A Question of Guilt (6 page)

‘Talking of happy ever afters, how are things going with Tim?' Rachel asked.

‘You haven't mentioned him lately.'

I shrugged. ‘Nothing to say, really. Actually I don't think it's “going” anywhere.'

‘Oh Sally.'

‘And I'm not at all sure I want it to.' It was the first time I'd actually said it out loud to anyone.

‘In that case best call it a day. I can thoroughly recommend married life, but not if it's with someone you don't want to be with one hundred per cent. That's a recipe for disaster. Besides which, you're just wasting time when you could be meeting someone else. The love of your life.'

‘Like I've had the chance to meet anyone this last year!'

‘True. But you're well on the road to recovery now. If you don't think he's the one you want, tell him so.'

It was almost an echo of what Mum had said, but I didn't want to think about it right now.

Rachel glanced at her watch.

‘Look, I'm sorry to bring this party to an end, but I don't really want to be too much longer. I've got to be up early in the morning.' She grimaced. ‘And I've got to face telling Steve I've scraped his wing mirror . . .'

‘Oh Rach, he'll be fine about it, I'm sure.'

‘Hmm, I wish I was! I'm going to be in the doghouse and no mistake.' She signalled the waiter for the bill.

‘This is on me,' I said.

‘Oh Sal, no!'

‘Yes. Fair's fair. You drove. I'll get the bill.'

‘Well, if you insist. Thank you.' She slipped into her jacket. ‘I'll get the car. Be outside in – say – ten?'

‘I'll be there.' I grinned wickedly. ‘And don't hit any more pillars.'

She raised her eyes heavenward, mimed an exaggerated shiver, then headed for the door.

I took some notes from my purse and laid them on the silver dish the waiter had provided along with a tip, then settled back in my chair with one eye on my watch and one on the road outside in case Rachel was quicker than she expected. But soon my mind was wandering as I thought over what Rachel had told me about Lisa Curry. I hadn't realized she was local, and it opened up a whole new way of looking at what had happened, supposing that Brian Jennings had been wrongly convicted.

If he hadn't started the fire and if it hadn't been an accident or the work of yobs, then whoever was responsible must have had a motive. So far, I'd been thinking of Dawn as the intended victim, but it could just as easily have been Lisa. From what Rachel had said, I'd got the impression she might not be a very nice person.

A sharp toot attracted my attention and I came back to earth with a jolt, feeling horribly guilty. Rachel had pulled up outside and I hadn't noticed; by the light of the street lamps I could see her leaning over, peering anxiously into the trattoria looking for me.

I struggled to my feet, grabbed my crutches and headed for the door as fast as I could. The waiter was there before me, holding it open, and I swung out on to the pavement.

‘Sorry, Rach!' I apologized as I slid into the passenger seat.

‘Not to worry. At least there aren't any traffic wardens about at this time of night.' She grinned, letting in the clutch and moving off with a bit of a jolt. ‘I'd hate to have to tell Steve I've been done for parking too!'

‘You weren't parked,' I pointed out.

‘Well, obstruction, then. Come on, missus, let's head for home.'

Though it was after ten by the time Rachel dropped me off, lights were still burning at the downstairs windows, small, warm oases in the dark shadow that was the rambling old farmhouse. I was quite surprised – given how early they had to get up, Mum and Dad liked to be early to bed too, and though she usually left a hall light on for me, Mum almost always turned off the ones in the kitchen and living room. She didn't like wasting electricity, and when anyone entered the farmyard the security lights came on, making it bright as day. They were blazing out now, illuminating the barn and outbuildings, and throwing dark contrasting shadows across the cobbles. As the car turned in, Scrumpy, the collie who followed Dad everywhere by day but slept at night in her kennel, set up a frenzied barking and I called to her softly to let her know I wasn't an intruder.

Rachel waited for me to make it to the door, doing a three-point – or, more accurately, a six-point – turn while I fitted my key into the lock. Then, when I turned and gave her a wave, she drove off. I stood for a moment watching her tail lights disappear down the track, and breathing in the cool night air, still faintly scented with the unmistakable smell of home.

In summer that smell could be overpowering at times – slurry and manure, the sweet aroma of silage, all mingling with the heady perfume of the honeysuckle that grew like a weed over the front door. The smells were fainter now in early spring, but still easily detectable as they rose from the damp earth and the clots of mud left by the tractor and the array of boots abandoned in the porch. Somewhere in the darkness an owl hooted, a low, eerie call that pierced the night and floated on silent wings above the fields beyond the barn. For some reason it made me feel sad, though perhaps sad is not quite the right word. Nostalgic, maybe, brushing against half-forgotten memories and making me ache for a time when life had been sweet and simple.

‘Is that you, Sally?'

Mum's voice from inside the house snapped me out of my reverie.

‘Yes, I'm home,' I called back, stepping inside and closing the door.

Mum was in the kitchen doorway, a mug of hot chocolate cupped between her hands. She was in her dressing gown, ready for bed, and again the nostalgia nudged me. She'd had that dressing gown as long as I could remember – no-nonsense dark grey wool with a sash that tied around her middle so that she resembled a sack of potatoes. One Christmas Dad had bought her a crimson velvet one – I'd gone with him to help him choose it – but she'd hardly ever worn it. The grey wool was warmer, and ‘comfy' she said – a bit like Mum, I thought.

‘I didn't expect you to still be up,' I said.

‘I thought I'd wait until you got in.' Mum headed back to the kitchen and I followed her. ‘Do you want a hot drink? Cocoa? Ovaltine?'

I couldn't face the thought of anything milky on top of pizza and wine.

‘Maybe a cup of tea. It's OK – I can make it.'

‘No, you sit down. You don't want to overdo things.'

‘I'm not.' But Mum was already bustling to fill the kettle and I gave in with a sigh. Actually I did feel pretty tired now and my leg was aching quite badly.

‘Did you have a good time?' Mum asked, popping a tea bag into a mug.

‘Yes. It's a nice place, that trattoria. Rachel had a bit of a disaster, though. She managed to bash the wing mirror on the car, and she's worried to death about telling Steve.'

‘Oh dear, poor Rachel. She's not much of a driver, is she? Didn't she lose her bumper not so long ago?'

‘In the supermarket car park, yes. She went up over the kerb and got it stuck. She is a bit accident prone. But at least she hasn't killed anybody.'

The kettle was boiling; Mum made my tea and put it on a leather coaster on the table in front of me.

‘Here you are.'

‘Thanks, Mum.'

‘Now – the reason I stayed up.' Mum sat down opposite me. ‘Tim phoned.'

My heart should have leapt with pleasure. Instead it sank.

‘Ah. And I wasn't here. I don't suppose he was very pleased about that.'

‘He did sound a bit short,' Mum conceded. ‘But then he always does. Either that, or patronizing. I don't think I'm quite good enough for him.'

‘Oh Mum! I never heard such rubbish!'

‘Hmm . . . I'm not so sure,' Mum said archly. ‘He does like the high life and all that goes with it . . .' She smiled at her unintentional pun. ‘Oh, you know what I mean, Sally.'

I said nothing. I did know what she meant. Sometimes I thought it was the glamour of his job that Tim liked more than the actual flying – he often complained about the tedium of computerized flights, but he wouldn't give up the perks of being a captain of a scheduled flight to go back to flying the mail or tutoring pupils at a flying school. The gold braid on his shoulders and the admiration of the passengers meant too much to him. And perhaps he had developed an exaggerated opinion of his own importance that made him look down on the simple life my parents led.

‘Anyway,' Mum went on, ‘he said he's coming to see you tomorrow. Asked me to tell you.'

‘Oh! Just like that! And why didn't he call me on my mobile?' For some reason, I was thoroughly affronted. How dare Tim assume he could neglect me for weeks on end and then expect me to be at his beck and call when he deigned to fit me into his busy schedule without even bothering to make another call to speak to me.

‘I'm only repeating what he said.' Mum didn't actually sniff, but her disapproval didn't escape me, all the same. ‘He'll be here about ten. Apparently he's rostered for an evening flight to Tenerife.'

‘Honestly, he's the limit!' I snapped. ‘I suppose he thinks I've got nothing better to do, and he couldn't be more wrong.'

Mum raised an eyebrow at me and though she said nothing, the look she gave me spoke volumes.

‘I know, I know,' I muttered.

‘I'm off to bed then.' Mum rinsed her mug under the tap and loaded it into the dishwasher. ‘Your dad says he can never settle properly until I come up.'

‘Yes, right.' I grinned. I'd heard Dad's snoring often enough when Mum was still downstairs finishing up in the kitchen.

‘You shouldn't be too long either. You don't want to overdo things. And just be careful on the stairs.'

‘I will.' But I'd become pretty adept at hauling myself up with one crutch and the banister to support me. ‘I'll just finish my tea and then I'll call it a day. I am pretty tired.'

‘Night, then, love.'

‘Night, Mum.'

After she'd gone I remained sitting at the kitchen table, my mug cradled between my hands, thinking not about my project but about Tim. The way I'd reacted when Mum had told me he was coming to see me tomorrow was confirmation, if confirmation was needed, that my feelings for him were not what they should be. We couldn't go on like this, it wasn't fair to either of us, and the time was coming when I was going to have to tell him it was over. But still I shrank inside at the prospect. Finding the right words – and the courage to say them – would be bad enough; I hated the thought of hurting him, even though he had been less than supportive to me these last months. Worse, there would be the practical aspects – moving out of the flat we shared, finding somewhere else to live. At least we weren't married, but our lives were still tangled together in so many ways, and I found myself regretting having agreed to live with him.

Thinking of that brought on a wave of nostalgia. It was painful to remember how happy and excited I'd been, buying little things to make the flat a home – bright cushions, a way-too-expensive lamp that I'd fallen in love with, a new cover for the duvet on the bed we were going to share. I'd bought domestic bits and bobs, too – a rolling pin and pastry cutters (unused except for mince pies at Christmas), a roasting pan, even a blowtorch to toast crème brûlées when we had friends for dinner. Looking back now it felt as if I'd been playing at house, and perhaps I was. But we had been happy. Very happy. For a time. Falling asleep in the arms of the man I loved, waking up beside him, making plans together, making love whenever and wherever we wanted within our own four walls . . . it had been wonderful while it lasted, and recalling it now brought tears to my eyes.

But it wasn't working, and if I was honest with myself, it hadn't been working for a very long time. If I could feel so resentful of Tim, if I preferred to be free to carry on my investigation instead of spending time with him, if I could no longer make excuses for him, and, more importantly, didn't want to, then I really had to tell him it was over.

How would he take it? Would he be relieved, or would he be upset? If he promised to change and pay me more attention, should I give it another chance? I honestly didn't know.

I wasn't looking forward to tomorrow.

Typically, Tim was dead on time. He would have allowed for rush-hour jams getting out of town, factored in unexpected delays such as temporary traffic lights that might have sprung up since he last came to see me, and then, if it didn't happen, he'd slow down on the last stretch so as to pull into the farmyard exactly when he'd said he would. I suppose such precision would be reassuring if you were a passenger on his plane, but as a blueprint for normal everyday life it could be a tad irritating.

By contrast, I was running late. Everything still took a little longer than it used to – getting in and out of the bath being a case in point. Mum and Dad didn't have a walk-in shower, just a sort of hose attachment that sprouted from the tap, which was less than ideal for me in my current state. I'd been a bit late getting up, too – I hadn't slept well, I'd had too much on my mind, but I'd fallen into a heavy doze around dawn. I was still in my room drying my hair when I heard the doorbell, and by the time I'd stuck on a bit of make-up and headed downstairs, Mum had made Tim a coffee. He was sitting at the kitchen table drinking it, and making what sounded like rather stilted conversation.

Mum was right, I thought – he did speak to her in a patronizing way, as if he was talking to someone less bright, less informed, than he was. And it struck me, too, how incongruous he looked sitting there at the gnarled and marked old table in his perfectly ironed black denims, pristine open-necked shirt, leather jacket and shoes polished to a blindingly bright shine. He got up as I came in, and greeted me with a chaste kiss of the sort he deemed suitable with Mum hovering. He smelled of the expensive duty-free aftershave he always used; once that scent had made me go soft inside but now it left me cold.