I update him on my father’s report. We can’t do anything with the information about Porkie’s glove so we concentrate on the lighting.
“A chandelier must be pretty bright,” he says. “And use a lot of electricity.”
“This is a huge French one with lots of crystals, hanging in the middle of the room. I can only imagine turning it on for a party. There are wall lights and lamps for everyday lighting.”
“I like this clue,” he says, “it’s going to make us think outside the box.”
He’s dusted off his PI hat, which is one of the reasons I suggested this. The other reason? I’m a mystery author – who doesn’t knit!
“Here’s two reasons,” Baxter says. “To see better? To send a signal?”
“The second one is more interesting. I wonder if Ambrose had the chandelier on an automatic timer while he was away and it signalled to the burglar that the place was vacant. And that’s why Porkie went in. But why would the timer turn it on during the day? What are you thinking?”
“Porkie goes in and turns the light on. Maybe it helps him see what he’s burgling. But what if … he knows about the surveillance camera and he wants it to see him?”
This is the kind of question I like to give Piper. To stir things up a little.
“OK,” I say. “He’s not expecting Ambrose to come home. Porkie probably knew his schedule and felt safe when the house was vacant. Why would he want Zaylee’s camera to see him burgling Number 24?”
“He’s showing her he can just walk in and nick stuff. And she can’t do anything about it.”
“Because he knows Zaylee and Fletch are banned from the station? How would he know that?”
“Someone in the police leaked this information. He might even be a policeman, Tiggy. Some coppers are bent. Hang on – that might be why he’s got Porkie as an alias! A pig is an insulting name for a policeman.”
“In Australia too. And America. Why didn’t we think of this before? It’s obvious. But he’s on their camera burgling a house. Would he really risk his career like that? And risk jail?”
“He must believe no-one can touch him. What it’s called when you do things like that?”
“Audacious.”
We both ruminate.
Which door did Ambrose use to come and go? Rupert and I saw him leaving via the door in the lane. That’s probably the entry and exit he used regularly, saving the front door for guests to his chandelier-and-champagne parties.
On the day he died, he would have come in and looked along the hall and up the stairs to the living room and seen that the chandelier was lit, alerting him that someone was in his house. Unless it was his automatic light – but unlikely to come on during the day.
How was Porkie getting in? He was gardening for Helena. That fits with leaving the adjoining doors open as if he didn’t care if Helena saw him entering her brother’s house. Or was that Lou-Lou?
I’ve just thought of something. They’ve arrested Lou-Lou for Ambrose’s murder so they know she was already in the country when he died. Was she staying in Number 24 or with Helena?
Zaylee has a picture of the living room with Lou-Lou in the shadows. Was the chandelier alight then, creating some of the reflect-shone effects? Or did Lou-Lou leave before Porkie arrived and he turned on the light?
Meanwhile Ambrose came home unexpectedly. And one of them is dead.
We manage to get a parking space in the Crescent and with the pooch on his lead trotting out in front, we look like legitimate dog walkers as we head for the gate into the central park. It’s the perfect time of day, with the morning walkers home for lunch and the after-schoolers not here yet. Then it’s up to the end where the rise in the ground is covered by a copse of small trees and shrubs.
“This must be where they’ve got their camera,” I say. “That’s Number 24.”
The curtains on the bay window are pulled back as usual and the room is brightly lit.
Baxter looks up at a tree.
“We learnt this at PI school,” he whispers. “If you have to ingress a restricted area, make it quick.”
And up he goes!
I’m not one to miss a bit of ingress. I’m just kicking off my ballet flats to climb up too when my phone rings.
“Tiggy, Tiggy, there are two men in the living room. Fighting. With a knife!”
I start dialling the police.
“I think one of them is Tim-Tim,” Baxter shouts down to me. “And Porkie’s got the knife! Tim’s whacked his arm with a stick and the knife is flying across the room. I’ve taken a video.”
Minutes later, one of the side windows opens. A young man with a prison haircut sticks his head out. “Help! I need the police!”
“Hey Tom-Tom,” Baxter calls. “I’m Spectre. I’m over here in the tree.”
“I see you!” Tim shouts. “Call the police! Tell them Tim Bale has taken Paul Pigford hostage. I’m holding him until he confesses to the burglary they pinned on me.”
“I’ve already phoned,” I call.
“My friend is on it, Tim. I’ll stay up here and she’s on the ground in case you need anything else.”
Unlike a burglary where I hear people can wait hours for a police response, within minutes Serpentine Crescent is full of patrol cars blocking access, uniformed officers going door to door, cordon barriers and detectives on the ground.
“What are you doing here?” snarls a voice.
Ben Baker is in the park. He isn’t pleased to see me. The feeling is mutual.
“Baxter is up this tree,” I say, trying to sound casual. Failing.
“What?” Ben looks up in case I’m lying. “Have you two got anything to do with this?” He stops. “I know. You just happened to be here, walking the dog. Miles away from where you’re staying and look,” – he steps back in mock alarm – “a man is taking another man hostage in the house you just happen to be spying on from this tree.”
“We’re ground-truthing, Ben,” Baxter says, jumping down. “Tiggy’s father looked at that photo you made me delete. You need to see his report.”
“Is everything all right here, DC Baker?” calls an older man in plain clothes. “These dog walkers have to go home right now if they live in the Crescent. Or move to the other end of the park if they don’t. We’re blocking off all traffic. We don’t know if he’s armed.”
“Porkie had a big knife,” Baxter says. “Like it was old, not a kitchen knife, but Tim Bale got it away from him.
“Did you hear that, sir?” Ben says. “Baxter here was up this tree and saw them fighting.”
“Then he used cable ties to tie Porkie to a chair.”
“So the hostage taker now has the knife,” the senior detective says. “Is that right?”
“Um. I don’t think so. I didn’t see it after it flew out of Porkie’s hand. It … might be under a couch or something.”
“We’ll assume he’s armed. DC Baker, move these people away.”
“You heard the DS,” Ben says. “You might have to stay here tonight.” He stops. “Porkie is the nickname of the guy in the surveillance photo I got you to delete. How do you know who the hostage-taker is?”
“He saw me in the tree,” Baxter says, thinking fast, “and … he said his name when he told me to call the police.”
True but it still feels like a fib.
“If this has anything to do with that prisoner pen-friend study,” Ben says, “your step-father will be in trouble.”
Baxter says nothing and Ben herds us away from all the action.
“Could we wait in my car?” I ask “It’s warmer.”
“Come on,” he says. “I’ll have to escort you.”
But on the way, he makes a call. Then another.
“I’m worried, Tiggy,” Baxter whispers. “I don’t want Tim to get hurt. Or Porkie either, but he had the knife. And it’s harder to worry about people you don’t like.”
“Let’s hope no-one gets hurt.”
Just as we reach the Skoda with its view along the road to the front of Number 24, Ben says, “OK. You can wait at my mum’s place. She’s putting the kettle on. And she likes dogs.”
“That’s generous of her,” I say. “But we’ll be fine in the car.”
“Not if we’re here until it gets cold. You can stay warm at Mum’s and keep out of everyone’s way. It’s a win-win.”
“We’re the ones who called this in, Ben.” I say. “I gave detailed directions to get the police here as fast as they did. And Baxter has just given you important information about a weapon.”
“I’ll put your names down for bravery medals.”
We walk with him along the footpath. He opens the gate of a house in the row of terraces, its big bay windows reaching up two floors, the same as all the others.
Before Ben can knock, the door opens and we’re greeted by a stocky woman of about sixty in jeans and a chunky multi-coloured cardigan. Ben does the introductions then leaves. Baxter and I will be calling her Mrs Baker.
“So sorry to inconvenience you, Mrs Baker,” I say.
“Oh, you are like Electra,” she says. “Ben warned me. You don’t sound like her, though. Come in. I’ll enjoy the company. And the gossip. My hubby is away at the moment.”
We follow her up three steps into a living room similar to Number 24.
“No chandelier,” Baxter whispers.
He goes to the window with the same thought as me. To see if the curve in the road around the park allows us to see the police operation.
“Pull up a chair each,” Mrs Baker says. “And the dog will be fine on the rug. I’ll make tea and you let me know if there’s anything to see.”