Late afternoon, and the rain was still falling, a thick drizzle now, with a gusting wind tossing it in flurries against the windows. I’d spent the last couple of hours on my computer, and sitting around, I’d got chilled to the marrow without even realizing it. I dragged myself upstairs to find a thick sweater, and sat down again, staring thoughtfully at the two telephone numbers I’d unearthed, one of which I felt sure must be for Dawn Burridge’s parents.
It was quite possible, of course, that there wouldn’t be anyone at home at this time of day, but if I didn’t try, I wouldn’t know. And if I didn’t at least attempt to make the call now, I wasn’t sure I’d ever do it at all.
I decided on one of the two numbers, and before I could change my mind, dialled it. After just a couple of rings, an answering machine kicked in, and I killed the call. This wasn’t something I could leave a message about. Without much hope I tried the second number. It rang interminably and I was just about to hang up when it was answered. A man’s voice, abrupt, as if he was less than pleased to have been interrupted in whatever he had been doing when the telephone rang. But my nervousness had melted away as if by magic; it was like riding a bicycle, I thought – once you were back in the saddle it just came naturally.
‘Do I have the right number for the parents of Dawn Burridge?’ I asked smoothly.
The man answered my question with one of his own.
‘Who is this?’
‘My name is Sally Proctor,’ I said. ‘You won’t know me, but I’m trying to get in touch with them.’
‘Were you a friend of Dawn’s?’
‘Yes,’ I lied. ‘I live in Stoke Compton. Are you Dawn’s father?’
‘Her brother.’
Ah. So I was on the right track.
‘Would it be possible to speak to either her mother or father?’
‘You’ll have a job to speak to Dad,’ the man said tersely. ‘I’m afraid he passed away just before Christmas.’
I was, I have to confess, a bit shocked.
‘Oh, I’m really sorry to hear that . . .’ I said awkwardly.
‘I’m not sure whether Mum is up to talking to anyone,’ the man went on. ‘Losing first Dawn, and then Dad . . . she’s not in a good place just now.’
‘No, I can imagine . . .’ I broke off as I heard a woman’s voice in the background.
‘Who is it, Andrew?’
A few moments’ silence ensued; Dawn’s brother had covered the receiver with his hand, I imagined. And then, to my surprise, the line opened up again and the same voice I’d heard in the background, oddly sharp, yet with a Dorset burr, was speaking in my ear.
‘This is Grace Burridge.’
‘Mrs Burridge.’ My nervousness had returned, but I was, thankfully, able to control it. ‘This is Sally Proctor.’
‘So my son said. You were a friend of Dawn’s, I understand.’
‘Yes.’ This time I felt really guilty for the lie. ‘Can I say how sorry I am for your loss?’
‘You can say it, but it won’t bring them back, will it?’ she said flatly.
‘No, I realize that. Mrs Burridge, the reason I’m ringing is that I was wondering if I could come and see you.’
‘What for?’
‘I want to talk to you about Dawn . . .’ I was expecting her to ask me why I wanted to talk to her, and I really hadn’t made up my mind what I was going to say. Instead, to my surprise, there was complete silence at the other end of the line. ‘Mrs Burridge?’ I ventured.
I heard what sounded like a muffled sob, followed by another silence. I waited. Sometimes it was better to say nothing at all.
After a moment when Grace Burridge must have been collecting herself, she spoke just two words.
‘All right.’
‘You don’t mind talking to me?’ I wanted to be sure I’d understood her correctly.
‘I expect I’ll upset myself. But it’s nice to talk to someone who knew her . . . not many people want to talk about her at all. They cross the street, you know, rather than have to think of what to say to me. Yes, my dear, if you want to talk about Dawn, you’re most welcome.’
I really did feel guilty now, dreadfully, horribly guilty. But it was too late to tell her the truth now. And besides, if I was able to get justice for Dawn, surely that wasn’t such a bad thing?
‘When do you want to come?’ Grace Burridge asked.
‘Would one morning next week suit you? I won’t take up too much of your time.’
Grace Burridge snorted. ‘Huh! I’ve enough of that on my hands now. I’m on my own here most days, except for when Andrew pops in, like now. No, you come whenever you like. Just give me a ring and let me know when to expect you.’