He tasted bile at the back of his mouth.
Follow the clues. Then, say goodbye to one or the other.
His email buzzed again and two photos appeared – one of Libby and the other, Stella. Each sat, wide-eyed, on a wooden chair. Max looked closely. They looked dishevelled, and scared, but at least neither appeared seriously hurt.
Here they are, in case you think we’re bluffing. Which one’s for the high jump? You choose.
High jump? That was one of the clues, but what did it mean?
Don’t rush off, he told himself. Ignore the death threat. Think it through.
Head in hands, he sat for ten minutes, considering everything he knew.
Two deaths. He was being set up as the Rhymer and the killer, but he needed to get past that thought. Carys Evans died first. Why? What pushed a man or woman to kill? Jealousy, rage, money, protecting someone, or some psychological flaw? He’d come across all those motives. The motive he found hardest to understand was that of a killer who murders ‘because he can’. Someone who’s lost contact with the real world and sees a murder as an exciting challenge to be overcome. Which of these applied to the Rhymer?
Money? Ivor had plenty, and Carys had surprised everyone by leaving a substantial amount in her will. Did that lead anywhere?
There was something like an itch in Max’s brain as he thought that through. A sentence that had surprised him when he heard it. But what was he struggling to remember? Who’d talked about money? What had they said? Had they been talking to Max, or was it something Libby had mentioned?
He beat his fists against his head in frustration. ‘Think,’ he muttered.
He closed his eyes and tracked back to the day he’d found Carys in the woods. He thought through every conversation he could remember from the past two weeks, no matter how trivial it had seemed at the time.
That was when he remembered.
Shocked, he tried to think of another solution, but there was one person who fitted all the circumstances.
He remembered Robert’s family trees. He hadn’t thought about those since discovering Libby had been snatched, but if his suspicions were correct, they’d tell him what he needed to know.
Max opened up the attachment Robert had sent, scrolled down all the names, and stopped.
‘Robert,’ he murmured. ‘You’re a genius.’ It was, as Robert had suggested, all about the names. Names that could be changed.
In Max’s brain, cogs turned and connections fell into place.
Ivor Wrighton, as Max was sure, was also Maurice Noakes; Carys Evans’ son with her first husband, Peter Noakes. After leaving prison and making a new life, Maurice had changed his name. He might have wanted to go straight, and leave his old life behind, but he’d found it easier to live at other people’s expense. He’d probably moved from one wealthy older woman to another, living off their money, changing his name each time to keep ahead of the law, ending with Stella.
But Maurice/Ivor had died. He couldn’t be the Rhymer.
Who, then, had killed both Maurice/Ivor and his mother?
Max sat back, his eyes closed, trying to make sense of the puzzle.
Names, marriages, family trees – he opened his eyes. He hadn’t finished looking at Louise Barnet’s tree. He’d stopped when he came to Maurice’s name.
Louise Barnet, one of the recipients of the poison pen letters, had a family tree that divided into two branches, because she had married twice.
With her first husband, she’d had one daughter. Newly divorced, she’d then moved to Wales with a second husband, John Evans, where two more daughters had been born – Gladys and Carys. They’d each reverted to their maiden name of Evans when their own marriages broke down.
It was Louise’s first marriage that Max wanted to explore. He scrolled down the page, and gasped. Louise’s eldest daughter had married a man called Redditch, and they’d had a son.
That son’s name jumped out at Max as though it was written in red capital letters: Oliver Redditch, his own old school friend. He thought back to their conversation on the seafront at Watchet. Ollie had admitted he’d had a hard time, lately. He was down on his luck. He’d lost his job; his ‘nice little earner’, his ‘under-the-radar’ work, hacking commercial companies for the shady firm, Pritchards… which had been shut down, because of Max and Libby’s investigations. Was that his motive? Fury that they’d ruined his life? Was he out for revenge?
But Ollie was Max’s old mate from school. They’d shared cheese sandwiches in the playground, played football together, spent Saturday evenings at the Odeon in Bristol, trying to pick up girls. Why would Max’s old friend have turned against him like this? Kidnapping Libby? Taunting and killing people? Spreading vile rumours about Max?
And, why kill Carys Evans, his aunt?
Rocked to his core, Max replayed the Watchet conversation with Ollie in his head, and re-read the emails about Libby’s kidnap.
That day in Watchet, Ollie had said his aunt gave him money.
Ollie had been broke – ruined by the collapse of Pritchards, the company Libby and Max had exposed. His wife had left. His life had fallen apart.
His aunt’s money had helped him back on his feet. Max only had Ollie’s word for it that his aunt had lent him money. What if he’d stolen it from her? He’d have access to her house – after all, she was family. What if he’d stayed with her? Nothing could be easier than stealing a credit card from her house. She probably kept a book beside the computer with passwords in it – so many people did. Once he’d found that, a scammer like Ollie would be able to move money from her account into his.
Max took it a step further. What if Aunt Carys found the money missing, put two and two together, and threatened Ollie with the police if he didn’t pay her back?
So, Ollie had killed her. Not as bad as killing your mother, but shocking enough.
But she wouldn’t have left her money to him, because she had a son of her own. Maurice. Maurice Noakes, the bad boy, the black sheep, also known as Ivor Wrighton
Had Maurice/Ivor found out that Ollie, his cousin, had killed Carys, his mother?
Max shrugged into his coat, sure now that Ollie was behind the rhymes – Ollie, the computer expert, who loved playing games, who’d lost his money and his wife, who’d stolen more and couldn’t afford to pay it back. Ollie, who’d killed his aunt because she’d threatened him with the law. Ollie, who hated Max and Libby for their part in his bankruptcy.
Max knew, now, where Ollie would take the two women. The emails had mentioned a fall. Carys and Ivor had both been found in Leigh Woods. The Avon Gorge. There was only one place to look.
One mystery remained: Why had Ollie killed his cousin, Maurice/Ivor?
Max left a note for the helpful security guard, with instructions to ring the police, jumped in his car, and sped away.
35
Surprise
Libby, outside the bathroom, could hear the murmur of voices downstairs, but she had no idea of the layout of the house, or whether the two men could see the stairs.
There was another closed door on the other side of the short landing. Maybe that one would have a window from which she could jump without breaking her ankles.
More noise from downstairs. Water running and cupboard doors opening and shutting. The men must be in the kitchen.
She listened again. Their voices echoed a little, so that she could make out what they were saying.
‘Did he pick up the latest message?’
‘He did.’ The second man sniggered. ‘Bet he’s chasing around, trying to work out where she is.’
‘You’re right. Are they safe up there?’
‘Safe as houses.’ He sniggered again.
They? Had Libby heard correctly?
She tiptoed across to the other door. It was locked, but once again the key was on the outside.
Libby turned the key and gently twisted the handle. The door swung open, revealing a room almost the twin of hers.
; A woman sat on the single chair. As Libby entered, the woman’s head jerked up.
Libby caught her breath. Another gang member?
But, the woman’s clothes, expensive-looking, were creased and crumpled. Her hair was dishevelled, half in and half out of a chignon, strands hanging over her face. She’d been crying.
Another prisoner.
Libby whispered, ‘What’s going on?’ She crossed the room, half an ear on the voices downstairs. Listening in case one of the men came upstairs.
The other woman flinched.
‘I’m not one of them,’ Libby said. ‘Who are you?’
The other woman blew her nose and said, ‘My name’s Stella and I’ve been kidnapped.’
‘Stella?’ Libby squinted at her. ‘Stella? Not Max’s ex-wife?’
Stella sniffed. ‘And you are?’ There was a trace of haughtiness in her voice.
‘Libby Forest.’
Stella’s eyes narrowed. She looked Libby up and down. ‘What are you doing here?’ She raised an eyebrow, and Libby found herself brushing imaginary dust from her own jumper.
‘I suspect, the same thing as you. I’ve been kidnapped.’ She paused. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘Overnight,’ Stella said ‘And all they’ve given me is one very unpleasant sandwich.’
Despite their predicament, the outrage in her voice made Libby chuckle. ‘I think that’s the least of our problems. Have you any idea what’s going on?’
Fascinated to have met Max’s ex at last, despite the weird circumstances, Libby forgot to listen for their captors.
The door suddenly flew open.
‘You two ladies have met, then. Very clever, Mrs Forest. You would have enjoyed a spell in the Escape Room at my club. Pity it’s too late for that. At least, you two have plenty to talk about. I’ll leave you to it. You won’t have long to wait. We’re all going on a little trip. And some of us will be coming back. Not all, I’m afraid.’
The masked man left, slamming the door, and the key turned in the lock. Libby slumped down, sitting on the floor against the wall. All that effort, and she was back where she’d started – a prisoner.
36
The Bridge
It was dark when Max arrived at the Clifton Suspension Bridge. He slid the car into a space near the Information Centre and slammed on the brakes.
The area was quiet, now the afternoon rush hour was over. Lights twinkled from houses and flats in the Cumberland Basin, but the bridge itself was dark. Wasn’t it meant to be floodlit at night?
The Information Centre was closed. Max’s heart sank. Had he misunderstood Ollie’s clues? But no, the 4x4 he’d seen in the CCTV coverage was here. Where, then, were Libby and Stella?
Below the bridge, so far down that Max’s senses swam at the sight, the edge of the gorge was invisible in the dark. He shivered, but it wasn’t the wind that bothered him, although it blew gusts of rain like needles into his face.
He hated heights.
At least the barriers along the walkway, two metres high, gave some sense of safety.
Max knew that, despite the barriers, suicides still took place on the bridge. CCTV had been installed, giving the bridge keepers time to stop many attempts, but tonight, someone had interfered with the bridge’s normal working. Someone with the grasp of computer knowledge and hacking ability to get into the systems. Now, he knew he was right. Ollie was here. Ollie, the computer hacker.
A couple of cars drove past and a gust of wind hit Max in the face. He brushed freezing rain from his cheeks.
Then, he saw them. Four figures, merging into the shadow of the wall near the toll booth.
Max shouted, and Ollie turned.
‘At last. I thought you’d never get here, Max. Thought maybe you were leaving your women to die of cold.’
‘What’s the matter with you, Ollie?’ Max called into the wind. ‘I thought we were mates.’
‘You’re no friend of mine, Max Ramshore. You and your – your woman,’ he spat the words with venom. ‘You lost me my job and every penny I owned.’
The other man growled, ‘And my marriage.’
Ollie’s accomplice, heavily built, had a firm grip on Libby’s arm. With a jolt, Max recognised him. Mandy’s abusive father.
‘Bert?’
In answer, Bert shoved Libby hard against the wall. It reached just above her waist.
Max shook his head. Why was Bert mixed up in this? ‘What have we ever done to you?’
Bert jerked his head towards Libby. ‘You and her – you think you’re so clever, interfering in Exham’s business. Well, you broke up my marriage, talking my Elaine into leaving me.’
Libby struggled uselessly against Bert’s grip. ‘You were beating her up.’
Bert just grunted and crushed Libby harder against the wall.
Max said, ‘What do you want, Ollie? What’s this all about? Those nursery rhymes – some sort of family tradition, are they?’
Ollie let a slow smile creep over his face. ‘You know about my Granny Louise, do you? Took you long enough to work it out. Quite a girl, she was; life and soul of the party. All the men liked her. But when she left her husband and daughter no one in town would talk to her. Stuck-up bunch of nosy parkers in those days – and they haven’t changed much, neither. She moved to Wales, married her new man, had Carys and Gladys and broke off all her ties with Exham; apart from sending a few letters to punish those Exham gossips. No one could stop Granny having fun.’
‘So, your grandmother, Louise Barnet, sent the poison-pen letters in the sixties?’
Ollie chuckled. ‘Only to people who deserved them.’
Every word he spoke confirmed Max’s deductions. ‘You copied her idea, upgraded it to nursery rhymes and sent one to yourself, just like she’d done, to put people off the scent. I should have realised – you were always mad for games.’
Ollie’s laughter drifted away on the wind. ‘Those nursery rhymes were all my own work. Best fun I’d had in years. Like a fox in a hen coop, I was, setting all those Exham folk into a proper flutter.’ Ollie’s laughter changed to a sneer. ‘Forest and Ramshore, Private Investigators, couldn’t make head nor tail of them.’ He pointed his finger in Libby’s face. ‘You should learn to keep your nose out of other people’s business, Libby Forest.’
Max said, ‘Didn’t your aunts, Carys and Gladys, know about Granny Louise’s poison-pen letters? She was their mother, after all.’
‘Granny hushed it up. My own mum told me, but she said it was a family secret. Not to tell anyone.’
Amazing. Ollie had been at school with Max, but he’d never once mentioned those letters. He let Ollie talk. If the man got it all off his chest, spilled out the anger and resentment against Exham, and especially Max and Libby, maybe he’d calm down and let the two women go. Although, at the moment, he showed no sign of letting his grip on Stella loosen for a second.
When Ollie spoke again, his voice had lost its bitter edge, but it was harder, more determined. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘it’s payback time for you. Come on, Mr Perfect Ramshore, time to choose one of your women. Imagine you’re in the Big Brother house. Who do you want to save? The other one’s going over the edge.’
Max’s heart seemed to stall. Ollie was serious. He’d already murdered two people, and he was planning to kill either Libby or Stella.
Max peered into the blackness. Where were the police? They must be arriving soon. If only the bridge lights would go on. Occasional cars passed over the bridge, oblivious to the drama being played out by the tower, the drivers squinting through the rain, concentrating on their journeys, barely noticing the small group by the wall.
Could Max get help from a passing motorist? He discarded the idea. If he made any false move, Ollie could throw Stella over the low wall in seconds, to certain death in the gorge, far below.
Where were the bridge keepers? Max supposed they were busy trying to sort out the floodlights, unable to see what was happening in the dark.
; It was up to him. He must keep Ollie talking until help arrived.
‘What I don’t understand, Ollie, is why you killed Carys Evans. She was your aunt – or step-aunt – and she’d helped you out with money. Or did you help yourself? A spot of identity theft?’
‘Useful things, credit cards,’ Ollie sniggered. ‘I used one to get into your posh house, as well. Slid it into the lock on your French doors. Easy as pie. That was fun, snooping around. Good protection on your PC, though. Didn’t find as much as I hoped. Just a few photos. Still, never mind. Can’t win ’em all.’
Max let that go. ‘Did your Aunt Carys work out what you did?’
‘She said she knew it was me who took her money and she’d be going to the police. So, I had to get rid of her. Easy, it was. I asked her over to talk about it, even bought her a Maccy D first, said I was sorry and I’d pay it all back, and we went for a walk in the woods. All I had to do was pop her over the head with a branch.’
Still no lights. Max would soon run out of questions.
He said, ‘And Ivor – or Maurice, I suppose you called him. What did he do to you?’
Ollie swore again. ‘He was going to come in with me, on the new arcade business. He had plenty of cash – made a fortune out of all the old women he conned. Like this one.’ He shook Stella’s arm hard, cracking her wrist against the wall. ‘He had half a dozen old birds on the go. He said he’d be my partner, but he changed his mind when his mother left her money to her sister instead of him. Seems she didn’t care much for him.’
Max was glad he couldn’t see the expression in Ollie’s eyes. The man sounded more unhinged with every word he spoke.
Ollie went on, ‘Well, I rang Maurice, all sympathetic about his ma dying. Said we should meet in the woods, see where she died, lay some flowers, all that stuff. What’s that thing called? A shrine, that’s the word. We were going to make one of those in the woods. Maurice always had a soft spot for his ma. Broke his pathetic little heart when she left home, it did. He kept a photo of her in his pocket and he used to moon over it something dreadful. Sickening, it was.’
Murder at the Gorge (The Exham-on-Sea Murder Mysteries) Page 19
