A Question of Guilt(21)

Time enough to speak to Marion later. My first port of call should be Lisa Curry – or Lisa Holder, as she now was – and Dawn Burridge. And before I could do that I needed to know where she now was.

Lisa should be able to tell me that, I imagined, but the other line of contact with her was the estate agents’ where she had worked – or maybe still did if she’d come back to Stoke Compton when all the hoo-ha had died down.

I skidded my chair back to the computer, Googled ‘Compton Properties’, and in no time at all their website was on the screen in front of me.

My first impression was that Compton Properties appeared to be a thriving business. There was page after page of houses for sale, ranging from humble terraced cottages to large family homes, and even the odd barn conversion. Some of them bore the banner ‘Sold’ or ‘Under Offer’. There was also a section of property to rent and a page explaining what the company could do for prospective landlords in terms of managing the lets. Another wing of the business appeared to be house clearance – a service required when the homeowner had died, presumably, or was moving abroad. The furniture and effects from such clearances then went into a monthly auction, also run by Compton Properties, which was held in a warehouse-style building on one of the local trading estates.

I took a look at the ‘About Us’ page and was surprised to see that the business was owned and run by one man – a Lewis Crighton. ‘Lewis Crighton has twenty years of experience in the property market,’ the blurb proclaimed. ‘After working for an old-established agency, he founded Compton Properties, his own business, in 2001, and has thousands of satisfied clients.’

The photograph showed a good-looking man of perhaps forty seated behind the wheel of what looked to be an open-topped sports car. Dark hair sprung from a high forehead, the features were strong in a narrow face, the mouth wide and smiling above a neatly trimmed beard. It was the sort of face, no doubt, that would inspire trust in clients, but I couldn’t help feeling it was also the face of a man who knew exactly where he was going, what he wanted, and how to get it. The sort of man who would find talking easy – I could just imagine the convincing patter that would flow from those full lips.

But would he talk to me? If I could get myself into Stoke Compton tomorrow, then perhaps I would find out.

‘Any chance of me getting into town tomorrow?’ I asked.

Mum, Dad and I were seated around the kitchen table eating tea. Dad was still worried about his cow, I could tell, but it didn’t stop him tucking into an enormous plate of toad in the hole. Farming is the sort of job that makes you hungry – all that fresh air and physical effort. I, on the other hand, had very little appetite.

Mum gave me a knowing look. ‘I suppose you want to get on with looking into this story of yours.’

‘I do really,’ I said.

‘Are you going to want your car tomorrow, Jack?’ Mum dished up seconds on to Dad’s already empty plate. ‘I reckon our Sally could manage that, what with it being an automatic.’

Dad came out of his reverie.

‘Well, I wasn’t planning on going anywhere. You’re welcome to borrow the car if you think you can handle it, Sally.’

‘Oh Dad . . . are you sure?’

I was a little nervous of taking responsibility for the 4 x 4, but I was also anxious to be independent. I couldn’t expect Mum to go on ferrying me round forever.

‘I will,’ I promised.

‘I hear you were on my computer again this afternoon, too,’ Dad said.

‘I was, yes,’ I confessed.

‘Hmm, quite like old times, eh? My car, my computer – anything else you want?’ His tone was dry, but his eyes were twinkling, and it occurred to me that Mum and Dad were actually enjoying having me at home again.

I grinned.

‘That’ll do nicely for now. Thanks, Dad.’

‘So what exactly is it you plan to do in Stoke Compton tomorrow?’ Mum asked.

We’d finished tea, the dishwasher was stacked and the kitchen tidied. Dad had disappeared into the living room to watch the national news from the comfort of his armchair and Mum and I were lingering over a cup of coffee.

‘For starters, I want to talk to Lisa Curry. Try to find out if there was anyone else who might be in the frame for starting the fire.’

‘That’s not likely, surely?’ Mum sipped her coffee. ‘Why on earth would anyone do something like that? Brian Jennings . . . well, he was known to be an oddball. But it’s not the sort of thing that would even occur to a normal person, let alone actually do it.’

‘You’d be surprised what people do,’ I said. ‘I’ve come across all sorts of cases where someone has committed murder for what seemed like the most trivial of reasons. But to them, it had gone right out of proportion and pushed them over the edge. That’s what I want to find out. If there’s anyone else who might have had a motive for starting that fire.’