Читать книгу Murder at the Gorge - Frances Evesham - Страница 8

Max had bought the large, sixteenth-century manor house, Exham House, when he retired from his job in a London bank. It now seemed ridiculously big for one person – even with two lively dogs around.

Max laid his phone down on the table in his study, wishing Libby were with him. He’d been counting the days to their wedding, when she’d move in officially. He’d reconciled himself to an influx of squishy cushions to the sitting room, and was even learning to put toilet rolls on the holder, rather than leave them on the cistern. ‘Why?’ he’d asked Libby. ‘It’s just another pointless task.’

She’d raised her eyebrows and shrugged, and he’d agreed to change. ‘As long as I can keep my study the way it is.’

After hours spent poring through holiday brochures, they’d decided to take their honeymoon in the New Year. ‘Somewhere hot,’ Libby had said, ‘but let’s stay in Exham for our first Christmas together.’ Max pictured the house filled with Christmas trees, decorations and cards, with the two dogs and Fuzzy the cat all snuggled in a heap in front of a crackling log fire. He must remember to order more firewood.

Meanwhile, Bear did his best to provide company by lying across Max’s feet. Shipley lay sprawled on the floor, upside down, hoping for a tummy tickle, but he’d have to wait. Max’s mood, already sombre from the sight of an unknown woman in a makeshift grave, hair full of leaves, mud all over her face, sank even further as he thought about the meeting with Stella.

What did she really want with him? Was she just jealous of his new-found happiness with Libby? Maybe that was it.

There had been an odd look on her face. Stella had always set great store on the way she looked. She dressed well and he was sure she’d had a little ‘work’ done on her face, but today, as she described the emails, she’d looked old and tired. Dark rings had circled her eyes, her lips had thinned into a single line with her trademark red lipstick sinking into the surrounding fine creases, and her brow bore furrows no Botox could entirely erase.

What if her suspicions were right and someone was deliberately targeting her? Would the harassment escalate or would the perpetrator lose interest and move on to another victim? Until he was sure, Max had a duty to help. After all, she was the mother of his children.

He glanced at his watch. Midnight already. Would Libby be asleep? He wanted to phone again, explain about the meeting with Stella, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not yet. Libby had sounded distracted, almost cold, on the phone. How would she react to his meeting his ex-wife, whom he’d previously insisted was happily living on the other side of the country, with no need for any contact between them?

He should have told her before he went to Bristol, then he wouldn’t be in this spot.

Maybe the best plan would be to track down whoever sent Stella the email and convince her she had nothing to worry about. Libby need never know he’d scampered off to meet his ex-wife as soon as she asked him to.

He wouldn’t sleep tonight, in any case, so he might as well do something useful.

He pushed Bear off his legs, rubbing the big dog’s chest as Bear grumbled, rewarded Shipley’s patience with a brief tummy tickle, made a cup of coffee and settled down at his desk. The computer hummed and Bear raised his head for a few seconds before falling asleep again. He was showing his age. Max hoped he’d have a few more years in him. It would break Libby’s heart if Bear fell sick – or worse.

Max checked his email. Sure enough, Stella had forwarded her mysterious messages to him.

These arrived while I was with you.

He ran through them.

I’m watching you.

The email included a photo; the back of a woman, who could easily have been Stella, shopping in Waitrose.

Don’t think you’ve got away with it.

You’ll be sorry.

Another photo of Stella, taken from the back again, at a different shop.

Max tried to be objective. Was that really Stella in the photo? It wasn’t clear enough to be sure, even after he’d magnified and enhanced it as much as possible. The photo bore all the hallmarks of an amateur attempt to frighten.

He sent Stella a quick text, asking if she recognised the branch of Waitrose as the place she normally shopped, but had no reply. She’d be fast asleep, like every sensible person at this time of night.

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.