Chapter 38

During the night I worry about Zaylee and Fletch. If this guy they’re following murdered Ambrose, they could be in danger if he spots their surveillance.

When Baxter arrives, we walk Raider together, heading towards the path along the estuary.

“Are Fletch and Zaylee working for someone, doing paid surveillance on this guy?”

“I forgot to ask them,” Baxter says. “But they wouldn’t be, would they? They want my help to get the police to talk to them.”

“Of course. I wonder what’s motivating them. Zaylee knows about that assignment you did for the PI course.”

“Yeah. Ben Baker helped me with it and introduced me to another constable from Newton Abbot station. Everyone on the course was pretty impressed by my contacts. And I … boasted a bit and made it sound like I could just ring up and talk to the police whenever I wanted to.”

When I glance at him after this admission, he looks down and keeps pace with the pooch.

“Boasting is pretty juvenile,” he says. “I’m older and wiser now.”

The assignment was about five months ago.

“I didn’t ask them who the burglar is either. They have a codename for him. Porkie. Like he tells pork pies.”

Rhyming slang for lies.

“Do they only take photos of him at Number 24?” I ask.

“Most of the time but they have other pictures too. Zaylee saw him once when she was in the High Street, going into an antique shop. She went in after him and looked at the jewellery in a glass case. Porkie told the antique dealer that his grandfather was too old to come in but he wanted Porkie to sell some things for him. The owner told him that he has to be careful he’s not buying stolen goods and Porkie ran out of the shop. Zaylee pretended to look at her phone and recorded him behind her just for a couple of seconds.”

“This is very dangerous work, Baxter.”

“I told them that. They’re being careful but they’re nervous.”

“Do they think he killed Ambrose?”

“That’s why they want to go to the police. They’ve done a whole report with photos and everything, like we learned at the course, but because they’re young and autistic they think no-one will even look at it.”

“Do they have actual evidence that he’s a murderer?”

“No pictures of him doing it or anything, but other photos through the bay window. The curtains are always open and you can see in from the little hill in the park. Ambrose coming home and then Porkie looking scared and maybe he’s got blood on him.”

He pulls out his phone and shows me one photo they let him have. A young guy wearing a black t-shirt and jeans is visible through a bay window. His eyes have a wild look and there’s a dark patch on the front of his shirt. Blood? His right hand is inside a glove and he’s holding something long and thin but the blur of his moving arm obscures it. A knife?

“Zaylee said it’s the house on the corner. It’s a different view from the one with the mirrors. This was taken the day the owner was killed.”

The day Rupert and I were there. Was Rupert leaning against the fence around the centre park while she was snapping photos through the window? I went into this very room and got the text message – from Lou-Lou who I thought was Helena – saying the meeting was off. Did Zaylee also snap a photo of me?

While Ben and I were outside the back door, talking about checking for burglary, did this guy escape through the secret connecting doors, smearing blood on the wall panel in his rush to leave?

It’s hard to believe we were all there around the time Ambrose Loxton was being stabbed upstairs.

Baxter and I decide to ring Ben.

We make the call back at the cottage. It’s one of the hardest conversations I’ve ever had with DC Ben Baker.

“I didn’t expect to hear from you again, Tiggy. Unless it’s to give me an autographed copy of your latest book to compensate for all the trouble you cause me. And of course I’m not allowed to accept gratuities.”

What an infuriating man he’s become.

“Baxter and I have come across information about the murder of Ambrose Loxton.”

“Feel free to ring the station’s main number. We love getting tip-offs from the public. So far, the front-desk staff have fielded 271 calls, mostly from people who saw a man in a hoodie and gloves running from the scene.”

I press on. “It’s a photograph of the living room of Number 24 on the day Ambrose was murdered.”

“Your photo? You were in that living room as I recall. My advice hasn’t changed. Do you have the main number for the station?”

“This was taken through the window by someone else, after I left. You need to see it, Ben. There was a man in there looking agitated. There’s a stain on his shirt and he’s waving something that could be a knife.”

“The photographer just happened to snap this at just the right moment. Have you heard of photo manipulation? Not admissible in court.”

“What have I got to say for you to take this seriously? A private investigator was undertaking surveillance on the property because French antiques were going missing. Louise Gagner must have told you about the thefts. It’s possible that when Ambrose came home unexpectedly, he confronted the burglar. And got stabbed.”

“And the private investigator contacted you. A mystery author. Let me text you the number of the station to pass onto them.”

Baxter chimes in. “Ben, it’s Baxter Stone. I’m with Tiggy. The private investigator contacted me because we did the PI course together. This PI is on the autism spectrum and is afraid the police won’t take the evidence seriously. I asked Tiggy what to do and she said we should ring you because you’ve always helped me with good advice.”

Back in the days a few months ago when Ben was a police constable without an ego the size of Texas.

“I see,” Ben says. “Thank you, Baxter. This changes things.”

Now that I’ve stopped talking. I signal at Baxter to keep going.

“What should I do?” he says. “And what should the PI do with the evidence? I’ve seen the report. It’s very professional with dates, times, locations and photos. But I can show you one photo so you can decide if the rest is worth police time.”

What a champ Baxter is. And he’s been careful not to use the ‘she’ word in case being female further diminishes Zaylee’s credibility. I keep a deep sigh about this to myself.

“Let’s do an off-the-record chat,” Ben suggests. “Without the PI at this stage. Somewhere private.”

I push the key to the cottage across the table.

Baxter nods. “I have the key to a holiday cottage in Lympstone. Would that do?”

Ben’s reaction when he sees me is worthy of a gothic horror film. But before he can turn on his heels and stalk out, Baxter is at the door with his hand extended.

“Thank you for coming, Ben. I told my PI colleague that the police have always treated me with respect even though I’m on the spectrum. And that’s because you’ve always encouraged me, even when I’ve made mistakes.”

Ben can’t leave now.

“And I’ve told Tiggy to keep quiet.” At my suggestion.

They go to the table. Raider greets Ben and sits at his feet, and I get busy making tea. Baxter hands Ben his phone with the photo of the young burglar.

“Do you know who this is?” Ben asks.

“No. The PI has codenamed him Porkie.”

Ben snorts. “And this PI has a whole report of Porkie’s activities in this house?”

“Photos showing him picking up antiques from the empty shelf in this picture. A video of him asking about selling stuff at an antique shop.”

“Why the interest in this person and this house?” Ben asks.

“I’m not sure. I didn’t ask.”

“Well I can tell you, Baxter. And Tiggy.” He glares at me in the kitchen. “There are two of them, aren’t there? I won’t say their full names, but let’s call them the steampunk snoops. They’ve been stalking this fellow for months, trying to get us to arrest him for something. Anything to put him in the slammer. They’ve been into the station so many times waving evidence they’ve collected, they’re now banned.”

I see Baxter swallow hard.

“And this bloke they’ve targeted?” Ben continues. “He does home maintenance. That’s his job. He works in people’s houses and gardens. That’s what he’s doing here. Blood on his t-shirt? It’s a work shirt and that’s probably dirt. Or water. Wielding a knife? It could be any kind of tool, even a feather duster.”

Under this onslaught, Baxter and I are silent.

“And as far as the location goes, the houses in Serpentine Crescent all have the same kind of bay windows. Including my parents who live there. This guy works in quite a few of them and, with the curtains open and nothing to identify the particular living room, this photo could have been taken in any of them. Please delete it in front of me. This young man deserves his privacy.”

He leans over as Baxter does as he’s told.

“I’m sorry these two have tricked you and abused your good nature, Baxter. We know who this young man is. He was interviewed after Ambrose Loxton was killed. We know how to do our job and we don’t need help from people with a vendetta.”

He gets up from the chair and Raider releases his feet. “I said this chat was off-the-record but I should write it up. Because it’s you, Baxter, I won’t. But take my advice and drop it. I don’t want to hear about it again.” He looks at me. “I won’t stay for tea.” At the door he stops. “Tell the two steampunks that your police contact has told you stalking is an offense and taking surveillance photos through people’s windows could breach privacy laws.”

Ben leaves the door open and a gush of cold air blows in and fills the room before I can close it. Baxter and I are too stunned to speak, but Raider isn’t. He lets out a howl that encapsulates everything we’re feeling.