Frozen by Lindsay Jayne Ashford Page A

and the guard turned to Delva apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, he’s gone. But you can phone him if it’s something urgent. His number’s on the wall in back security – okay?’
    â€˜Thanks.’ Delva spat out the word between clenched teeth, covering the distance between the front desk and the back entrance to the building in a matter of seconds. This so-called head of security was going to get a roasting.
    As she approached the security booth she could see that the door was slightly ajar. Two men were sitting inside, leering and sniggering at something in a newspaper. She slowed down, creeping softly as a cat along the corridor. The newspaper’s masthead had given them away. From the doorway Delva saw what they were looking at before they saw her.
    She marched into the booth and snatched the phone off the wall, the two men jumping from their seats in bewilderment.
    â€˜What’s the matter, Miss Lobelo?’ The older one put a hand on her arm but she shrugged it off.
    Ten minutes later the head of security arrived.
    â€˜What’s the problem, Miss Lobelo?’ David Simon looked from Delva to the guards with a look of concern.
    â€˜I’ll tell you what the problem is,’ Delva blazed. ‘I came down here to tell these prats I’ve had another sick letter and what were they doing?’ She snatched the newspaper from the table and thrust it in his face. ‘See? Just the sort of filth that sets off the bloody perverts in the first place!’
    â€˜Yes, I see.’ David Simon glowered at the guards. He screwed the newspaper into a tight ball and tossed it into the bin. ‘I can only apologise and promise you that it won’t happen again. Will it, lads?’ He gave them a stern look.
    The men looked at him sheepishly. ‘No, Mr Simon.’
    â€˜Now, what about this letter?’ He looked at Delva. ‘Where did you find it?’
    She explained what had happened.
    â€˜What did it say?’
    Delva hesitated, unwilling to go into a detailed description of the contents in front of the two guards.
    â€˜It was a very disturbing photograph,’ she said. ‘Of a woman.’
    Simon nodded. ‘Similar to the sort of thing he’s sent before?’
    â€˜Well, similar, yes – but much worse.’
    â€˜I think one of your colleagues is playing a practical joke, Miss Lobelo. A very sick joke, granted, but I don’t think you should let it get to you.’
    â€˜Is that all you can say?’ Delva turned on him. ‘How would you like it if your wife or girlfriend or whatever was getting stuff like this in the post’
    â€˜I understand how you must be feeling, believe me.’
    â€˜I doubt that!’
    â€˜Look, I’ll see if we can get a CCTV camera set up in the newsroom. That should put a stop to it.’
    â€˜And how long will that take?’
    â€˜If we get the okay we could get it installed by the New Year.’
    Bloody great, Delva thought. She was going to have to call Megan.

Chapter 7
    Megan poured herself a large whisky and took it up to the bathroom. All evening she had been feeling jumpy. It wasn’t just the bodies and the photographs she’d seen. It was those shells. Ridiculous, she thought. It had to have been Emily. It was just the kind of thing she would do. But the feeling of unease refused to go away.
    While she waited for the bath to fill up, she lit the candles in the wrought-iron candelabra on the mantelpiece. Then she started picking at the wallpaper by the window. The room needed redecorating and she was planning to get it done after Christmas. But there was a loose bit of border paper sticking out and it had been annoying her for ages. She had tried pasting it down but the condensation kept making it come loose again. As she pulled it a whole strip of wallpaper came away with it. The wall underneath was a mottled terracotta colour: a mixture of old, painted plaster and