Chapter 40

Baxter and I didn’t discuss this but when Ben told him to delete the image of Porkie, Baxter had already sent a copy to me for safety.

My father Xan Jones is a renowned photographer in Australia. I send him the photo with some questions.

Has this photograph been manipulated? Can you see the colour of the stain on his shirt and what object he’s holding? Is there anything else you notice?

I don’t give him any other information so he doesn’t prejudge it.

His response is quick. Hope this is related to your book. I’ll take a look in the studio tomorrow. Stay safe.

In the middle of the night I wake up wondering why so many things happening at the moment revolve around Helena Loxton and Serpentine Crescent. When she first asked me to come to her house and then collapsed on the doorstep at the sight of me, it seemed like it sparked a whole series of intertwined events. Is she at the heart of everything, like a puppet-master pulling strings?

Or does it just seem that way to my mystery writer’s dozing mind?

As I turn over to go back to sleep, I realise that even though she feels central to everything, I haven’t actually met with Helena – or even spoken to her – since that first time. Her charisma and power are so strong, they carry her influence beyond her presence.

I’m surprised to get a text from Fletch. He doesn’t know that Baxter involved me in approaching the police about Porkie.

Tiggy, can you meet me at the community hall about an hour before the camera club meeting? Bring the mug you bought for me at Get Mugged. I want to photograph it for this week’s theme. There’ll be enough time.

OK, I reply. A whole hour to take a photo? He’s fastidious. Do you want to bring my framed photo of the Dunlin?

It’s not ready yet. Please come to the market to get it.

My father gets back to me about the photo of Porkie.

Not manipulated. Pixilated. Low-resolution image. A surveillance camera? Stain on black shirt is same colour-mix as shirt. Water? Blurred object is close to cylindrical in shape and rounder at the end he’s holding. In close-up, reddish brown stain on his glove. Interesting thing: we can see him through window. Photos from outside to inside rarely work because of reflections on glass. Reflection is overcome here by bright light inside. During the day. Light also bouncing off object in hand suggests material is metal.

Brilliant. I reply. Thank you. I wonder why the light was on.

Not my metier. Over to the mystery author.

Not blood on the shirt but could be blood on the glove. DC Ben Baker must see this. Without getting caught up in whether it’s my role to send it, I set up my message with the photo and Dad’s analysis. Ben knows my father is a photographer from a previous encounter when we almost worked together.

It’s when I hit ‘send’ that I remember.

Ben’s blocked my number.

Fletch and I arrive together, an hour before the camera club meeting. Tonight he’s wearing a tan frock coat over a black waistcoat with metal buttons.

He thanks me for bringing the mug and unwraps it. I remember the fine black and red lines of the queen of hearts pattern on a white background.

“May I stay?” I ask.

A quick nod.

He gets to work quietly. I watch, fascinated.

He puts the mug on a table near one wall. From a leather shoulder satchel he takes out a small lamp, a wooden chopping board and a hammer. I suppress my gasp so he doesn’t ask me to leave. He plugs the lamp into a power point. When he places the fine china mug on the board with the hammer beside it, I relax. It’s a concept image. He turns on the lamp and takes a photo with his phone. Next, he holds the hammer in one hand above the mug and snaps another photo with his other hand. But the next move jolts me. He lies the mug on its side and brings the hammer crashing down. It cracks in the middle, reverberating through my ribs. Another photo. Another blow and another photo. It’s incredibly painful to watch and I remember the guy who smashed up a whole house. He must have been in a rage. But Fletch isn’t. At each step in his process he takes a photo.

When he has the handle with part of the rim attached, he stops and lays out all the other pieces, taking his time to arrange them. He photographs this tableau of destruction from several angles, finishing with one that includes the Tiffany label on the base. Finally he takes out a roll of red adhesive tape and puts the pieces back together, wrapping them in place and leaving the base to lean against the taped-together cylinder like a big circular label. He steps back and looks at the image, turns the base upside down and takes another.

“May I see,” I ask.

He brings over his phone and shows me the sequence.

“Getting mugged,” I say.

“For the theme we can only tell the story with one image.”

“The last one? The viewer is looking at the end of the story and imagining the stages that led to this moment.”

“Yeah. Thanks. Maybe with the hammer in it, though. To represent the perpetrator. Like, it wasn’t just an accident. There was intent.”

Fletch is deep. He scares me a little. Not because I think he’s dangerous – with me here alone with him and his hammer. Scary in the way he thinks. And the steampunk clothes are part of it. He’s not wearing them for fun. They’re a statement of who he is.

He goes back to the table and snaps the same arrangement of taped shards with the hammer beside them.

“What gave you the idea?” I ask. “You’ve been thinking about it ever since I showed you the mug at the market.”

“Thank you for buying it. When you gave it to me, it solved a mystery. Not just what I was going to enter in the theme tonight. Something … else.”

He’s not going to tell me more.

Members of the club start arriving and Fletch packs up his kit. Baxter says hello to me and gets busy with his duties as co-ordinator. I look around the group and true-to-her-word, Zaylee isn’t here.

The themed section of the meeting begins and the photos are more varied than Baxter predicted. Someone even did a self-portrait in the mirror, his face marred by liberal slashings of red lipstick.

When Fletch projects his image, he gets a gratifying group gasp.

“It’s a Tiffany,” a young woman screams. “They cost money.”

“That’s the point,” says someone else. “You don’t get mugged for nothing. It has to be for something of value. Clever. And shocking, Fletch.”

Fletch dips his head in acknowledgement.

Baxter’s painted mug is praised for being intricate and artistic but I suspect he envies the shock value of Fletch’s photo.

We were hoping to talk to Fletch about the surveillance report on Porkie but he slips away before the meeting ends.

Friday brings another inspection of the boathouse stairs to the upstairs offices, now structurally complete and just waiting to be painted. Rupert and I share a takeaway at the flat to keep within our budget. No restaurant meals yet.

On Saturday morning I make a quick trip to the market, leaving Raider at home. Across the church hall, I spy Henry doing his rounds of the bric-a-brac stalls for his shop. Gift-giving season isn’t far away.

My framed photo of the Dunlin is leaning against the wall behind Fletch’s table, wrapped in brown paper and labelled with my name. Fletch gives it to me without a word, just the slight head-nod.

It’s when I’m back at the cottage that the photo reveals an extra surprise. Raider and I are sitting on the floor so he can watch me unwrap it, when an envelope slips from the back of the frame. The pooch spots it first and barks.

It contains a photocopy of a newspaper article.

Home Invader Unknown to Family

It’s a story from two years ago.

The family whose house in Wentworth Street, Exeter, was recently trashed are at a loss to find a reason for it. The DNA of Timothy Bale (22) was found on a fragment of broken china in their kitchen but they’ve never met the accused. The householders believe the level of property damage suggests a personal vendetta and have questioned the outcome of the forensic analysis.

Timothy, who is on the autism spectrum, has no history of crime and a good character reference from his former school. Four years ago, he came forward along with other male classmates to help police find a sex offender who was believed to attend the school. Their DNA should have been destroyed under the Protection of Freedom Act 2012 but due to an error they were still in the police database. Timothy’s was a match.

Both the householders and Timothy’s family requested that the evidence on the china fragment be re-examined by an independent forensic lab, where the results were confirmed. Given the degree of vandalism involved, Timothy is serving a sentence of six years in a D-Cat facility.

I look up D Category. It’s an open prison where inmates are unlikely to try to escape. Perhaps his autism and character reference helped him get such a low-security placement.

I read it several times wondering why Fletch has given this to me in secret. I look in the envelope to see if there’s anything else and a slip of paper at the bottom contains these words.

Timothy Bale = tim bale. Work it out.