A Question of Guilt Read Online Free PDF

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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜So what’s your next step going to be?’ Mum asked as we cleared the junction.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Oh, I expect you’ll get lucky one way or another.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Understandably! Two old fogies like us . . .’
    â€˜You are not old fogies!’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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