A Question of Guilt(82)

‘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.