A Question of Guilt(9)

The fire had been his way of getting revenge when Dawn continued to spurn him, the prosecution had claimed. In the end, as Mum had said, it seemed to have come down to a case of ‘if I can’t have you, no one will.’

The case for the defence, by contrast, was pathetically weak. Brian Jennings had no real alibi for the night of the fire, and his explanation of the petrol traces found in the pocket of his jacket – that he’d filled a can with petrol at a local garage for his sister’s lawnmower and wiped his hands on his handkerchief after spilling some – had cut no ice with the jury. He had been found guilty unanimously, and received a lengthy prison sentence.

‘You are a scheming and dangerous man,’ the judge told him. ‘I have no hesitation in committing you to a place where you can no longer endanger the public for the maximum time the law allows.’

I shook my head, a bit deflated by the open-and-shut nature of the case. Really, there seemed no holes in it at all. There was no doubt that Brian Jennings had been obsessed by Dawn Burridge, and entirely believable that she had rejected him utterly. His photograph showed a pasty-faced man with lank, greasy hair who, judging by the folds of flesh around his neck, was probably also unfit and overweight. There was no way the stunningly attractive Dawn would have given him a second glance. And with the dark side to his nature revealed by the cache in his flat, it was easy to imagine how that adoration could have turned to blind hatred and the desire for revenge when perhaps she slighted him once too often.

And yet, in a funny sort of way, it was almost too convenient. Was it possible that in fact the circumstantial evidence had led to the wrong conclusion? Had someone else entirely been the arsonist – someone who had escaped scot free? Was Brian Jennings innocent as his sister claimed? Unlikely, I had to admit, but the bit was between my teeth now, and I was determined to try to find out.





Three


‘So how did you get on?’ Mum asked, pulling back into the stream of High Street traffic.

The two hours since she dropped me off had sped by; when I’d glanced up at the wall clock in the Gazette office I was shocked to see that I had only five minutes before she was due to pick me up again.

I’d packed Belinda’s file together and left in on the desk as Josh, the photographer, had said I should, hoping he wasn’t going to get his nose bitten off for allowing me access to it. But I suspected he was well capable of taking care of himself, especially where a female was concerned, even one as feisty as a chief reporter probably was, and wouldn’t care much about her disapproval in any case. In my experience photographers were a law unto themselves more often than not.

I thanked the receptionist on my way out, but got only a frosty nod in return. Well, I could handle that. Thanks to Josh Williams I was now pretty well up to speed on the background to the story. But I was doubtful as to how much more help I could expect from the staff of the Gazette. Belinda Jones might well turn out to be as uncooperative as the tight-lipped receptionist.

I’d only been waiting a couple of minutes when Mum drove down the High Street. There were no spaces in the lay-by now, so she double-parked for the time it took me to load my crutches into the back seat of the car and climb into the front. Then, as she pulled away, I told her what had happened.

‘I’ve got sheafs of info,’ I said, tapping the notebook which lay on my lap. ‘But you were right, it does look like an open and shut case.’

‘Most local people thought so,’ Mum agreed. ‘But then, they would, wouldn’t they? It’s much more comforting to think a strange character like Brian Jennings went a bit peculiar than it is to wonder if there’s a pyromaniac wandering the streets. At least with him locked up people could feel safe in their beds. But . . .’ She shook her head.

‘But what?’ I asked.

Mum slowed down to join the queue waiting at the traffic lights at the end of the High Street. ‘Well . . .’ She hesitated. ‘Since she started her campaign I must admit I’ve sometimes wondered whether it wasn’t all a bit convenient, having someone like him who made the perfect scapegoat. I mean . . . I do trust the police, of course I do. It’s come to something if you can’t. But with all this business of them having to meet clear-up rates for crime and that sort of thing, and him being such an easy target . . .’

I nodded thoughtfully. ‘I know. I must say I feel the same. And whatever, it’s a cracking story.’

The lights had changed to green; the traffic was moving again.

‘So what’s your next step going to be?’ Mum asked as we cleared the junction.