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I will always underachieve compared to you. I’m not putting myself down. It’s the truth. You’re demanding. A perfectionist. Unwavering in your opinions. I don’t mind. Because you’re also patient, caring, and beyond excellent in your sexual prowess. You also make a fantastic daddy.
***
Gemma wrote the essay in chunks between feeding Joshua, changing his nappy, cooking lunch, speaking to her mum on the phone, harassing the property agent, and wiping away Joshua’s tears when he fell over trying to walk. As a result, it the lacked finesse or fluidity she sought. More a collection of bite-size text strung together. She stapled the pieces of paper together, put them in an envelope, and stuffed it under Jason’s pillow.
Jason returned home shortly after six o’clock. They didn’t discuss the night’s rendezvous, rather they focused on Joshua and his bedtime routine. Jason changed into black cargo pants, black shirt, and jacket. He transformed into a younger and more militant version of himself. Gemma selected jeans and a pullover. She layered antiperspirant under her armpits, convinced she was going to sweat buckets.
Gibson collected them in a large SUV. Rothesay’s house was in East London, south of the river, and the location explained their use of cabs and buses. The Underground hadn’t been extended in that direction. A semi-detached house typical of many streets in London, built in the 1930s and robust, indistinct, and unassuming.
Gemma had a chance to question Jason about Rothesay during the drive to his house. “What did Martinson find out about Delia Rothesay?”
Jason relayed the information about the blackmailer, enabling Gemma to paint her own portrait of the raven-haired woman. Divorced four years ago—an acrimonious divorce because, not only had she been unfaithful, but she’d dragged her husband to court over custody of their daughter, an only child. Rothesay lost custody, her former husband implying there were major issues over her ability to take care of her daughter. However, privacy laws protected the girl. The next-door neighbour, who seemed happy to spill the beans, recounted Rothesay’s bitterness and hatred of her husband and his legal team.
“Her daughter is her Achilles’ Heel,” said Jason. “To fight so hard for any custody, and now she might lose everything due to her blackmailing habits. Well, we shall find out.” Gemma sensed the first real inkling of Jason’s ruthless streak.
Rothesay worked as an estate agent, giving her the opportunity to dip in and out during to the day to take her daughter to the dance class. She came across as friendly and happy to chat over the garden fence.
Emily, explained Jason, was a mystery. Emily had moved in with Rothesay two years ago, and the neighbour referred to her as the lodger. According to the busybody, Emily kept her head down if she appeared in the garden to hang out the washing or water the plant pots.
The neighbour suspected a scam: Rothesay claimed tax benefits of living alone when she clearly had a lodger. Other than the suspicion of fraud, there appeared nothing out of the ordinary to report. The daughter visited every other weekend. The neighbour remarked in passing he had rarely seen the three of them together.
Jason’s research had drawn a blank, but all that meant was Rothesay kept her activities away from BDSM clubs or parties.
“She could be using an alias?” queried Gemma.
“We have a photograph, which was taken secretly in the café, and nobody has recognised her. She’s a predator who operates in the shadows.”
Gemma couldn’t gauge Rothesay’s personality. She determined Rothesay liked to control women, as she had some hold over Emily. She also liked to threaten and intimate strangers whom she hadn’t spoken to directly or even seen in the flesh. Her blackmail style implied the grab-and-dash technique didn’t interest her. What gave Rothesay kicks was an extended, protracted game of blackmailing, eventually massaging her victim into an online playmate to torment and harass. Gemma wondered how many had offered to go to her house, or was she the first to progress the game to a new level of involvement?
“What do you want me to do?” Mindful of her need to be cooperative.
“Talk to Emily, as if she is still your friend.” Jason reached over and took her hand. His cool, dry fingers contrasted with Gemma’s, which sweated and trembled. “Things may appear brutal at first. I want them separated, and Emily out of the house then the team can search for the photos or any evidence of blackmail. We need Rothesay to shut up. She may try to intimidate Emily or scream the place down for the neighbours to hear.”
Out of his pocket, Jason took out a gag and handcuffs. Gemma shivered at the sight of them. Not for her, their presence indicated force, possible violence. She shrank back in her seat.
Jason tucked them out of sight again. “If it serves that Emily should see Delia Rothesay subjugated, it may break her hold over Emily. I don’t know what we are about to find in the house, and it is possible that Emily has been corrupted by Rothesay. The relationship is about to be exposed. You have to consider she may not be innocent.”
Not by choice, surely. Manipulation. “What if Emily wants to protect Delia? What’s it called, Stockholm Syndrome, brainwashed?” suggested Gemma.
“We’ll find out. Talk to her. Find out about her ethics. Does she know her photographs are being used, or is she ignorant of the nature of the blackmail? Remind her of her early years, when you knew her. What she did, what she was good at doing.”
“She mixed a mean cocktail!” She remembered Emily standing in a kitchen, shaking the mixer.
“When we’re there, indoors, make sure Emily sees your necklace. That way she knows you’re mine, that you trust me. Emily will understand its significance from her time at the fetish parties. This is important, Gemma. You mustn’t doubt nor question me in front of either of them. Emily has to believe she will be safer leaving with us.”
“What if she isn’t there?” Emily came and went freely.
Jason settled back in his seat and stared ahead. His face hardened into an indomitable expression. “The place has been watched all day. She’s there, Gemma.”
Arriving outside the house, Gibson parked a few cars down the road. Other vehicles lined up bumper-to-bumper along the kerbs. A typical residential street, with trees on the verges and a variety of small front gardens. A suburban, ordinary, and modest location for a blackmailer to live. Johnson and Martinson watched the house from a different car. Once Jason arrived, the two ex-policemen made their move. A knock on the door, the menacing appearance of a foot wedged in the gap, followed by a hard shove, and the pair stormed inside. Jason’s phone rang a few minutes later. Martinson gave them the all clear to join him.
With a pounding heart, Gemma gripped Jason’s hand, as he led her down the road with Gibson following. She almost turned back. What if it all went wrong, violent, and the police were called?
“Babe?” he halted next to her, a few feet from the garden path. “You don’t have to do this.” He caressed a cheek with the back of his hand. Under the streetlight, his face had been cast in shadow. Hers must have been lit up. He would see the anxious expression on her pale face. She rallied. “I’m fine. I’m doing this for Emily.” She stepped out ahead of him, making a point of getting on with the business at hand.
Johnson opened the door. A woman’s voice ranted in the background. With a deep breath, Gemma entered the living room and faced her blackmailer.
Dark hair and eyes gave her a foreign appearance, although her skin was pale. An attractive woman with an unnaturally smooth complexion, almost too cosmetic, possibly Botox involved. A seemingly youthful face, which had been layered with too much makeup. The wrinkles on her neck and the grey roots under her dyed hair hinted at her true age.
