Chapter 34

Baxter meets Raider and me at the Saturday Market. There’s a bitter wind outside and the place is busy with shoppers looking for a warm convivial place to spend the morning.

We find Fletch’s stall. Today he’s wearing what must be his favourite black frock coat over black shirt and buttoned vest with a fob watch chain peeping out of its pocket. As I wait while another customer buys a packet of greeting cards printed with his photos, I notice his photographs are framed in a range of impulse-buy sizes. When it’s my turn, I ask him to autograph his biggest print of Dunlin at Merton Mire and put it in his best frame. He suppresses a smile, the way Baxter sometimes does. Then he points to a large frame wrapped in brown paper leaning against the wall behind him. This size is a special order and will be ready to collect next week. As I pay him and get a receipt, I’m pleased Sim has sorted this out so well. After a wobbly start, it looks like everyone is happy.

I ask Fletch if we can buy him a coffee. When Raider and I join the line at Get Mugged, a toddler wants to climb on his back like a horse. While the mother stops her child from falling off, I snap a photo with her phone. Then Baxter returns with three mugs from the rack of recycled drinking vessels.

“It’s our theme this week at Spectrum: Get Mugged. Everyone knows this stall so there’ll be lots of photos of cups or models playing dead holding a mug, that sort of thing.” Then he answers my unasked question, “Real violence is against the rules.”

My turn to suppress a smile.

“What are you going to do?” I ask “A mugshot of yourself?”

“That’s good, Tiggy. But look at this.”

He holds up an oversized retro mug in plain black with a red interior and a white handle.

“First, I’ll take a photo. Then I’ll make a pattern on it with a white paint pen and take another photo to make a before-and-after combo in the one image.”

“I love that idea,” I say. “The white on the black. But I’m wondering if this one might be valuable. Retro is popular. Ask Henry. He might even be here, doing the rounds of the stalls for the shop.”

Baxter opens his mouth and closes it again. I know he’ll be mad if he paints something on it for fun and discovers the mug could have given him some pocket money and made a collector happy.

“If we bump into Henry, at least get his opinion,” I say. “But since you paid for it, the mug is yours to turn into an art installation if you wish.”

He buys coffee in his mug and I get the coffees for Fletch and me. Back at Fletch’s stall, I hand him the mug and he looks at it. Then he picks up his own mug and shows me the wading bird painted on the side.

“A Dunlin!” I cry. “How appropriate. Did you find it at Get Mugged?”

He shakes his head and pours the coffee I’ve brought into it.

“Safer,” he says, his mouth tightening into a line. “And it mixes the sugar.”

I think some neurodiverse people can be particular about hygiene.

“Tiggy. Baxter,” says a voice behind us. “Hello, Raider, old boy.”

“We wondered if you might be here,” I say to Henry. “This is Fletch.” I tell Henry about the photo I’ve bought. “And now we’re talking mugs.”

Baxter takes his cue. “I want to turn mine into an art installation. Like, with a white paint pen. Is it … valuable?”

“It looks 1960s,” Henry says, “and matt black with red and white has a Mondrian vibe. We need to look at the base but don’t gulp down your coffee, Baxter. Take a photo later and text it to me. I’ll let you know if it’s worth keeping and reselling.”

“Thank you,” Baxter says.

Henry picks up the mug that Fletch just emptied and looks at the bottom. “Tiffany. It’s worth a bit, but not as much as if it had its twin.”

“It’s yours, Fletch,” I say. “To keep or sell.”

“Would you keep it safe for me, Tiggy? It’s pretty enough to put flowers in. I’ll let you know when I want it back.”

It’s an odd request but Fletch is a little ‘unusual’.

“I’ll do that. Pass me some brown paper.”

After I wrap it and put it in my tote bag, we leave Fletch to his next customer and continue browsing the stalls.

Baxter comes back to the cottage. In the car he tells me about the latest creative message from Tom-Tom.

“I think it’s a drawing of his house. And the other houses around it. It’s really cool, the way he’s done it. Like he’s looking down on his street but the houses are lying flat, and he’s used lots of fine lines to show all the window panes, door panels, steps, even the paving and roof tiles.”

“He loves intricate patterns,” I say. “How do you know which house is his?”

“There’s another arrow on the front, pointing to a window. And in really small print there’s a house number. I don’t think he’s supposed to do that – give any identifying information – but there’s no street name so it could be anywhere.”

“How are you going to reply?”

“I might do a drawing of my house without the street number. I’d like to try doing it the way he’s done it. But would he think I’m copying him?”

“I think it could make him smile,” I say. “You’re showing that you like what he did enough to try it yourself.”

“I hope so. I really want to try it. Even though my house only has two storeys, not three.”

“What kinds of letters are the others getting from their pen-friends?”

“We share them in our group meetings. Some of them can’t write very well. Or spell. They say what they do each day, like they have a routine. It sounds a bit boring. At least Tom-Tom gets to draw really cool pictures. I’m lucky I got him.”

“And he’s lucky he got you.”

I pull into the front drive of the cottage and Baxter and Raider take off.

Once inside, I take a deep breath and do what’s been on mind since I got the photo of Fish Family last night.

I call Charlie.

“Tiggy. I wondered if you’d call.” He sounds miffed. “I’ve sent you four photos with no reply. Why now?”

“I know Fish Family,” I say. “I bought lunch there a few weeks back. A good feed of fish and chips. And Raider had the salmon. Is it your local chippy?”

“Someone I care about works there.”

This gives me a push. “Barracuda?”

“She served you the day you came in.”

What? “Does she know me? We didn’t even talk.”

“Barracuda doesn’t talk. Fish Family employs people with disabilities. The boss is great. The staff are happy. Barracuda loves it there.”

“I didn’t know,” I say. “I think the fishy names and masks are fun. Do you know how Barracuda knew who I was that day?”

“Not your name. But she knows you followed her from the park where she had lunch. A guy followed her once and tried to pull her out of the driver’s seat. Now she watches who’s behind her.”

The park where she met Helena. Does Charlie know about Helena? If it’s Barracuda’s secret, I’ll keep it that way. Or maybe that’s what he’s doing.

“She memorised your number plate,” he says, “and then you parked a few cars behind her at Fish Family. You bought fish and chips and a fillet for your dog. And she hasn’t seen you since.”

“I haven’t been back to Barnstaple. Please apologise. I didn’t mean to frighten her.”

“Apologise to her yourself. In spite of her name, she doesn’t bite. And you frightened her because you followed her. Why?”

“I saw her green hair and I wondered who she was, where she worked.”

“And afterwards you looked up the Fish Family website and found her nickname.”

I just gave that away. “Yes. And I’m guessing she told you my number plate and you recognised it at Merton Mire.”

“Pure chance. I saw the white Skoda and checked the number. We seem to be interested in the same things, don’t we? The Mire. And Barracuda.”

“I was at Merton Mire to research a scene for my book.” I won’t say what took me to Barnstaple – following someone else! “You said Barracuda is someone you care about.”

“Not my girlfriend. My cousin. We grew up together after her mother died. Barbie was only two.”

“The kid splashing in the puddle.”

And what about the old school photo of the teenage girls? Was one of them her mother? The one I recognised?

“My mum nicknamed her Barracuda after she started biting people. Because she couldn’t talk.”

“Tough on you and your mum.”

“Love finds a way around these set-backs,” he says.

And he’s still looking out for her. A caring cousin.

“You know who she is now, don’t you?” he asks.

“Molly Crane’s daughter.”

Barbie Crane. Barracuda. The nickname fits.

“Molly was my aunt,” he says.