Chapter 11

Raider is happy to come with us as the cafes and restaurants in Punt Lane come to life on Friday night. After a couple of hours indoors mired in something weird, the fresh briny air isn’t bad either.

Groups of diners are entering doorways or huddling behind windows where soft lights on tables glow. My hairdresser Hare’s Breath is closed but a rattan hare-themed lamp in the window is dotted with fairy lights.

Our pre-paid collection at the pizza van is quick and Rupert eats enough of them to own a pizza bag. We’re soon back at the flat, with Raider at his bowl of gourmet goodies and two different large pizzas laid out on the coffee table.

Rupert returns to the subject of Helena. “You must be thinking what I’m thinking, Tiggy. The person who collected the articles and created the hidden hyperlinks doesn’t have memory problems. That file of photographs is too cleverly compiled and calculated. And look at the way she contacted you and handed over the information. Suspicious.”

And creepy. It’s a night for the prickling of hairs. This time on the back of my neck.

The memory-loss story gave Helena a perfect reason to contact Simeon with a heartfelt plea. As much as she sounded shocked when I contacted her, she would have known that at the very least I would consider her offer.

“Why me?” I ask Rupert. “I don’t know her.”

“But she knows you. And you look like her niece.”

“My resemblance to a dead family member is hardly a reason to trick me into meeting her.” That’s why it’s creepy. Then another thought cuts through. “Did she even know somehow that I was desperate for a book idea?”

I try to remember if I hinted at my struggle on social media. I always put a positive slant on my search for a mystery theme, sometimes even inviting my followers to throw in their thoughts. But I’ve been so distracted by the boathouse, I don’t recall what I’ve posted.

And Helena said she knew about my inheritance. Do we have a mutual contact who might have gossiped about me? Like the hairdresser we just passed further up the lane? Except the subject would only come up if she brought the chat around to me.

Rupert is watching me. “Anita Blaine?”

The journalist from the Estuary Echo.

“Anita,” I say, remembering. “And Raider.”

The pooch pricks up his ears.

Raider asks his followers for book ideas too, as long as they include a dog in a starring role. And a few weeks ago he complained that I was neglecting Piper and Bandit. I let him spill the beans big time, the wisdom being that readers love a little insider gossip. And the view through the pooch’s eyes gives me extra licence to share snippets with a quirky canine angle.

Then Anita Blaine picked up on it – like she does – and wrote it up as ‘tittle-tattle’ for her society column, Echo Chamber.

I open the file I keep of all publicity and show Rupert.

When Writers Lose the Plot

A popular local pup has had a quiet whimper in my ear. His owner and mystery author is so engrossed in another project that she’s neglecting her characters. They’re languishing in limbo like motionless mannequins, without a plot to probe or a red herring to wrangle. Meanwhile her devoted readers wait, never imagining the layers of dust gathering on their cherished sleuths.

“So every man – and his dog,” Rupert says, raising an eyebrow at Raider, “knows you’ve been distracted from your writing and possibly struggling for an idea.”

“Yep. And I’ve just thought of something else. Before I went to her house, we talked on the phone and I told Helena I wouldn’t be able to accept her offer. What if I had accepted it? Would she have handed over the shoebox and the flash drive on the spot? Was the ruse with Raider a way to circumvent my refusal?”

“Your phone call gave her time to prepare for your visit. The sudden rush of memory on her doorstep could have been a sham. Her niece was the star of her own play. Maybe Helena is an actor too.”

“It was incredibly convincing, Rupert. Even Raider fell for it.”

“Your trip to Barnstaple might have been planned too.”

“Really?” I rock back on the couch as if I’ve been punched. “She gave Raider the flash drive to make sure I followed her?” I think back. “She knew I was bringing him with me. And she made a point of mentioning there was one in the shoebox that she’d only just picked up from the bank. She could have predicted I’d think she dropped the box and the memory stick rolled out.”

“All possible.” Rupert’s on a roll. “I wonder if she was always going to phone you from the park and leave that message in front of Barracuda.”

“Not because of my text? It explains why her voice message wasn’t a reply to mine.”

He pours more wine, letting the space lengthen.

I’m feeling pressured by our suspicions to tear up Helena’s note and be grateful I’m hiding out in Lympstone for a while until she gives up.

What’s stopping me?

“Everything we suspect could be true …” I say. “She’s targeted me and for now we don’t know why.”

He reaches for another slice of pizza. “But …”

“But there are two things we mustn’t overlook. Helena left the phone message warning me off in front of a woman who calls herself Barracuda. And the secret photo file seems to relate to a crime. What if Helena’s involved me in this clandestine way because she knows something … and she’s in trouble?”

Involved me just because I look like her niece?

Thank you AJMA. Sending address while I can: 24 Holt Road, Exeter. Meet me there at 2.30pm Sunday. Park in Wentworth Street and walk. Use entrance from back lane. Don’t reply, just be there and come alone.

At least it’s not at night. Somehow that feels safer.

Safer from what?

Rupert thinks he knows the house. We look it up and he recognises it.

“Thought so. It’s vacant and it’s been on and off the market for an age. Not sure who owns it but I can find out. I wonder how Helena has a key. Let’s cruise by now and check it out.”

He’s had more pizza than wine so we go in his car and leave the pooch behind. A doggy treat along with more of his old armchair softens the blow.

We’re in for another shock. The terrace house at 24 Holt Road is on the corner of Serpentine Crescent, the circular street where Helena lives. And it shares a wall with Helena’s house.

“You didn’t tell me where she lives,” Rupert says. “Why send you to the house next door when you can meet at her place?”

“More private?”

“Does she live with someone else?”

“She mentioned being alone.”

There’s street parking in Holt Road, unlike the bumper-to-bumper congestion in Serpentine Crescent. We sit in the car and look up at the semi-dark three-storey building, lit only by a couple of interior lights, as if on timers in an empty house. It matches the other terraces with its capacious bay windows on two floors, but wraps the corner and has its main entrance in Holt Road. I snap a couple of photos, noticing that all the terraces in the row have a small square balcony with a wrought iron railing. It’s on the upper floor beside the bay window, only accessible from an upstairs door hidden behind a curved brick arch. The handkerchief-sized front yard in Helena’s place is full of plants and a little overgrown. But the yard on the corner is paved for easy maintenance.

We decide to cruise down the back lane because walking would be conspicuous. The Holt Road property wraps the corner. There’s no rear courtyard but a door in a blank wall opens right off the lane.

“She didn’t mention knocking on the door,” Rupert says. “Perhaps she’s going to leave it unlocked for you.”

I don’t like the sound of trespassing into a vacant building to meet a woman who probably isn’t the owner for a discussion with an agenda I don’t know. But I’ll probably keep the appointment. Sigh.

As we cruise on past Helena’s rear courtyard, we see her car is parked behind the trellis and her kitchen is brightly lit. I hazard a furtive glance and catch a movement behind us. I flick down the vanity mirror in time to see a man with a suitcase exit the rear door of the corner terrace. He walks at speed to Holt Road and gets into a taxi that’s just pulled over.