A Question of Guilt (3 page)

Mum waited until I set off down the High Street in the direction of the newspaper office, then pulled out and drove off with a toot and a wave.

The newspaper office had once been a shop. Through the plate-glass window I could see a girl sitting behind a reception desk. I juggled my crutches, pushed open the door and went inside.

The receptionist was on the telephone, taking the details of a small ad, from what I could make out. Whilst I waited for her to finish I looked around with professional interest. The long, narrow room was lined with work stations, at two of which girls were busy on computers; at the rear an office had been partitioned off, plaster board up to waist height, glass above. Inside was a man I assumed must be the chief reporter. His back was turned towards me, so I couldn't see his face, just a dark head of hair and a country-style checked shirt. Then I was denied even that paltry view of him as he sat down and disappeared behind the plasterboard partition.

Taken all in all the newspaper office could hardly have been more different from the one I worked in. The
Western News
took up a whole building, and every department from the news room to the family announcements had its own separate space. Yet in spite of that the atmosphere was somehow exactly the same, the frenetic buzz that comes from deadlines to be met, the feeling of being at the heart of things, even the smell of fresh newsprint emanating from the latest editions that were stacked on a rack close to where I was standing.

‘Can I help you?' The receptionist had finished her call and was flipping the docket she'd been writing on into a wire tray as she spoke, ready to be delivered, I guessed, to the mother paper's main office in town.

‘I hope so,' I said. ‘I'm interested in the case of Brian Jennings, who was convicted of arson here in the High Street five years ago. I was wondering if the reporter who worked on the story could spare me a few minutes?'

The receptionist looked startled, then recovered herself though I could see her trying to work out just who I was and what my interest in the story was.

‘You'd need to speak to Belinda Jones, our chief reporter,' she said crisply. ‘She's not in today though.'

‘Ah.' My heart sank.

‘Belinda is never in on a Wednesday. The paper comes out on a Wednesday, so it's our quietest day, with no deadlines to meet.'

‘When will she be in again?' I asked.

‘Well, tomorrow. But I'm not sure . . . She has a very full diary . . .' She gave me a narrow look from behind dark-rimmed spectacles. ‘Perhaps it would be best if you were to leave me your name and a contact number I'll get her to give you a call.'

Immediately I was on the back foot. I might not be exactly the most famous reporter in England but the
Western News
does sell in the Stoke Compton area and I have occasionally had a byline. Plus there's quite a network of journalists who move from paper to paper. If my name was recognized then it was quite possible lines of communication would rapidly shut down. Far from practising professional solidarity, the chances were that the chief reporter on a local paper would think the ‘big boys' were muscling in on her territory, which she would guard like a lioness with her cubs. But my mobile number would mean nothing to anyone but my friends and family. Safe enough to give her that, and if I used my mother's maiden name it wouldn't shriek ‘competition' to anyone.

‘Sally Jacobs,' I said without batting an eyelid, and followed on by dictating the number of my mobile. She wrote it down.

‘What about your archives?' I asked, mindful of the two-hour wait I'd have before Mum came back for me. ‘I'd really like to take a look at the reports that appeared at the time of the fire and the trial.'

‘Oh, they're all on microfiche,' she said. ‘You could access them at the library. It's just down the road.'

Again my heart sank. I loathe microfiche – it takes forever finding what you're looking for, pulling it up to a readable size and then flicking from page to page.

‘You don't have original copies of the papers?' I asked.

‘You must be joking! We've hardly any storage space here.' She was looking at me curiously again. ‘Are you part of Brian Jennings' legal team?'

‘No, I'm not.' I was thinking on my feet now. ‘I'm doing a thesis on questionable convictions for my degree,' I lied. ‘I was really hoping I might be able to . . .'

‘Belinda has a cuttings file on the Jennings case,' a man's voice behind me said.

I swung round and found myself looking into an angular face and a pair of hazel eyes. From the checked shirt he was wearing I knew instantly he was the man I'd seen in the partitioned-off office, whom I'd assumed was the chief reporter, but clearly wasn't. Besides the shirt, he was wearing brown denim jeans and trainers – the reason I hadn't heard him come up behind me as the soft soles had made no sound on the carpeted floor.

‘Oh, but I don't know that we should . . .' The girl receptionist's mouth had tightened disapprovingly.

‘Where's the harm? It's all published material. Nothing more or less than could be found on the microfiche. And it looks to me as if this young lady doesn't want to be walking any further than she has to.' He indicated my crutches and flashed me a grin.

‘That's hardly the point,' the girl said crisply.

‘Oh, lighten up, Tara!' He grinned at me again. ‘Come with me and I'll sort you out.'

The phone on the reception desk was ringing again.

‘On your head be it,' Tara said grimly and turned away to answer it, effectively distancing herself from what was going on on our side of the desk.

The young man led the way between the work stations towards the portioned-off office and I followed, swinging on my crutches, something I'd become proficient at by now, though the calluses on the palms of my hands were testament to the chafing it had inflicted on them.

The office was small but uncluttered, the desk clear but for the computer, a notepad and a pot of pens and pencils. Files were stacked neatly on shelves and a large calendar, a clock and a corkboard adorned the walls. The only jarring feature was a table at the rear of the office on which a number of photographs had been spread out haphazardly.

‘This is very kind of you,' I said inadequately.

‘Consider it part of the service.' The young man was running his finger along a row of box files, all neatly labelled. ‘I'm Josh Williams, by the way. And in case you're wondering, I'm a staff photographer.'

‘Oh right.' That would explain his cavalier attitude – and also his easy charm.

‘And you are . . .?'

‘Sally . . .' I almost said Sally Proctor, but caught myself it time. ‘Sally Jacobs,' I said, and immediately felt guilty for the deception.

‘Here we are.' Josh Williams pulled out a box file, placed it on the desk and rifled through, extracting a purple folder.

‘Belinda likes to keep files of important local stories for easy reference,' he explained, ‘and this one seems to run and run. Pretty well everything we've ever printed about the Brian Jennings case should be here – and a few more bits and bobs besides, I shouldn't wonder. Belinda's hot stuff as a chief reporter. Not much gets past her.'

Certainly the file was encouragingly fat.

Josh Williams pulled out the chair – a high-backed, comfortable-looking swivel covered in brown faux leather – from the well in the desk.

‘Will this be all right for you, or would you prefer an ordinary upright?'

‘This will be fine.' I lowered myself into it, glad to take the weight off my leg.

‘You look as though you've been in the wars,' Josh said conversationally.

‘Skiing accident.' I pulled a rueful face. ‘You don't want to know.'

‘Skiing, eh? Never done it myself. A group used to go every year from my school but my parents didn't have that sort of money to throw around.'

‘It's not that expensive a holiday,' I said, a bit defensively. ‘And it's terrific fun.'

He cocked an eyebrow. ‘Yes, I can see that,' he said, his tone heavy with irony. ‘But I think I'll stick to sailing in Greece, thanks all the same. That's what I call a holiday. Anyway,' he tapped the purple folder, ‘I'll leave you to it. I'm off to take some pictures of a couple who are celebrating their diamond wedding. Sixty years – can you imagine it? When you've finished just leave the file on the desk. I'll put it away when I get back. Keep Belinda happy.'

He reached for a leather bomber jacket that was hanging on a hook on the back of the door and shrugged into it.

‘If you need anything, just ask Tara, Her bark is worse than her bite.'

‘I'll believe you.'

‘Honestly. She's only been here a couple of weeks, and she's very much in awe of Belinda. Don't take any crap from her and you'll have her eating out of your hand.'

‘Hmm.' I could well imagine Josh could wind the redoubtable receptionist around his little finger – he was a very likeable character. Whether I could do the same I rather doubted. And I had not the slightest intention of pushing my luck.

When he'd gone, closing the door after him, I opened the purple file on the desk in front of me, glad that the plasterboard meant I was now out of sight of the receptionist. With her suspicious gaze on me I would have found it difficult to concentrate and I suspected the other girls working in the outer office would probably have me under surveillance too. As a journalist myself my skin should be thick enough to work despite it, another sign I was going soft. But perhaps that wasn't such a bad thing. Sometimes in the past I'd taken a good hard look at myself, the professional trying to piece together stories that often exposed vulnerable people to the glare of publicity, and not much liked what I'd seen. But this was different. It might well be a chance to right a wrong. The idea of becoming a crusader buoyed me up again, adding to the excitement that always went with starting on a new and juicy assignment and I felt alive for the first time in months. With a sense of anticipation I slid the wodge of cuttings out of the file.

Belinda Jones was obviously as methodical in her filing as she was meticulous about the tidiness of her office. The cuttings were all in date order, with the latest ones, relating to Brian Jennings's sister's efforts to clear his name, on top. Since that was the end of the story so far, and because Belinda's interviews with her were a reiteration of what I already knew, I turned the whole pile of cuttings over and started working from back to front. Soon I was totally engrossed.

The reports of the fire had apparently been front page news, the banner headline ‘GIRLS ESCAPE BLAZE – LUCKY TO BE ALIVE' appeared directly below the stylized title of the newspaper – the
Stoke Compton Gazette
. The story confirmed what Mum had told me, that the fire had taken hold in the early hours of the morning when the two girls who shared the flat above the electrical goods shop were asleep in bed. The alarm had been raised by a Paul Holder, who was on his way to start an early shift at the bakery further down the street, but by the time the fire brigade arrived the shop was an inferno. The two girls had been trapped in their upstairs flat, but, thankfully, the baker had found a ladder which was being used for repainting the windows at the rear of the bakery and rescued them. Though shocked and suffering from some smoke inhalation they were otherwise unharmed, though both had been taken to hospital and were still being kept in for observation.

The girls were named as Dawn Burridge and Lisa Curry, and there were photographs of both of them, clearly taken in happier times, before their ordeal. Dawn was an exceptionally pretty girl with dark shoulder-length hair that tumbled in waves and curls about a heart-shaped face. She was a leading light in the Stoke Compton Players, the report said, and there was an additional photograph, apparently reproduced from an earlier edition of the Gazette, showing her appearing as principal girl in their annual pantomime. She had been deputy head girl at her school, and worked for a local estate agent. All in all it was easy to see that she was just the kind of girl who would attract admirers without even trying.

Her friend and flatmate, Lisa Curry, was apparently a sous chef at Compton Grange, a rather expensive country hotel a few miles outside Stoke Compton. She was less striking than Dawn, with a round, rather plain face and hair that was either cropped short or pulled back into a ponytail, from the picture it was impossible to tell which. She was also several years older – twenty-three to Dawn's twenty. She had been active in the local ATC as a teenager, but was no longer a member. The antisocial hours her job entailed had put an end to that, I surmised.

The first mention of Brian Jennings was in a cutting dated a few weeks later, though as yet no names were named. ‘Police have arrested a local man in connection with the suspected arson attack in the town High Street,' the report read. It then went on to regurgitate much of what I had read before, adding that the two girls who had been victims of the blaze had made a good recovery, but that Dawn, shaken by what had happened, had decided to leave the town and return to her parents' home in Dorset.

With hindsight it was easy to understand. She would have already known what was only to emerge publicly at a later stage – that the fire had been deliberately started by the weirdo who had been stalking her. She must have been totally spooked by his unwanted attention, and realizing he was capable of trying to burn her in her bed when she rejected him would have been the last straw.

I flipped back to the next cutting – a brief mention of Brian Jennings' first appearance in court – not a lot to go on there – and then found the much meatier report, some nine months later, of the actual trial.

As Mum had said, the evidence against him was damning.

Without a doubt, he had been obsessed with Dawn. When police searched his flat they had found, amongst other things, a horde of photographs of her that he had clearly taken without her knowledge by means of a telescopic lens, programmes, posters and newspaper cuttings relating to her appearances with the Stoke Compton Players, a pair of her briefs, presumably stolen from her washing line, a cigarette butt stained with her lipstick which he had apparently taken from a pub ashtray, and a journal recording his sightings of her, together with disgustingly explicit descriptions of his fantasies concerning her. Dawn had given evidence of his persistence – how she could scarcely move but he was there, behind her, and that was backed up by a number of her friends.