Murder at the Gorge (The Exham-on-Sea Murder Mysteries)

by Frances Evesham

  Max set up a photo-sharing app, and sent her the details.

  If any more photos arrive, put them here.

  He took a slug of coffee and forced his mind to think logically. Objectivity, that was required now. How should he proceed? The photos were unsettling. He couldn’t blame Stella for being scared. Her instincts had been correct, and clearly someone wanted to frighten her. Max hoped that was all. He’d tell her to send everything to the police, but it would be difficult for them to act. Stalkers could follow their victims for many months before being caught. Stella hadn’t received many emails and they’d only recently arrived. The ‘stalker’ might never get in touch again.

  But she was right to be anxious and Max didn’t like it at all.

  He checked the sender’s addresses. Each message appeared to come from a different country, but that was easy enough to arrange; Max used the technique himself when tracking possible criminals.

  One purported to come from Russia, one from Latvia, and one from Spain. The sender knew enough about technology to hide his identity.

  Using his own, untraceable IP address, Max logged onto the Tor browser, a gateway to the deeper, unregulated highways of the internet, and began a trawl through the dark web.

  After three hours, he logged off, frustrated at his lack of progress. He was no farther forward, and he needed a shower to wash away the memory of some of the sites he’d visited.

  6

  Toast and Marmite

  Next morning, Libby grabbed a slice of toast and Marmite for breakfast and gulped hot tea. There was just time to dash over to Max’s place before her start at the bakery, surprise him and offer the remaining half of the tea loaf she’d cooked. He’d like that for breakfast and it would show she cared.

  Her purple Citroen coughed and spluttered on the short trip. Alan Jenkins, the owner of the Exham on Sea garage, had suggested she look for a new car, but she was fond of the tiny vehicle. She’d bought it fourth- or fifth-hand when she’d arrived in Exham. Alan, a classic-car lover, understood her affection for the willing little workhorse, and had nurtured it as carefully as though it were one of his precious Cadillacs, but even he thought it was time for the Citroen to retire.

  Libby had also recently bought a second-hand car for the chocolate business, and Mandy used it for trips to customers and suppliers. Mandy had a knack for charming customers into making huge orders, so the investment had been worth every penny. Libby would need a different car for herself.

  Of course, after the wedding, she’d have easy access to Max’s Land Rover, though maybe not the Jaguar. He wasn’t keen on letting anyone drive his new pride and joy. He even spent some Sunday mornings polishing it.

  Libby often borrowed the powerful 4x4 for journeys into the deepest parts of the Somerset countryside, but she was reluctant to be without her own car. It was a symbol of independence. She’d looked after herself since coming to Exham, and she wasn’t going to stop now, just because her husband was a wealthy ex-banker. If she wanted a new car, she’d find the money herself. She had a few savings.

  She changed gear and the car coughed again. She’d check her bank account later, see what she could afford. She didn’t need anything grand.

  Five minutes later, she drew up outside Max’s house, admiring the graceful sweep of gravel that led to the front door. His Land Rover was parked to one side.

  Her own drive at Hope Cottage was short, just enough to accommodate the Citroen. Weeds infested it during the summer and Libby spent hours digging them out with a penknife, determined not to use chemicals. The weeds would be Mandy’s problem, next year, when she was the sole tenant, although Libby would always love this place, where her amazing new life had begun.

  As Libby approached the door – polished oak with a heavy brass knocker – Shipley barked loudly from inside. She could hear his toenails clattering on the wood floor of the hall as she turned her key in the lock. She pushed the door open. The two dogs chased each other in excited circles, competing to get close as she pulled dog chews from her pocket and offered one to each dog.

  No Max appeared, despite the noise.

  As the dogs settled down, chewing happily, Libby listened. The house was unusually quiet. Max often worked late, far into the night, sitting at his desk with a desk lamp and cup of coffee for company, but even if he’d been up late last night, the dogs must surely have woken him this morning.

  It wasn’t at all like Max to lounge around in bed.

  She walked through to the deserted kitchen to fill a kettle and butter the tea loaf. The dogs followed behind. It was fun, allowing Bear and Shipley into the kitchen, against every rule of hygiene. She couldn’t do that at Hope Cottage.

  ‘Not long now, Bear, before we’re all together, permanently,’ she whispered. She tiptoed around the room, closing cupboard doors with exaggerated care. She’d give Max a surprise, make up for her grouchiness yesterday.

  Bearing a loaded tray, Libby climbed the stairs to the main bedroom, as excited as a child taking breakfast to her mother on Mother’s Day. She pushed the door open and stepped inside…

  The room was empty.

  Where was Max?

  Had something happened. A heart attack or something? Of course not – but, he wasn’t as young as he used to be…

  Anxious, Libby ran to the en suite shower room, half expecting to find Max in a heap on the floor. It was empty. She inspected the rooms more closely. The duvet was thrown carelessly back, water had pooled on the floor of the shower, and the towels were damp. He’d slept here last night, then.

  ‘Max,’ she shouted, her voice shrill.

  She sped from one room to another, opening wardrobes, calling his name. She even checked the cupboard under the stairs.

  ‘Where is he, Bear?’

  Think, she told herself. What would Max do if she went missing? He wouldn’t give way to hysteria and rush around like a headless chicken.

  She took a long, deep breath, aware her heart was thudding. I’ll be the one with a heart attack, if I’m not careful.

  She stroked the soft fur on Bear’s head. ‘He’s not here, is he? He’s gone out. I’m wasting my time.’

  His study, that was the place to look. If he’d left any clues to his whereabouts, they’d be in there.

  She drank the coffee she’d made for him, and tried to be sensible. They’d agreed to meet for lunch, so there was no earthly reason why he shouldn’t have risen early and left home. He’d be back later.

  But, why leave the dogs?

  And, the Land Rover was on the drive.

  He kept the Jaguar in the garage. She hadn’t checked in there.

  Leaving her empty cup beside the sink, she made her way to the garage.

  Sure enough, the Jaguar had gone.

  Now, Max’s absence began to make sense. He’d keep the dogs out of the Jag, not wanting to spoil its pristine leather interior – nothing caused worse damage in a car than Bear’s drool and Shipley’s scrabbling claws.

  Libby’s panic turned to annoyance. Why hadn’t he left her a note?

  Because you’d refused to come over this morning, she remembered. She’d said she was too busy.

  Well, maybe she deserved her punishment.

  She trailed back into the house, wishing she’d been nicer to Max on the phone. This ought to teach her not to take him for granted. She ignored the small voice at the back of her head that whispered, he could have sent you a text message, at least.

  Still uneasy, she returned to Max’s study and settled in his chair to check for a note. There was a very ‘Max’ feel about the desk. Tidy, neat, with leather holders for pens, a case holding the ridiculously expensive pen Libby had given him for his birthday in October, and a pad of paper with a joke on each page. There were 365, one for every day of the year. That had been Mandy’s gift.

  Libby fiddled with his blotter, a barrel-shaped affair that dried ink by rolling over it. There was no note.

  She shrugged. Why would there be? Max hadn’
t expected her to turn up unannounced.

  His laptop sat on the desk. He might have an appointment in his calendar. He never minded her using his laptop, and he’d given her the password to get in, assuring her that anything related to confidential business was separately stored under different passwords.

  She checked his calendar, but there was nothing unexpected there. She was about to close the machine down, when it beeped and a message flashed across the screen.

  Photo from Stella.

  Libby and Max used a private photo stream to send each other silly pictures, and this was clearly something similar.

  She hesitated, feeling a stab of guilt at prying into his affairs, but she couldn’t resist. Stella. She knew that name.

  She clicked the icon that took her to the photos area, and saw an album she didn’t recognise, labelled ‘Stella’.

  She remembered why the name sounded familiar. Stella was Max’s ex-wife.

  Libby swallowed. Why were they in contact? Or, at least, why hadn’t Max mentioned he was sharing photos with Stella? How long had this been going on?

  The stream was private. She really should turn off his computer, now, and stop prying.

  But Max hadn’t hidden it.

  Her mouse hovered over the ‘shut down’ command, but she couldn’t bring herself to click it. She’d come this far, snooping in his computer. She might as well go the whole hog.

  She clicked again, gasped and half-rose from her seat as the picture of a glamorous woman appeared.

  Libby had seen photographs of Stella, taken during their marriage. This woman was older, but unmistakably the same person.

  The comment section had a remark from Stella:

  Another photo.

  There were two or three photos in the album, sent this morning. Libby clicked through them one by one. Photos of the woman that Libby took to be Stella. All taken from behind.

  Shaking, Libby forced herself to shut down the machine, sit quietly and think.

  She pulled out her phone and sent a text for Max to pick up if he wasn’t driving.

  I’ve seen the photos. Where are you? You have some explaining to do.

  Max turned on to his own drive to see Libby’s Citroen outside the front door.

  He’d heard his phone ping a couple of minutes earlier. He parked, picked up the phone, and grimaced as he read the text. He swore under his breath as he walked into the house and through into the study.

  Libby sat at his desk, her hand on his mouse, the computer screen flickering. She glared at him.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

  ‘I came to see you before going to work, because you’d asked me to, and I felt mean for saying no. You weren’t here, so I looked at your calendar, and the photo of your ex-wife popped up.’

  He swallowed. ‘I should have told you.’

  ‘Told me what?’ She rose and folded her arms, her face like thunder. It was like being a schoolboy again, in the headmaster’s study, in deep trouble.

  ‘Stella’s in a fix.’

  ‘Is she?’ Libby’s tone hardly sounded sympathetic. ‘I thought the two of you were never in contact.’

  ‘We weren’t. I haven’t spoken to her for years, but she phoned me yesterday and asked for my help.’

  ‘So, of course, you went running.’

  I can’t win this argument. No point trying.

  ‘Look, Libby. Stella’s in trouble. She thinks she has a stalker. He or she’s been sending her those photos, and it frightened her. That’s why I went out yesterday – to find out what was wrong.’

  ‘Hm,’ Libby grunted.

  He went on, ‘I just popped out for a half-hour, this morning, to talk to DCI Morrison.’

  ‘Well, you might have left a message.’ Libby’s face had turned quite pink.

  He decided against trying to be reasonable, and kept quiet. This wasn’t the moment to share the news he’d heard from the police officer.

  ‘Well, you can be your ex-wife’s knight in shining armour if you want to. Take all the time you like. I’m late for work.’

  She grabbed her coat from the hook in the hall, shrugged it on, and pushed past him.

  ‘Hey…’ he tried to stop her, but she elbowed him away.

  Best to admit defeat.

  He said, ‘Are you still on for lunch today?’

  She stopped to glare at him, as if on the verge of refusing. ‘Very well, but you’re paying. And it’s going to be an enormous bill, so brace yourself. And maybe you’ll tell me what this is all about.’

  She left in what Max could only describe as a flounce, and slammed the door behind her.

  7

  Chocolates

  Libby, overdue for her shift at the bakery, found Frank loading the van for deliveries. ‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ she muttered. ‘But it’s Max’s fault. I’ll come in early tomorrow, help you with the baking.’

  ‘No need. Mandy’s coming. Hard worker, that one,’ and Frank was gone, leaving Libby with a gloomy sense of failure and a heap of rolls to fill before the mid-morning rush began.

  She’d hoped to take an hour out to visit the florist, curious to know more about Carys’ email, but her pride wouldn’t let her take more time off.

  Should she cancel lunch with Max?

  No, she wanted to know what he’d been up to with his ex-wife. She planned to get the truth out of him over the most expensive dish in the restaurant. Besides, she was curious to know where he’d been so early in the morning.

  At the back of her mind, she knew she’d overreacted. She’d panicked on finding Max had innocently left his house. She’d put it down to wedding nerves, perhaps, along with a shot of guilt at delaying the wedding.

  As the morning progressed, the regular stream of customers in the busy bakery gave her little time to brood. She wished Mandy were here, serving up her usual brand of common sense, along with the day’s cheese and pickle sandwiches and doughnuts.

  Mandy and Libby had survived some dangerous moments. Mandy had once saved Libby from a knife attack, and when Mandy’s father, Bert, had threatened her mother, Libby – or more accurately, Bear – had sent him packing.

  ‘Cheer up, Libby, it might never happen.’ Alan Jenkins, the garage owner, flung open the door and burst into the bakery.

  ‘Already has,’ Libby muttered.

  ‘That’s not like you. What’s Max been doing to upset you?’ Max and Alan were long-time friends, ever since they’d been at school together. ‘Anything I can do?’

  ‘Thanks, but I’m being silly.’

  ‘Not possible.’ Alan was one of Libby’s staunchest supporters. ‘Anyway, I popped in to tell you about a nice little SUV that just came my way. It would do you beautifully, replace that purple monster you drive.’

  ‘Can’t afford it,’ Libby said. ‘I only just invested in the Hyundai for the business.’

  ‘But you’re not driving that one. I thought you’d like something of your own before the Citroen gives up the ghost altogether. I can do you a good price.’ He mentioned a sum so ridiculously low that Libby laughed.

  ‘You can’t give it away like that.’

  ‘Sure I can. You and Max are a couple of my best customers. You think about it, now. Call it a special reduction as a wedding present.’

  At the mention of the wedding, Libby felt her lip wobble.

  Alan stiffened. ‘Now then. Something the matter?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Libby gulped, her voice muffled. ‘Wedding nerves.’ She pulled out a tissue and blew her nose.

  Alan, wild-eyed, stared desperately at the door, but for once, it remained firmly shut. A lifelong bachelor, used to calling a spade a spade, he was way out of his depth with a woman in distress. He coughed. ‘Oh dear,’ he murmured. ‘Not to worry.’

  As Libby sniffed, wishing she was anywhere else on the earth than here making a fool of herself in the bakery, the door opened. Alan sighed with obvious relief as Annabel Pearson joined him at the counter.

  ‘
Everything all right?’ she asked, looking from him to Libby and back, clearly curious, her eyes agleam.

  Libby nodded, blinked hard and asked, ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I came for Danish pastries. Jamie’s at school, and I’m giving myself a little treat.’

  As Libby served her, she said, ‘I can’t wait for the café to open. Angela’s asked me to work part-time, waiting on tables.’

  Libby tried to hide her surprise. Annabel was a widow, with an eight-year-old son at school all day. Hadn’t she once said she was a trained teacher? ‘You’re not looking to work in a school?’

  ‘No vacancies, at the moment. I teach languages, you see, French and Spanish mostly, but kids aren’t taking languages as much as they used to. I want to get to know more people in town, and I think the café is going to be the best place for that.’

  And for gossip, Libby thought. ‘Good for you. You’ll meet everyone.’

  Alan was silent. He’d moved away, attention focused on a display of Libby’s chocolates in the window. ‘Could I have a box of those?’ He pointed at the most expensive, lavishly decorated box of the most exotic flavours.

  Libby thought she’d burst with curiosity. Who could Alan Jenkins be buying chocolates for? Good heavens, he was blushing.

  At that moment, the door burst open again, the bell jangling wildly. ‘Have you heard?’

  ‘Mandy, you’re supposed to be having a day off.’

  ‘Sorry, Mrs F, but I thought you’d want to know about Gladys Evans’ sister…’

  Annabel interrupted. ‘Carys? The one who had that horrid email?’

  Mandy glared at the interruption. ‘Carys Evans is dead.’

  8

  Florist

  ‘Carys Evans is dead?’ Libby exclaimed. ‘How do you know?’