A Question of Guilt(54)

Dawn certainly had made enemies, just as Alice had inferred. And it had just been confirmed to me that she did have a fling with Lewis Crighton, and probably others too, both married and single. But I was still a long way from discovering who she might have upset so badly that they could have wanted her dead.

Not George, it would seem – it sounded as if he still carried a torch for her. Or was it guilt that was keeping him away from the Compton Players? I didn’t know, and short of continuing to insinuate myself into their group, I couldn’t see how I was going to find out.

It was gone half past ten by the time people began getting up to leave, and I took my cue to do the same.

As I got into my car, the memory of the last time I’d made this journey hit me, and a sensation of unease fluttered in my tummy. Since some of the others had left the pub at the same time as me, there was a flurry of cars pulling out of the Square as I did, and there were headlights behind me through the traffic lights and the first junction. I kept checking nervously as one by one they peeled off and by the time I was out of the built-up area, my mirror reflected only the last street lamps and an empty road behind me. A little way out into the country and headlights glared in my mirror again; I put my foot down hard, but still the lights closed in on me and I saw the car was pulling out to overtake. My stomach muscles tightened and I felt the beginnings of the same panic I’d experienced the other night – was he going to box me in? But hardly had the thought formed in my mind than he was roaring past me, going like a bat out of hell. Normally I’d have been worried that I might come upon him around the next bend, having either lost control or collided with an oncoming vehicle; tonight I felt nothing but relief that at least he wasn’t following me.

Apart from a few cars going in the opposite direction, I saw no one else. But I was very glad, all the same, when I reached the farm yard.

‘You see? There was nothing to worry about, was there?’ I said aloud. And the only reply was Scrumpy’s obligatory greeting.

Thursday dawned wet and windy; with a leaden sky making everything dark and gloomy, the onset of spring, which had seemed imminent only yesterday, now seemed as far away as ever. Definitely a day for staying indoors to work rather than going out to investigate!

I booted up my new laptop, organized the files I’d transferred from my memory stick, and was staring at the screen, deep in thought, when the phone rang. Mum was out seeing to the hens, I knew – I didn’t envy her in this weather! – so I answered it and was surprised to hear Rachel’s voice.

‘Sally? That is you, isn’t it?’

‘Oh yes, it’s me. Hi, Rach.’

‘Are you in this morning? I’ve got a couple of hours free, and I was thinking of popping over.’

‘I’m not going anywhere. I’d love to see you.’

‘I’ll be over in about half an hour, then. And we can talk about going down to Dorset.’

That reminded me – I hadn’t done any more about finding an address for Dawn’s parents. Whilst waiting for Rachel, I went on line and searched for a family named Burridge in the Wedgeley Down area. There were two, a C.T. Burridge, and an Andrew, and I hadn’t a clue which was Dawn’s father. But Burridge wasn’t exactly a common name, and the chances were they were both related – a brother or an uncle, perhaps. I checked the addresses – Ivy Cottage, Parsonage Lane, and forty-nine Keats Road. Chances were, I thought, that Keats Road was a new estate, and Ivy Cottage an older property. But I really didn’t have time to try either of them now. Rachel would be arriving at any minute.

Or was I just making excuses? I wasn’t looking forward to approaching Dawn’s family, and I knew it was just another sign that I was definitely going soft. Contacting the bereaved was never something I enjoyed, but I’d never shrunk from doing it where necessary. Now the thought of trying to elicit information from the parents of a dead girl, and possibly informing them I didn’t believe her death had been accidental at all, was making me shudder inwardly.

I was going to have to toughen up again, not a doubt of it, when I went back to work if not now, so it might as well be now. My hand hovered over the telephone.

‘Sally! Hello! Are you there?’ Rachel’s voice from the hall. She’d obviously let herself in. I felt guilty relief at the welcome reprieve.

For the next hour Rachel and I sat chatting over coffee and custard cream biscuits at the kitchen table. Mum had come in, rivulets of rain that had dripped from the hood of her Barbour running down her face, and her trousers creased from where they’d been jammed into her wellington boots.