Chapter 20

“Hi,” I say, getting up and brushing dust off my jeans.

The man I’m looking at is big and his bushy beard makes him look slightly feral. But he’s wearing a cap with the logo of the Devon Wetland’s Trust. A ranger.

I put out my hand. “Tiggy Jones, mystery author. And Raider, Dalmatian Labrador cross.”

I sound like Baxter and suppress a smile.

He doesn’t remove the hands from his hips or lose the frown. I drop my hand and keep talking.

“I’m testing the plot of my latest book. I’ve stayed out of the restricted area and kept Raider on the leash. My fictional victim gets murdered in a bog like Merton Mire. Tripped up by a wire near the edge, hits her head and drowns. I need to experiment with a few variables, like what kind of string stays invisible but taut, how low to the ground is most effective for tripping, whether the stakes hold. Things like that. What are you doing here?”

He grunts. “Making sure no mystery authors and their dogs barge around the place like bulls in a china shop testing their plots.”

Did his mouth just twitch?

“Have you seen any Wolf Weevils or Dunlins?” I ask.

That throws him.

“My character is a photographer taking images of Dunlins when she’s killed.”

“What time of year is she here?” he asks.

“I haven’t decided.”

“Well she won’t see a Dunlin after early October. They go to the coastal flats for the winter. You’d better murder her in the summer.”

I’m sure it’s a twitch this time.

“Thanks. I’ll do that. I need a good sunset and not too late in the evening.”

“Make it mid-September,” he says. “And what’s your interest in Wolf Weevils? I thought you’d be more interested in etymology than entomology.”

I do the mouth twitch.

“My research brought up the woman who died here a couple of decades back. It looked like murder but the marks on her neck were post mortem Wolf Weevil activity. A tragedy that gave me the idea for my book. Molly Crane’s was an accident that looked like murder until forensics proved the insect activity. Mine’s the opposite, a murder made to look like an accident.”

“The first case solved by the Darling of the DNA, Dr Helena Loxton.”

The way he said ‘darling’ says he’s not a fan.

“That’s right. Do you know her?”

“I’ve met her,” he says. “And I know Wolf Weevils. Have you finished your tripwire test?”

“I’ve probably fallen over enough,” I say. “I wish the jute wasn’t so stretchy. I’ll have to go for the poly-string. And I’ve only been able to view the mire itself from that low tor of rocks over there.”

He puts out his hand. “Charlie Marsh. And don’t say anything about nominal determinism, OK?”

His name is Marsh and he works in a marsh.

“If you put your spotted companion in the car,” he continues, “I’ll give you a quick guided tour of the bog. Then maybe we could go for a drink at the pub at Cheriton Cross.”

“I’d appreciate the tour. Thank you, Charlie.”

But not the drink. I have promises to keep and many words to write before I sleep.

He waits while I collect the string. It’s snapped and left a small piece behind. Something for Piper to find. Baxter’s right about ‘ground-truthing’. It throws up authentic clues. Like leaving your fingerprints in a house where there’s a murder.

Raider’s not happy about the arrangements but he can’t come with us. While I put him in my car, Charlie goes to the back of a van bearing the logo of the Devon Wetland Trust and brings out a spray bottle. At the locked gate, he makes me lift one foot at a time while he sprays the bottom of my boots with a mix of methylated spirits and water. Then he sprays his own boots.

“To keep out the wrong kind of bugs.”

“I don’t need the full tour,” I tell him, looking at my watch. “I’m on a book deadline. But I’d love to get a feel for the place.”

“Another time,” he says. “Like the drink.”

The earlier grey clouds have cleared and he leads me along a track not too close to the mire but with a good view of the water and the tussocks.

“That’s where Molly Crane died.” He points to some sharp rocks with a small engraved plaque.

He permits me to take a photo.

“There’s no water here,” I say.

“The mire has retreated since her death. A shrinking habitat. It’s a problem for both Dunlins and Wolf Weevils. But for women falling and hitting their heads, there’s less chance of drowning while they’re unconscious.”

It’s true but the remark sounds odd.

I know Raider couldn’t enter the restricted area – and I’m the one who mentioned not having seen the mire up close – but I’m very aware that I’m here alone. With a man I don’t know and without my trusty hound by my side.

As we turn back towards the cars, I make sure to keep behind Charlie Marsh. And I’ll definitely forget that drink.

But when we reach our vehicles, he asks for my phone number. There’s no-one else around and he’s a big fellow. The number of my new burner phone is easy to remember. I give it to him and he gives me his card.

When I’m safely on the A30 back to Exeter, I’ve stopped feeling vulnerable and can think straight. I remember something Charlie said. Dunlins aren’t found at Merton Mire or any of the other upland marshes in October. They go to the coast. Baxter’s camera club acquaintance Fletch didn’t photograph the Dunlin here recently.

Where did that photograph come from?

Sim takes my call from the car.

“I wondered if Fletch took it himself,” he says. “If he owns it. With private arrangements like this, it’s important to check copyright. I’ve asked him for a copy – with a watermark to protect him. Then I can do a reverse image search. There’s a lot of piracy these days.”

In his steampunk gear, Fletch even looks like a pirate.

Does Baxter need to know? Not yet. It might be a photo Fletch took earlier and applied to the theme. I’ll wait to hear what Sim discovers.

With my eyes on the road, another thought drifts by. What did Charlie mean when he said, ‘I know Wolf Weevils’? The way he said Helena’s name sounded like professional jealousy but they’re not contemporaries. Charlie looks mid forties? But Helena has turned her knowledge of Wolf Weevils into a world-renowned reputation while there’s not much fame or even acknowledgement for Charlie Marsh for his hours of monitoring insects in the field.

And his remark about women falling and hitting their heads suggests he doesn’t like women in general. But Raider didn’t bite the man’s arm off, and until that comment I was finding him witty.

He might just be a guy who finds professional women threatening. And that doesn’t include me since he suggested we go for a drink?

Or there’s another possibility.

He has reasons to dislike Helena Loxton in particular. She’s probably made a lot of enemies by being beautiful, intelligent and driven. For the first time, I wonder if her bikini experiment wasn’t leaked but was quite deliberate. Putting herself in the place of the young woman who died on that jetty seems provocative – even with the family’s permission. Then act surprised that the photos find their way into the press and a frenzy about her follows.

Unless young women were more naive about their allure back then.

I doubt it.

Back in Lympstone, I let Raider out into the enclosed yard for a run around. It’s not large but it stands in for a walk when I have to write.

The tripwire experiment and the walk to the mire itself gives me enough information to write the scene where Kelly Field walks towards the bog at sunset. She’s excited about the light on a small flock of Dunlins, taking several photos. Then she sees the perfect shot – one Dunlin wading alone, his slow steps rippling the mirror-like surface. But just as she snaps it, Kelly finds herself falling towards the rocks and the water, wondering what’s happened until her head collides with something sharp and she blacks out …

As I write, I realise I might not need a detailed description of her final photo. The whole escapade with Fletch might not be needed, unless it works for the cover.

Then my thoughts go to Piper. When she visits the mire, I wonder if she might bump into someone wearing a ranger’s cap, a man who starts out knowledgeable and charming, then says something that makes her feel uncomfortable.

A quick look at the website of the Devon Wetlands Trust shows they don’t list their rangers by name. But the logo on Charlie’s van – and his cap – matches theirs. And I have his business card. He’s the real deal but Piper might not be so lucky …