Joanna grimaced. ‘I’m sure we’ll find our feet, soon.’ She sounded dismissive. ‘It’s easy for Annabel. Queen of Hearts, indeed. The Merry Widow, I call her. Haven’t you seen the way all the men look at her?’
Libby returned to the email. ‘As I explained when I rang, the police have asked me to talk to the recipients of the poison-pen emails. Do you have any idea who might have sent yours? It may not be anyone in Exham.’
Joanna shrugged. ‘I don’t have any enemies, if that’s what you mean. I hardly know anyone. My family take up all my time, you see. Jeremy – my husband – works such long hours. I don’t really get out much, except with the children – and the History Society, of course.’
Not much of a life, Libby thought, for a still-young woman like Joanna. When Libby’s children were at school, she’d made dozens of friendships with other parents. Joanna seemed to have very few friends.
‘My husband says the person sending the emails is probably a sad little man who can’t get a girlfriend. There’s a name for them, apparently.’ She frowned. ‘Incels. That’s the word. Overgrown boys who spend all day in darkened rooms, playing video games and hating women. My husband says we should just be sorry for them. He thinks the person who killed Carys Evans has nothing to do with the nursery rhymes. He says it’s some old boyfriend she quarrelled with. Frankly, though, the whole thing gives me the shivers.’
Did Joanna have any real opinions of her own, or did they all come from her husband?
Before Libby could delve further, their conversation was interrupted. Until now, Shipley had been content to move from one child to another, tail wagging furiously, but otherwise behaving as calmly as Bear. Libby had almost forgotten the dogs were there when Shipley opened his mouth and drowned out the noise in the carriage with a single, echoing yelp.
Libby jumped to her feet, expecting to see chaos, afraid Shipley might have frightened a child. ‘What’s wrong?’
Shipley, tail stretched rigid, stood immobile in the centre of the aisle between the seats, pointing his nose at a woman sitting nearby, a sleeping baby in her arms, a bouncy toddler on one side and a quiet infant-school-aged boy, who until this moment had been neatly colouring in a picture of Santa, on the other.
Eyes like saucers, the boy grinned at Shipley. ‘Hello,’ he said.
Shipley ignored him, still staring at his mother.
Libby, embarrassed, called the dog. He glanced in her direction, but turned back, staring hard at the boy’s mother.
The woman shifted in her seat. ‘I’ve met your dog before,’ she said, as Libby took a firm hold on Shipley’s trailing lead. She should have done a better job of supervising him. ‘I suppose you could say we’re friends. We met in the vet’s surgery – but I wish he’d stop staring at me. He’s making me nervous.’
‘Shipley. Sit.’ To Libby’s relief, he sank to the floor, one paw in the air. Libby reached out a hand to the little boy, a dog biscuit in her palm. ‘Will you give Shipley a biscuit?’
He nodded, took the treat and held it out for Shipley.
The children in the carriage settled down again.
Libby returned to her seat, Shipley under firm control. ‘I don’t know what gets into him,’ she told Joanna. ‘He’s had some training. We thought he might have a future as a police dog, but he’s too strong-willed for that. He seems to have taken a real fancy to that lady. As if she doesn’t have enough on her hands with all those children.’
‘Mrs Atkins,’ Joanna said.
She was interrupted by a burst of excited chatter in the carriage. One of the entertainers was pointing through the window. ‘I can see Santa Claus,’ she called.
The children rushed to the window and, sure enough, there he was, in costume, ringing a bell as the train drew into the station at the seaside town of Watchet.
15
Baa Baa Black Sheep
Max found his Exham house lonely, that day, with Libby and the dogs all away. When he’d first moved in, he’d loved the space, and the peace and quiet. He’d furnished his study exactly as he wanted it, with a big mahogany desk that women, for some reason, hated. Libby had been dropping hints about ‘letting the light in’. The man cave, she called it. It was said to be haunted.
For Max, that was part of its charm. Even Bear, after hesitation, had begun to enter the room, nervously. Presumably the ghost was friendly. Shipley had never found anything to worry him there.
When Libby was in the house, Max enjoyed retiring to his study, running his finger along the packed bookshelves, and stepping over the lengths of cables attached to his array of computers, monitors and audio equipment.
While she was away, he saw the room differently. He’d grown to like her cosy cottage, full of jars of flowers and the smell of baking, despite the cushions. Maybe the study could do with a little warming up, after all. A new rug, perhaps? He’d ask Libby.
He glanced at the calendar. Tomorrow was the first of December, and if it weren’t for Libby’s daughter, they’d be getting married in two weeks. Why couldn’t Ali get here in time? Was it just selfishness?
Joe, his own son, had his faults, and they’d been angry with each other for many years after the divorce, but they’d been reconciled – mostly due to Libby’s influence and a series of her home-cooked dinners. Nowadays, Joe and Claire were frequent, welcome visitors.
Max sighed. He wouldn’t have to be patient for long. They were only putting the wedding back a week, to the twenty-second, and Libby had said the arrangements were well under way. The day would come soon enough, but meanwhile, Max needed to know Joe and Claire could be there.
He clicked on his email and wrote a few lines to his son. Libby had already told the small band of guests about the delay in the ceremony, so at least Max didn’t have that task.
Just saying hi,
he wrote:
Any chance of you and Claire coming over for dinner in the next couple of days?
He should ask Robert, Libby’s son, as well, with his wife, Sarah. They’d met Joe and Claire a few times, and they all seemed to get along well.
How about Sunday evening? I’ll get Libby to cook up a storm, or feed you from the freezer if she can’t face it! You can stay overnight, if you like.
Max’s fingers hovered over the keys.
I saw your mother a few days ago. I’ll tell you more when we meet.
No need to worry Joe about Stella’s stalker. He was busy at work, with his new role in the Child Protection section in Hereford.
Max sent the email and turned to his inbox. A long list of marketing. He deleted most items with a satisfied flourish. He loved a clear inbox.
Stella’s name caught his eye.
All well here,
she wrote.
Still in Bristol with Ivor. We’ve been sightseeing all over the Cotswolds. I’ve attached the lists you wanted. There are a few people we used to know in London, some good friends of mine and a few complete strangers.
I’ve highlighted the ones that could be weirdos.
Max was impressed with Stella’s computing skills. Libby, for all her sharp intelligence, had even struggled to master the mobile phone. ‘Chalk and cheese,’ he muttered, wondering idly how the two women would get on together. Not well, he suspected.
He printed out Stella’s list, and glanced at his inbox.
A new email had appeared that moment.
Baa Baa, Black sheep
Have you any wool?
Yes sir, yes, sir, three bags full.
One for the master
One for the dame
And one for the little boy who lived down the lane.
Well, well. Not only women being targeted, it seemed. That blew one of Max’s theories out of the water. This was not a campaign run by a misogynist, designed to demean and frighten women.
But what did this email mean?
Black sheep – did that refer to Max? He’d made his share of mistakes in life, but they were personal, family issues. He hadn’t so
much as shoplifted a bar of chocolate during his youth or smoked a single cannabis cigarette.
Wool? Did that have any significance?
But, the master, a dame and a little boy; that could mean Max’s previous family. If so, this was a nastier email than it appeared at first glance.
Someone could be reminding him of the past he’d messed up so badly.
More upset than he would have imagined, he wished Libby was here. But she was away on some school trip with the doctor’s wife.
A daft idea came into Max’s head. That Santa Special was going to Watchet. Why shouldn’t he drive over there and meet her? It was time he offered some kind of romantic gesture.
He’d take the Land Rover, for the dogs were with Libby, and the four of them could spend the afternoon strolling near the harbour.
Fired with enthusiasm, and delighted to have a reason for leaving his depressingly empty house, he roared down the drive and pointed the car towards Bridgwater and the A39.
Watchet was one of Max’s favourite Somerset towns. Just outside the Exmoor National Park, it didn’t share much of the wealth brought by tourists, and it had suffered from the loss of the old paper mill that used to keep residents in work, but the locals seemed extraordinarily cheerful and optimistic. The marina had been redeveloped recently – maybe that would lead to the town’s resurgence.
At least there was plenty of space to park. Max pulled into the car park close to the railway line, just as the train drew into the station with a noisy burst of steam, followed by the excited chatter of children.
‘Ho, ho, ho.’ Santa’s laugh boomed out above the children’s cheers as he beckoned them into the waiting room, miraculously transformed with holly, ivy, tinsel and trees, into Santa’s Grotto.
He caught sight of Libby in conversation with a woman he supposed to be Joanna Sheffield. Max felt a grin spread across his face. Everything would be all right, now. His blues had vanished.
He’d walk down to the marina while Libby was talking, and enjoy a breath of bracing, fresh air.
He leaned on a bollard at the marina, the only soul there, watching the few boats that remained in the harbour as they bobbed on the tide. The others had been hauled on to dry land at the yacht club. What would it be like to own a boat? Max had never been sailing in his life, despite growing up in a seaside town. Maybe he’d try it, one of these days.
Lost in a daydream about sampling cocktails in a sparkling glass and chrome bar on the kind of yacht only a millionaire could afford, he didn’t notice the man until he was at his elbow.
‘Max?’
Max blinked.
‘It’s me.’
Recognition dawned. ‘Ollie Redditch? You made me jump. What are you doing here?’
‘Taking the air. Nice place, Watchet. Often come here. Long time, no see, though. What brings you out here?’
‘I’ve come to collect Libby. She’s with the Santa Special train crowd at the station.’
‘I thought her kids were too old for Father Christmas.’
‘She’s with a friend and her children. The doctor’s wife.’
Ollie grimaced. ‘Stuck-up pair, that Joanna Sheffield and her husband. Think they’re too good for Exham.’
Ollie had been at school with Max. Last time they’d met, in the Lighthouse pub in Exham a few years ago, Ollie had been full of beans, earning a small fortune from a slot machine arcade on the seafront.
‘Women, eh?’ Ollie went on. ‘Drag you down, don’t they? Take my ex-wife. Took me to the cleaners, good and proper, with the divorce,’ Ollie grumbled. ‘That was when Pritchards went bust and I lost my best little earner.’ He winked. ‘Strictly between ourselves, they used to send shedloads of lucrative work my way, hacking into their rivals’ computers. All under the radar, of course. Put me back, it did, when they went bust. Still, you have to pick yourself up and carry on.’
Max grunted. Pritchards had been a shell company, running long-term fraud and money-laundering businesses that had tempted Libby’s own husband into crime. Dismantling that business had been one of the earliest successes for Ramshore and Forest. He said, ‘You were a bit of a whizz-kid, back in the seventies. We used to play Pong on the Atari, round your place. Do you remember?’
‘Pong,’ Ollie shook his head. ‘Those were the days, when there were only a few of us games developers around. Games started me in the business. That’s how I met the missus, down the arcade, more’s the pity.’
‘I’m sorry to hear about your wife,’ Max said.
Ollie shrugged. ‘Went off with some bloke running a casino in Weston-super-Mare, would you believe? At her age. Over the hill, she was, anyway, and I’d had enough of the nagging. Good riddance.’
Max recalled meeting Ollie’s wife at a party, a few years ago. ‘Ingrid, wasn’t that her name?’
Ollie gave a short laugh. ‘Never trust a Scandinavian.’
Ingrid had been – probably still was – a beautiful blonde. Ollie was still a good-looking man, although the jet-black hair had greyed and the handsome face with its chiselled cheekbones had gained a few wrinkles.
‘Course, the doctor’s not the only new arrival in Exham. You seen that Annabel Pearson?’ Ollie chuckled and Max’s heart sank.
When they’d been schoolboys, the whole gang of them – Ollie, Max, Bert, Alan Jenkins – had hung around Exham, eyeing up the girls arriving for their summer holidays. Resentful at being dragged to Somerset, when they’d rather have been stretched out in the sun on the beach in Spain or Portugal, the girls had been ready for romance with the local boys. Max had some great memories of those days, but he’d grown out of that method of meeting women. It seemed Ollie hadn’t.
Ollie grinned. ‘Still, business is getting back on track. I’ve opened a new place up in Bedwell, a virtual-reality games arcade. My aunt came up with a bob or two to start it. Now I’m in funds again, Annabel might be the next lucky girl.’ He gave a wicked chuckle. ‘She’s working at that bakery with your Libby. I saw her there, yesterday. She’s had one of those emails that are going around – you know, those nursery rhymes.’
Max nodded vaguely. He really didn’t want to hear Ollie’s crude opinion of Annabel.
‘I got one, too,’ Ollie added.
Now, he had Max’s attention. ‘You did?’
‘Came this morning. Boys and girls come out to play, it was.’ Ollie sniggered. ‘Appropriate, don’t you think?’
Whoever was sending the emails knew their audience.
Max wasn’t about to tell Ollie he’d also been targeted. There was an awkward pause, broken, to his relief, by the noisy return of the children, clutching party bags and sucking on sweets.
‘I’d better rescue Libby,’ Max said, ‘See you.’
16
Fish and Chips
Max and Libby wandered through the narrow streets of Watchet, where every corner held an interesting smell that Shipley needed to investigate.
‘I’m so glad you rescued me,’ Libby said. ‘I’d forgotten how exhausting small children can be. They loved Bear and Shipley, of course.’
‘How was Father Christmas?’ Max asked.
‘Corpulent. Don’t tell the children,’ she made a show of peering over her shoulder, ‘but under the whiskers and beard, I recognised William Halfstead.’
She took a step back to look at Max.
‘Eyeing me up for next year?’ he asked.
‘Not fat enough.’
‘Keep feeding me your bread and butter pudding and it won’t be long before I am. Not sure I have the required jolly red face, either.’
‘Maybe not. William really looked the part, though, and Margery was there as well, dressed as Mrs Claus and organising the children. So sad they never had any of their own.’
‘Talking of children, have you heard from Ali again?’
Libby looked at the ground. ‘Nothing new – she’s pleased we’re holding back the wedding.’
‘So she should be.’
Libby didn’
t deny it. She linked her arm with his. ‘You’re being very understanding about the change of date. I did rather dump it on you.’
‘So long as this is the last delay…’
‘I promise.’
He took advantage of the moment, and told her he’d invited Joe and Claire to dinner.
She smiled. ‘Great idea. I’m always pleased to see them. Of course, I’ll cook. I haven’t made beef wellington for months. Just the job for this weather. Speaking of which, I’m starving hungry after this morning’s excitement. Where shall we eat?’
They looked around. ‘Just cafés here, no posh restaurants,’ Max said.
‘But look,’ Libby pointed across the road. ‘A proper seaside fish and chip shop. What could be nicer? Who needs posh? And there’s another Father Christmas.’ They gazed up at the large red rear end of a plastic Santa poking out of a chimney on the roof.
Max said, ‘I don’t know why anyone who cooks as well as you do wants to eat chips.’
‘Best thing ever, seaside chips with plenty of salt and vinegar. At least I don’t smother my chips with mayonnaise. But let’s get inside. The weather’s getting colder by the minute. Do you think we’ll have snow?’
He laughed. ‘No chance, I’m afraid.’
They pushed open the door, and breathed in the familiar chip-shop smell.
As they ate melt-in-the mouth fish and vinegary chips, the dogs lying quietly under the table, they compared notes.
Libby described her conversation with Joanna Sheffield. ‘Those children of hers are far too well-behaved. I longed to see them with chocolate smeared all over their faces, but Joanna kept cleaning them up.’
‘I’ve met the doctor a couple of times,’ Max said. ‘Socially, I mean. Don’t look so worried. I haven’t had a doctor’s consultation for years. I bumped into him in the Lighthouse, one evening. Big bloke, full of himself. I didn’t take to him at all.’
Murder at the Gorge (The Exham-on-Sea Murder Mysteries) Page 9
