Katie did a double-take, looking from Josh to me with an exaggerated expression of bewilderment.
‘Nothing, nothing, Katie, my love. You need not worry I’m playing fast and loose with you.’
‘I should hope not, since I’m a happily married woman!’ Katie retorted.
‘And Steve is one lucky man,’ Josh said in a tone of mock regret. Then, to me: ‘So what brings you here if it’s not to make my day?’
‘She wants to join the Compton Players, and you’ll have no chance once she’s set eyes on the gorgeous George Clancy,’ Katie said tartly, and added to me: ‘Half of Compton is in love with him, and the rest are either too blind, too old, or the wrong sex.’
I smiled. This was much more like the office banter I was used to.
‘I can assure you he’s in no danger from me.’
‘Hmm, I don’t think it’s a leading man you’re interested in, is it, Sally? Josh said enigmatically. ‘It’s Dawn Burridge on your agenda, if I’m not much mistaken.’
I pulled a rueful face. I had been rumbled.
‘Guilty as charged. And actually that’s the other reason I’m here. She was killed, I understand, in a hit-and-run accident, and I wondered if . . .’
‘You want to raid Belinda’s cuttings files again.’
‘Well . . . yes . . .’
Josh huffed good-naturedly.
‘You’ll get me hung, drawn and quartered. Come on.’
He headed off towards the partitioned-off office, I threw a smile and a ‘thank you’ at Katie, and followed.
‘Belinda not here again?’ I asked when I caught up with him.
‘She’s out interviewing a local artist who’s running an art trail,’ Josh said. ‘And guess who’s got to go and take pictures of pictures?’ He pulled down one of Belinda’s files, flipped through it and got out a clear plastic envelope.
‘There’s not much here, by the look of it. Have a quick shufti and we’ll get it packed away again before Belinda comes back and catches you at it.’
This time he clearly had no intention of leaving me alone with the cuttings; instead he lounged against a filing cabinet, hands in his trouser pockets – he was wearing cords today – head on one side, watching me. It was oddly disconcerting.
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.’