A Question of Guilt (27 page)

As we neared the Dorset border the fog lifted and the sky brightened to a hazy blue. The satnav was doing a good job, and soon articulating: ‘You have reached your destination'.

Grace's house – Dawn's home, I reminded myself – was a whitewashed bungalow in a small close of similar residences. The front garden had been laid to gravel, dotted with shrubs and planters. They were empty now, but I guessed that in summer they would be bright with geraniums or petunias. I rang the bell beside the door, holly green, and recently painted, by the look of it, and heard the Westminster chime ringing in the house.

The woman who opened the door was much younger than I'd expected, not about Mum's age as I had supposed. Slim, with short blonde hair and wearing leggings and a tunic, she was probably in her late forties. But there was a haunted look about her. Grace Burridge was still a very attractive woman – had been stunning, no doubt, in her youth – but the tragedies that had touched her life in the last year were etched in her face.

‘Sally?' she said.

‘Yes. And this is my friend, Rachel. I hope you don't mind . . .?'

‘No, of course not. Do come in.'

She showed us into a pleasant, open-plan room and indicated a cream leather sofa and matching chair.

‘Sit down. Can I get you a coffee?'

‘That would be nice. Thank you.'

She disappeared into the kitchen, and I looked around. There were photographs everywhere, lined up along the mantelpiece and, on top of a bookcase, some of family, including one of herself and her husband on a black-tie occasion, but mostly of Dawn. Her beautiful, photogenic face seemed to light up the room. It was a sobering thought that she would never again smile engagingly for a camera.

‘So,' Grace said, returning with a pot of coffee and elegant little cups and saucers set out on a tray, ‘you were a friend of Dawn's.'

I took a deep breath. I really didn't want to lie any more to Grace Burridge, so I avoided the direct question.

‘What happened to her was shocking,' I said. ‘I'm going to be honest with you, Mrs Burridge, I can't help wondering if what happened to her was really an accident. It seems really strange that she was killed so soon after the fire, and I . . .'

I broke off. Grace Burridge had gone very still, the coffee pot suspended over one of the little cups, and she was staring at me, those sad eyes narrowed in a face that, I felt sure, would have been very pale if not for her make-up.

‘You think so too,' she said.

This wasn't at all the reaction I'd expected. I'd thought I'd meet with astonishment, denial even.

I nodded slowly, and Grace Burridge gave up trying to pour the coffee and set the jug down on the tray.

‘You have no idea what a relief it is to have somebody actually agree with me,' she said, her voice shaking with emotion. ‘My late husband always told me I was imagining things, and Andrew, my son, thinks I'm just desperate for someone to blame. They may be right, of course. But they didn't talk to Dawn as I did when she came home after the fire, and it was only after the accident that I started putting two and two together. She was frightened, Sally. Really frightened, not like my Dawn at all. Something was very wrong. And you saw that too, did you?'

‘Not exactly,' I said carefully. ‘I don't live in Stoke Compton any more, and I didn't actually see Dawn after the fire.' I was treading on eggshells here, and I wondered if Grace Burridge would realize that if I wasn't living in Stoke Compton, I couldn't actually have known Dawn at all. But she was too caught up in the moment, too relieved to find someone who actually agreed with her, to think of that.

‘It just wasn't Dawn,' she repeated. ‘She was always such a happy girl – his little ray of sunshine, her Daddy used to call her. And so beautiful! She had the sort of looks that made people turn round and stare at her in the street. She was so talented, too. She loved her acting, and she was so good at it. She could have made a career of it if she'd gone to drama school – would have done, I expect, if she hadn't met George and wanted to be with him. The girl who left home was bright and happy, all her future before her. The one who came back . . .' She shook her head and her chin wobbled with the effort of holding back the tears. ‘Oh, I'm sorry . . .'

‘That's OK, Mrs Burridge,' I said.

‘Grace. Please call me Grace.' She picked up the coffee pot again, poured coffee and pushed the cups across the low table to Rachel and me, and the simple, everyday task seemed to restore her equilibrium a little.

‘Of course, I didn't really think anything of it to start with,' she went on, sitting down on the edge of one of the leather chairs opposite us. ‘Being trapped in a terrible fire like that would be enough to upset anyone. She must have been so frightened, and she lost everything, all her lovely clothes, everything. But she seemed to be taking it in her stride, trying to get on with her life. She even got her old job back, the one she left when she went to Stoke Compton. They were only too happy to take her back – that's the sort of girl she was.'

Another pause; she bit her lip.

‘Yes,' I agreed, but said nothing more. Grace seemed eager to talk, to just let all of it come pouring out, and I was anxious not to interrupt the flow.

Once again Grace recovered herself, and sighed.

‘Oh, if only she'd never gone to Stoke Compton! It didn't even work out, you know, between her and George. But by the time they broke up she'd settled there, had her flat and her job and new friends – she'd even met someone else, I think.'

Yes, Lewis Crighton, I thought, but I said nothing.

‘She seemed so happy,' Grace went on, ‘even though, of course, Brian Jennings was making a nuisance of himself. Had been from the moment she went to work at Compton Properties.'

I frowned. What did Compton Properties have to do with Brian Jennings and his obsession with Dawn? For the moment I was afraid to ask, but Rachel couldn't resist jumping in.

‘Brian Jennings worked at Compton Properties?'

‘Well, yes – I thought you knew that . . .' Grace looked a little puzzled.

‘Sorry, it's just me . . .' Rachel put in quickly.

‘Brian Jennings worked as a sort of odd-job man,' Grace said, addressing Rachel. ‘Mostly he helped out with the house clearances and auctions, shifting the heavy furniture, and so on – just manual labour. He wasn't bright enough to be trusted with anything else.'

The job Jason Barlow had been doing last night. Jason Barlow, who had been a witness for the prosecution at Brian Jennings' trial . . .

‘Lewis got rid of him, of course, when he developed this fixation on Dawn,' Grace went on. ‘It didn't stop him, though. He still went on pestering her. Lisa, her flatmate, persuaded her to report him to the police, but what could they do? There's no law against walking up and down a public street, and they didn't think he was in any way dangerous.'

‘Until the fire,' I said.

‘Exactly. They went after him then, all right, and when witnesses came forward to say they'd seen him hanging about, and all the photographs of Dawn and so on were found in his flat, they were convinced they had their man. Then, of course, traces of petrol were found in his jacket pocket, and that was it. He never stood a chance after that . . . well, really he probably never stood a chance at all, someone like him . . .'

‘But even after he was convicted and locked up, Dawn was still frightened,' I prompted her.

She nodded. ‘I don't think Dawn ever really believed Brian Jennings was guilty. She said he was annoying, scary, even, but she didn't think he'd ever do anything to harm her. And there was something else about the fire that was worrying her, too, something to do with Lisa, her flatmate . . .'

At once I was remembering the feeling I'd had when talking to Lisa Curry that she was hiding something.

‘What do you mean?' I asked.

‘Dawn said that that evening – the evening before the fire – Lisa was really jumpy and strange. “Perhaps she's psychic” she said, “Perhaps she knew something bad was going to happen”. That was her way of explaining it. Lisa was her friend, after all. But I'm not sure whether she really believed that. It was Lisa who realized the shop was on fire, too, and woke Dawn – she saved her life, not a doubt of it. If they'd both been fast asleep and overcome by smoke, they'd never have been able to get out of the window when the baker fetched the ladder. And I can tell you, too, that it was after Dawn went back to Stoke Compton to see Lisa that she came back really upset. And I've often wondered if it was something Lisa told her that got her into the state she was in.'

I could feel prickles of excitement beginning in the pit of my stomach. A scenario was suggesting itself to me. Was it just a little bit too convenient that the baker had been passing at exactly the right moment? Not to mention that a ladder just happened to be at hand? A baker who was now married to Lisa, with her successful business established in the refurbished shop that had been the seat of the fire? Had it all been an elaborate ploy to get their hands on a prime High Street location?

But if so, why had Dawn been
frightened
when it was all over? She might have had her suspicions about who was really responsible; she might have felt guilt that Brian Jennings had been wrongly accused. But Lisa was her friend, and she and Paul were just an ordinary couple. They might have set a fire to get what they wanted, but I couldn't see them as murderers.

Perhaps after all the two events were unconnected. But that brought me back to my very first conclusion. For Dawn to have been trapped by the fire and then mown down by a hit-and-run driver was a huge coincidence, and I didn't like coincidences. Either Dawn was incredibly unlucky, or there was a link. And I was no nearer to finding out what it was.

‘So though she had doubts about Brian Jennings being the culprit, Dawn still gave evidence at his trial?' I said.

‘Only about him stalking her.' Grace was twisting her wedding ring round and round on her finger. ‘She did say she couldn't see him being the fire raiser. But I don't remember his barrister ever asking her about that in court, I must confess.'

So, poor Brian Jennings had been represented by a lazy lawyer who hadn't really fought his case properly. Well, that happened – in fact it was what I'd suspected all along.

‘Did Dawn ever mention anyone else who might have wished her harm?' I asked.

Grace shook her head vehemently.

‘Dawn was really popular. She was a lovely girl – you know that.'

It didn't quite tally with what I'd heard of Dawn in Stoke Compton, but I wasn't about to upset Grace by saying so.

‘You said she was frightened,' I said instead. ‘Do you know who, or what, she was frightened of?'

Grace shook her head again.

‘Not really. She didn't want to talk about it.'

I decided to take the bull by the horns.

‘Could it have been Lewis Crighton?' I asked.

‘Oh – no, no!' Grace sounded quite shocked. ‘She was very fond of Lewis. He was a wonderful employer. And he thought the world of Dawn.' She broke off, her forehead creasing beneath her neat blonde fringe. ‘I do think it had something to do with her work, though,' she went on after a moment. ‘Not the estate agency – the auctions. And Lewis's partner. She did once say she didn't trust him . . .'

‘His
partner
!' I repeated, startled. ‘I didn't know he had a partner. I thought it was his own business.'

‘Well, yes, as regards the estate agency, it is. Certainly he's the front man, and runs everything on a day to day business. But the auction side of it is a different matter. There's definitely someone else in the background.'

‘Do you know who?' I asked, holding my breath.

‘I'm sorry, no. I don't think Dawn ever mentioned a name, or if she did, I don't remember it.' She broke off, thinking. ‘I don't suppose there would be anything in her diary that might give a clue?'

‘Her diary?' I sat forward eagerly. ‘Dawn kept a diary?'

‘Always. From the time she was a little girl. She wrote it up every night without fail – sometimes I had to get cross with her when I'd find her scribbling away when she should be asleep. It was a ritual with her, right down to the book she wrote it in. She'd buy exercise books, then cover them with fancy paper and attach a sticker with the dates and something pretty to decorate it – a star, or a flower . . . the very first one, when she was about six or seven, I remember, was a picture of a puppy, and the gold paper was the wrapping from a birthday present . . .' Her eyes were misting as she remembered her little girl. A little girl who had grown up, but still stuck to the childish ritual of decorating her diaries as she always had.

‘And she kept on writing them up after she came home?' I asked.

Grace recovered herself with an effort.

‘Oh, I think so. I must say I haven't looked – I couldn't bring myself to. It would have upset me too much. But they're all in a shoebox on top of her wardrobe Even after she went to live in Stoke Compton she would bring each one home when it was completed and store it with the others.'

My heart was thudding with excitement. Was it possible the key to all this was here, in a shoe box, in Dawn's own hand writing? There was just one problem, though.

‘Presumably the one she was keeping at the time of the fire will have been destroyed, though,' I ventured.

‘Funnily enough, no,' Grace said. ‘She was here the weekend before the fire, and I remember her taking it out of her bag and up to her room. Her dad was teasing her about it, saying she'd be able to write a book one day. She must have just started a fresh volume, so it would only be a couple of days' entries that will have been lost.'