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

by Frances Evesham

  The mere idea of seeing her in person tied his stomach in knots.

  He drew up next to Leigh Woods and parked, making bets with himself over which car belonged to her. Not the Porsche. Too flashy. Stella’s faults had never included ostentation.

  Ah. A BMW 8 Series was parked two cars away. That was more Stella’s style.

  Bear and Shipley tumbled over each other in a scramble to get through the door of the Land Rover. ‘Settle down, boys. Best behaviour, or I’ll shut you in the car.’ Max climbed out, clipping leads to the dogs’ collars.

  Stella, a horses and dogs country-lover, had asked to meet here, in the woods, rather than in a hotel. A little clandestine, Max thought.

  Once well away from the road, he let the dogs run free, trotting behind them through the trees.

  The path took a turn to the right, and there was Stella, in a clearing, waiting, peering at her watch.

  Max fought an instinct to turn tail, run back to the car and speed home to Exham. Instead, he called back the dogs and forced himself to keep walking, as though into battle, Bear and Shipley positioned like a pair of body guards, one on either side of him.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  At least Stella didn’t attempt a handshake, or worse, a hug.

  Slim and tall, she wore jeans and a Barbour coat, her neck muffled into a scarf. Skiers’ ear warmers partially covered the hair he remembered as expensively streaked blonde, but which had now turned stylishly white. Turning fifty, Stella remained a striking woman.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ she said, ‘I didn’t know who else to turn to, and I didn’t want to upset Joe. But you know everything about computers and fraud, don’t you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far, although I still take clients. But surely you don’t want to employ me?’ The thought horrified him.

  She twisted her gloved hands together.

  She hadn’t yet met his eyes. This clearly wasn’t a business deal. What could be wrong?

  Bear, friendly as ever, padded towards Stella. She bent down to pet him, and looked up at Max with a quizzical smile. ‘Dogs, Max? You?’

  Shipley, on his best behaviour, joined Bear, only some noisy panting and a lolling tongue betraying his excitement at meeting a new friend.

  ‘It’s a long story.’ One Max didn’t want to share. ‘Tell me what you need.’

  She was looking around now, expectantly.

  ‘Are you waiting for someone?’ he asked.

  ‘Hoping not.’

  That made no sense.

  ‘I’m sorry to call you away from Exham,’ Stella began, another smile flitting across her face. She had never liked the place. Exham, she’d declared, was too quiet, too dull, for her. That was before the series of murders Libby and Max had helped to solve. ‘You see,’ Stella said, ‘someone’s looking for me.’

  ‘Looking for you? Who? Why?’

  She grimaced, ‘I don’t know.’

  This was like getting blood out of a stone, and Max’s feet were cold. ‘Why don’t we find a pub, or something, and you can tell me all about it in comfort. Are you booked into a hotel?’

  She gave a short laugh, the sound grating on his ears. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t be appearing in Exham on Sea to spoil your small-town contented idyll with your little friend, Libby. Oh, yes, don’t look so surprised. Joe’s told me all about her, and the investigations you run together. That’s why I’m here. I’m in Bristol for a few days and I thought you could help me. Ivor’s going to join me in a couple of days, for a little holiday.’

  ‘Ivor? Your –’ what should Max call this man? He was pretty sure she wasn’t married at the moment. Maybe toy boy fitted the bill best. He swallowed a grin.

  ‘Ivor is my friend,’ Stella said, with dignity. ‘We share a home.’

  Max sighed. ‘Are you using me to make this Ivor jealous?’

  Stella took his arm. ‘Oh, no. I just want to consult you about something.’

  A free consultation – just like Stella.

  ‘Walk with me for a while,’ she said. ’Your dogs will love it in these woods.’ That was true, at least. ‘It’s good to see you again. You look well. I’d say retirement suits you, but Joe tells me you’ve been busier than ever. Fighting crime seems to run in the family.’

  The edge had left her voice and Max could hear echoes of the old Stella. He’d loved her once, very much, before the marriage went sour.

  They strolled through trees where the wind barely reached, reminiscing. They talked of Joe, happily married and moving fast up the police hierarchy in Hereford, and even, hesitantly, touched on Debbie’s death.

  For Max, the raw, unbearable agony had calmed to a lower-level ache. Now, he could remember some of the happy moments of Debbie’s short life. He liked to recall her as a four-year-old, dancing round the sitting room in a ridiculous pink tutu, singing, ‘Look at me, Daddy, look at me.’ At school, she’d shone at maths, once winning a school prize, and he’d treasured a secret hope she’d grow up to be a scientist.

  Stella cleared her throat. ‘I know you blamed yourself for Debbie’s death, but at least she died doing something she loved.’

  Max felt a mild resurgence of affection for Stella. Maybe time really did heal, a little.

  ‘Do you think we’d still be together, if Debbie hadn’t died?’ she asked.

  Surprised, Max took a moment to think. Would they? Yesterday, his answer would have been an emphatic ‘no.’ Their marriage had collapsed under the weight of his guilt.

  ‘I honestly don’t know,’ he said.

  Stella laughed, suddenly, harshly, breaking the spell. ‘Don’t look so worried. I don’t want us to get back together.’

  He dropped her arm, annoyed. ‘What’s this problem you want to consult me about?’

  ‘Some odd things have happened, and I thought, for old times’ sake, you’d help me out. I didn’t want to worry Joe.’

  ‘If I can.’ Max was cautious. The last thing he wanted was to become embroiled in Stella’s life. ‘What kind of odd things?’

  ‘I’m getting phone calls with the caller number blocked, and when I answer, the line goes dead. Then, I get funny emails, too, and I don’t know where they come from.’

  ‘What sort of funny emails?’

  ‘I had one telling me the Inland Revenue are chasing me, and another said I was owed £2000.’

  ‘You didn’t click on any of the links, did you?’

  ‘No, I’m very careful. It’s the withheld number calls that worry me – they’ve been coming in the night as well as during the day.’

  Max felt on safer ground. Her worries were quite common. With the internet accessible to everyone, cold-calling, scams and phishing attempts at identity theft were two a penny. Probably, Stella had simply been one of millions targeted by fraudsters. At least she had the good sense not to click on links.

  ‘Block the calls, report the emails and change all your passwords. I don’t think it’s anything to worry about, but don’t click on anything, or give away your bank details or passwords. It’s all a try-on, but send anything that worries you to me and I’ll look at it.’

  ‘Thank you. Max. I know it’s not much to go on, but I really feel as though someone’s after me. For one thing, how do they know my email address?’

  Max shook his head. ‘It’s upsetting, but it’s not personal. Scammers buy lists of addresses and phone numbers. They don’t know you.’

  He’d worked on cyber fraud many times with his clients. As a financier-turned-investigator, he’d travelled deep into the darker side of the world wide web, and it was familiar territory.

  The least he could do was try to trace the emails. ‘Look, it’s getting dark, and I have to get back to Exham.’ He wondered how much of this incident to relate to Libby. He wanted to tell her, to be as open and honest with her as she was with him, but he dreaded pulling her into the mess of his earlier life with Stella. His instincts always told him to solve his own problems.

  ‘Where are y
ou staying?’

  She looked surprised. ‘The Avon Gorge Hotel, of course, just for a couple of nights. Then, Ivor’s joining me.’

  Trust Stella to find the best hotel in the area.

  ‘Here’s my email address.’ He fished around in his pocket, pulled out an old business card, and handed it over. ‘Send me everything strange you receive, and I’ll look into it. I have your phone number and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’

  ‘Thank you, Max.’ She turned one of her best, full-beam smiles on him – oh, how well he remembered it – and walked away. He watched until she left the trees and reached her car.

  With a wave, she drove off.

  Max’s spirits rose as her car disappeared. He called for the dogs. ‘Well, Bear, what do you think of my ex-wife?

  Bear pulled his head away from Max’s hand. Max followed the direction of the dog’s gaze to see Shipley, who until now had been trotting happily through the woodland, searching for rabbits and following the scent of hidden deer. The springer spaniel stood several yards away, stiff, his body trembling slightly. He barked, once.

  Bear left Max’s side, lumbering across to see what Shipley was up to, and whined.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Bear had begun to scrape at a pile of oak leaves, newly fallen, not yet rotted down into compost. Max joined the dogs and took hold of Bear’s collar.

  Shipley ignored him, standing rigidly to attention, his eyes on the ground.

  Max peered at the leaves. They lay in a heap. Had the strength of the wind thrown them together, or had they been piled up deliberately?

  His heart pumping, he stirred the leaves, parting them gently with his gloved hands.

  The pointed toe of a tan suede boot poked through.

  Moving the leaves with even more care, Max uncovered the bottom half of a pair of coffee-coloured leggings, the second boot half on and half off. Working carefully, a lump of horror blocking his throat, he found a fur-lined jacket, and finally, gently, stroked the remaining leaves from a pale, mud-streaked face.

  The middle-aged woman’s dark hair was tangled with mud and debris, her eyes open, her mouth a little ajar.

  Max’s hands shook. He’d never been the first to find a dead body before, despite the murders he’d worked on. He straightened up, taking deep breaths, fighting to stay calm. ‘Well done, Shipley,’ he muttered, his voice muffled. He coughed. ‘And you, too, Bear.’

  He extracted dog treats from one pocket and his phone from another, handed the treats to the dogs and called the police.

  3

  Lucy Locket

  Libby stood in the empty space that would be, if she had anything to do with it, Exham on Sea’s favourite café. She tugged her coat closer, and shivered.

  Angela Miles laughed. ‘Freezing, isn’t it? I’ve learned to wear my warmest thermals when I visit. I suppose the heating will be one of the last things to work.’

  The shopfitters had packed up for the day, leaving ladders and shelving leaning against the walls. ‘We should be open for business on time. It’s just a couple of weeks, now. Owen’s been here most of today, cracking the whip. The workmen speed up every time he appears and he’s terrifyingly fierce with them. You’d never think that, would you?’

  Angela, a widow for many years, and Libby’s best friend in Exham, had met Owen Harris a couple of months ago. A good few years older than Angela and Libby, and undeniably stout, he’d seemed at first to be an unlikely match for the elegant Angela, but his needle-sharp business head concealed a warm and generous nature. He owned a string of restaurants and coffee houses across the country, had paid a generous price for Browns’ Bakery, delighting the retirement-ready Frank, and was behind the expansion of the bakery into the new café. Recognising Angela’s organisational abilities, he’d put her in charge as the manager.

  Libby almost burst with excitement as she told Angela her news. ‘Ali’s coming home, after all…’

  Angela’s reception was all she could have wished. She threw her arms around Libby in a warm hug. ‘At last. She’s been away for such a long time.’

  ‘But she can’t get here until after the fifteenth.’

  ‘She’ll be too late for your wedding day? What a shame. Why not get here in time, if she’s coming anyway?’

  ‘Something about flights being full.’ Libby tried not to notice her friend’s raised eyebrows.

  ‘Will you delay the wedding, so she can be there? I know you’d love to have her with you. What does Max think?’

  ‘He’s fine with it. He knew how disappointed I was at first, when Ali said she didn’t think she’d get home at all. I don’t think she realised how much I wanted her there.’

  Angela smiled. ‘I think your son might have given her a hint or two.’

  ‘Do you?’ Libby stopped and thought. That sounded like Robert. He’d always been the quieter of her two children, even a bit boring, but he would never let his family down. ‘It’s going to be a small affair, and I rang the registrar this morning. She said it’s fine to move it back a week. It’s just as well we weren’t planning a full-scale affair, like Robert and Sarah’s in Wells Cathedral.’

  Angela raised an eyebrow. ‘And, Max agreed without an argument? That’s very understanding. You’ll have to make it up to him.’

  ‘He said that. Anyway, he’s gone off again, to some work meeting. I’ve no idea what it’s about – but, you know Max.’

  Angela sighed. ‘He’s not exactly forthcoming about his affairs, is he?’

  Secretly, Libby agreed, but she wasn’t ready to confess, even to herself, that she was tiring of Max’s absences. With hindsight, she almost wished he’d complained more about the change of wedding date. He was always calm, and she loved that about him, but she sometimes felt he hadn’t let her fully into his world. He was self-contained. He loved a good argument, but Libby had never seen him lose his temper. That was good, wasn’t it?

  ‘Hmm.’ Angela walked across to the door at the end of the room. ‘Come and see the kitchen. Tell me if it’s going to meet your needs.’

  Libby had the feeling her friend was tactfully changing the subject, and had a moment of doubt. Had she made a mistake, putting Ali before Max?

  The two friends spent an hour together, admiring the gleaming stainless steel, the extensive run of cupboards, the huge cooker and, especially, the hot water dispenser.

  Libby said, ‘I never dared have one of those in my kitchen at home. It’s a hangover from having brought up two children, I think. If there’s any dangerous implement around, they’ll hurt themselves. Robert had his first penknife for his ninth birthday and immediately chopped a lump off the tip of his little finger.’

  Angela ran her hands along one of the worktops. ‘Look at this – it’s your area for tempering chocolate. Is it what you wanted?’

  ‘Perfect. And there’s room for Mandy to work alongside me. She’s going to take over most of the day-to-day baking, now she’s passed her exams, and I’ll oversee the chocolates. I’m hoping to split my time fifty-fifty between cooking and investigating, depending on the cases that come our way.’

  ‘You mean, on how many more murders Somerset can provide.’

  ‘We’ve had more than our fair share, it’s true, but I’m not going to neglect the café. I still love baking and chocolates. My life’s a weird mixture of jobs, I know, but I love it.’ Libby walked along the stretch of cupboards, opening and closing doors. ‘Frank’s looking forward to his retirement.’

  ‘I think his wife is more excited than he is. She’ll have him at home all day.’ Angela’s grin held a hint of wickedness. ‘Under her feet. I think she has a shock coming. He’s been at the bakery from dawn to dusk all his working life, and she’s used to having the house to herself. At least he won’t overwhelm her with chatter. Frank only talks when he has something to say.’

  ‘Unlike the rest of Exham on Sea and its thriving grapevine.’

  Angela looked at her watch and gasped. ‘Talking
of which, if we don’t go now, we’ll be late for this evening’s History Society meeting, and it’s my first as chair.’

  Libby held up a warning hand. ‘Don’t tell people about Ali or the wedding. We’re trying to keep it quiet. Just family, plus you and Mandy, of course.’

  ‘Good luck with that in Exham,’ Angela chuckled. ‘But they won’t hear it from me.’

  Libby followed her friend’s car the short distance from the site of the soon-to-open café to Angela’s tastefully furnished, double-fronted Georgian house on the edge of Exham on Sea, overlooking the golf course.

  Slightly breathless, they switched on a kettle and transferred Libby’s cake from the boot of her car to a silver Wedgwood cake stand.

  Founder members Margery and William Halfstead were the first to arrive.

  William greeted Angela with a resounding kiss. ‘So kind of you to let us meet here.’

  Margery, his wife of forty years, beamed lovingly. ‘Now, William, you leave poor Angela alone.’

  Angela ushered the next arrival, Annabel Pearson, into the room. Libby watched with interest. Were they in for fireworks this evening? There was history between the Halfsteads and Annabel.

  Sure enough, as the newcomer sank into the comfortable, cushioned window seat built into the solid walls of the house, Margery stiffened. She’d suspected her husband of an affair with Annabel, soon after the younger woman’s recent arrival in Exham. Margery had seemed blissfully unaware of the fact that William was twice Annabel’s age. In any case, he had never been the most handsome or dynamic man in Somerset. Love, Libby had concluded, could indeed be blind.

  At least Margery had discovered her mistake in time, and Annabel never knew she’d been the grain of sand in the oyster of the Halfsteads’ newly revitalised marriage.

  As the room filled with people, Libby sliced cake, passing it round to coos of delight.

  ‘Please, please, give me the recipe,’ Annabel begged.

  The doctor’s wife, Joanna Sheffield, interrupted. ‘You won’t believe what my daughter did today,’ she announced,