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“Today was my third time. I saw nobody I knew and no one seemed to know me.”
Gibson relayed the information.
“I’ll speak to Dave.” Gibson waited. “The boss is in a meeting until when? So that’s five o’clock our time.... Okay.... I will let her know.... Bye.” Gibson hung up.
“Martinson suggested ringing your husband at five. In the meantime, I will run this by Dave Johnson. Don’t worry, this is what we’re here to do. Not all of protection work is about following you around. Try to carry on as normal. If you get phone calls that hang up, spam-like e-mails, or anything unusual in the post, let me know.”
Gemma tried hard not to panic. Far from reassure her, Gibson’s admission that more went on behind the scenes than she knew about did nothing to allay her fears. The time crawled by after Gibson left. She played with Joshua, watched him as he cruised about the furniture pulling himself around various obstacles. He wobbled and toppled over when he let go, grizzling with frustration. During the day, he was very miserable with everything and threw things around his bedroom. Clara cooed at him, fussing at his clumsiness. She had become much as a mother to him as Gemma, who wasn’t offended by the situation—she had bonded with her son. However, Joshua didn’t always want her.
Five o’clock came round, and Jason preempted her own intention to ring him. The buzzing phone lit up with his number. Gemma sought the privacy of their bedroom.
“Jason,” she said with a mixed sense of relief and anxiety. Both sensations sent a flurry of adrenaline about her body.
“Martinson says you were going to ring me. He doesn’t look happy.” Jason spoke with haste, and she was convinced she could hear his fingers thrumming on something in the background.
“He’s not told you?”
“Told me what?” The drumming grew louder.
“I had a letter, a note, left in my kit bag at my dance class.” Gemma took a deep breath. “It’s a blackmail letter.”
The tapping stopped. “Blackmail? Your kit bag. You didn’t see anyone put the note in?”
“No. My handbag I take in the dance room; the kit bag has my change of clothes, and it stays in the changing room. The note and photo were in an envelope at the top of my bag. It must have been slipped in.”
“Photo?”
“Yes.” She told him the contents of the note. Making a special point of her previous name, the amount, and the Facebook page. “The photograph—it’s old and taken at a fetish party. I’m basically naked, lying across someone’s lap, eyes shut, and I’m being spanked with a paddle.” Saying it made her cringe.
“Whose lap?”
Why she couldn’t remember embarrassed her. Had she been to that many parties? “I’ve no idea. His face is not in the photo. I don’t recognise the room or anything. It’s drawing a complete blank. It’s me, though, about eight years ago and post my first Master.”
“You don’t remember seeing anyone at the class you might know?”
“No. No one. But I don’t pay much attention to everyone there. It’s a busy dance school.”
“Well, it would have to be a woman.”
“Why?”
“The changing room.”
Her heart went thump. He wasn’t going to like her next comment. Gemma hadn’t told him the setup at the dance school. “It’s a unisex changing area.” There was a pause on the line. A Jason Lucas fuming pause. Her cringe doubled in size until she couldn’t contort her features any further. Jason couldn’t see her, but she pictured herself—nose wrinkled up, eyes screwed into slits, and her shoulders bunched up by her ears as if to cover her ears.
The silence ended with a raised voice. “You get fucking changed in front of men!”
Damn it. Why did he have to make an issue of the changing room? “No! There are cubicles with curtains, but the lockers, clothes hooks, and benches are all open plan. I don’t get naked or anything, just change into my dance kit and back again. No showers or anything. I’m not exactly revealing anything. I mean why would I parade around butt naked in a communal area?” She bit her lip. She’d said more than she intended.
“We’ll deal with your omission later.” Quieter, yet still an ominous, icy tone. “So, anybody could be wandering in and out of that room. You don’t remember anyone?”
She wracked her memories once again. Nothing. “Sorry. I’m guessing the person who took the photo doesn’t have to be the one in possession of it.”
“I’m well aware of that. There weren’t bans on photography at your gallivanting parties, then?” His sarcasm didn’t help her either. Why did he have to be abroad on such a difficult day?
She sighed and ignored the mocking tone of his voice. “Not that I can recall. It wouldn’t have bothered me back then, as long as I trusted the person taking the photo.”
“We know about your judgement when it comes to trust.”
