A Question of Guilt (10 page)

‘And you'd like Mr Crighton to include them in the next auction?'

‘I think so, yes. Can you give me some idea of what they might fetch?'

Sarah made no attempt to pick up the items. In fact, her disdainful look gave me the impression she wasn't happy to have them on her desk even, and certainly wouldn't want to soil her perfectly manicured hands.

‘I can't do that, I'm afraid. You'd need to speak to Mr Crighton.'

This was exactly what I'd hoped for.

‘Could I do that, please?' I asked.

‘I'll see if he's available.' She lifted a telephone and pressed a single digit. ‘Mr Crighton?' There was something quite old-fashioned in the formality – surely it was all Christian names in the workplace nowadays, just as everywhere else? – and something almost reverential in her tone as she spoke to him. ‘Would you be able to speak to a lady about a valuation of some items for the auction?'

I couldn't hear his reply, but Sarah nodded as she put down the telephone.

‘Mr Crighton will be with you as soon as he's free.'

At least she hadn't used the ubiquitous ‘in a meeting'. And it gave me an opportunity to talk to her while I was waiting. I decided to plunge in at the deep end.

‘Does Dawn Burridge still work here?' I asked.

‘Dawn Burridge?'

‘Yes. She used to, didn't she, before the fire at her flat?'

‘I really couldn't say. I've only been here a short while,' Sarah replied coolly, but I noticed the other girl, who had finished her telephone call, was listening intently.

‘I was here at the same time as Dawn,' she said. ‘Were you a friend of hers?'

‘Not exactly . . .' I hesitated. ‘I do want to talk to her, though. Do you know where she is these days?'

The girl's eyes widened for a moment; she looked startled, shocked even, and on the point of saying something. Then her eyes flicked past me. I turned automatically, following her gaze, and saw a man on the staircase that led upwards from a corner of the office. He was wearing a dark grey suit that looked expensive, a pink striped shirt and a bold tie. His soft suede shoes had made no sound on the staircase, nor did they as he crossed the woodblock floor.

Lewis Crighton. I recognized him at once from his website photograph, though he looked a little older, his dark hair flecked with silver and the lines between his nose and mouth more deeply etched. If anything, though, he was even more handsome in the flesh and he exuded a courtly charm.

‘Good morning. Lewis Crighton.' He offered me his hand. My journalist's eye noticed a gold signet ring, studded with a tiny diamond.

‘Sally Proctor.' There didn't seem any point concealing my identity as I had at the newspaper office. ‘I was hoping you might be able to sell these things for me in your auction, but I'd like some idea of what they might fetch.'

Lewis examined the candle snuffer.

‘Interesting. It's had quite a lot of use in its lifetime, by the look of it.'

‘I'd think so. I come from a farming family, and they probably didn't have electricity until long after most people.'

‘Quite.' He flipped open the box where the apostle spoons nestled in a bed of blue velvet. ‘These are quite sought after, too, but I'm afraid I can't possibly guess what they will make at auction. I'm not an antiques expert – just a humble businessman – and so much depends on which dealers come along on the night. If there's interest, then they can drive one another up. Otherwise the price can remain very low. We're not Sotheby's, I'm afraid.' He smiled slightly. ‘The best thing would be for you to put on a reserve price – the least amount you'd be willing to accept.'

‘And what would you suggest?'

Lewis Crighton gave a small shake of his head.

‘That really isn't for me to say. It all depends on how much you want to sell.'

I hesitated. ‘I think I should talk to over with my mother. I've brought them in on her behalf. When is your next auction?' I asked.

‘In just over a week's time. The second Tuesday of the month.' He replaced the apostle spoons on Sarah's desk, long white fingers with a feathering of dark hairs lingering on the inlaid lid of the box. ‘Will you take them away with you while you think it over, or would you like me to keep them here for you?'

‘Oh, keep them, if that's not too much trouble.'

The moment the words were out I regretted them. If I took the things away with me it would give me an excuse to come back again. It was too late now, though.

‘I'll let you know what she decides,' I added.

‘No problem. Sarah will take a few details from you.'

He held out his hand again; the interview was at an end as far as he was concerned, and I couldn't think of any way of prolonging it. But in any case I couldn't see Lewis Crighton telling me anything I wanted to know – he was too much the businessman, all formality and good manners. The girl who'd said she'd worked here at the same time as Dawn was a far better bet.

Sarah opened a file on her computer, entered the details of the items I was leaving in their care, and asked me my name, address, and a contact telephone number.

‘I'll just print this off and ask you to sign it . . .' She was all efficiency, something Lewis Crighton demanded, I imagined. Which, in its way, told me something about Dawn. She might have been a glamour girl, but she couldn't have been an empty-headed flibbertigibbet if she'd held down a job here.

The redhead had left her desk now and was rearranging property details on a display board that was positioned just inside the door. When I'd signed the form Sarah had printed off for me I made to leave, but paused beside her.

‘You were saying . . . about Dawn . . .' I said, striving to sound casual.

The redhead turned sharply. Her name brooch announced that she was called Alice, I noticed, but it wasn't so much that that was demanding my attention as the wary look in her eyes. She didn't actually take a step away from me, but it felt almost as if she had.

‘It's just that . . . I thought if you knew her, you might be able to tell me where she is . . . how I could get in touch with her,' I went on.

For a moment the girl, Alice, said nothing. She was chewing her lip, her teeth making sharp indentations in her lip-gloss, and she looked scarily as if she might be about to burst into tears.

Sometimes silence is more effective than too much questioning; puzzled, I waited.

Then: ‘You don't know, do you?' Alice said.

I shook my head, still waiting, though a shiver of apprehension was prickling over my skin. Alice glanced at Sarah, seeking support, I guessed, and when none was forthcoming, looked back at me. She ran her long, French-polished nails over her lower lip as if to smooth out the indentations her teeth had made, then drew a quick, shuddering breath.

‘I'm really sorry . . . if she was a friend of yours . . .'

‘What?' I asked urgently.

‘I'm really sorry,' she said again, ‘but Dawn was in an accident last year. She was killed. So . . . you won't be able to find her, I'm afraid. Dawn Burridge is dead.'

‘Dawn is dead?' I repeated stupidly. Shock and disbelief were washing over me in a great wave that rendered me incapable of coherent thought. ‘But when? How?'

‘It happened in Dorset, where her parents lived, not long after the trial,' Alice said. She looked genuinely upset.

‘And it was an accident, you say?' I was beginning to recover myself. ‘What was it – a car crash?'

Alice shook her head.

‘She was killed by a hit-and-run driver when she was on her way home from work. I don't know any more than that.' She glanced nervously in the direction of the staircase leading to the upper floor. ‘Mr Crighton doesn't like us talking about it. Dawn had been here a long time – he was very fond of her. And besides . . .'

Yes, I could well imagine I wasn't the first reporter to come here asking questions, although presumably they would have simply been looking for a quote. Not the sort of publicity Lewis Crighton would want for his feel-good business.

‘Did they ever catch the driver who knocked her down?' I asked.

Alice shook her head, her red hair swinging about her pretty, pale face.

‘I don't think so. Look, I'm sorry, but I really must get on with my work . . .'

‘Of course.'

I left the office and for a little while I was too busy getting myself back to the car park to think much about what Alice had told me – crossing busy roads on crutches requires a fair degree of concentration. Once I'd made it safely, though, I sat in the driver's seat of Dad's 4 x 4 staring out of the windscreen and giving my thoughts free rein.

What a terrible thing! And how ironic that Dawn should have escaped the fire only to be killed in a road accident! It was almost as if she was fated – as if her death was meant to be . . .

Meant to be . . .
The phrase resonated somehow, and for a moment I couldn't understand why it should, so the thought, when it occurred to me, shocked me all over again.

Supposing Dawn had been meant to die in the blazing flat? Supposing someone wanted her dead so badly that they'd started the fire with exactly that intention, and when it hadn't worked, they'd tried again – and succeeded? It could be, of course, that I was making a leap too far here, too ready to think the worst because I was so eager to find a story that I was inventing one, but it was either a tragic coincidence that Dawn had died so soon after her lucky escape from the fire – or she had been deliberately targeted not once, but twice. And I didn't really believe in coincidences.

If I was right, of course, it would definitely mean that Brian Jennings had been wrongly convicted. He was already behind bars when Dawn was killed. And even if he hadn't been, this wasn't the act of a deranged oddball – it was cold, calculated, carried out by someone with deadly intent. It would mean that Dawn, not Lisa, was always the target. This was all about her, and she was the one I should concentrate on.

I would need to check out the details of the hit-and-run – exactly where and when it had happened, and whether there were any witnesses. Alice had said the driver hadn't been caught, but that didn't mean no one had seen anything. There might have been information that the police hadn't been able to capitalize on – a partial number plate, a vehicle type and colour, a glimpse of the driver – was he male? Female? Young? Old? Black? White? But the vital clues lay here, in Stoke Compton, I felt sure. It was here the whole thing had begun, where, perhaps, Dawn had met someone who had eventually decided she had to die. But who? And why?

Once again I ran over possible motives. Revenge, jealousy, fear. Any of the reasons I'd listed to Mum could be the trigger for murder. And there would be more besides, reasons I hadn't even thought of yet, as to why someone might want Dawn dead. There always were. To find out I needed to talk to people who'd known Dawn. I should speak to Lisa again, obviously, but I had a feeling she was going to be a hard nut to crack. But Dawn must have had other friends – she'd been an outgoing sort of girl from what I knew of her, with a full social life that probably hadn't included Lisa – the amateur dramatics society, to name but one source of possible friends, and I was pretty sure I'd be able to find out where and when they met at the library. Libraries usually kept information on all local activities and the contact details for officials.

I also really wanted to talk again to Alice. They had, after all, worked together, and confidences were often shared between colleagues; all kinds of personal matters were discussed over a cup of coffee and a cream cake. There was no point in going back to Compton Properties here and now though; Alice had made it abundantly clear that Lewis Crighton didn't want Dawn, and what had happened to her, discussed in the office. I needed to get her on her own if I was to elicit any useful information.

I fished in the pocket of my jacket for the paperwork Sarah had given me. She'd clipped a business card to the form, which bore the office telephone number. My mobile phone was in my bag; I got it out and dialled.

The phone was picked up almost immediately, but I didn't know the voices of the two girls well enough to be sure which of them had answered it.

‘Would it be possible to speak to Alice?' I asked.

‘I'm sorry. Alice is at lunch. This is Sarah. Can I help?'

Damn. Where had the morning gone?

‘It really was Alice I wanted to speak to,' I said. ‘When will she be back?'

‘One fifteen. We take our lunch break in relays. But are you sure I can't . . .?'

‘I'll ring again later,' I interrupted her.

‘Can I tell her who called?'

Damn again. I didn't want to put Alice on her guard, or blow my excuse for going to the office by drawing attention to my interest in Dawn.

‘No, it's all right. Sorry to have bothered you.'

I disconnected, and glanced at my watch. Ten to one. Mum would be expecting me back; Dad would think I'd crashed his car. But I wasn't ready to leave Stoke Compton just yet.

I punched in my home number. Mum answered, sounding concerned when she heard my voice.

‘Is everything all right, Sally?'

‘Fine. But I've still got a few things I want to do here. Is it OK with Dad if I don't get back for an hour or so?'

‘Hang on, and I'll ask him . . .' Muffled voices, then Mum was back on the line. ‘He says that's all right.'

‘Thanks. I won't be much longer.'

‘Take your time. And just take care.' Mum still sounded slightly anxious.

‘I will,' I promised. ‘And don't worry, I'm fine.'

In fact, I realized, I was actually feeling rather tired. All that swinging about on crutches had taken it out of me. And I wasn't done yet. But I wasn't going to let a little thing like a pair of sore hands and an aching leg put me off.