A Question of Guilt (31 page)

‘Sally!' he greeted me. ‘What on earth is wrong?'

‘I . . .' Words failed me.

‘Come on, let's get you inside.' Jeremy helped me out of the car, and, not bothering with my crutches, supported me to the front door.

‘I think a stiff drink is called for. No . . . don't even try to talk until you've had one.'

‘I really don't want . . .'

‘You, young lady, will do as you are told.'

The barn conversion had been very tastefully done, the vast interior kept as an open-plan living and dining room, with the kitchen, also open-plan, on a little mezzanine above it. There was a central log-burning stove, its chimney creating a focal point to the room, a glass dining table and chairs of a modern geometric design, and leather armchairs and sofas in natural shades. Had I not been so preoccupied I might have thought it looked like a show house; as it was, I was simply glad to be here, and safe.

Jeremy installed me on one of the dining chairs – easier for me than the soft, deep sofas, and poured me a whisky.

‘Drink that, and I'll make some coffee.' He went up the three stairs to the kitchen area, and I sank my head into my hands, massaging my temples where a headache had begun.

‘Here we are.' Jeremy was back, placing a mug at my elbow. ‘Only instant, I'm afraid, but hot, strong and sweet. Hey . . . you're not drinking your whisky.'

‘Not my bag.' I managed a weak smile.

‘Come on, it'll do you good.' He nudged the glass closer to me and I took an obedient sip, quickly followed by a gulp of coffee. After the strong spirit, it tasted oddly bitter.

‘So. Tell Uncle Jeremy what this is all about.'

I was a little calmer now, sipping whisky and coffee alternately, and finding it surprisingly comforting. But I still barely knew where to start.

‘You said you had a diary belonging to Dawn, so I take it this is all connected to your story about the fire,' he prompted me.

‘Yes, but it's much more than that. The fire is just part of the big picture,' I said, and explained about my visit to Dorset, how Dawn's mother had let me borrow some of her diaries, and discovered that the latest ones were missing. ‘The thing is, I'm pretty sure Dawn was targeted – and I don't just mean the fire,' I went on. ‘I don't believe her death was an accident either. From the diaries I've already studied it's pretty clear she'd begun to suspect something illegal was going on at Compton Properties, though she didn't know what, or who else, besides Lewis, was involved. But later I think she did find out, and it cost her her life.'

‘This is pretty startling stuff,' Jeremy said. ‘Are you sure you aren't seeing conspiracies where none exist so as to make a good story?'

‘I don't blame you for thinking that,' I said. ‘I sometimes wondered myself if I was chasing rainbows, and everything that was happening was just coincidence. But now I have Dawn's latest diaries. I haven't had a chance to read them properly, but I'm pretty sure they contain what she discovered about what was going on – she was really meticulous about keeping them up to date – as well as who it was she was afraid of: Lewis's partner in crime.'

‘Where did you get them?' Jeremy asked.

I lowered my eyes, staring at the half-empty coffee mug that I was gripping tightly between both hands in an effort to keep them from shaking.

Josh. Josh had them.
But somehow I couldn't bring myself to say it aloud – I could scarcely bear to think about it, shrinking from the pain of knowing how he'd deceived me, ashamed of what a fool I'd been.

‘I was going straight to the police when I realized what I had, but I didn't have enough diesel to take me to Porton and there's no one at the station at Stoke Compton overnight,' I said instead. ‘I'm going first thing in the morning, but I'm really frightened, Jeremy. And I wanted to ask . . . will you come with me?'

For a moment Jeremy said nothing. He was looking at me narrowly, almost as if he was trying to read my mind. Then he stood up.

‘I'll do better than that. I'll ring them now.'

‘But . . . they're closed . . .'

‘Stoke Compton, maybe. I'm ringing Porton. The divisional commander is a good friend of mine. A mention of his name will ensure this is treated with the seriousness it deserves. If you're right about all this, Sally, then you could be in the same danger as Dawn. You need to tell the police all you know, and hand over the diaries as soon as possible.'

He was right, I was sure, but the thought of going through everything again tonight was a daunting one. I was beginning to feel dreadfully tired – it was, after all, the middle of the night, though how I could sleep after all that had happened, I couldn't imagine.

The telephone was at the far end of the living room, and Jeremy's back was towards me, so I couldn't hear what he said, but after a few minutes he was back.

‘Now that's what I call action,' he said, with a look of grim satisfaction.

‘They're coming now? Tonight?'

‘They want us to meet them at the warehouse.'

‘The warehouse?' I repeated stupidly. ‘But why . . .?'

‘It seems they've had their suspicions about the place for some time. They want to strike while the iron's hot.' He glanced at me narrowly. ‘Are you all right, Sally?'

‘Not really.' I did feel very peculiar, totally devoid of energy, and my eyelids heavy.

‘Come on. You can't fall asleep now. We've got to get going.'

He put a hand beneath my elbow, helping me up, and as I stumbled against him he supported me.

‘Hey, Sally, you can do this. It'll soon be all over. Do you have the diary? They'll need to see that.'

‘Yes . . . yes, in my bag . . .' I realised immediately that this wasn't true – I'd hidden it under the passenger seat of Dad's car – but I was too drowsy to correct myself.

‘Good. That's the most important thing. Don't you have your crutches? Never mind, lean on me . . .'

I did. I had to. The plaster on my leg and the drowsiness tugging at my eyelids left me no option.

Jeremy installed me in the front passenger seat of his car and helped me fasten my seat belt.

‘You can do this, sweetheart,' he encouraged me. But his words were cold comfort.

I'd wanted to unravel this mystery. But now that I had I wished with all my heart that I could turn back the clock. And terrible as the things that Josh had done were, I was wishing too that it didn't have to be me who was going to expose him.

The cold night air revived me a little, but with the heater running at full blast in Jeremy's car it was all I could do to stay awake.

‘Have a little nap if you want to, Sally,' he said. He must have noticed me nodding. ‘Don't fight it.'

‘I've got to be awake to talk to the police,' I mumbled, but my eyes were closing. Dimly I was aware that we were driving along the rutted lane to the industrial estate and pulling into the yard outside the warehouse, then – I have no idea how much later – of lights cutting through the darkness. I fought my way back through layers of muzziness that seemed to be weighing me down.

The police were here. I must wake up.

Except that something was wrong. The beam of light didn't come from two headlights, but one. Puzzled, I struggled to keep my eyes open and to catch the thoughts that were trapped as if in thick treacle.

‘I don't understand . . .' My lips felt numb and rubbery, my words were slurred.

‘Don't worry about it, Sally. Go back to sleep.' Jeremy's voice seemed to be coming from a long way off.

Go back to sleep . . . But . . .

I could feel alarm now, not sharp and focused, but a sort of foreboding that was permeating my stupor like a bad dream. Half-formed thoughts whirled inside my head like trapped birds. This wasn't right. It never had been . . .

The passenger door opened; the interior light of the car came on, and my vague alarm became real fear.

The man standing beside me wasn't wearing a police uniform, but black motorcycle leathers and a full-face crash helmet.

As if from a long way off I heard Jeremy's voice.

‘What kept you? Well, you're here now. Let's get her inside.'

And in spite of my muzzy state the realization hit me like a blinding flash.

Josh Williams wasn't the JW Dawn had been referring to at all.

Those initials also stood for Jeremy Winstanley.

I really don't remember much of what happened next, just fragments, like old snapshots, some faded to sepia, some in the sharp relief of black and white. A word here and there in the exchange between the two men, a dull pain in my shoulder as they manhandled me roughly out of the car and half carried me towards the warehouse, my fear – and the realization that this wasn't normal sleepiness. Jeremy must have put something in my coffee. I'd been drugged.

And something else, something that, given all the circumstances, was really bizarre. Though cohesive thought was still beyond me, though I hadn't seen the face beneath the visor of the crash helmet, or even heard his voice properly, I was absolutely sure the man in black leathers wasn't Josh. And ridiculous as it sounds, I was experiencing something that might almost have been elation.

I remember the scrape of the warehouse door against the concrete floor. I remember the musty smell that hit me in a nauseating wave. I remember the hard edge of the seat of a chair cutting into the back of my knees as I was pushed roughly on to it, my ankles bound and my arms yanked behind me and fastened together. And I remember Jeremy's voice, apologetic, regretful.

‘I wish it hadn't come to this, Sally. But really you left me no choice.'

And then, once again, I must have drifted into unconsciousness.

When I surfaced once more through the layers of nightmare-hued muzziness, the cold grey light of morning was filtering in through the small, dirt-encrusted windows of the warehouse. By it, I could see the furniture stacked untidily around the walls, small tables piled on top of sagging sofas, a huge oak dresser, a couple of beds, dark clusters of shadows that hemmed me in like a pride of wild animals waiting for the signal to pounce.

My head was throbbing painfully, my mouth parched, my arms and legs numb. For a moment I thought I was alone, then I sensed the presence of another human being and turned my stiff neck a little to see Jeremy sitting in a polythene-covered easy chair to my left. He appeared relaxed, arms outstretched along the arms of the chair, one jean-clad leg crossed over the other with the ankle resting on his knee, but his eyes were on me, narrowed and watchful.

‘You're back with us then, Sally.' The normality of his tone was somehow more chilling than any threat could have been.

‘You drugged me,' I accused.

‘I'm afraid so. It seemed the best way of dealing with the situation. Oh Sally, Sally, why did you have to be so persistent? You just wouldn't be frightened off, would you? I did hope the silent phone calls and having you followed would be enough to make you realize you were getting out of your depth, but you're too good a journalist for that, aren't you? You just had to go on digging until you discovered the truth.'

‘Except that I hadn't!' I protested. ‘I had no idea you were involved. I certainly wouldn't have come to you for help if I had. And I still don't know what's behind all this. Is it drugs?'

Jeremy looked affronted. ‘
Drugs
? Oh Sally, what do you take me for? Fine art and antiques are much more my style, don't you think? I
deal
in them, I suppose you could say. Their original owners might have another word for it, I suppose, but I much prefer to think of it as dealing. And where better to hide the precious artefacts whilst they're waiting to go to their new homes than an auction house? Gems among the junk. The perfect solution.'

He levered himself up out of the chair, solicitous suddenly.

‘I expect you're thirsty. Would you like a drink of water?'

Thirsty was an understatement. My mouth felt as though it was full of sawdust and my throat was dry. But how did I know if he was going to put another dose of whatever he'd given me before into it? As he returned with a cracked mug and held it to my lips, I turned my head away.

‘It's just water,' he assured me, reading my mind. ‘There really is no need for you to be sleepy and easy to handle now. Jason is very good with knots – I think he must have been a boy scout.' He chuckled at his own joke.

‘Jason?' I managed. I was still too muzzy to be thinking straight – then, even before Jeremy explained, it came to me.

Jason Barlow. The beefy, tattooed porter I'd seen at the auction on Tuesday. The witness who had given evidence against Brian Jennings. And the mysterious motorcyclist.

‘Jason is a very useful addition to the team,' Jeremy said smoothly. ‘I'd really prefer not to work with thugs and bully-boys, but sometimes it really is necessary to have some fire power on side. And Jason is extremely good at doing what is asked of him.'

He held the mug to my lips once more.

‘Do drink some, Sally. I don't want you to be uncomfortable.'

How bizarre was that? Jeremy didn't want me to be uncomfortable, but he had me trussed like a chicken.

‘Can't you at least untie my hands, then?' I asked.

‘Sorry, but no.' Jeremy sounded regretful. ‘I don't want you doing anything silly. I'm afraid you'll have to be restrained until I decide what to do with you.'

What to do with you . . .
The words hung in the cold, musty air, and a fresh wave of fear washed over me.

‘What do you mean?' I whispered stupidly.

‘I can't possibly let you go, can I?' Jeremy's tone was eminently reasonable.

‘I wouldn't say anything, I promise!' I blurted desperately.

‘Unfortunately, Sally, we both know that isn't true,' Jeremy said sadly. ‘No, something will have to be arranged – an accident of some kind, perhaps, or . . .'