by Janet Tanner
As he’d said, there was very little in the file, just a brief piece headlined ‘Local Girl Dies in Hit-and-Run Accident’, and another reporting the inquest. The paper had re-run one of its archive photographs of Dawn, but much smaller than the one that had accompanied the reports of the fire. Neither told me anything I didn’t know, beyond that the accident had happened in Wedgeley, the Dorset town Dawn had returned to after the fire. Presumably Alice at the estate agent’s had been correct in saying the driver had never been caught, as it was almost certain a report on that would have been included in the file if he had.
What did surprise me a bit was that Belinda hadn’t put the accounts of the accident in the same file as those of the fire. But she had her own methods, I supposed, and she hadn’t made a connection between the two events. Which may well mean that I was barking up the wrong tree entirely.
I finished reading the cuttings and slipped them back into their sleeve. Josh Williams was still leaning against the filing cabinet; when I handed him the file he slotted it back into the place on the shelf that he’d found it, then turned back fixing me with a direct look.
‘There’s something that’s puzzling me, Sally. Just what is your interest in Dawn Burridge?’ Taken aback by his directness, I floundered, and he went on: ‘You’re not writing a thesis on the miscarriages of justice at all, are you?’
So – I’d been right. I’d been rumbled.
‘What makes you think that?’ I asked, stalling.
‘Well, for one thing, I can’t see why Dawn being killed in a road accident would have anything to do with Brian Jennings’ conviction,’ he said, watching me narrowly. ‘Are you a private investigator?’
‘No!’ I laughed at the preposterous suggestion, glad at least to be able to answer that one truthfully. ‘Absolutely not!’
‘What, then? Because you sure as heck are not a mature student.’
I sighed, and decided my only option was to level with him.
‘OK – I’m a journalist,’ I confessed. ‘I work for the Western News. But this has nothing to do with them. I’m at home, recuperating . . . well, you can see why . . .’ I indicated my crutches, ‘I’m bored out of my mind, and I came across this story. I thought I’d find out a bit about it – see if Brian Jennings’ sister has any grounds for believing he was wrongly convicted. That’s it.’
‘And have you discovered anything of interest?’
‘I hadn’t. Until now. Nobody seems very keen to talk about Dawn, or what happened, and it seemed like an open-and-shut case. But now . . . since I’ve found out that Dawn is dead . . . I’m not so sure. Killed in a hit-and-run accident, not that long after the fire. By a driver who has never been caught. That’s one hell of a coincidence – and I don’t believe in coincidences.’
Josh was silent.
‘Don’t you think it’s suspicious?’ I asked.
Josh shrugged.
‘I wouldn’t know. I’m a photographer, not an investigative reporter. Now, if you’ve finished, we’d better get out of here. Belinda will be back soon.’
‘Finished. Thanks for all your help.’
‘That’s OK.’ He treated me to a boyish grin. ‘Now, are you sure you won’t change your mind about letting me buy you that drink?’
On the point of refusing him again, I had second thoughts. The newspaper office was a valuable source of information, but I couldn’t continue to keep dropping in and asking to see their files. So far I’d been lucky – Josh was a very helpful ally.
Perhaps it would be wise to keep him on side.
And besides . . .
I gave him an appraising glance, taking in his angular face, with its clearly defined jaw, his wicked hazel eyes, his broad shoulders beneath the leather jacket, his long, cord-clad legs. Josh Williams was, I had to admit, rather attractive. I actually quite fancied him, and it was a long time since I’d been on a date, especially one with a man I fancied. Perhaps this would be a good time to mix business with pleasure.
‘All right,’ I said nonchalantly. ‘You’re on. As long as you realize you’ll have to drive way out into the country to pick me up and take me home again.’
Those hazel eyes twinkled wickedly.
‘I’m sure it will be worth it. Shall we say half past seven?’
‘A quarter to eight.’ I wanted to keep the initiative.
‘A quarter to eight it is. So – give me directions . . .’
I did.
I was halfway home when I remembered I had intended to call Alice when she returned from her lunch break. I pulled into a lay-by and left the engine idling while I punched in the number for Compton Properties.
The phone was answered quite quickly, but the voice on the other end of the line sounded very like Sarah, and it occurred to me that she would probably recognize my voice too. People used to dealing with the public had a good ear for things like that, and the fact that I hadn’t given my name when I called earlier wouldn’t have prevented her from knowing who I was. Well, there was absolutely nothing I could do about that.
‘Would it be possible to speak to Alice now?’ I said. ‘I rang earlier, but she was at lunch.’
‘I’m sorry, but she’s with a client.’ The answer was a little too quick, a little too convenient.
‘When will she be free?’
‘I really couldn’t say. In fact, I think she’s taking her client on a viewing. If you leave me a number, I’ll ask her to call you back.’
Really, I thought, I didn’t have much choice. I couldn’t keep ringing the office. They’d quickly realize – if they didn’t already – that something was going on. Somewhat reluctantly I dictated my mobile number to Sarah, thinking that at least she wouldn’t recognize it as the one I’d given her for the property receipt – Mum and Dad’s landline. But somehow I didn’t think Alice would be returning my call. It might be true, of course, that she was busy, but I had the feeling that Alice was avoiding me, and her colleague was fending me off.
It really was very odd, I thought, as I set off again. Why was Alice so reluctant to speak to me? Was it just that personal phone calls of any kind were frowned on? Certainly the office had the sort of professional formality that was almost old fashioned. Or was it more than that? When I’d first asked about Dawn, Alice had said as little as possible, making the excuse that Lewis Crighton didn’t want her talked about, and I supposed that was understandable – at the time of the fire the office had probably been bombarded by press and even curious members of the public. But the more I thought about it, the more I thought that it was just that – an excuse. Alice wanted to avoid the subject of Dawn Burridge. But why?
I was beginning to get the unavoidable feeling that Dawn was a taboo subject where a lot of people were concerned. And in spite of Joss’s warning, it was only making me all the more determined to find out the reason.
Eight
When I turned into the farmyard, a car I didn’t recognize was parked beside the barn. Had Dad had to have the vet out again to his sick cow? But this car didn’t look as if it belonged to a vet – it was too clean, and too expensive – a top-of-the-range BMW. I parked Dad’s 4 x 4 and went in through the front door. I could hear voices coming from the kitchen.
‘I’m home!’ I called.
‘In here, Sally,’ Mum called back.
Puzzled, I headed for the kitchen. Mum, Dad, and the owner of the BMW were seated around the table with steaming mugs of tea beside them and a plate of Mum’s freshly made drop scones within easy reach.
‘Look who turned up on the doorstep!’ Mum said, smiling.
‘Jeremy! Hello! What a surprise!’
Jeremy Winstanley had been our nearest neighbour and a friend for as long as I could remember. Throughout my growing-up years his family had farmed the land that adjoined ours, and though Jeremy hadn’t gone into farming himself – he worked for one of the big financial institutions in the city – whenever he was at home he would drop by to talk to Dad. He was a great horseman, too, ridin
g with the local hunt, and my earliest memories of him were very romantic ones – a big, handsome man in hunting pink, astride a huge grey horse.
It was Jeremy who taught me to ride – Mum and Dad couldn’t afford such luxuries as a stable – but the Winstanley family each had a horse of their own, and a pony that had belonged to Jeremy’s youngest sister, but which they’d never been able to bring themselves to sell. He was quite old, that pony, by the time I got to ride him, a fat little chap called Mickey, who was quiet and gentle and absolutely perfect for an inexperienced six year old.
I’d spent a lot of time at the Winstanley farm, mucking out stables, hacking on Mickey, and later riding Mrs Winstanley’s horse, Duchess, a pretty bay. Mrs Winstanley had developed arthritis, and was no longer able to ride her, so she was glad for me to give her some exercise. Jeremy had once even taken me out with the hunt, but I’d quickly discovered it wasn’t for me. I was too worried I might put Duchess at a jump that was too much for her; if she’d fallen and broken a leg I’d never have forgiven myself. I didn’t like the kill, either, though of course since the hunting ban that no longer happens. No, I was much happier simply taking Duchess for a leisurely trot around the lanes and the occasional exhilarating canter across the meadows that were almost all Winstanley land or our own.
When Farmer Winstanley and his wife both died, within a year of each other, we’d expected Jeremy to sell the farm. Instead he’d put in a manager, who lived in the farmhouse, and converted one of the outlying barns into a luxury residence for himself. He was no longer working for the city firm, but had set up as some kind of financial adviser, using the new house as a base. But a lot of his business was in the Eurozone and Jeremy spent a lot of time abroad. He’d been away since before I’d come home to recuperate – in Brussels, Dad had said, but judging by the depth of his tan now, I rather thought he’d been somewhere a good deal warmer than Belgium.
‘Good to see you, Sally,’ he said, getting up and giving me a kiss on both cheeks, continental style.
‘You too, Jeremy.’
Besides the tan, he’d put on weight, I thought. He’d always been a big man, but now there was a considerable solidity about him. He wasn’t fat – yet! – but there was no doubt that he’d been living the good life. Yet it suited him, somehow adding to his not inconsiderable presence.
‘Cup of tea, Sally?’ Mum asked.
‘Mm, please! And I could do with one of your drop scones, too.’
‘Haven’t you had any lunch?’
‘No, but I’m OK. I had a teacake at Muffins mid-morning.’ I sat down, reached for a drop scone anyway and bit into it. It was still warm.
‘You’ve had a pretty tough time of it, I hear, Sally,’ Jeremy said, looking at me sympathetically.
‘She was nearly killed,’ Mum, setting the kettle to boil, said over her shoulder.
‘Sounds nasty.’ Jeremy brushed away a crumb that had settled in the thick cable pattern of his Aran sweater. ‘No riding for you for a while.’
‘I haven’t ridden for a long time,’ I admitted.
‘Pity. Ah well, I suppose you’ve got other things to interest you these days. Didn’t I hear you were engaged?’
‘Not engaged, no,’ I clarified. ‘I was living with someone, but that’s over. I’m fancy free and single again, Jeremy. Just like you.’
He snorted, wagging a finger at me.
‘Very true.’
‘You could do with a good woman to keep you in order,’ Dad joked.
‘I’m quite happy as I am, thank you, Jack. I’ve never had time for all that nonsense,’ Jeremy retorted.
‘When you’re old and lonely, with no one to make sure you’ve got a clean shirt to put on, you’ll wish you’d made the time,’ Mum chided, setting a mug of tea down in front of me.
We all laughed. The idea of Jeremy old, lonely and in need of a clean shirt was a ludicrous one.
‘Seriously, Sally, you must be going quietly mad, stuck out here in the country with nothing to do,’ Jeremy said.
‘Oh, it hasn’t been so bad . . .’ I didn’t want to hurt Mum and Dad’s feelings by admitting that hadn’t been far from the truth.
‘She’s got herself a new project to keep her busy,’ Mum said, and Dad added:
‘And taken over my computer for all her notes. Nothing changes.’
Jeremy cocked an eyebrow at me. ‘And what project is that?’
I was reluctant to go through it all again, but Mum had other ideas.
‘You remember that awful fire in Stoke Compton?’ she said, resuming her seat at the table. ‘Well, our Sally has got it into her head that the man that went to prison for it was wrongly convicted. She’s trying to find out who might really have been responsible. Isn’t that right, Sally?’
‘Well . . . sort of . . .’ I admitted.
‘Wouldn’t it be a thing?’ Mum went on, ‘if she were to uncover a whole different story? That that poor man has been sent to prison for something he didn’t do? She’s been to Compton today, haven’t you, Sally? Talking to all the people those girls knew. How did you get on, love?’
‘I spoke to Lisa Curry – well, Lisa Holder as she is now. She didn’t really tell me anything, but I did find out something awful when I went to Compton Properties. Apparently Dawn Burridge was killed by a hit-and-run driver not long after she went home to Dorset.’
Mum clapped a hand over her mouth, looking shocked.
‘Oh my goodness! That poor girl! What an awful thing!’
‘Yes, and a bit too much of a coincidence for my liking.’
‘For goodness’ sake, Sally, surely you don’t mean . . .?’ Mum said, horrified, and Dad put in:
‘You’re letting your imagination run away with you, our Sal.’
‘Maybe. Just let’s say I’m on the case.’ Then, in an effort to change the subject, I turned back to Jeremy. ‘So when did you get home, Jeremy?’
‘Yesterday afternoon.’
‘And how long are you planning to stay this time?’
Jeremy shrugged elaborately. ‘I really couldn’t say. It all depends on the demands of business. But footloose as I might be, it’s good to be home. I should think I’ll be around long enough to get used to country life again,’ he said with a twinkle that included me. He pushed back his chair and got up. ‘I really should be going – I’ve got a lot of things to do. I just wanted to look in and let you know I’m back. And sample some good English cooking and a cup of tea, of course. Anything you need, Jack, just give me a shout and I’ll help if I can. You know that, don’t you?’
‘You’re a good chap, Jeremy.’ Dad clapped him on the shoulder, but I guessed the offer was really nothing more than polite conversation. Jeremy wasn’t really a farmer, and Dad was fiercely independent. I couldn’t imagine a situation arising where he would call on Jeremy for help. It was just the way things were between them, and always had been. Which made the relationship familiar and comforting.
‘And when that leg’s better, come over and take one of the horses out,’ Jeremy said to me.
‘Will do.’
But it would be a long time before I was fit to be in the saddle again, I thought ruefully.
Mum was surprised, but pleased, when I told her I was going out that evening with Josh, and – typical Mum – wanted to know all about him.
‘Mum – I don’t really know,’ I said, laughing. ‘But you’ll be able to check him out. He’s picking me up at a quarter to eight.’
‘I don’t need to check him out!’ Mum said a little tartly. ‘It’s been a long time since I’ve done that. And I don’t suppose what I think would make any difference, anyway. Since when have you listened to my opinion on your boyfriends?’
‘Since Tim,’ I said ruefully. ‘You were absolutely right about him.’
‘Well, let’s hope this one is an improvement.’
‘Mum, I’m only going for a drink with him.’ I snaffled another drop scone. ‘But it would be good if we could have tea a bit early.
He’s picking me up at a quarter to eight, and you know how long it takes me to get ready these days.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Mum was clearing plates and cups off the table. ‘But you’d better not eat any more of those scones, or you’ll have no appetite for it, anyway!’
It felt incredibly strange to be getting ready to go on what I supposed could be termed ‘a date’, and I was actually quite nervous. I’d been with Tim for so long I was totally out of practice and the prospect of having to relearn the protocol of dating was daunting.
I had a shower and washed my hair, leaving it to dry naturally into the waves that fell almost to my shoulders when I didn’t tie them up with a hair band, and set about deciding what to wear. This was something of a problem; I’d brought only a few changes of casual things home with me and most of my ‘going-out’ clothes were still at the flat. I was pulling things out of the wardrobe and discarding them when my phone rang. My first thought was that it was Josh, cancelling, and was surprised at how my heart sank before I realized it couldn’t be him – I hadn’t given him my mobile number. Alice, then? I hadn’t expected her to return my call, but perhaps I’d been wrong about that.
I grabbed my phone from the dressing table.
‘Hello?’
No one spoke, though I was fairly sure the line was open.
‘Hello?’ I said again. ‘Sorry – I can’t hear you.’
Still nothing.
‘This is Sally. Is that you, Alice?’
Still silence. Then the line disconnected. I checked the call log, but whoever had called had ensured that their number stayed hidden. Frustrated, I tossed the phone down on to the bed. Had it been a wrong number? Or was it Alice, and she had changed her mind about speaking to me at the last minute? If it was, I could only hope she’d ring again. And I still had to decide what I was going to wear for my date. Time was getting short, I couldn’t waste a minute of it if I was to be ready for Josh.
I went back to pulling clothes out of the wardrobe and eventually found a pair of palazzo pants and a silk tunic that I quite liked. The wide pants really called for high heels, but since they were out of the question I had to settle for pretty pumps. Drop earrings and a narrow silver bangle completed the outfit, and I did a quick make up and sprayed on a squirt of the perfume that Tim had brought me when I was in hospital. I wasn’t normally a perfume person, but it did smell rather nice, and very expensive – Tim had picked it up in duty free, I imagined, and with Tim nothing but the best would do.
