with her.
‘Truthfully?’ I said. ‘I’m a journalist these days, with too much time on my hands, and I’ve been following up the story of the fire. I’m not convinced Brian Jennings was the perpetrator, and if he didn’t start the fire, I’d like to find out who did.’
‘Oh, for goodness sake!’ It was the same impatient response as before, but as she thrust the lardy cake at me, I noticed Lisa’s hand was shaking.
‘I know you think they got the right person,’ I went on, ‘but just suppose there was a miscarriage of justice? Brian Jennings could be rotting in jail for something he didn’t do, and the real culprit walking free – to do it again, perhaps.’
Brian Jennings did it all right,’ Lisa said fiercely, but the little tremble was there in her voice now, too. ‘He was stalking Dawn – I told you that before. He was a horrible creep.’
‘I’m sure he was. But that doesn’t mean he should have to spend his life behind bars if he wasn’t responsible for starting the fire,’ I argued. ‘And it’s not as if he can bother Dawn any more, is it? She was killed, I understand, in a road accident.’
Lisa said nothing, simply passed me the lardy cake.
‘That’ll be one pound fifty.’
She was feeling guilty for not having mentioned it when I’d asked about Dawn before, I guessed.
I fished the money out of my purse.
‘Where exactly do her parents live?’ I asked, handing her two pound coins. Lisa shrugged. ‘You must know, surely,’ I went on. ‘You were her flatmate, after all?’
‘Wedgeley.’
‘That’s quite a big place. Can’t you be a bit more exact?’
‘Wedgeley Down. It’s a village.’ Lisa opened the till, got out a fifty-pence piece and put it on the counter. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’m waiting to close.’
‘Oh, sorry.’
But I wasn’t, really. I’d narrowed down the area where I might find Dawn’s parents. And I’d confirmed the impression I’d gained when I last spoke to Lisa. She really did not want to talk about the fire, or Dawn, and not, I thought, just because it brought back traumatic memories. It was almost as if she was afraid. Lisa knew something, I was certain of it, but getting her to tell me what it was would be like getting blood out of the proverbial stone. She was even closing the café in the middle of the afternoon to avoid talking to me, if I was not much mistaken.
Clutching the paper bag, through which a film of grease from the cake was already spreading, I left the café. Behind me, the bolts were shot, and when I glanced around the sign on the door had been turned over to ‘Closed’.
I glanced at my watch. Time to make my way to the Gazette office for my appointment with Belinda Jones.
Tara was, as usual, sitting behind the reception desk, and before I could say a word she was reassuring me that she had left a message on Josh’s mobile for him to contact me. He hadn’t picked up when she called him, it seemed. That concerned me a bit – I hated that I hadn’t yet been able to tell him I needed to change our date – but Belinda Jones was at the door of her little partitioned-off domain beckoning to me, and there was no time to worry about that now.
The chief reporter was a slightly built woman in her mid-forties, I judged, smartly but not ostentatiously dressed in the perennial uniform of a journalist – well-cut slacks and a sweater. A matching jacket was draped across the back of her chair. Her hair, dark with a few silver streaks, was cut into a sharp bob, and her eyes, also dark, flicked over me, summing me up.
‘So you’re Sally,’ she said.
‘Yes. And as you so rightly guessed, I’m not actually a mature student writing a thesis,’ I felt obliged to admit.
‘We all do what we have to do sometimes.’ She smiled, a little tightly, but the connection had been made. Belinda and I understood one another.
‘So, you
are interested in the fire, and in Dawn Burridge,’ she said briskly, gesturing for me to take a seat on one of the two chairs. ‘How much do you actually know about it?’
‘Really, just the basic facts. Nobody seems to want to talk about what happened.’
She nodded, eyes narrowing in what might have been agreement.
‘And what about Dawn herself?’
‘Again – nothing beyond that she was very attractive, and possibly not very well liked. I haven’t been able to find out anything about any relationships she might have had, and that’s something I’m especially interested in.’
‘OK, let’s start with Dawn then . . . Oh, would you like a tea, or coffee? Sorry, I should have asked before.’
‘No, I’m fine, thanks. Unless you’re having one.’
‘I drink far too much coffee. Let’s just crack on. I have to go out for an appointment at four . . .’ She rescued a stray paper-clip that I hadn’t even noticed lying beside the stack of wire trays, and dropped it into a desk tidy. ‘As you so rightly say, Dawn Burridge was a very attractive young lady. As for not being liked, I really couldn’t say. I always found her perfectly pleasant, but then, perhaps I only saw her best side. She wouldn’t have wanted to alienate me for fear I’d write something less than flattering about her. But in my experience, when you look as good as Dawn did, it’s bound to invite jealousy of the ‘who does she think she is’ kind. She was talented, too, she had a great stage presence and a nice singing voice. I think she put a few noses out of joint at the dramatic society when she arrived on the scene, especially Amanda Fricker’s. Amanda had been principal girl in their panto since she was about fourteen or fifteen, and thought she had a divine right to the part. Then along comes Dawn and snatches it from under her nose.’
Amanda Fricker. I didn’t remember anyone of that name from the meeting, but then again, I had been pretty overwhelmed by all the unfamiliar faces. I made a mental note to look out for her next time.