A Question of Guilt (28 page)

‘Mrs Burridge – Grace . . .' I hesitated, almost afraid to ask. ‘I don't suppose . . . would you let
me
look at them?'

‘Oh, I don't know . . .' She looked uncertain suddenly.

‘I know how precious they are to you,' I said, ‘and private, too. But there might be a clue in what Dawn wrote, and if we're both right, and her death was no accident, I'd really like to be able to get justice for her.'

I paused, wondering how far I could take this. Could I mention that Alice, who had also been frightened, was missing, and appeal to Dawn's mother on the basis that if I could find out from the diaries what was going on it might give some clue as to her whereabouts? I really was seriously concerned about her. But bringing her into the equation was a risk. I didn't want Grace to think I was doing this for any reason other than to get to the bottom of what had happened to Dawn.

I waited, saying nothing, and after a moment Grace's eyes met mine.

‘You would . . . treat them with respect, if I was to let you have them?'

‘Of course I would. I just want to find out the truth of what happened, Grace. If she was killed because of something she knew. And I think you want that too.'

‘Very well.' She got up and left the room, a slim, pretty woman whom Dawn would have resembled in years to come, I imagined, if she had lived, and I heard her footsteps on the stairs.

Rachel and I exchanged a look, but neither of us said a word.

A few minutes later she was back, clutching a silver-covered exercise book, but looking flustered.

‘This is really peculiar . . .'

I looked at her questioningly, and she held the book out so that I could see the date on the cover.

‘This isn't Dawn's latest diary – the one she brought home with her when it was finished, just before the fire. This is the one before. And the one she would have started just before she died isn't there either. They're missing. The diaries you wanted are missing!'

‘She must be making a mistake,' Rachel said. ‘The poor woman is obviously in an awful state – of course she is. Why on earth would Dawn's diaries go missing? They couldn't have been here in the first place.'

We were on the way home; if we didn't encounter any delays we'd make it in time for Rachel to pick up the children from school, and Steve wouldn't have to interrupt his work flow to collect them.

‘You're probably right,' I said. But whereas once I would have agreed with her wholeheartedly, now I wasn't so sure. Too many sinister things were happening.

‘There's no other explanation.' Rachel pulled out to overtake a lycra-clad cyclist and swerved back in violently as she saw a car come over the brow of the hill ahead of us, though he was still miles away. ‘If Dawn had ever brought them home with her, they'd be there now. Grace
thinks
she did, but she's confusing it with another time. The last diary will have been destroyed in the fire, and she's never started another.'

‘Well, at least I've got this one.' I glanced down at the exercise book, carefully covered with silver wrapping paper and with a scattering of gold stars stuck around the date in the shape of a heart, which Grace had allowed me to borrow. ‘And it covers the early part of Dawn's time in Stoke Compton, so it's possible there might be something in it that's useful.'

I hadn't so much as opened it yet; to flip into it at random seemed disrespectful. Dawn's life was in these pages, things she'd never meant anyone else to read, her thoughts, her hopes and fears, a record, perhaps, of her most private moments. And, if I was very lucky, some clue as to what it was that was going on at Compton Properties. What it was that had cost her her life.

‘Fancy Brian Jennings working for Lewis Crighton!' Rachel's butterfly mind was skimming all Grace had told us. ‘Now that is a turn-up for the book.'

‘I'm surprised no one has mentioned it before,' I said. ‘It explains how he came to latch on to her, doesn't it?'

‘And gives him another reason for having it in for her,' Rachel pointed out. ‘If she got him the sack.'

She was right, of course. Not only spurned by the object of his desire, but losing his job because of her, perhaps Brian Jennings' sense of being wronged against had festered and grown until he could think of nothing but revenge. Perhaps he
had
started the fire, and Dawn's accident was just that – a tragic accident. But Grace didn't think so, and neither did I.

‘Why on earth doesn't that motorbike overtake me?' Rachel's exasperated voice cut into my thoughts.

‘What?' I murmured distractedly.

‘That motorbike. He's been right up my boot for miles . . . why doesn't he just get past and have done with it?'

I glanced over my shoulder, couldn't see anything, and turned further. A big motorbike was maybe thirty yards behind us. The rider, clad in black leather, and wearing a full-face dark crash helmet, was bent low over racing handlebars. Not the sort of bike you'd expect someone who was content to tootle along at forty mph to be riding.

‘Anyone would think he was following me!' Rachel said, and her remark, meant as a light-hearted quip, set alarm bells ringing.

Suddenly I was remembering the car that had tailed me from South Compton the first time I went to a meeting of the Compton Players . . . and something else. A big, powerful motorbike, the rider all in black with a full-face helmet. That was exactly how Sam had described the motorcycle that had panicked Dad's cows into stampeding. Oh, there must be millions of motorbikes and riders on the roads fitting that description, but still . . .

‘Slow down,' I said to Rachel. ‘Give him the chance to pass.'

‘He could pass anyway if he wanted to,' Rachel pointed out; we were on a straight stretch of road where he could easily have got by.

‘Slow down anyway. Perhaps he's one of the cautious ones. They do exist.'

Rachel raised an eyebrow, but she did slow right down. For a few moments the following bike slowed too, and my heart came into my mouth. Then, suddenly, he accelerated, roared past us, and away.

‘You were right,' Rachel said.

No, I was wrong, I thought. Getting paranoid in my old age.

Except that a few miles further on, he was behind us again – well, either him or an identical motorcyclist! I spotted him in the wing mirror and went cold, but said nothing. I didn't want to alarm Rachel – she was a nervous enough driver at the best of times – but my thoughts were racing. Was it the same man? He was further back this time, and it was hard to be absolutely sure. Had he pulled into a turning and waited for us to go by? We certainly hadn't passed him on the road. Who was it? And why was he following us?

At last, on a straight stretch about twenty miles from home, he overtook us and roared away into the distance.

‘Wasn't that . . .?'
The same bike that overtook us before,
she was going to say. But I cut in quickly.

‘Shouldn't think so, Rach. He'll be long gone.'

‘I suppose. They all look the same to me.'

‘Me too.'

But I had a bad feeling about this. And what was especially worrying was that if there
was
something sinister about the motorcyclist, he now knew Rachel's car, and that she had been to Dorset with me. I absolutely must not involve her again. If I was taking risks with my own safety, it was one thing. To put Rachel in danger was something else entirely.

Without a doubt the time was coming when I would have to go to the police with my suspicions. The trouble was I still didn't have any concrete evidence to back me up, and I rather thought they'd laugh me out of court. But I'd come too far to give up now. Quite apart from my overwhelming curiosity, and a desire to see justice done, I really needed, for my own sake, to get to the bottom of what was going on. Unless I did, I'd never be able to stop looking over my shoulder. Even when I left Stoke Compton and went home I wouldn't be safe. Dawn had left and gone back to Dorset, but, if I was right, someone had followed her there and made sure she couldn't blow the whistle on what she knew, or suspected. It was a worrying thought.

We made it home without further incident; there were no more black-clad motorcyclists anywhere to be seen.

‘Thank you so much, Rach,' I said when she dropped me off. ‘You really are a star.'

‘No probs.'

Oh, I certainly hoped not!

‘You take care,' I said, and for once, instead of a stock phrase, trotted out automatically, I really meant what I said.

Naturally, I could hardly wait to have a look at Dawn's diary. Mum wasn't yet back from visiting Dad, so I put some chops in the oven, prepared vegetables, and then sat down at the kitchen table and opened the silver-covered exercise book, which appeared to cover the period when Dawn had first arrived in Stoke Compton.

Her writing was rounded and childlike, neat and easy to read, but she did have a habit of using initials rather than names, which made it a little difficult to follow at first, and on the whole she didn't go into much detail.

Saw G, went to cinema and for a drink
, was a typical entry, recording a date with Gorgeous George.

I was glad of that – it would have been horribly embarrassing if she had poured out her emotions, or described intimate moments, and I would have felt like a voyeur. But it meant it was unlikely she'd recorded her suspicions either, even if she'd begun to have them at this early stage.

Perhaps keeping the diary had become a bit of a chore, something that she no longer really had the time or enthusiasm for, but which had become too much of a habit to break.

I skimmed on through the pages, and noticed the Gs for George appeared less frequently, whilst LC – Lewis Crighton, presumably – figured more and more. Then, before long, LC became simply L – a sure sign of their growing intimacy, though there was no salacious detail beyond the odd
Can't get L out of my head
, and
Two whole days before I'll see L again. Torture!

No doubt about it, the sketchy shorthand was charting an affair.

Besides the budding romance, I could see the story of Brian Jennings' obsession with Dawn playing out.

BJ gives me the creeps. He just stares at me
, she had written. And:
Hate having to go to the warehouse. I don't want to be alone with BJ.

A little further on there was mention of his sacking:
L has given BJ his cards. Hurray! The freak won't be staring at me any more.

Some hope! I thought. Brian Jennings might have no longer been at her place of work, but he'd far from given up on the staring, and things were about to get a lot worse.

Sure enough, it wasn't long before Dawn started recording the times when Brian Jennings followed her, or stood on the pavement on the opposite side of the road to the flat she and Lisa shared, simply staring up at the windows.

BJ is really freaking me out! He's been there an hour or more. Lisa thinks I should go to the police, says if I don't, she will.

And:
Police don't seem interested. Say there's nothing they can do. If it wasn't for L I think I'd get out of this place. But nothing on earth is going to make me leave him! Think I'm in love!

The affair was clearly hotting up. There were mentions of clandestine meetings, and even a weekend away.

Two whole nights with L! Bliss! He promised me again that he'll leave B soon. That he wants to be with me all the time, always, and she makes his life a misery. But I think she put a lot of money into the business, so that will have to be sorted first.

Oh Dawn, Dawn, I thought. Falling for the age-old lies of the philandering married man
.
It could well be, of course, that it had been Bella's money that had enabled Lewis to set up his own business, but I'd bet anything that money considerations or not, Lewis didn't have the slightest intention of leaving Bella for Dawn, or anyone else.

The clock struck five, reminding me that Mum would be home soon, and I skipped on quickly through the pages. I'd read them thoroughly later, but I was really anxious to see if I could spot anything more revealing. I wasn't disappointed.

Haven't seen L all day. Phone call (from his partner, I think), and he went out, taking warehouse keys. Puzzled. No house clearances to do, and auction not due for another three weeks. Why does he need to go to the warehouse?

Ah! I sat up straighter, excitement quickening. Dawn's mother had said she thought that whatever was worrying Dawn was connected with the warehouse, rather than the estate agency, and to Lewis's mysterious ‘partner'. Might Dawn have recorded more in her diary than she had been prepared to tell Grace? I turned the page, tingling with anticipation, but at that moment I heard the door open, and Mum's voice calling.

‘It's only me! I'm back.'

Burning with frustration, I closed the exercise book.

‘Hiya, Mum. How's Dad?'

‘I can see an improvement every day.' Mum was unbuttoning her coat. ‘And how did you get on?'

‘Very well, actually. Would you believe that Dawn's mother doesn't think her death was an accident either?'

‘Really?' Mum sounded surprised. ‘Let's put the kettle on – I'm dying for a cup of tea – and you can tell me all about it.'

I did. The one thing I didn't mention was the motorcyclist who had seemed to be following us on the way home – the motorcyclist who could very well answer the description of the one who had made the cows stampede. I didn't want to alarm her. Didn't want to think about it, even. And not just because if it was one and the same man it could mean that I, and possibly Rachel, too, were in dangerous territory. The fact was that if he was connected in some way to my investigation, then that could mean that I was to blame for Dad's accident. If it hadn't been for me, the motorcycle would never have been in the lane. And that was something I couldn't bear to contemplate.