olives, bread and dipping oil on the table, and I was enjoying a big glass of red wine. Rachel ordered a spritzer, we debated the relative merits of the huge selection of pizza toppings, and then settled back on the leather banquette.
âSo, what have you been up to since I saw you last?â Rachel asked, a good deal calmer now. âNo â donât tell me . . . youâve been bored silly.â
âActually no,â I said. âIâve got myself a project.â
âA project. Oh â not a calf! You havenât got a baby at home to bottle feed, have you? Because if you have you can send him over to me.â
I laughed. âIâd have thought you had quite enough to do already! But no, itâs not a calf. Itâs work . . . sort of. A story Iâm following up on.â
âTell me more,â Rachel said. âI thought you said nothing ever happens in Stoke Compton thatâs worth writing about.â
âIt did, though, didnât it â five years ago. The big fire in the High Street.â
âWell, yes, but surely thatâs old news?â Rachel sipped her spritzer. âThe weirdo that did it was caught and convicted. Heâs in prison, isnât he?â
âBut his sister is convinced heâs innocent and I thought . . . oh, I might be flogging a dead horse, of course, but miscarriages of justice do happen. Wouldnât it be fantastic if I could find something out that meant the whole case had to be reopened?â
Rachel looked doubtful.
âI donât know how youâll manage that. Surely if thereâd been anything to find out the police would have been on to it?â
âThey had Brian Jennings, didnât they? An easy target. Just the sort of person everyone would like to believe was responsible, and not really bright enough to be able to defend himself, from what I gather. Once he was in the frame I bet they didnât look any further. A good result for their crime statistics.â
âHe was obsessed with Dawn Burridge,â Rachel argued. âThey found dozens of photographs of her in his flat. And there was the evidence about the petrol, too, wasnât there?â
âTraces in his pocket, yes. But he said heâd bought petrol for his sisterâs lawn mower and she backed him up. Itâs all circumstantial, Rachel.â
âHmm.â Rachel looked unconvinced. She dipped a chunk of ciabatta into the aromatic oil.
âSo, Miss Marple, how are you going to beat the police at their own game?â
âWell, to begin with, Iâm going to talk to everyone concerned. Brian Jenningsâ sister, maybe Brian himself . . .â
âYouâre going to visit him in prison?â
âIf I can.â
âRather you than me!â
âBut first I want to talk to Lisa Curry and Dawn Burridge â see if there was anyone theyâd upset who might have wished them harm.â
âSurely theyâd have told the police at the time if theyâd suspected anything like that?â Rachel said.
âMaybe they did. But Brian Jennings was an easier target. Or maybe they were too shocked to think straight. Then, when Jennings was arrested, they assumed, like everyone else, that it must have been him.â I speared an olive and popped it into my mouth, chewing on it thoughtfully. âDo you know them at all?â
âLisa and Dawn?â Rachel shook her head. âNo, not really. I think Lisa went to our school, but . . .â
âDid she?â I said, surprised. âI donât remember anyone of that name.â
âWell, you wouldnât, would you? Sheâd have been several years below us, and you donât notice the ones who are younger than you. I donât remember her either. But when she and Dawn were in the news, Becky â my sister â said Lisa was in her year.â
âReally?â I sat forward, interested.
âThey