A Question of Guilt by Janet Tanner

but as I’d guessed, there were no parking spaces in the High Street, and I headed for a car park on a minor road running parallel to it. There was plenty of room there and I was able to find a space wide enough to fit into easily after considering, and rejecting, one of the disabled bays that was closer to the exit. I was disabled, yes, but I didn’t have a permit, and I didn’t want to risk coming back to find I had collected a parking ticket.
    I locked up the car and set off, ignoring the soreness of my hands and swinging along on my crutches at a reasonable pace. After crossing the road and making my way between blocks of rather dilapidated buildings, I reached the High Street once more and headed in the direction of Lisa Curry’s café. As I passed the newspaper offices I glanced in through the plate-glass window and was able to see Tara, the receptionist, sitting behind her desk. But beyond that I could see no one. If Josh Williams and Belinda Jones were in today, they were tucked away, well out of sight. For some inexplicable reason I felt a tad disappointed.
    Muffins was just beyond the
Gazette
office. In contrast to the still smoke-blackened wall above the entrance, the paintwork was fresh and bright – pristine white and sunshine yellow – and the windows sparkled, although the traffic in the busy High Street must produce an awful lot of petrol fumes and grime every day. I pushed open the door and went inside.
    Small tables spread with what looked like proper tablecloths took up most of the interior, but there was also a counter where cakes and a selection of breads were on display. Lisa was obviously into the take-out trade, too. Just inside the door, two young mothers were enjoying a cup of coffee and a chat while their offspring gurgled at one another from dinky-looking white-painted high chairs. A pushchair was obstructing the gangway; the young mother pulled it closer, out of my way, and I squeezed past, heading for a table towards the back of the café, next to one occupied by a middle-aged woman in a beret and raincoat, whose chair was surrounded by a pile of shopping bags.
    As I dumped my crutches and sat down, a young girl emerged from a beaded curtain that hung over a doorway behind the counter. She was wearing a frilly apron and carrying a buttered teacake and a pot of tea, which she placed on the table of the woman in the beret.
    â€˜Here you go, Brenda. Anything else I can get you?’
    â€˜No, that’ll do me nicely, thanks,’ the woman responded, and the girl approached me.
    â€˜Morning.’
    â€˜Morning.’ This wasn’t going according to plan. I’d expected Lisa to serve me. But I could hardly say that. ‘Could I have a coffee please?’
    â€˜Americano? Espresso? Cappuccino?’
    That surprised me. It sounded more like a Starbucks than a small-town teashop and café.
    â€˜I’ll have a cappuccino.’
    â€˜And a pastry?’
    â€˜Oh, no thank you.’
    â€˜I can recommend the teacakes.’ The woman in the beret had no qualms about butting in. ‘Lisa makes them herself, or Paul does. You couldn’t get fresher or better.’
    â€˜I’m sure,’ I said politely, ‘but I don’t think . . .’
    â€˜Oh go on! Spoil yourself! You could do with a bit of feeding up!’
    I eyed the teacake on her plate. After one of Mum’s farmhouse breakfasts, I was far from being in need of sustenance, but it did look tempting, nicely browned and oozing butter, and besides . . . this woman was obviously a regular at the café. If I wasn’t going to be able to speak to Lisa, she was the next best thing – or maybe even better. She seemed exactly the sort of person who would know the answers to a lot of my questions, and be only too happy to gossip.
    â€˜You’ve talked me into it,’ I said.
    The young waitress headed for the kitchen with my order.
    â€˜You look as if you’ve