A Question of Guilt (5 page)

Now that I had the use of the computer I took the opportunity of looking the girls up on Facebook but I couldn't find either of them. Chances were, then, that they were married and would be using their new names. Or perhaps after her experience of being stalked by Brian Jennings, Dawn wanted to keep a low profile. I did find a page for Muffins, Lisa's teashop, but it wasn't very informative, just a picture of the cheerfully decorated interior and another showing a display of scrummy-looking cupcakes.

My scrutiny of the web was interrupted when the telephone on Dad's desk began ringing. I didn't answer it, as I didn't imagine it would be for me, and I knew Mum would pick up in the kitchen. She did, but a moment later she was calling through: ‘Sally – it's for you! It's Rachel.'

As I think I mentioned earlier, Rachel is one of my oldest friends. We met on our first day at primary school, two little girls trying very hard to be brave and grown up when we actually both felt rather lonely and lost, and the bond we formed then had lasted. We sat beside one another on the same work table each year, we went to one another's birthday parties and spent time in one another's homes. I'd loved having Rachel for sleepovers, and even better was when I got to stay with her. She had an older sister and she lived on a new estate in Stoke Compton where there were other children to play with – a real treat for me, an only child whose home was a couple of miles out of town. Rachel, of course, loved coming to the farm because of the hens, the ducks and the baby animals, not to mention the barn where we could hide behind the bales of hay and make believe we were just about anywhere we wanted.

When we moved on to ‘big school' – the local comprehensive – we stayed friends. Homework and holidays, first dates and heartaches, we shared them all. Even after we left school we remained close for quite some time, keeping in touch by letter and phone calls – and later emails and texts – and meeting up when I was at home. But life was taking us in different directions; I landed my dream job with the regional daily and moved away, while Hannah stayed in Stoke Compton, working as a cashier with one of the banks. I had my own flat in town; she remained living with her parents. And then she got together with Steve Brice, and for the first time in almost twenty years a chasm opened up between us. I was happy for her, of course I was – she'd had a crush on Steve for as long as I could remember – and when he asked her out she wrote excited letters filling me in on every detail of their burgeoning romance. But as their relationship progressed from the casual to the committed she wrote less and less often and volunteered less and less information. I understood that what she and Steve were sharing was too private now to be reported on in girlie letters, but I missed our former closeness all the same.

I was chief bridesmaid at her wedding, organizing her hen party, shepherding the small attendants up the aisle and somehow managing to keep them from treading on her flowing train, and holding her bouquet while she made her vows. But not so long afterwards, Rachel was not only a wife but also a mother. A baby girl, born just eleven months after her wedding day, was followed within two years by twins and this meant her time was fully occupied and we had even less in common. Apart from Christmas, Easter and little Megan's birthday – I was her godmother – I rarely saw Rachel.

Since I'd been at home convalescing, though, Rachel had turned up trumps. Though she was incredibly busy, working part-time as well as being a mum to her growing brood and all that entailed, she'd somehow managed to phone regularly as well as come and see me,

‘How are you doing, Sal?' she asked now.

‘I'm fine.' I wasn't in the habit of taking such questions literally. ‘And you?'

‘The same. Hey, listen, the reason I'm ringing is to see if you fancy a night out? ‘Steve's offered to babysit, and there's a special promotion on at Ricardo's – pizza and a glass of wine for ten pounds. What do you think?'

‘Sounds good to me,' I said. Ricardo's is a trattoria and wine bar in Porton, our nearest big town; they do the most delicious pizzas and the lovely Italian waiters who make a tremendous fuss of us whenever we eat there gave it a holiday atmosphere – if it weren't for the damp and cold outside you could almost believe you were living it up in some balmy foreign resort.

‘I'll pick you up then – about seven?' I could hear children's voices clamouring in the background. ‘Oh, Alistair – no! I'm on the telephone!' Rachel exclaimed, exasperated. And to me: ‘I'll have to go, Sally. Alistair's knocked over Abigail's poster paints . . .'

‘OK – go!' I said good-humouredly. ‘I'll see you later.'

‘Yes, with bright blue hands, I expect. Children!'

But she loved being a mum, I knew, and I envied her that, though I wasn't at all sure how I'd cope given the same situation.

I put down the phone, reached for my crutches, propped up within easy reach, and went through to the kitchen.

‘Don't cook for me tonight, Mum,' I said. ‘I'm going out on the razzle with Rachel.'

‘That's nice.' Mum looked pleased for me, and I was feeling pleased for myself.

Taken all round, this was turning out to be rather a good day.

Rachel arrived, a little harassed, at about twenty past seven.

‘Sorry I'm late, Sally. You know how it is . . .'

‘Don't worry about it.' As she ran a distracted hand through her hair I could see she did indeed have traces of bright blue paint ingrained around her cuticles, and I smiled to myself. ‘I'm just glad you could get away at all.'

‘Me too. It will be heaven to eat a meal I haven't had to cook myself. There's only so much cottage pie and macaroni cheese I can take.'

‘I must admit I'm looking forward to a pizza myself,' I said. ‘Mum's a wonderful cook but it's all good old-fashioned casseroles and roasts. What with the way she's been feeding me and no exercise to speak of I must have put on a good half stone!'

‘You still look fine to me.'

‘Hmm – a matter of opinion. I'm dreading getting back on the scales.'

It's about half an hour's drive from the farm into Porton, but we didn't talk much on the way. Rachel is something of a nervous driver, especially in the dark, which makes me nervous too. She's prone to waiting at roundabouts and junctions when there's no need and then going when she shouldn't, so she was busy concentrating hard and I was reluctant to say anything to distract her.

She did begin to tell me she was rather worried about her sister, Becky, who had, it seemed, recently split up with her husband, but I gently suggested she wait until we were in the wine bar when we could talk more easily.

We never did get around to it, though, because by the time she'd let me out outside Ricardo's – I couldn't open the door myself because of the childproof locks on the inside – and she'd gone off to find somewhere to park and then rejoined me, she was far more concerned about the fact that she'd managed to scrape her wing mirror while trying to manoeuvre into a bay in the multi-storey car park.

‘I was so worried I might clip somebody else's car I didn't notice I was too close to the pillar!' she groaned. ‘Steve's going to kill me.'

‘Is it just the mirror?' I was feeling horribly responsible – if it weren't for me it wouldn't have happened.

‘Yes, but you know what Steve's like about the car . . . Oh shoot! How could I be so stupid?'

‘I'm sure it's not nearly as bad as you think,' I said. ‘Come on, choose your pizza and try to forget about it.'

Ricardo, attentive as ever, had already put little dishes of olives, bread and dipping oil on the table, and I was enjoying a big glass of red wine. Rachel ordered a spritzer, we debated the relative merits of the huge selection of pizza toppings, and then settled back on the leather banquette.

‘So, what have you been up to since I saw you last?' Rachel asked, a good deal calmer now. ‘No – don't tell me . . . you've been bored silly.'

‘Actually no,' I said. ‘I've got myself a project.'

‘A project. Oh – not a calf! You haven't got a baby at home to bottle feed, have you? Because if you have you can send him over to me.'

I laughed. ‘I'd have thought you had quite enough to do already! But no, it's not a calf. It's work . . . sort of. A story I'm following up on.'

‘Tell me more,' Rachel said. ‘I thought you said nothing ever happens in Stoke Compton that's worth writing about.'

‘It did, though, didn't it – five years ago. The big fire in the High Street.'

‘Well, yes, but surely that's old news?' Rachel sipped her spritzer. ‘The weirdo that did it was caught and convicted. He's in prison, isn't he?'

‘But his sister is convinced he's innocent and I thought . . . oh, I might be flogging a dead horse, of course, but miscarriages of justice do happen. Wouldn't it be fantastic if I could find something out that meant the whole case had to be reopened?'

Rachel looked doubtful.

‘I don't know how you'll manage that. Surely if there'd been anything to find out the police would have been on to it?'

‘They had Brian Jennings, didn't they? An easy target. Just the sort of person everyone would like to believe was responsible, and not really bright enough to be able to defend himself, from what I gather. Once he was in the frame I bet they didn't look any further. A good result for their crime statistics.'

‘He was obsessed with Dawn Burridge,' Rachel argued. ‘They found dozens of photographs of her in his flat. And there was the evidence about the petrol, too, wasn't there?'

‘Traces in his pocket, yes. But he said he'd bought petrol for his sister's lawn mower and she backed him up. It's all circumstantial, Rachel.'

‘Hmm.' Rachel looked unconvinced. She dipped a chunk of ciabatta into the aromatic oil.

‘So, Miss Marple, how are you going to beat the police at their own game?'

‘Well, to begin with, I'm going to talk to everyone concerned. Brian Jennings' sister, maybe Brian himself . . .'

‘You're going to visit him in prison?'

‘If I can.'

‘Rather you than me!'

‘But first I want to talk to Lisa Curry and Dawn Burridge – see if there was anyone they'd upset who might have wished them harm.'

‘Surely they'd have told the police at the time if they'd suspected anything like that?' Rachel said.

‘Maybe they did. But Brian Jennings was an easier target. Or maybe they were too shocked to think straight. Then, when Jennings was arrested, they assumed, like everyone else, that it must have been him.' I speared an olive and popped it into my mouth, chewing on it thoughtfully. ‘Do you know them at all?'

‘Lisa and Dawn?' Rachel shook her head. ‘No, not really. I think Lisa went to our school, but . . .'

‘Did she?' I said, surprised. ‘I don't remember anyone of that name.'

‘Well, you wouldn't, would you? She'd have been several years below us, and you don't notice the ones who are younger than you. I don't remember her either. But when she and Dawn were in the news, Becky – my sister – said Lisa was in her year.'

‘Really?' I sat forward, interested.

‘They weren't friends or anything. I don't think Becky liked her much.'

So, no hope of an introduction there, then.

‘And Dawn's not from round here, is she? According to the newspaper reports she went home to Dorset after the fire.' I frowned. ‘Strange, though. Why would she come here in the first place?'

‘For her job, I suppose,' Rachel said reasonably. ‘She worked at Compton Properties, the estate agent's in the Square.'

‘I know . . . but why
here
? I wouldn't have thought there'd be much about Stoke Compton to attract a girl from Dorset. If she wanted a change of scenery, I'd have thought she'd have headed for somewhere with a bit more life.'

The pizzas arrived, bubbling tomato, cheese and anchovies on thin, crispy crusts, and for a few minutes we were too busy eating to talk.

‘I'm just going to have to drop into the café and try to get talking to Lisa,' I said between mouthfuls. ‘Hopefully she'll be able to give me an address for Dawn too.' A thought struck me. ‘I suppose it's possible she might have come back to the area when the trial and everything was over and she'd had time to get over what happened. Presumably she had other friends here besides Lisa – a boyfriend, even. That might have been the reason she came here in the first place. In time being with him would take precedence over her unpleasant memories of what happened with Brian Jennings, wouldn't it?'

‘I suppose . . .'

‘Well,
Lisa
certainly seems to have been able to put it all behind her,' I went on. ‘The café is in the very place where the fire started. I do find that a bit surprising. I wouldn't have thought she'd be comfortable with that at all.'

‘Lisa is a pretty tough nut, according to Becky,' Rachel said. ‘My guess is she saw an opportunity and took it. Properties on the High Street don't fall vacant very often. And of course, the fire would have very different connotations for her, too. Quite apart from the fact that it was Dawn who was the target for the attack, and not her, the whole episode must have something of an aura of romance for her.'

‘Why?' I asked, the last forkful of pizza poised halfway between my plate and my mouth.

Rachel cocked me a look.

‘She married the baker who rescued her. There is something pretty romantic about that, you must agree. The hero and the damsel in distress, getting together and living happily ever after. It's like something out of a fairy story.'

‘Mm.' I nodded, feeling rather pleased about this unexpected twist. Even if my efforts to find a fresh suspect for the fire-raising came to nothing, there should at least be a feel-good feature in the story of Lisa and her baker.