A Question of Guilt Read online

  Belinda Jones was obviously as methodical in her filing as she was meticulous about the tidiness of her office. The cuttings were all in date order, with the latest ones, relating to Brian Jennings’s sister’s efforts to clear his name, on top. Since that was the end of the story so far, and because Belinda’s interviews with her were a reiteration of what I already knew, I turned the whole pile of cuttings over and started working from back to front. Soon I was totally engrossed.

  The reports of the fire had apparently been front page news, the banner headline ‘GIRLS ESCAPE BLAZE – LUCKY TO BE ALIVE’ appeared directly below the stylized title of the newspaper – the Stoke Compton Gazette. The story confirmed what Mum had told me, that the fire had taken hold in the early hours of the morning when the two girls who shared the flat above the electrical goods shop were asleep in bed. The alarm had been raised by a Paul Holder, who was on his way to start an early shift at the bakery further down the street, but by the time the fire brigade arrived the shop was an inferno. The two girls had been trapped in their upstairs flat, but, thankfully, the baker had found a ladder which was being used for repainting the windows at the rear of the bakery and rescued them. Though shocked and suffering from some smoke inhalation they were otherwise unharmed, though both had been taken to hospital and were still being kept in for observation.

  The girls were named as Dawn Burridge and Lisa Curry, and there were photographs of both of them, clearly taken in happier times, before their ordeal. Dawn was an exceptionally pretty girl with dark shoulder-length hair that tumbled in waves and curls about a heart-shaped face. She was a leading light in the Stoke Compton Players, the report said, and there was an additional photograph, apparently reproduced from an earlier edition of the Gazette, showing her appearing as principal girl in their annual pantomime. She had been deputy head girl at her school, and worked for a local estate agent. All in all it was easy to see that she was just the kind of girl who would attract admirers without even trying.

  Her friend and flatmate, Lisa Curry, was apparently a sous chef at Compton Grange, a rather expensive country hotel a few miles outside Stoke Compton. She was less striking than Dawn, with a round, rather plain face and hair that was either cropped short or pulled back into a ponytail, from the picture it was impossible to tell which. She was also several years older – twenty-three to Dawn’s twenty. She had been active in the local ATC as a teenager, but was no longer a member. The antisocial hours her job entailed had put an end to that, I surmised.

  The first mention of Brian Jennings was in a cutting dated a few weeks later, though as yet no names were named. ‘Police have arrested a local man in connection with the suspected arson attack in the town High Street,’ the report read. It then went on to regurgitate much of what I had read before, adding that the two girls who had been victims of the blaze had made a good recovery, but that Dawn, shaken by what had happened, had decided to leave the town and return to her parents’ home in Dorset.

  With hindsight it was easy to understand. She would have already known what was only to emerge publicly at a later stage – that the fire had been deliberately started by the weirdo who had been stalking her. She must have been totally spooked by his unwanted attention, and realizing he was capable of trying to burn her in her bed when she rejected him would have been the last straw.

  I flipped back to the next cutting – a brief mention of Brian Jennings’ first appearance in court – not a lot to go on there – and then found the much meatier report, some nine months later, of the actual trial.

  As Mum had said, the evidence against him was damning.

  Without a doubt, he had been obsessed with Dawn. When police searched his flat they had found, amongst other things, a horde of photographs of her that he had clearly taken without her knowledge by means of a telescopic lens, programmes, posters and newspaper cuttings relating to her appearances with the Stoke Compton Players, a pair of her briefs, presumably stolen from her washing line, a cigarette butt stained with her lipstick which he had apparently taken from a pub ashtray, and a journal recording his sightings of her, together with disgustingly explicit descriptions of his fantasies concerning her. Dawn had given evidence of his persistence – how she could scarcely move but he was there, behind her, and that was backed up by a number of her friends.

  There was evidence from a couple of witnesses that they had seen him hanging about in the High Street on the night of the fire, and, most damning of all, the police evidence of traces of petrol found in the pocket of his jacket.

  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.

  ‘Well – go and see Marion Jennings,’ I said. ‘Get her side of it. If I can persuade Dad to lend me his car, or someone else to give me a lift . . .’ I cast her a sneaky sideways look and grinned pleadingly.

  The corners of Mum’s mouth twitched.

  ‘Oh, I expect you’ll get lucky one way or another.’

  ‘I don’t want to let this go, Mum,’ I said, serious again. ‘It’s so good to have something to get my teeth into. You and Dad have been great, but to be honest, I’ve been going quietly mad.’

  ‘Understandably! Two old fogies like us . . .’

  ‘You are not old fogies!’

  ‘That’s a matter of opinion. But seriously, Sally, you’ve had a pretty rough time. And that boyfriend of yours has been no help at all.’

  ‘It’s difficult for him, with his job . . .’ I didn’t really know why I was making excuses for Tim.

  It was, of course, perfectly true that the demands of being a pilot meant strange working hours and periods of being out of the country, but that in turn meant he often had several days off at a stretch. Yet in all the time I’d been at Stoke Compton he’d only been to stay two or three times and made a few fleeting visits. Recently, when he’d arranged to come over something always seemed to crop up at the last moment to prevent him from coming. An unexpected call to duty, a problem with his car, a heavy cold or flu.

  Given that prior to my accident the gilt had gone off the gingerbread where our relationship was concerned and I’d begun to wonder if Tim was the one for me, I’d been ridiculously upset by his inattention. Looking back now I can see that it was probably all part of the depression that had slowly but surely closed in around me. I was isolated – some days I saw no one but Mum, Dad, and old Sam, Dad’s pretty well monosyllabic farm hand – incapacitated, and bereft of all the things that used to make up my busy life. Apart from visits from my oldest friend, Rachel Parsons, who still lived in Stoke Compton, seeing Tim was about the only thing I had to look forward to. He was my link to the world beyond the comfortable but boring and predictable hours that my days now consisted of. It was the only explanation for me desperately hanging on to a relationship that I knew in my heart had run its course, and probably the reason I was making excuses for him now, to Mum – and to myself.

  ‘It’s a long way for him to come and see me,’ I said now, lamely. ‘Thirty miles each way . . . when he has start times in the middle of the night . . . I can’t expect him to do it.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Mum’s lips made a tight line.

  ‘What?’

  ‘If he thought anything of you he’d find a way. I’m sorry, Sally, I know it’s not what you want to hear, but it’s my opinion you deserve better. You should kick him into the long grass once and for all and find someone who treats you properly.’

  I pulled a wry face.

  ‘Easier said than done. I’m not twenty any more – or even thirty. Most of the eligible men out there have been snapped up, and the ones of my age come with a lot of baggage.’

  ‘You’re a lovely girl, Sally!’

  ‘You would say that. You’re my mother.’

  ‘It’s no more than the truth. You’re pretty . . .’

  ‘Have you noticed the crow’s feet round my eyes?’

  ‘You’re bright and kind,’ she went on as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘Don’t try to tell me that there isn’t someone out there who would treat you a whole lot better than Tim does.’

  ‘Oh Mum . . .’

  ‘’I’m saying no more on the subject.’ Mum checked her mirror, overtook a removals van that was taking up most of our side of the road. ‘Just don’t put all your eggs in one basket, is my advice.’

  ‘Did you say that it was one of the girls who lived in the flat who has a café now in what used to be the electricals shop?’ I asked, anxious to change the subject.

  ‘That’s right,’ Mum confirmed.

  ‘Do you know which one? No – hang on, I think I can answer that myself. The one Brian Jennings was stalking worked in an estate agent’s office, but her flatmate was apparently a chef.’ I flicked open my note book, checking. ‘Lisa Curry.’

  ‘I really wouldn’t know,’ Mum said. ‘I’m not one for stopping for a cup of coffee and a bun in the middle of my shopping.’

  ‘No.’ I smiled. Socializing in High Street cafes wasn’t Mum’s style, and in any case the cake tins at home were always full of delicious cakes she’d baked herself. Mum’s Victoria sandwiches and rich fruit cakes were to die for.

  ‘If I’d finished at the newspaper offices in time I’d have popped in for a coffee myself,’ I said.

  Mum sucked in breath over her lip.

  ‘I wouldn’t think she’d want to start talking about the fire when she’s got a café full of people.’

  ‘Maybe not, but I shall definitely want to speak to her sometime, get her take on what happened,’ I said ‘I need to find Dawn Burridge too. One of the newspaper reports said she’d gone home to Dorset, but I suppose it’s possible that once the trial was over and Brian Jennings locked up she might have come back. Her job was here, after all.’

  ‘I really couldn’t say, Sally. But it’s five years ago, remember, since it all happened. She’s probably married with a family.’

  ‘Maybe. Is Lisa? Married, I mean?’

  ‘It’s no good asking me, Sally. I don’t know anything about them really. I’m not going to be much help to you, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Never mind. I can find out.’

  My journalistic juices were running, my head full of the story. For the moment I’d forgotten all about Tim.

  Which was really just as well since I had a nasty feeling he’d forgotten all about me too.

  I spent the afternoon sorting the notes I’d made and organizing them on to Dad’s computer. He’d finished working on his accounts now, the relief evident when he came down for a scratch lunch of bread, cheese and one of his favourite boiled onions – well, microwaved, to be more accurate, but the result was much the same.

  ‘Well that’s the paperwork brought up to date,’ he said, wiping his hands on the seat of his baggy cords as if they’d been soiled by contact with bills and catalogues. ‘The computer’s yours now if you want it, Sally. Just as long as you don’t mess up what I’ve done.’

  ‘I won’t, don’t worry. I shan’t go anywhere near your accounts. I just wish I had my laptop,’ I added.

  But of course, I didn’t, because, strictly speaking, it wasn’t mine. It belonged to my newspaper. I’d had to leave it at the office when I went off on the skiing holiday and there it had been ever since, being used, I presumed, by whoever was doing my job in my absence.

  ‘Actually I think I might treat myself to one,’ I said, and wondered why I hadn’t done so before. It would certainly have gone some way to easing my boredom if I’d been able to surf the net, and it was a measure of the depression that had descended on me these last months t
hat I hadn’t stirred myself to get a computer of my own. I had, of course, access to the Internet on my phone, but the 3G signal I could get in the countryside was so poor as to be useless in comparison to what was available at home.

  I saw Mum and Dad exchanging satisfied glances.

  ‘This is doing you the world of good, Sally,’ Mum said, and I had to agree.

  When I’d finished typing up my notes and transferred them on to a memory stick Dad lent me I started preparing a list of how I was going to proceed.

  Top of the list, as I’d said to Mum, was paying a visit to Brian Jennings’s sister, Marion. Mum told me she lived in Newcombe, a village just a few miles from Stoke Compton. I found her address and telephone number in the phone book and added it to my notes. Since she was campaigning to try to prove her brother’s innocence I hoped she would be glad enough of my help to share with me whatever information she had, including the name of Brian’s solicitor. It was my hope that he too would welcome any publicity I might be able to generate, and perhaps take me on board as an extra investigator who might be able to learn something to strengthen his client’s case.

  Number two on my list was talking to Lisa Curry and Dawn Burridge. They might be convinced that the arsonist who had almost cost them their lives was behind bars, of course. But they might also be able to tell me something that would give me an alternative explanation for what had happened.

  I went on to transcribe the notes I’d made from the newspaper cuttings – the names that had come up as witnesses when the case went to court, and the people who had been mentioned in the press reports – Paul Holder, the baker who had first spotted the fire and rescued the two girls, the captain of the fire brigade, the tenants of neighbouring flats. As something of a long shot I included the girls’ employers at the time – the country house hotel where Lisa had been a sous chef and the estate agent’s office where Dawn had worked. I didn’t hold out much hope that the hotel employees would be the same ones now as had been working there two years ago – it was my impression kitchen staff moved about pretty frequently. But estate agencies were a different matter. Staff often stayed with the same firm for a very long time. Two years would be nothing in their world.