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Gemma leant forward in her seat. “Please, could you come into the house. I need to show you something.”
If Gibson had picked up on her anxieties, she remained expressionless as she followed Gemma into the house. Clara appeared at the top of the stairs, peering over the stair gate.
“Clara, could you keep Josh upstairs for a while. I need to discuss something with Miss Gibson,” Gemma called up to the nanny.
She invited her protection officer to sit at the table in the breakfast room. An open area adjoining the kitchen and featuring a large bay window. Centre stage was a round table, little used by Jason and Gemma, as they preferred to keep to the kitchen table for their meals. The breakfast room had become Joshua's domain, with his toys piled in the corner, a bookshelf with his favourite
, well-chewed cardboard books, and the table littered with sheets of scribblings. Gemma collected them up out of the way and lay the envelope, minus the photograph, on the table in plain view.
“I found this, in my kit bag, after my class.” She handled a tiny corner of it and slid it across the table towards the other woman.
Gibson didn’t touch the envelope. “I assume that its contents are threatening?”
“To be blunt, it’s a blackmail letter. There was a photo in it. Of me. That is now in my handbag. I don’t think my husband would wish anyone to see it. At least, I would need his permission.”
“A recent photo?” Gibson still hadn’t touched the hateful missive.
“No, that’s the bizarre thing. It’s old. So old that I can’t remember when or where it was taken. I can place the year because of my haircut. Eight years ago, thereabouts.”
“Is the photo a digital print or an original from a print shop?” More questions from the wary protection officer.
“I don’t know, to be honest. I didn’t pay that much attention. You can read the note. The contents are not divulging, insulting yes, but not revealing.”
“Could you open the envelope and put it on the table? You’ve already touched the contents.”
Gemma gingerly removed the note and lay it flat on the table. Gibson leant over and read the hateful words. Her face sank into a frown. “Your maiden name?”
“Yes.”
“Notice boards?”
“I assume the ones at the dance school.”
“Facebook?”
“Well that’s weird, too. Jason won’t let me have a Facebook page. So, if the blackmailer has found a Gemma Marshall, it’s not me. Plus, the amount, for me, is paltry. Jason wouldn’t quibble that amount going out of the account. Gemma Marshall, eight years ago, would have struggled. That would have caused her big problems.”
Gibson sat back and cocked her head to one side. “What would she have done?”
She thought back and reclaimed an older version of herself, a person she’d shut away in her mind. “Not much. Probably, not go back to that class, abandon the Facebook account with a picture of two fingers for the profile picture. Back then, being threatened with a compromising photo, I might have fobbed it off as a drunken moment of foolishness. My friends were, how shall I say, like me. A bit unshockable. My family, as always, I kept at an arm’s length. I would have called the blackmailer’s bluff and waited to see what happened next. That was the old Gemma Marshall, unperturbed and unknown. A nobody. Mrs Lucas, on the other hand, is a different matter. Publicity shy and self-conscious, worried about the perils of public life and enviable wealth.”
Her answer summarised how much she’d changed. Dramatic changes in her lifestyle that had transformed her personality and attitudes. Much had happened in eight years, and one man was responsible.
As if to read her mind, Gibson asked the critical question. “Have you contacted your husband?”
Gemma glanced at her wristwatch. “No. However, he would be awake by now. I’m rather stunned by the letter. If it wasn’t for the photo, I don’t think I would take this seriously, but the photo is explicit. I should contact Jason.”
“I will ring Chris Martinson. Ask him how he wants to proceed. May I take this?” Gibson pointed at the note.
“Yes.”
“Could you find something to put it in?”
Gemma went in search of a larger envelope and found one in the sitting-room bureau. By the time she returned to the breakfast room, Gibson had raised Martinson in Toronto.
“That is what it says, Chris. The photo is inflammatory.” Gibson listened, holding up a hand to Gemma and pointing to the note. Gemma transferred the note and envelope into the larger one.
“The dance class.... The new one.” Gibson turned to Gemma. “How many times have you been now, Mrs Lucas?”
