Max sat in his car, wondering what to do. He checked his phone, even though he knew Libby’s phone was dead, so there could be no message from her. He scrolled down his emails and froze.
A new message.
From ‘a well-wisher’.
Max read it through and a stone settled in his stomach.
Want her safe? Come and get her. You like mysteries – all you have to do is follow the clues. Like on your computer – nice photos of the ex-wife, by the way.
Clues? Where had they taken her?
Max swallowed hard. He’d been right, that day when Fuzzy had escaped. The Rhymer had been in his house, and he’d hacked into his password-protected PC. Whoever was doing this knew a thing or two about computers.
He closed his eyes. The Rhymer could have killed him then, or the animals, but he hadn’t? Why? He could only suppose it was because the Rhymer had other plans, and those plans involved Libby.
But what of Stella? The email mentioned her as well. What was the Rhymer up to?
He scrolled down the screen on his phone. Another email pinged in. The subject was: Another clue.
Max read the new rhyme.
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall
All the king’s horses and all the king’s men
Couldn’t put Humpty together again.
A fall? Was Libby going to fall somewhere? But, where, and why? Somewhere high, like a tower or a railway bridge? Max shivered, seeing her in his imagination lying on train tracks at Highbridge station as a Great Western Railway train thundered towards her.
He took a deep breath. Panic would help nobody.
There was no sense in replying to the message. He’d just have to wait.
As if reading his mind, his email pinged again.
Think you got away with it, don’t you?
What did that mean?
He sat back, tapping his fingers on the wheel. He was being accused of something, but he had no idea what it could be.
He looked again at the email, and swore.
It was addressed to him, but everyone in Exham who’d received a nursery rhyme had been copied in. They’d all see the accusation against Max.
But, accused of what? Sending the rhymes?
That was crazy, but it made him feel sick.
He waited, but no more emails arrived. What about social media?
With a sinking sensation, he turned to Facebook. Sure enough, he found a sequence of posts attacking him.
Anyone know why Max Ramshore’s trolling us?
If you’ve had an insulting rhyme, blame Max Ramshore.
Here’s a guy who thinks it’s funny to bad-mouth local people…
He tried other sites – Twitter, Instagram. Everywhere, the story was the same. Dozens of posts, all accusing Max of stalking and trolling the neighbours.
The anonymous email-sender had branched out in a big way, and he – or she – was out to ruin Max’s reputation.
He could block the accounts, but he knew that as fast as he did that, more would pop up. Whoever was doing this knew how to set up false accounts too fast to be stopped. Fake news, that’s what it was called and it could be devastating. People’s lives had been ruined by a few malicious social media posts.
Anger boiled up in Max, but he forced himself to keep calm. The slurs were nasty and spiteful, but he was far more worried about Libby.
More Tweets appeared:
How did Carys Evans die? Shouldn’t the police ask Max?
Ivor Wrighton died because of one man – a certain Max Ramshore.
This was deeply personal. The writer of rhymes, the Nursery Rhymer, had taken off the gloves at last and stopped playing games. He meant business, now, and it seemed Max was the focus of his venom.
Did the Rhymer have Libby? What would he do with her?
He breathed deliberately, fighting fear. Two people were already dead. What if the Rhymer’s next act would be to hurt Libby and lay the blame on Max?
He needed to think – think logically.
Whoever was sending the rhymes knew the victims. Most lived in Exham – but not all. Stella, his ex-wife, had received one, along with other strange emails.
Stella. Why target her?
Max’s head was spinning. He was wasting time. Libby was in danger, but he had no idea where she could be.
He grasped at straws. The police would track her down. They’d identify the car that had driven away from Exham at the time she disappeared, and trace its progress. It could be done, he knew, but it would take time.
And time was a luxury he didn’t have.
He needed to check on Stella. He rang Stella’s number, but the call went to voicemail.
He tried Joe.
‘Hey, Dad. What’s this about Libby? Mandy rang to say she’s missing.’
Max explained, as calmly as he could, and cut through Joe’s exclamations. ‘Joe, is your mum with you?’
‘No, she left yesterday. Said she felt better and wanted to get home. She seemed to recover from her friend’s death pretty quickly, I have to say. Maybe it wasn’t the big romance, after all. Oh, she had a call to say she’d left a scarf or something in the Bristol hotel, and she planned to call in on the way and pick it up. You know what she’s like about clothes. But can I help with finding Libby? Any idea where she might be?’
Max’s hand shook as he listened. It may be nonsense, but… ‘Wait a bit, I need to make another call.’
Seconds later, he was talking to the receptionist at the Avon Gorge Hotel.
‘No, sorry. We’ve no record of any lost property for that room; there would be a note on the computer. Let me just check with my colleague.’ Max heard muffled voices and the receptionist returned. ‘Definitely no lost property. I’m so sorry.’
Max thought for a second. Had Stella been into the hotel since she left? Yesterday, perhaps? He asked the receptionist.
‘There’s nothing in the records. I hope she’s well?’ The girl was beginning to sound worried.
‘She’s fine, I’m sure.’ He had an idea. ‘Do you have CCTV on your car park?’
‘We do. It’s run by our security people. Shall I put you through?’
‘Please.’
A few minutes later, a deep voice and broad Bristol accent came on the line. ‘Can I help you, sir?’
Max explained. ‘My ex-wife had a bereavement a few days ago and she’s not answering her phone. I’m a little worried. She was very upset. I’m trying to track her down and I think she may have been in your car park yesterday afternoon.’ Max calculated the time Stella had left Joe and her journey time. ‘Sometime after two o’clock. Could you check the CCTV footage?’
He gave the car make and registration.
‘I’ll have a look and let you know.’
Max waited, telling himself it would take ages for the guard to run through the tapes, but his phone rang within minutes.
‘I had a look in the car park, and the car’s there, sir, but our receptionist tells me the owner is no longer booked into the hotel.’
‘I’m on my way. I’ll be with you as soon as I can. And keep looking through the CCTV.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Ignoring speed limits, Max roared along the motorway, his brain working at a furious rate.
Libby and Stella both missing. Carys and Ivor both dead. Max himself under attack, being blamed for the nursery rhyme emails.
A theory began to form. He looked at it from all sides. It seemed crazy – but that didn’t make it untrue. All the facts fitted and all the links fell into place, one by one, like a jigsaw.
His tyres squealed as he turned into the hotel car park. Sure enough, there was Stella’s car.
The security guard greeted him, excited, his words falling over each other. ‘Come and look, sir. It’s on camera.’
The black and white footage was clear enough. Riveted, Max watched as Stella’s car pulled into the car park. As soon as she’d parked, a battered
4x4 drew up close to the driver’s door. Stella pushed her door open, frowning, annoyed. A man appeared from the driver’s side of the 4x4, his head obscured by a cloth cap.
The irritation on Stella’s face switched to fear as the man grabbed her arm. She tried to pull away. He said something and she stopped struggling. Her head twisted from side to side as though searching for help, but the man dragged her round the car and shoved her into the back seat.
The angle was difficult, but Max was sure he could see another figure, face hidden, beside her in the car.
Max whistled. He looked at the footage again, and then once more. There was something familiar about the man who’d taken Stella’s arm. The way he moved? His height?
Max didn’t recognise the 4x4, and the number plate was obscured by muddy splashes.
He sat back, putting two and two together, making far more than four, and wondering what on earth to do next.
33
Sandwich
Libby’s journey seemed to last for hours, but she knew it was probably far less than that. Her head ached from crashing repeatedly against the side of the boot, and the sack made breathing difficult. She tried to remove it, but the kidnapper had tied it round her neck and she had little room to manoeuvre. Giving up the attempt, she took long, slow breaths, and tried to stay calm.
She felt the car leave the motorway and travel along smaller roads until, at last, it drew to a halt.
She wished they were still driving. At least, in the boot of the car she was safe from her captors.
Shoes crunched on gravel and the boot flew open.
‘Out you get,’ growled one of her captors. Libby struggled out of the boot.
The man grabbed her arm and dragged her up a short path. She heard keys in a lock. Still gripping her arm, he pushed her, blind, through a door, along a stretch of uncarpeted floor, and turned her to the left.
‘Upstairs,’ he grunted. Libby was sure she’d heard that voice before.
She stumbled on the stairs and only the grip on her arm stopped her falling.
Once at the top, her captor fumbled with her hood, pulled it off and shoved her forward, slamming the door behind her. From outside, he called, ‘Keep quiet and you’ll be all right.’
Her eyes felt gritty and itchy, from the sacking. She sneezed, and looked round. She was in a small room, an ordinary bedroom, in what appeared to be a suburban house. A bed with a bare mattress stood against the wall on one side of the room. The room was painted a cheerful yellow, as though it had at one time been a child’s bedroom, but the paint was scratched and peeling. A couple of torn alphabet stickers remained, still clinging forlornly to the wall under a window. A single, wooden chair stood by a table bearing a jug of water, a tin cup, and a plate covered by a cloth. She pulled off the cloth. Sandwiches.
She fought a hysterical desire to laugh at the anticlimax. She’d been kidnapped, driven in a state of terror for miles, and then left in a room with a ham sandwich. No handcuffs? No ties on her ankles?
These men were amateurs.
But why had she been brought here? What did they want from her?
She ran back to the door and hammered on it, shouting, ‘Let me out this minute.’
The almost-familiar voice on the other side snapped, ‘Keep your voice down. I don’t want to have to shut you up.’
He sounded as though he meant it.
Libby stopped shouting.
She stood back, and looked round again. At the foot of the bed was a second door. She strode across and grabbed the handle. The door swung open and she found herself in a small en suite bathroom with another door that, she supposed, led out of the bathroom into the upstairs passageway. Hopefully, she rattled the handle, but the door was locked.
At least she wouldn’t have to suffer the indignity of wetting herself.
Footsteps tramped down the stairs, but so far as she could tell, no door opened. Her captors were still in the house.
How could she escape? The bedroom’s large sash window looked big enough for her to climb through. She peered out, hopeful, but a straight drop fell to a paved path under the window. She’d break her legs if she jumped.
She thought of old films she’d seen. Captives often made their escape by tying sheets together. Unfortunately, there were no sheets on the bed and no curtains at the window. Maybe these amateur kidnappers were more efficient than she’d supposed. She disliked that idea.
The small bathroom boasted a tiny, frosted window that even Shipley would find impossible to navigate. She’d have to find her way out via the bedroom door.
Libby rattled the handle, gently, to avoid making a noise, but the door was locked from the other side. She bent down and peered through the keyhole. To her delight, the key was still in the lock. She’d surely have no trouble dislodging that so that it fell on the floor. It would fall on the wrong side of the door, but along with any keen reader of Nancy Drew Mysteries, The Famous Five, or Agatha Christie, she knew how to deal with that.
She needed a sheet of paper. Her handbag, always full of scrunched-up bills and leaflets, as well as her trusty notebook, remained under the counter of the café in Exham on Sea.
She wasted a moment wondering whether anyone had noticed her absence. Was Max even now on her track? But he’d have no idea where to come.
She wrenched her thoughts away from Max. It didn’t help to dwell on him. He’d be worried sick.
‘Think about solving the problem,’ she muttered.
She beamed. The ham sandwich was in a bag.
‘Didn’t think of that, did you?’ she whispered, tipping the food out on to the plate.
Her spirits rose. She smoothed the paper and slid it under the door, finding that wasn’t as easy as she’d expected. It kept sticking on the carpet. Finally, she managed to manoeuvre it into place, and turned her attention to the lock.
She had no implement thin enough to slide through the keyhole to push the key from the lock. If only she had Max’s lock-picking kit. He’d bought it once, as a joke, and it had come in useful. If she ever got out of here, she’d buy one of her own.
Just then, Libby heard voices. A door opened below and a foot trod on the stairs. They were coming.
She whisked the paper bag back from under the door and just had time to drop it on the table before the door opened.
One of her captors, wearing a woollen face mask with holes for his eyes, stood in the doorway, arms folded.
‘What do you want?’ she asked, hoping to sound confident, but the wobble in her voice betrayed her.
The man laughed. ‘Never you mind.’
To hide her legs, which were shaking, Libby sat down on the chair.
‘Is it money?’ That was better. She’d kept the tremble from her voice.
He laughed. ‘Just settle down and wait. Now, don’t you want your sandwich? Not special enough for the famous Mrs Forest?’ There was a hard edge of malice in his voice.
‘Not hungry,’ she said.
‘Suit yourself.’ He approached the table. ‘You’ll be sorry later.’
Libby calculated. Could she get between him and the door and run? But his mate was still downstairs. She couldn’t deal with two of them at once.
She stayed where she was.
He took the sandwich and the paper bag and left.
Libby was shaking. She’d managed to hide her terror, but it had been an act.
‘Think sensibly,’ she scolded herself. If they’d left food, they weren’t about to kill her. Not yet, anyway.
She couldn’t just sit about and wait, but he’d taken the paper bag and spoiled her plan. She’d have to start again.
In the bathroom, there was a roll of toilet paper, but it was flimsy stuff. She tore off several sheets and tried to slide them under the bedroom door, but they wouldn’t hold their shape against the friction from the carpet.
What about the bathroom door? That, too, had a key on the other side of the lock, but there was no carpet in the bathroom to stop the
paper sliding.
It glided easily over the tiled floor and disappeared under the door.
Now she needed that implement, long and thin enough to fit into the keyhole. Wire. She needed a strand of wire.
She searched every inch of the bathroom before trying the plastic shower curtain. It was supported by wire hoops. She could have cheered.
It was easy enough to straighten out one of the hoops and insert it into the keyhole, but the minutes ticked away as she tried to wiggle the key out of the lock. It was far more difficult than it seemed in films.
Her fingers ached, but there was no time to rest.
At last, the wire slid into position. She twisted it, and felt the key turn in the lock. A final flick and push dislodged the key and it fell onto the paper.
Holding her breath, praying the gap under the door was wide enough for the key to fit underneath, she slid the paper towards her. Gently, carefully, she edged it closer, until the key appeared.
Triumphantly, she scrabbled it into her hand, unlocked the door, pushed it open a fraction, held her breath, and listened.
34
The Choice
Sitting in his car, Max refreshed his emails, over and over again. ‘Come on,’ he muttered.
The waiting, for another clue from the kidnappers, was unbearable. He needed to act. Do something.
But, what could he do?
Think, he told himself. Work it through.
Libby and Stella had both been taken. Where were they being kept? Were they together? Were they hurt?
He told himself they’d be fine. Their captor must have a plan. They’d be no use to him dead.
He tried hard not to listen to the voice in the back of his head that told him this was all his fault. But he didn’t know who wanted to ruin his reputation, or why they’d taken the two most important women in his life.
His email pinged.
Time to choose, Max. Which are you going to save – the old wife, or the new?
Murder at the Gorge (The Exham-on-Sea Murder Mysteries) Page 18