It took Morton a moment to digest what hehad just read and to place it in the jigsaw of the Mercer Case. EdithMercer, under her married name of Leyden, had simply visited a neighbour,Martha Stone. Morton’s initial excitement that perhaps Mary was livingunder a pseudonym had not borne out. Just to shore up his findings,however, Morton wanted to conclude Martha’s story. And, just aspredicted, Martha showed up alongside the Mercer girls on the 1901 census, thenpromptly vanished by 1911. Martha Stone existed in her own right. She could not be Mary Mercer.
Morton was momentarily distracted by thecoffee shop door opening again, as the man with the broken umbrella leftcarrying a take-out drink. A sudden gust of wind pushed through the opendoor, scattering some of Morton’s papers to the floor.
As Morton bent down to pick up the fallenpapers, the waitress who had served him earlier placed something on histable. ‘Here you go,’ she said with a smile. ‘A gift.’
‘Thanks,’ Morton replied. He lookeddown and saw a brown A4 envelope with his name on it—exactly the samehandwriting as the previous threatening packages that had been posted throughhis door. The waitress was heading back behind the counter. ‘Excuseme,’ Morton called after her. ‘Where did you get this?’ He held upthe envelope.
‘Oh, a customer just gave it to me to giveto you,’ she said with a smile. She evidently thought she had done him afavour.
‘Who was it?’ Morton asked, alreadyknowing the answer.
‘The guy who just left—with the umbrella.’
‘Watch my stuff,’ Morton called, dashingout the door into the thick sheets of vertical rain. He tried to recallwhich way the man had gone. He was sure he went right, so Morton ran,already soaked to the skin, along the high street, his eyes flicking feverishlyleft and right into shop windows and passing streets, but there was no sign ofhim. He stopped and spun around, considering if he could have missed him,when he heard the sound of a car engine starting up. A little way furtherdown the street, a red Mazda was beginning to pull out from a parkingspot. Without a moment’s thought, Morton ran as fast as he could towardsthe car. He was in luck—another car had just parked illegally in front ofthe Mazda, meaning that the driver could not make a quick escape.
Morton, utterly drenched, raced to thepassenger side window as the car finally became free from its space. Hebanged on the side of the door and the driver flicked his head towardsMorton.
‘What do you want?’ Morton yelled.
He recognised the driver.
Chapter Fourteen
Afterwhat had happened yesterday, Morton was happy to spend today close byJuliette’s side. When she had got home last night Morton had, aspromised, relayed everything of his day to her. They sat in the kitchenwith the lights dimmed and a candle burning on the windowsill, as the rain andwind continued to batter the house. They were eating a wild mushroom andspinach lasagne that Morton had cooked when he had returned from his drenchingon the high street. He hadn’t waited to be asked about his day, butblundered straight in by telling her that something had occurred that sheneeded to know about.
‘You can skip all these bits,’ Juliettehad said playfully, when Morton began to detail the minutiae of each individualsearch and his reasons for doing it.
‘Skip the boring bits you mean,’ he said,feigning offence.
‘No, I just know that you’ve got somethingin there that I’m probably not going to like.’
Damn, she was good. Skipping overthe finer points of his research, Morton had told her about the waitressdelivering the envelope and him rushing out into the rain to find theperpetrator. ‘And I stared him right in the eyes,’ Morton had said.
‘And?’
‘Douglas Catt. The one and only.’
Juliette had looked puzzled for amoment. ‘But I thought you said you phoned him and he was at home.’
‘He must have had the phone on a redirectto his mobile.’
‘What’s he got against you?’
Morton had shrugged. ‘You’re thepolice officer, you tell me.’ Morton had no idea why he was so hell benton stopping Morton from researching the Mercer Case. Morton had beenwracking his brains for any semblance of a reason Douglas would have, but theonly thing that had come to mind was that he knew more about Mary’sdisappearance than he was letting on.
Juliette had run her fingers through herhair, her eyes searching his face. ‘What was inside the envelope?’
Morton had handed it to her, allowing herto sift through it at her own speed and to make her deductions about thecontents. And she had taken her time, setting about the contents like adiligent police officer. First, she looked at the handwritten note withthe simple words ‘Final warning’. Then she examined anotherphotograph of her getting into the car. ‘Jesus, I really need tostart wearing make-up.’
‘You really don’t,’ Morton had replied.
‘The thing is, apart from taking awfulphotos, he hasn’t actually committed a crime by taking photos.’
‘What about harassment?’
‘The trouble with harassment is you needto show a course of conduct—in other words, it needs to be persistent and youhave to have formally told them to stop.’
‘Legalities aside, are you really okaywith someone photographing you like this?’ Morton had asked, more worried abouther than the finer points of the law Douglas Catt might or might not bebreaking. ‘Can’t you put a trace on his car or something?’
‘Not without good cause and not as atrainee, no, but I will take it to my boss. No arguments this time,Morton.’
He wasn’t about to argue, he agreed withher: Douglas Catt needed stopping right away. ‘Do it. Until then,you’re spending your day off tomorrow, with me.’
Juliette had laughed and pecked Morton onthe lips. ‘Oh, thank you. We’ll have a brilliant time.’
Morton’s face had suddenly fallen. ‘Why? What were you planning on doing tomorrow then?’
‘Not were planning, amplanning. Rye Wedding Fayre.’
‘Bloody hell.’ He had slumped withsome exaggeration into his chair, but actually dreaded the very idea.
‘You’ll have to come now—you said youwould. Besides, I need a bodyguard to save me from being photographed,’Juliette had mocked. She held up the most recent photograph ofherself. ‘Especially if I look like that.’
Thewedding fayre was held in an old warehouse on
