Chapter 49

Helena has suggested a time on Sunday afternoon when her staff are unlikely to be there, although they often work out-of-hours depending on the urgency of the analysis.

Frensci is housed in a free-standing flat-roofed building set back from the road with windows secured by bars. The door opens directly off a paved area for parking and I take a space next to Helena’s distinctive red sedan. A BMW.

“They should have security glass,” Baxter says. “Bars only stop burglars breaking in. They don’t stop vandalism.”

Baxter’s security advice saved Henry from losing his entire stock of antiques at his old shop.

“It’s not rocket surgery,” he adds.

I look across. He’s suppressing a smile.

“Clever mixed metaphor, Baxter.”

“Thank you.”

The front door of Frensci is also protected by bars and we enter a large room full of mind-bending equipment. While Helena explains what some of them do, I notice a photograph on the wall. The Dunlin at Merton Mire by Fletch.

Baxter asks her about the saliva.

“We didn’t find the saliva, exactly, Baxter. That sounds accidental. We looked for it.”

“Because you knew it was there?” Baxter face is a study in wide-eyed wonder.

“Because we thought it might be there. And we had nothing. Another very thorough forensic lab had gone through everything before all the samples came here. No fingerprints where they shouldn’t be. And remember Paul had recently worked there as a gardener so he was in and out of their mudroom, and even in the kitchen. They found some of his hairs but that was to be expected and couldn’t have convicted him. We were desperate for a breakthrough so I asked the owner to describe the state of the kitchen before the break in. And she mentioned some mugs on the draining rack, now in pieces in this lab.” She waves her arm. “It made me wonder if the burglar might have helped himself to a drink.”

“Like, get inside the head of your villain,” Baxter says.

“Exactly. So we collected all the shards from the rims of the china mugs and tested them for traces of DNA. We found one from a family member and another that wasn’t the family. We put it through the system and up came Timothy Bale.”

“And we still don’t know how it got there,” Baxter says.

“It looks like Paul planted the mug with Tim’s saliva on it. I wouldn’t have thought he was clever enough but growing up in a police family he probably learnt a few things.”

“Does Paul know Tim?” Baxter asks. “Was he paying him back or something? Like, a vendetta?”

“I assume so. And those Tiffany mugs are valuable. But he probably picked them up for nothing at a charity shop.”

“Them?” I ask, remembering the pair reported in Echo Chamber.

“That’s the clever part, Tiggy. There were two matching mugs so the odd mug with a pattern that didn’t match the others in the house wouldn’t stand out. Both smashed but only one with saliva.”

“Has he said how he got Tim to drink out of it?” I ask. “It sounds very calculated and planned. But the trashing of that house sounded spur-of-the-moment.”

“Paul denies doing it, says the samples were contaminated at the lab. But he’s also trying to say he found Ambrose dead and just stole the knife. Who would steal a murder weapon? If he thinks his grandfather is going to get him off, he’s dreaming.”

Baxter is getting better at changing subjects when they reach a dead end. This time he pivots.

“What does saliva look like under the microscope, Helena?”

“Well, I thought you might be interested in that and I have one here to show you. I even have the mug it came from. And we don’t have to smash it to get the sample.”

She holds up a fine china mug and shows us how she moistens a sterile cotton swab with distilled water and rolls it over the collection site.

“Notice I’m not applying any extra pressure because I don’t want to collect any substrate material, just the saliva.”

She says the swab needs to dry to preserve it before being stored in a labelled envelope. She goes on to explain the difficulties of first detecting the presence of saliva in a way that doesn’t destroy the evidence itself, leaving enough of the sample to test for DNA profiling and establish the identity of the person. As she describes different destructive and non-destructive techniques, Baxter asks more questions and my eyes return to Fletch’s photo. Does Helena know Fletch or did she just buy it from his market stall?

Now Baxter is looking through a microscope.

“The result of this one is interesting,” she says, “because the DNA links two family members who don’t know they’re related.”

“Cool!” Baxter says. “You’ve joined them into one family. How did they react?”

“They don’t know the results yet but I think they’ll be shocked – and pleased.”

“I’m glad saliva can do good work,” Baxter says.

Suddenly there’s an almighty thundering on the roof accompanied by yelling. Someone is stomping around up there in hobnail boots. Several loud metallic bangs rattle the building as something hits the window bars. Helena races to lock the front door and a third bang explodes through a window. A missile sails past her head, shattering glass everywhere. She stumbles, trying to get under the table where Baxter and I are already cowering. A hammer hits the floor behind us and two more come smashing through two more windows in a barrage of noise and glass.

As we cringe waiting for more, the banging on the roof continues and a gruff male voice outside the broken windows screams: “My turn to play God, Doctor Loxton. And ruin your life! I’m the God of Vengeance!” A guttural cheer from the accomplice on the roof. “I’ll even call the cops for you.” He starts barking: “Police? An Act of God has gone and demolished the front of Frensci lab. Casualties inside covered in smashed glass.” He gives the address and finishes with a whoop.

The stomping on the roof stops.

An engine roars.

The silence that follows is as shattering as the window.

Helena has crawled closer to me. Her chest is heaving, her breath catching. I reach out and put my hand on her shoulder and she calms a little. We’ve both started crying, quiet tears rolling down our cheeks. I check on Baxter but he’s got the wide-eyed-wonder look again.

He leans over and whispers, “My first sabotage-with-menace, Tiggy.”

Helena tries to speak but she can’t find words.

“I’ll call the … police,” I say, my voice catching.

While I call it in, Baxter doesn’t move. Has he frozen? With shock?

But he’s staring at the hammer lying nearest us.

“They’re on their way.” I keep my voice matter-of-fact. “They said not to drink any water in case we need medical attention.”

“Thank you, Tiggy.” Helena’s voice is hoarse. “Are you able to unlock the door when they come? It’s OK to touch it but we mustn’t touch,” – she looks at Baxter – “those … hammers.”

“There’s something tied around the handle of that one,” Baxter says, pointing. He uses his phone to zoom in and photograph it. “It’s a piece of paper tied on with string, a bit ripped by the glass. A page from … the Sunday Sentinel. Today’s date. And some words from the headline: Forensic Scientist Accus – it must be ‘Accused’.”

He looks at Helena as I remember what the saboteur said.

Pounding on the door makes us jump all over again. “Police! Can you open up?”

I crawl out, avoiding the hammers, and stand at the door on wobbly legs. “I need to see some ID.”

“Tiggy, it’s Ben.”

Ben Baker. I know his voice.

“Are you OK?” he asks.

As I unlock the door, the tears start in earnest.

A tsunami of them.

They help Helena up and into a chair, wrapping her in a blanket. Suddenly she’s in charge.

“I’ll do the forensic analysis on the hammers,” she tells Ben. “Get DCI Kisner to approve it if you need to.”

“You may be in shock,” Ben says.

“Of course I’m in shock,” she snaps. “We’ve just been subjected to several agonising minutes of intimidation and peril. Bang! Bang! Bang! Flying hammers and smashed glass. And that one just missed my head.”

Ben has nothing to say.

She insists on supervising the scene-of-crime officer to secure each hammer in the right way. She runs through other instructions. Possible boot prints on the roof and fingerprints if the accomplice hoisted himself up from the tray of their truck by the guttering, but he was probably wearing gloves. There’s CCTV on the front of the building but they both would have worn balaclavas and covered their number plate. Possible tyre tracks on the parking apron if the police haven’t trampled all over them.

She refuses to leave the building until emergency windows are installed. There’s no other damage apparent. The police will post a guard overnight. The location of her home is not a secret so they’ll guard it front and back.

Ben has called in a doctor to examine us all rather than battling Helena to get her into an ambulance. We’re each given the all-clear.

Just to make sure I’m OK, Ben follows me as I drive home and drop Baxter off on the way. He watches me enter the Lympstone cottage then drives off.