A Question of Guilt

by Janet Tanner

  ‘Why on earth doesn’t that motorbike overtake me?’ Rachel’s exasperated voice cut into my thoughts.

  ‘What?’ I murmured distractedly.

  ‘That motorbike. He’s been right up my boot for miles . . . why doesn’t he just get past and have done with it?’

  I glanced over my shoulder, couldn’t see anything, and turned further. A big motorbike was maybe thirty yards behind us. The rider, clad in black leather, and wearing a full-face dark crash helmet, was bent low over racing handlebars. Not the sort of bike you’d expect someone who was content to tootle along at forty mph to be riding.

  ‘Anyone would think he was following me!’ Rachel said, and her remark, meant as a light-hearted quip, set alarm bells ringing.

  Suddenly I was remembering the car that had tailed me from South Compton the first time I went to a meeting of the Compton Players . . . and something else. A big, powerful motorbike, the rider all in black with a full-face helmet. That was exactly how Sam had described the motorcycle that had panicked Dad’s cows into stampeding. Oh, there must be millions of motorbikes and riders on the roads fitting that description, but still . . .

  ‘Slow down,’ I said to Rachel. ‘Give him the chance to pass.’

  ‘He could pass anyway if he wanted to,’ Rachel pointed out; we were on a straight stretch of road where he could easily have got by.

  ‘Slow down anyway. Perhaps he’s one of the cautious ones. They do exist.’

  Rachel raised an eyebrow, but she did slow right down. For a few moments the following bike slowed too, and my heart came into my mouth. Then, suddenly, he accelerated, roared past us, and away.

  ‘You were right,’ Rachel said.

  No, I was wrong, I thought. Getting paranoid in my old age.

  Except that a few miles further on, he was behind us again – well, either him or an identical motorcyclist! I spotted him in the wing mirror and went cold, but said nothing. I didn’t want to alarm Rachel – she was a nervous enough driver at the best of times – but my thoughts were racing. Was it the same man? He was further back this time, and it was hard to be absolutely sure. Had he pulled into a turning and waited for us to go by? We certainly hadn’t passed him on the road. Who was it? And why was he following us?

  At last, on a straight stretch about twenty miles from home, he overtook us and roared away into the distance.

  ‘Wasn’t that . . .?’ The same bike that overtook us before, she was going to say. But I cut in quickly.

  ‘Shouldn’t think so, Rach. He’ll be long gone.’

  ‘I suppose. They all look the same to me.’

  ‘Me too.’

  But I had a bad feeling about this. And what was especially worrying was that if there was something sinister about the motorcyclist, he now knew Rachel’s car, and that she had been to Dorset with me. I absolutely must not involve her again. If I was taking risks with my own safety, it was one thing. To put Rachel in danger was something else entirely.

  Without a doubt the time was coming when I would have to go to the police with my suspicions. The trouble was I still didn’t have any concrete evidence to back me up, and I rather thought they’d laugh me out of court. But I’d come too far to give up now. Quite apart from my overwhelming curiosity, and a desire to see justice done, I really needed, for my own sake, to get to the bottom of what was going on. Unless I did, I’d never be able to stop looking over my shoulder. Even when I left Stoke Compton and went home I wouldn’t be safe. Dawn had left and gone back to Dorset, but, if I was right, someone had followed her there and made sure she couldn’t blow the whistle on what she knew, or suspected. It was a worrying thought.

  We made it home without further incident; there were no more black-clad motorcyclists anywhere to be seen.

  ‘Thank you so much, Rach,’ I said when she dropped me off. ‘You really are a star.’

  ‘No probs.’

  Oh, I certainly hoped not!

  ‘You take care,’ I said, and for once, instead of a stock phrase, trotted out automatically, I really meant what I said.

  Naturally, I could hardly wait to have a look at Dawn’s diary. Mum wasn’t yet back from visiting Dad, so I put some chops in the oven, prepared vegetables, and then sat down at the kitchen table and opened the silver-covered exercise book, which appeared to cover the period when Dawn had first arrived in Stoke Compton.

  Her writing was rounded and childlike, neat and easy to read, but she did have a habit of using initials rather than names, which made it a little difficult to follow at first, and on the whole she didn’t go into much detail.

  Saw G, went to cinema and for a drink, was a typical entry, recording a date with Gorgeous George.

  I was glad of that – it would have been horribly embarrassing if she had poured out her emotions, or described intimate moments, and I would have felt like a voyeur. But it meant it was unlikely she’d recorded her suspicions either, even if she’d begun to have them at this early stage.

  Perhaps keeping the diary had become a bit of a chore, something that she no longer really had the time or enthusiasm for, but which had become too much of a habit to break.

  I skimmed on through the pages, and noticed the Gs for George appeared less frequently, whilst LC – Lewis Crighton, presumably – figured more and more. Then, before long, LC became simply L – a sure sign of their growing intimacy, though there was no salacious detail beyond the odd Can’t get L out of my head, and Two whole days before I’ll see L again. Torture!

  No doubt about it, the sketchy shorthand was charting an affair.

  Besides the budding romance, I could see the story of Brian Jennings’ obsession with Dawn playing out.

  BJ gives me the creeps. He just stares at me, she had written. And: Hate having to go to the warehouse. I don’t want to be alone with BJ.

  A little further on there was mention of his sacking: L has given BJ his cards. Hurray! The freak won’t be staring at me any more.

  Some hope! I thought. Brian Jennings might have no longer been at her place of work, but he’d far from given up on the staring, and things were about to get a lot worse.

  Sure enough, it wasn’t long before Dawn started recording the times when Brian Jennings followed her, or stood on the pavement on the opposite side of the road to the flat she and Lisa shared, simply staring up at the windows.

  BJ is really freaking me out! He’s been there an hour or more. Lisa thinks I should go to the police, says if I don’t, she will.

  And: Police don’t seem interested. Say there’s nothing they can do. If it wasn’t for L I think I’d get out of this place. But nothing on earth is going to make me leave him! Think I’m in love!

  The affair was clearly hotting up. There were mentions of clandestine meetings, and even a weekend away.

  Two whole nights with L! Bliss! He promised me again that he’ll leave B soon. That he wants to be with me all the time, always, and she makes his life a misery. But I think she put a lot of money into the business, so that will have to be sorted first.

  Oh Dawn, Dawn, I thought. Falling for the age-old lies of the philandering married man. It could well be, of course, that it had been Bella’s money that had enabled Lewis to set up his own business, but I’d bet anything that money considerations or not, Lewis didn’t have the slightest intention of leaving Bella for Dawn, or anyone else.

  The clock struck five, reminding me that Mum would be home soon, and I skipped on quickly through the pages. I’d read them thoroughly later, but I was really anxious to see if I could spot anything more revealing. I wasn’t disappointed.

  Haven’t seen L all day. Phone call (from his partner, I think), and he went out, taking warehouse keys. Puzzled. No house clearances to do, and auction not due for another three weeks. Why does he need to go to the warehouse?

  Ah! I sat up straighter, excitement quickening. Dawn’s mother had said she thought that whatever was worrying Dawn was connected with the warehouse, rather than the estate agency, and to Lewis’s m
ysterious ‘partner’. Might Dawn have recorded more in her diary than she had been prepared to tell Grace? I turned the page, tingling with anticipation, but at that moment I heard the door open, and Mum’s voice calling.

  ‘It’s only me! I’m back.’

  Burning with frustration, I closed the exercise book.

  ‘Hiya, Mum. How’s Dad?’

  ‘I can see an improvement every day.’ Mum was unbuttoning her coat. ‘And how did you get on?’

  ‘Very well, actually. Would you believe that Dawn’s mother doesn’t think her death was an accident either?’

  ‘Really?’ Mum sounded surprised. ‘Let’s put the kettle on – I’m dying for a cup of tea – and you can tell me all about it.’

  I did. The one thing I didn’t mention was the motorcyclist who had seemed to be following us on the way home – the motorcyclist who could very well answer the description of the one who had made the cows stampede. I didn’t want to alarm her. Didn’t want to think about it, even. And not just because if it was one and the same man it could mean that I, and possibly Rachel, too, were in dangerous territory. The fact was that if he was connected in some way to my investigation, then that could mean that I was to blame for Dad’s accident. If it hadn’t been for me, the motorcycle would never have been in the lane. And that was something I couldn’t bear to contemplate.

  I didn’t mention it to Josh either. He rang just as we were eating; Mum put my plate in the Aga to keep warm while we talked. Another day’s walking, another B & B, another much-needed beer waiting for him, he told me.

  ‘Haven’t you had enough yet?’ I teased.

  ‘Beer?’

  ‘No – walking. You must be getting tired, doing all those miles day after day.’

  ‘Funnily enough it gets easier. You get into your stride, I suppose.’

  ‘You might. I don’t think I would.’

  ‘Of course you would! When you’re skiing you do it every day, don’t you?’

  ‘Well, yes, true . . . but there’s the ski-lift to take you uphill. Then all you have to do is coast down again.’

  ‘Each to his own. What have you been up to, anyway?’

  ‘Rachel and I have been to Dorset to see Dawn’s mother.’

  ‘And? What did she have to say?’

  ‘Some very interesting things. I’ll tell you all about it when you get back.’

  ‘Which isn’t long now. We’ll hit Stinchcombe where we left Paul’s car, and then all we have to do is drive back to the start point so I can pick up mine. Then I’ll be heading home. A hot bath, a couple of beers, and I’ll be all ready to cook that meal I promised you.’

  ‘Oh Josh . . . you aren’t going to feel like cooking . . .’

  ‘No, but I do feel like the beers, and if we go out, I won’t be able to drink and drive.’

  ‘So I’ll drive! It’s got to be my turn, anyway.’

  ‘Could be a plan. I don’t like the thought of you haring about those country lanes on your own late at night though.’

  ‘Well . . . I could always stay.’

  ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’

  ‘You probably did. I’ve got to go, Josh. My dinner is going to be as dried up as the Sahara.’

  ‘I’ll ring you tomorrow.’

  ‘I may stay at Josh’s tomorrow night,’ I said, retrieving my plate from the Aga. Mum had already finished her dinner, but was still sitting at the table, waiting for me. ‘You wouldn’t mind, would you?’

  ‘Oh Sally, for goodness sake!’ Mum smiled. ‘I think you’re a bit past the age when you need to ask my permission, don’t you?’

  But I wasn’t altogether sure how pleased she was at the prospect. Whilst she was glad he made me happy, and though they’d got on really well when he’d taken the two of us out for a meal, I couldn’t help feeling she still thought I was rushing into things a little faster than she’d like.

  When we’d finished clearing away, I returned to examining Dawn’s diary, and the more I read the more I became convinced – as Dawn had been – that something very shady was going on and it centred around the warehouse where the auctions were held. At the time of writing Dawn had seemed not to know what it was, and so, of course, neither did I, but I got the definite impression that she thought it was something illegal.

  L won’t talk about it at all, she jotted down. Can’t understand why he should be so secretive. Unless . . .??!?

  What did those question and exclamation marks hide, I wondered? Did Dawn have some inkling, something she wasn’t prepared to put into black and white?

  It seemed, though, that she was still in the dark about Lewis’s so-called ‘partner’. His identity was something else Lewis wasn’t willing to discuss, and that, too, was niggling at Dawn.

  It was all highly suspicious, but it seemed to point to one thing. The auctions, and the warehouse, were a blind for some questionable goings-on. What had Grace said? Lewis is the front man. A telling phrase. But what was the illicit business?

  Something a lot more profitable than an estate agency, if Lewis’s lifestyle was anything to go by. And if I was right, and Dawn had died because of what she knew, that was further evidence that it wasn’t just a two-penny-halfpenny fraud, but something very lucrative indeed.

  What I really needed to find out was who Lewis’s partner was. He was the one who, according to Grace, Dawn had been afraid of. But how?

  I talked it over with Mum when I eventually surfaced, though I was careful not to let her think I might be treading dangerous waters, and she had a suggestion to make.

  ‘Jeremy might know who Lewis’s business associates are,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘He’s in the Chamber of Commerce, after all, and the Rotary Club.’

  ‘That’s true. And he knows Lewis,’ I said. ‘It’s definitely worth a try. I’ll give him a ring.’

  ‘Not tonight, though, Sally – it’s much too late.’

  I had to smile. ‘It’s only half past nine.’

  ‘You can’t bother someone at half past nine at night.’ Mum’s tone was decisive. ‘Do it in the morning.’

  I couldn’t imagine that Jeremy would be so early to bed, but this was the countryside, and it had its own conventions.

  ‘All right, I’ll leave it until the morning if that’ll make you happy,’ I agreed.

  In the event, I didn’t have to telephone Jeremy; he turned up at the door while I was still helping Mum with the chores.

  ‘Just checking on that man of mine,’ he said breezily. ‘He’s not slacking, is he?’

  ‘I haven’t had any complaints from Sam,’ Mum assured him.

  ‘And the computer programme I set up is going OK?’

  I hardly liked to admit I hadn’t yet used it, so I just smiled and nodded.

  ‘Actually, there was something Sally wanted to ask you, Jeremy.’ Mum set the kettle to boil. ‘I’ll make a cup of tea, and she can tell you all about it.’

  This was a bit awkward, I realized. I didn’t want to go into detail about the reason I wanted this information.

  ‘It’s nothing, really,’ I said lightly. ‘I understand Lewis Crighton has a partner, and I just wondered if you might know who it is.’

  A look of astonishment crossed Jeremy’s face.

  ‘Lewis Crighton has a partner? I thought the business was his and his alone.’

  My heart sank.

  ‘Oh well, never mind. It was just a thought. It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘That’s not what you said last night!’ Mum declared. ‘You told me you thought it might be really important.’ She turned to Jeremy. ‘I had to stop her from ringing you there and then – at going on for ten o’clock. Not important, my eye. She thinks her story might depend on it.’

  ‘Your story . . . the one about the fire . . .’

  ‘And Dawn Burridge’s death.’ Mum was in full flow now. ‘She went to see Dawn’s mother yesterday, and it seems this secret partner might be the one behind it.’

  ‘Mum – I don’t know anythi
ng of the sort,’ I protested. ‘You’ll be having me charged with defamation of character if you’re not careful!’ I turned to Jeremy. ‘I’m just curious, that’s all. A shadowy figure in the background whets my appetite.’

  Jeremy smiled wryly. I had the feeling he could see right through me.

  ‘Leave it with me, Sally.’

  Jeremy hadn’t got back to me by the time I left to drive over to Josh’s cottage, and to be honest, all thoughts of my investigation had gone on the back burner, so excited was I at the prospect of seeing Josh again. He’d phoned me around lunchtime to say he and his friend had finished their walk and were now driving back to where Josh had left his car when they’d set out four days ago. He should be home by late afternoon, and would expect me at around seven.

  I was feeling on top of the world as I drove. I’d only been to the cottage once before, in the dark, and he’d been driving, so I wasn’t confident I’d be able to find it again, and I’d put the post code he’d given me into the satnav. Soon it was informing me that I’d reached my destination.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I replied, just as if the disembodied voice could hear me. I was indeed outside a house, but it looked more like a farm than Josh’s cottage, set back from the lane, with big gates and outbuildings. I drove on a little further, then pulled into a gateway to a field and rang Josh.

  ‘I’m lost,’ I said, when he answered.

  He chuckled. ‘How can you be lost?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I am. The satnav sent me to a farm.’

  ‘Ah, that’s happened before. It’s OK, I know where you are.’

  ‘Which is . . . where, exactly?’

  ‘Only a few hundred yards away. Just keep going until you come to a T-junction and you’ll see the cottage on your right.’

  ‘I shall be ringing you again if I don’t see it,’ I warned.

  ‘You will,’ he assured me.

  He was right. After just a short distance I spotted the cottage. The front door was open and Josh was looking out. Feeling a little foolish, I pulled on to the gravelled area in front of a small garage, and beside Josh’s car. Why didn’t he keep it in the garage? I wondered, and then remembered. Of course, he had a motorbike. Perhaps there wasn’t room for a car as well.