A Question of Guilt(88)

If the JW mentioned in Dawn’s diary was indeed Josh, then I’d been wrong, so wrong about him. The man I’d fallen in love with didn’t exist. I’d never known the real Josh at all. The thought was devastating – and not just because my dream of a very special relationship was falling into ruins. If Josh was the shadowy figure behind what was going on at the warehouse, then he wasn’t just a fraud, he was a highly dangerous man. The man who had been behind the fire, behind Dawn’s death, behind Alice’s disappearance, perhaps. He’d known she had agreed to meet me – I’d told him myself. Who else would have known about it? I couldn’t think of a single person except Mum. Certainly Alice had been anxious not to talk about Dawn in front of Lewis Crighton, and she had been so nervous about the whole thing I couldn’t imagine her telling anyone. But I’d trusted Josh implicitly – and I’d played right into his hands.

Little as I wanted to believe it, the evidence was stacking up, one awful realization after another rushing at me now in a dizzying stream. Josh had Dawn’s diary. His car had been outside the warehouse. He’d done all he could to stop me investigating, yet followed my progress every step of the way. Then there was my missing laptop. I’d been so sure it hadn’t been stolen in the burglary – I’d mentioned to Josh that it hadn’t been. And then, after he’d spent the night with me, it was gone, and the case zipped up again so I wouldn’t notice the difference. But what about the original burglary? Had he known the house would be empty that night? Had I told him about Dad’s accident? I couldn’t remember for sure . . .

Oh my God! The terrible thought struck me with all the force that the avalanche had done, whipping my feet from under me, the breath from my lungs. Suppose he’d known we’d all be at the hospital because it was he who had caused the accident? Suppose it had been a deliberate ploy to get us out of the way? Josh owned a motorcycle. A Ducati, he’d told me. Ducatis were big, powerful machines with racing handlebars. Just like the one Sam had described. Just like the one that had followed Rachel and me back from Dorset. And how did I even know it hadn’t been a motorcycle that had hit Dawn and killed her? I’d assumed it had been a car or a van, but no one had ever said so.

I was shaking now from head to foot. Somehow I had to be sure. I remembered seeing all Josh’s outdoor gear in the little lobby as we’d stumbled through in one another’s arms, but only as a jumble of boots, and jackets hanging on the pegs, one on top of the other. Sick with dread I crept across the living room to the lobby. Moonlight was streaming in through the glass pane in the front door, and moments later I’d seen all I needed to. Black leathers underneath a waxed jacket. And a full-face crash helmet on a shelf above.

There was no getting away from it. Josh was JW. Josh was the one who was behind everything that had happened.

I’m not a person given to panic, but for a few horrible moments I was like a fly caught in a trap, the electronic flashes of blue sparking and sizzling all around me. Then the instinct for self-preservation kicked in.

I had to get away from here, away from Josh. I couldn’t risk going back upstairs for fear of waking him, but luckily we’d shed some of our clothing in our eagerness for one another; it lay scattered about the living room. My bag was in the living room too. I pocketed my car keys, and stuffed the diaries into my bag.

The key to the front door was still in the lock, a heavy, old-fashioned key. My hands were shaking so much it took long, panicky moments before I could turn it. There was also a Yale; again I fumbled, then it turned and I yanked the door open and stumbled outside, hoping against hope that Josh’s car was not blocking me in. But fortunately the gravelled area looked just about wide enough for me to squeeze through. I banged Dad’s car into reverse, terrified that either the sound of the front door closing or the engine firing would have disturbed Josh, and swung the steering wheel too quickly. My wing connected with Josh’s with a horrible scraping sound, but it was the least of my worries. I cleared the entrance and whacked the gear lever into ‘drive’.

I’d made it – so far. But if I had woken Josh he might well come after me. My heart in my mouth, I pressed down hard on the accelerator and shot off up the lane. At that moment I wasn’t thinking where I was going, or what I was going to do next beyond putting distance between me and Josh, and it took all my concentration just to keep the 4 x 4 on the road round the bends in the narrow lane.

I passed the farmhouse the satnav had sent me to; it was all in darkness. I hurtled on. Would the police station in Stoke Compton be open at this time of night? Time was when there was a twenty-four-hour presence, but I had a horrible feeling I remembered Mum complaining that nowadays it was manned only during office hours. Should I drive into Porton, then? Or go home and leave calling the police until the morning. More than anything, I wanted to go home. But I wasn’t sure that was a very good idea. When he realized that both I and the diaries were missing – if he hadn’t already – home was the first place Josh would look for me. I wouldn’t be safe there, and I didn’t want to put Mum in danger either. If Dad and his double-barrelled shotgun had been in the equation it would have been a different matter, but he wasn’t. A dangerous man on a big black motorcycle had made sure of that.