Chapter 4

“Tiggy, Tiggy, I’m the president of our new camera club.”

“Sounds exciting. Have you got time to come in and tell us about it?”

I’ve just opened the door to eighteen-year-old Baxter Stone who walks Raider when we’re in Topsham. He and I have both been distracted lately and our conversations have been brief. Today he’s caught the bus from Exeter and walked to Sim’s cottage in Birch Road. Raider is leaping up at his best friend, almost knocking me over, but he’ll lounge on Baxter’s feet while we catch up over a cup of tea.

“A camera club as an artistic pursuit?” I ask. “Or to skill up for private investigation?”

“Both. The other members are mainly my neurodiverse friends from the PI course. Once a month we’ll have an artistic theme but the other weeks we’ll focus on surveillance techniques.”

“Without infringing the privacy of any member of the public.”

“Of course.”

Baxter’s never big on eye-contact and it comes in handy when he needs to cover a fib.

“Promise me you’ll put it in the rules of the club,” I say. “No recognisable images of people without their permission.”

“Like the covers of books these days,” he says. “Always a back-view of someone’s head.”

I laugh. “Exactly.”

“This week’s theme is ‘suspicious shoes’.”

“That adds an extra element. How does a pair of shoes arouse suspicion?”

“Lots of ways.” He’s been thinking about it. I love the way his mind works. “Like, fresh mud but where they’re walking there’s no mud. Odd shoes or odd laces – what happened to their pairs? Trainers on a woman in a business suit.”

“She might be exercising in her lunch hour.”

“Or she’s just robbed a bank and she’s making a fast getaway. In the club meetings, we’ll project everyone’s photos onto a screen and discuss how well they fit the theme.”

“That should be lively.” I hope he invites me along some time.

Baxter asks what I’ve been up to and listens to Helena’s proposal.

“I hope she isn’t a murderer, Tiggy. That might make her dangerous if she suddenly remembers what she is. But Raider will know is she’s safe to be around. Do you need someone to spy on her? I mean ‘undertake discreet surveillance, confidentiality guaranteed’?”

“I don’t think so but I’ll let you know if I do.”

Raider is getting restless and the two of them jump up on two-plus-four skinny legs and leave the cottage for an hour.

Raider and I arrive at Dr Loxton’s ahead of time but the congested parking in Serpentine Crescent, not far from the river in Exeter, makes me grab a space when someone pulls out. This looks like a prosperous part of town. The park in the middle of the circular road is surrounded on both sides by impressive three-story terrace houses with small front courtyards off the footpath. Then I notice the central park is fenced and labelled dog friendly. There’s time for Raider to choose a stick from the stick library and retrieve a few throws.

When we’re returning to the car, a flashy red car drives down the opposite road and turns into a side alley that probably joins a lane behind. We walk to the house number Helena gave me. The same house where she first set up her private forensics lab Frensci?

The woman who greets us at the door is in her late fifties. Her tailored black jacket over matching pants flatters her now full figure and her salt-and pepper hair is pulled back in a soft French roll like the photo in the newspaper story. I silently admire her unlined, still-handsome features. But her darting eyes reveal a mix of excitement and anxiety.

“It’s you!” she cries, throwing her arms out towards me. “I can’t believe it!”

I step back. “Tiggy Jones. The mystery author. We have an appointment. And this is Raider.”

She shakes herself. “Tiggy. Of course. Our appoin…”

Suddenly she’s falling backwards and I rush forward to grab the door. It slows her fall and she slides to the floor, sitting against it.

“I’ll get you a glass of water,” I say.

“A pen! Paper! In the hallstand. Quickly!”

There’s a drawer under a shelf and bevelled mirror. When I hand her the notepad and pen, she scribbles something, tears off the page and pushes it into her pocket. Then she leans back against the door and closes her eyes.

I don’t know what to do. “Can I help you up?”

Her eyes fly open. “I’ve remembered!”

I wait for more.

“It was the light behind you. Your blonde hair.”

Now tears are rolling down Helena’s cheeks. “Thank you, Tiggy. I’ll get up in a minute and make tea. But I just need to sit with this, this ...”

I perch on the front step beside her and Raider sits between us. It’s not quite the meeting I was expecting and my feelings are mixed. Publicity photos of me are easy to find. Did my resemblance to someone influence Helena – even subliminally – to contact me?

“You were coming here to tell me you couldn’t help me,” she says. “You’re a busy woman and I knew it was a long shot. But you’ve solved it on the doorstep. One look at you and I … remembered.”

Raider has snuggled up against her, always a comfort when he senses sadness. And it means he’s happy with the vibes around here. Baxter will be pleased Helena’s not a murderer.

“Hello boy,” she says, patting his flank. “You’re a great friend, aren’t you? Strong and soft and smart. Tiggy’s lucky to have you. You’re lucky to have each other. I’m on my own these days and it’s … hard.”

Made extra frightening by something she couldn’t remember. What was it that was eluding her so profoundly? She hadn’t forgotten who my lookalike is so it must have been something that happened – a trauma of some kind that hid the memory. As a coping mechanism? I don’t think Helena’s going to tell me and I can’t ask. But if she forgets again, she’s written it down.

How safe is the crumpled piece of paper?

And the doorstep revelation has rescued me from rejecting her offer. It’s a huge relief – and only a slight disappointment – that she no longer needs my ‘research’.

She puts out her hand and I help her up. She’s a bit unsteady at first but then she leads us down the hall to a renovated kitchen. Large glass doors look onto a rear courtyard with a lane behind. A trellis on one side screens a red car, a lot like the one that drove past us.

While I let Raider out into the courtyard, Helena makes a pot of tea. I help her carry the cups and a plate of pikelets to the table where we watch the pooch giving the paving and the potted plants what Baxter calls ‘dynamic olfactometry’ or ‘a good sniff’.

I would love to ask Helena about the woman I resemble but I wait for her to start the conversation.

“Sorry for the drama, Tiggy. Not what you were expecting, I imagine. It’s not every day someone looks at you and promptly collapses.”

And mistakes me for someone else.

“Luckily you’re not hurt,” I say, “and I suspect the outcome is worth a few bruises.”

She laughs. “Watch out or I might start crying again. The relief!” She wipes her eyes.

“And you’d better put that precious piece of paper somewhere safe,” I say.

She frowns. “Before I forget again? Probably put it through the wash if I’m not careful. Thank you.”

“Take a photo of it with your phone. As a backup.”

“An electronic record?” Her voice betrays disapproval. “No, I won’t do that. But I was going to talk you into taking this home with you.” She leans over to a shelf along the wall and slips the paper from her pocket into a shoebox. “This box contains clues from my life, including a memory stick full of documents. Just this morning before you arrived, I couldn’t find the box and I remembered I’d stored it securely at the bank. I just got back before you arrived. But now we can ignore it and enjoy our morning tea.”

“There was just the … one crucial thing you couldn’t remember?”

“Yes.”

I wait for more but she presses her lips together.

“Now, what were you going to tell me?” she asks. “You’re a mystery writer.” She points to several of my books on the shelf. “Tell me a story.”

It’s the same authoritative tone as the interview I listened to. She’s a powerful woman who knows how to manage people.

I launch into the explanation I was going to give her for rejecting her offer.

“Well, your email to my publisher arrived just when I was desperate for a book idea.” I summarise my current distractions. “But you’ve already helped me, Helena. Like I’ve just helped you. I found your professional biography online and the Liberty Ford and Molly Crane cases came up. Raider and I visited Merton Mire yesterday and it’s triggered ideas for my protagonist to investigate a fictional murder in a bog. Last night I started writing the new book, Death by Deception.”

“Molly Crane,” she says. “Liberty Ford.”

Her voice is flat. Helena is not sharing the excitement of my breakthrough.

“I know this is a horrible thing to say,” she says, “after the tragic way those women died so young but they’re two people I wish I could forget.”