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.
âIâve got sheafs of info,â I said, tapping the notebook which lay on my lap. âBut you were right, it does look like an open and shut case.â
âMost local people thought so,â Mum agreed. âBut then, they would, wouldnât they? Itâs much more comforting to think a strange character like Brian Jennings went a bit peculiar than it is to wonder if thereâs a pyromaniac wandering the streets. At least with him locked up people could feel safe in their beds. But . . .â She shook her head.
âBut what?â I asked.
Mum slowed down to join the queue waiting at the traffic lights at the end of the High Street. âWell . . .â She hesitated. âSince she started her campaign I must admit Iâve sometimes wondered whether it wasnât all a bit convenient, having someone like him who made the perfect scapegoat. I mean . . . I do trust the police, of course I do. Itâs come to something if you canât. 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 . . .â
I nodded thoughtfully. âI know. I must say I feel the same. And whatever, itâs a cracking story.â
The lights had changed to green; the traffic was moving again.
âSo whatâs your next step going to be?â Mum asked as we cleared the junction.
âWell â go and see Marion Jennings,â I said. âGet her side of it. If I can persuade Dad to lend me his car, or
someone else
to give me a lift . . .â I cast her a sneaky sideways look and grinned pleadingly.
The corners of Mumâs mouth twitched.
âOh, I expect youâll get lucky one way or another.â
âI donât want to let this go, Mum,â I said, serious again. âItâs so good to have something to get my teeth into. You and Dad have been great, but to be honest, Iâve been going quietly mad.â
âUnderstandably! Two old fogies like us . . .â
âYou are not old fogies!â
âThatâs a matter of opinion. But seriously, Sally, youâve had a pretty rough time. And that boyfriend of yours has been no help at all.â
âItâs difficult for him, with his job . . .â I didnât 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 Iâd been at Stoke Compton heâd only been to stay two or three times and made a few fleeting visits. Recently, when heâd 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 Iâd begun to wonder if Tim was the one for me, Iâd 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 â some days I saw no one but Mum, Dad, and old Sam, Dadâs pretty well monosyllabic farm hand â 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
Andy Griffiths and Terry Denton