A Question of Guilt (19 page)

It was gone half past ten by the time people began getting up to leave, and I took my cue to do the same.

As I got into my car, the memory of the last time I'd made this journey hit me, and a sensation of unease fluttered in my tummy. Since some of the others had left the pub at the same time as me, there was a flurry of cars pulling out of the Square as I did, and there were headlights behind me through the traffic lights and the first junction. I kept checking nervously as one by one they peeled off and by the time I was out of the built-up area, my mirror reflected only the last street lamps and an empty road behind me. A little way out into the country and headlights glared in my mirror again; I put my foot down hard, but still the lights closed in on me and I saw the car was pulling out to overtake. My stomach muscles tightened and I felt the beginnings of the same panic I'd experienced the other night – was he going to box me in? But hardly had the thought formed in my mind than he was roaring past me, going like a bat out of hell. Normally I'd have been worried that I might come upon him around the next bend, having either lost control or collided with an oncoming vehicle; tonight I felt nothing but relief that at least he wasn't following me.

Apart from a few cars going in the opposite direction, I saw no one else. But I was very glad, all the same, when I reached the farm yard.

‘You see? There was nothing to worry about, was there?' I said aloud. And the only reply was Scrumpy's obligatory greeting.

Thursday dawned wet and windy; with a leaden sky making everything dark and gloomy, the onset of spring, which had seemed imminent only yesterday, now seemed as far away as ever. Definitely a day for staying indoors to work rather than going out to investigate!

I booted up my new laptop, organized the files I'd transferred from my memory stick, and was staring at the screen, deep in thought, when the phone rang. Mum was out seeing to the hens, I knew – I didn't envy her in this weather! – so I answered it and was surprised to hear Rachel's voice.

‘Sally? That is you, isn't it?'

‘Oh yes, it's me. Hi, Rach.'

‘Are you in this morning? I've got a couple of hours free, and I was thinking of popping over.'

‘I'm not going anywhere. I'd love to see you.'

‘I'll be over in about half an hour, then. And we can talk about going down to Dorset.'

That reminded me – I hadn't done any more about finding an address for Dawn's parents. Whilst waiting for Rachel, I went on line and searched for a family named Burridge in the Wedgeley Down area. There were two, a C.T. Burridge, and an Andrew, and I hadn't a clue which was Dawn's father. But Burridge wasn't exactly a common name, and the chances were they were both related – a brother or an uncle, perhaps. I checked the addresses – Ivy Cottage, Parsonage Lane, and forty-nine Keats Road. Chances were, I thought, that Keats Road was a new estate, and Ivy Cottage an older property. But I really didn't have time to try either of them now. Rachel would be arriving at any minute.

Or was I just making excuses? I wasn't looking forward to approaching Dawn's family, and I knew it was just another sign that I was definitely going soft. Contacting the bereaved was never something I enjoyed, but I'd never shrunk from doing it where necessary. Now the thought of trying to elicit information from the parents of a dead girl, and possibly informing them I didn't believe her death had been accidental at all, was making me shudder inwardly.

I was going to have to toughen up again, not a doubt of it, when I went back to work if not now, so it might as well be now. My hand hovered over the telephone.

‘Sally! Hello! Are you there?' Rachel's voice from the hall. She'd obviously let herself in. I felt guilty relief at the welcome reprieve.

For the next hour Rachel and I sat chatting over coffee and custard cream biscuits at the kitchen table. Mum had come in, rivulets of rain that had dripped from the hood of her Barbour running down her face, and her trousers creased from where they'd been jammed into her wellington boots.

‘It's a quagmire out there,' she said, cheerfully enough. Mum had never been one to let bad weather get her down; just as well, since a farm has to be run whatever the elements throw at you – the animals fed, the cows brought in for milking, the eggs collected.

‘Steve's not going to be happy with me,' Rachel said anxiously. ‘There was no way I could avoid the puddles in the lane, and he only took the car to the car wash on Sunday.'

I couldn't help but smile.

‘You worry too much, Rach. Muddy splashes, scraped wing mirrors – you need to get a run-around of your own or you're heading for a nervous breakdown.'

‘And how could we afford to run two cars?' Rachel demanded. ‘It's not going to happen, unless we come up on the lottery, or I get a full-time job.'

‘So what do you think about Sally's new boyfriend, then, Rachel?' Mum asked.

‘I think it's great.' But Rachel sounded somehow a bit hesitant. I'd noticed she'd gone quiet earlier when I'd been talking about Josh, and thought I was imagining things, but now there was no mistaking it.

‘Come on, Rach, show a bit of enthusiasm!' I urged her. ‘You were the one who wanted me to ditch Tim and find somebody new.'

‘I know, I know! And I'm really pleased if he's all you say he is,' Rachel said.

‘He is!'

‘You don't really
know
him, though, do you?' Rachel said cautiously.

‘Well, you never know anyone if you don't give yourself the chance,' I argued.

‘That's true. But you shouldn't let yourself get carried away – get involved too heavily too soon. It sounds to me as if you've fallen head over heels for this chap, Sally, and I don't want to see you hurt.'

It was almost an echo of what Mum had said to me, and I began to feel as if they were ganging up on me.

‘Oh for goodness sake!' I exploded.

‘Just be careful, Sally.' Rachel had her serious face on, which, to be honest was the one she wore most often. ‘There are a lot of rotters out there, who'll tell you whatever they think you want to hear. You're sure he's not married, for starters?'

‘Unlikely. He's invited me to his cottage for our next date.'

That took the wind out of her sails for a minute. Then she recovered herself.

‘OK, so he's not living with anyone. But I still think you should be careful. He could be telling you a whole pack of lies about himself, and you'd be swallowing all of them. He could have a violent streak, or be some kind of pervert with all kinds of porn downloaded on his computer. It's no good you making that face – I'm just saying. Don't get carried away until you know him better.'

‘She's right, Sally. He might seem nice, but you never know . . .' Mum cautioned.

I raised my eyes heavenward.

‘Honestly, just listen to the pair of you! Nobody would think I decamped to the big city when I was eighteen years old, and I've managed to live there without getting myself raped or murdered ever since. I'm a big girl, OK?'

‘Just saying,' Rachel repeated in a conciliatory tone.

‘Shall we change the subject?' I suggested.

We did, going back instead to tentative arrangements for Rachel to drive me down to Dorset. But for all my insouciance, I couldn't help a tiny niggle of unease. I really liked Josh. More than liked, if I was being honest. And really, I couldn't imagine him being any of the things Rachel was implying he might be. A liar, a wife-beater, a pervert – or even just a heel. It didn't tie in with the Josh I'd been dating – was, possibly, even falling in love with.

But the truth of the matter was I really knew nothing whatever about him beyond that he was a newspaper photographer, and very attractive to boot. I didn't have a clue as to what he'd been doing before he came to Stoke Compton, his family, or where he called home. Somehow we'd never got around to talking about any of those things – or if we had been close, the conversation had always slipped away in another direction. When Josh had mentioned taking his sister's children to Longleat, it was the closest we'd ever got to his background, and even then he hadn't expanded on the bare remark.

I didn't actually know a single thing about him. But what the heck? Surely I could rely on my instincts to warn me off if there was anything dodgy about the man who was beginning to loom large in my life?

‘How about one day next week then?' Rachel was saying.

‘Sounds good to me,' I said, and let my anxiety about meeting Dawn's parents supersede the niggling doubts I was suddenly having about my whirlwind romance with Josh.

Late afternoon, and the rain was still falling, a thick drizzle now, with a gusting wind tossing it in flurries against the windows. I'd spent the last couple of hours on my computer, and sitting around, I'd got chilled to the marrow without even realizing it. I dragged myself upstairs to find a thick sweater, and sat down again, staring thoughtfully at the two telephone numbers I'd unearthed, one of which I felt sure must be for Dawn Burridge's parents.

It was quite possible, of course, that there wouldn't be anyone at home at this time of day, but if I didn't try, I wouldn't know. And if I didn't at least attempt to make the call now, I wasn't sure I'd ever do it at all.

I decided on one of the two numbers, and before I could change my mind, dialled it. After just a couple of rings, an answering machine kicked in, and I killed the call. This wasn't something I could leave a message about. Without much hope I tried the second number. It rang interminably and I was just about to hang up when it was answered. A man's voice, abrupt, as if he was less than pleased to have been interrupted in whatever he had been doing when the telephone rang. But my nervousness had melted away as if by magic; it was like riding a bicycle, I thought – once you were back in the saddle it just came naturally.

‘Do I have the right number for the parents of Dawn Burridge?' I asked smoothly.

The man answered my question with one of his own.

‘Who is this?'

‘My name is Sally Proctor,' I said. ‘You won't know me, but I'm trying to get in touch with them.'

‘Were you a friend of Dawn's?'

‘Yes,' I lied. ‘I live in Stoke Compton. Are you Dawn's father?'

‘Her brother.'

Ah. So I was on the right track.

‘Would it be possible to speak to either her mother or father?'

‘You'll have a job to speak to Dad,' the man said tersely. ‘I'm afraid he passed away just before Christmas.'

I was, I have to confess, a bit shocked.

‘Oh, I'm really sorry to hear that . . .' I said awkwardly.

‘I'm not sure whether Mum is up to talking to anyone,' the man went on. ‘Losing first Dawn, and then Dad . . . she's not in a good place just now.'

‘No, I can imagine . . .' I broke off as I heard a woman's voice in the background.

‘Who is it, Andrew?'

A few moments' silence ensued; Dawn's brother had covered the receiver with his hand, I imagined. And then, to my surprise, the line opened up again and the same voice I'd heard in the background, oddly sharp, yet with a Dorset burr, was speaking in my ear.

‘This is Grace Burridge.'

‘Mrs Burridge.' My nervousness had returned, but I was, thankfully, able to control it. ‘This is Sally Proctor.'

‘So my son said. You were a friend of Dawn's, I understand.'

‘Yes.' This time I felt really guilty for the lie. ‘Can I say how sorry I am for your loss?'

‘You can say it, but it won't bring them back, will it?' she said flatly.

‘No, I realize that. Mrs Burridge, the reason I'm ringing is that I was wondering if I could come and see you.'

‘What for?'

‘I want to talk to you about Dawn . . .' I was expecting her to ask me why I wanted to talk to her, and I really hadn't made up my mind what I was going to say. Instead, to my surprise, there was complete silence at the other end of the line. ‘Mrs Burridge?' I ventured.

I heard what sounded like a muffled sob, followed by another silence. I waited. Sometimes it was better to say nothing at all.

After a moment when Grace Burridge must have been collecting herself, she spoke just two words.

‘All right.'

‘You don't mind talking to me?' I wanted to be sure I'd understood her correctly.

‘I expect I'll upset myself. But it's nice to talk to someone who knew her . . . not many people want to talk about her at all. They cross the street, you know, rather than have to think of what to say to me. Yes, my dear, if you want to talk about Dawn, you're most welcome.'

I really did feel guilty now, dreadfully, horribly guilty. But it was too late to tell her the truth now. And besides, if I was able to get justice for Dawn, surely that wasn't such a bad thing?

‘When do you want to come?' Grace Burridge asked.

‘Would one morning next week suit you? I won't take up too much of your time.'

Grace Burridge snorted. ‘Huh! I've enough of that on my hands now. I'm on my own here most days, except for when Andrew pops in, like now. No, you come whenever you like. Just give me a ring and let me know when to expect you.'

‘Thank you, Mrs Burridge. I'll do that.'

I put down the phone and sat for a moment massaging my temples with my fingertips. That conversation had been horrible, and there would be worse to come.

Time, I reckoned, for a cup of tea!

I headed for the kitchen. The delicious aroma of frying onions wafted out to greet me.

‘Something smells good!' I enthused.

‘Just a casserole for tomorrow.' Mum was at the Aga, wearing a dark cook's apron and stirring meat and vegetables in a cast iron pot. ‘It's going to be a busy day, and a casserole always tastes better when the flavour's had a chance to develop.'