A Question of Guilt by Janet Tanner

you?’
    â€˜Oh, keep them, if that’s not too much trouble.’
    The moment the words were out I regretted them. If I took the things away with me it would give me an excuse to come back again. It was too late now, though.
    â€˜I’ll let you know what she decides,’ I added.
    â€˜No problem. Sarah will take a few details from you.’
    He held out his hand again; the interview was at an end as far as he was concerned, and I couldn’t think of any way of prolonging it. But in any case I couldn’t see Lewis Crighton telling me anything I wanted to know – he was too much the businessman, all formality and good manners. The girl who’d said she’d worked here at the same time as Dawn was a far better bet.
    Sarah opened a file on her computer, entered the details of the items I was leaving in their care, and asked me my name, address, and a contact telephone number.
    â€˜I’ll just print this off and ask you to sign it . . .’ She was all efficiency, something Lewis Crighton demanded, I imagined. Which, in its way, told me something about Dawn. She might have been a glamour girl, but she couldn’t have been an empty-headed flibbertigibbet if she’d held down a job here.
    The redhead had left her desk now and was rearranging property details on a display board that was positioned just inside the door. When I’d signed the form Sarah had printed off for me I made to leave, but paused beside her.
    â€˜You were saying . . . about Dawn . . .’ I said, striving to sound casual.
    The redhead turned sharply. Her name brooch announced that she was called Alice, I noticed, but it wasn’t so much that that was demanding my attention as the wary look in her eyes. She didn’t actually take a step away from me, but it felt almost as if she had.
    â€˜It’s just that . . . I thought if you knew her, you might be able to tell me where she is . . . how I could get in touch with her,’ I went on.
    For a moment the girl, Alice, said nothing. She was chewing her lip, her teeth making sharp indentations in her lip-gloss, and she looked scarily as if she might be about to burst into tears.
    Sometimes silence is more effective than too much questioning; puzzled, I waited.
    Then: ‘You don’t know, do you?’ Alice said.
    I shook my head, still waiting, though a shiver of apprehension was prickling over my skin. Alice glanced at Sarah, seeking support, I guessed, and when none was forthcoming, looked back at me. She ran her long, French-polished nails over her lower lip as if to smooth out the indentations her teeth had made, then drew a quick, shuddering breath.
    â€˜I’m really sorry . . . if she was a friend of yours . . .’
    â€˜What?’ I asked urgently.
    â€˜I’m really sorry,’ she said again, ‘but Dawn was in an accident last year. She was killed. So . . . you won’t be able to find her, I’m afraid. Dawn Burridge is dead.’

Seven
    â€˜Dawn is dead?’ I repeated stupidly. Shock and disbelief were washing over me in a great wave that rendered me incapable of coherent thought. ‘But when? How?’
    â€˜It happened in Dorset, where her parents lived, not long after the trial,’ Alice said. She looked genuinely upset.
    â€˜And it was an accident, you say?’ I was beginning to recover myself. ‘What was it – a car crash?’
    Alice shook her head.
    â€˜She was killed by a hit-and-run driver when she was on her way home from work. I don’t know any more than that.’ She glanced nervously in the direction of the staircase leading to the upper floor. ‘Mr Crighton doesn’t like us talking about it. Dawn had been here a long time – he was very fond of her. And besides . . .’
    Yes, I could well imagine I wasn’t the first reporter to come here asking questions, although presumably they would have simply been looking for a quote. Not the sort of