A missing signature, p.15
A Missing Signature, page 15
Dinah pulls up behind me, then backs up into the neighbouring lane. Meanwhile Raider gives Baxter’s beanie a good sniff, recognising his best friend’s smell. When I let him out onto the frosty roadway, he prances like a ballerina and begins a nose-driven search.
After I’ve parked beside Dinah, she gets out and throws her arms around me. “Thank you for coming, and bringing Raider.”
Now’s not the time to come clean about my role in Baxter’s ‘surveillance activities’.
The frosty bitumen forces us to walk slowly, making our tension mount.
“I think I know which house,” I say, “but I couldn’t see a van. If Baxter’s in one of the garages, Raider will know. Then we can pound on Reggie’s door.” I sound more confident than I feel.
“All that silly mudlarking. Is he just a paedophile in disguise? I’ve kept my eye off the ball, Tiggy.”
It’s what I’ve worried about myself. Why is Reggie’s van such a fortress? And why has Baxter been suspicious of his activities? Both of us should have asked more questions.
“Let’s hope it’s nothing sinister,” I say.
Just after we turn into the close, Raider barks out a warning. He’s in the doorway to an old garage, now open. A grey-haired man in a knitted cap and tartan dressing gown is shrinking back against the open swing-door from Raider who’s got the bottom of the robe in his teeth.
We reach them before things escalate. I grab Raider’s collar. “It’s OK, boy. Let go now. Good job.”
The man I recognise from the market stall stops cringing and turns on me. “Your dog? I’m going to report you. This is a safe neighbourhood and I’ve never seen you before.”
“We’re looking for Baxter Stone. I’m his friend Tiggy Jones and this is Baxter’s mum, Dinah.”
“He’s not here. Why would he be?”
At the back of my mind, I wonder why he’s not surprised that we’re looking for Baxter. And why is he checking his garage so early on a cold Christmas morning?
Raider pulls away from me and starts whimpering at the van door. Then he barks again.
“I have evidence that he’s locked in your van,” I say. “And the dog thinks so too.”
“Baxter,” I shout. “Are you in there?”
No response but Raider barks again.
“He must be weak from the cold,” Dinah bleats. “Open the door!”
“What kind of a monster do you think I am?” Reggie says. “Go away. Or I’ll call the police.”
“I’m the police, sir,” says a voice behind us. “PC Ben Baker. We met when your spoon was stolen at the Christmas market. A boy is in danger. Open the van.”
I’m so pleased to see Ben I’m suddenly teary. Reggie was never going to listen to us.
“Where’s your uniform?” Reggie growls.
“I’m off duty.” Ben pulls out his warrant card. “But Baxter is missing. Why are you up so early?”
Reggie’s frown gets deeper. “Checking on my workshop. Is that a crime?”
“I’ll be the first to apologise if we’re wrong, sir. But Baxter sent a message that he’s locked in your van. And I know you wouldn’t want the boy to freeze to death.”
Raider lets out another sharp bark and I grab his collar so he doesn’t lunge at Reggie again.
“Let’s get this over with.” Reggie inserts his key into the van’s rear-door lock.
Chapter 32
As Reggie turns the handle and opens up, a shape wrapped in silver appears at the far end. Reggie steps back in what looks like genuine shock.
Dinah rushes forward. “Baxter!”
His knees are bent and his protruding legs, clad in jeans, end in a pair of sneakers. We can’t see his face and when he doesn’t move, I fear the worst.
Behind us, Ben is ringing an ambulance while Dinah climbs in and Raider leaps in beside her. She reaches out to touch the silver lump and Raider starts licking Baxter’s exposed ankles. This elicits a slight movement from the patient.
He’s alive!
“This is his emergency blanket,” Dinah murmurs, her tears flowing. “Bless. He brought his survival kit.”
“Leave the blanket on him, Ms Stone,” Ben says. “He’s done well to cover his head and body. Put your extra rug over him till the ambulance arrives. You and Raider can add your body warmth.”
Raider is already wriggling under the blanket and wedging himself onto Baxter’s lap.
“Hot chocolate?” I ask, tapping my tote bag.
“Better not,” Ben says. “It might warm him up too quickly.” He looks at his phone. “The ambulance is only two minutes away. They’ll advise.”
While Dinah wraps her arms around her son, Reggie slumps against the garage door. “Unless he’s Houdini,” he says, “I have no idea how the kid got into a locked van in a locked garage. Don’t ask me to explain it because I can’t. He got there without my knowledge. Or my permission.”
Surely he’s not going to report him for trespassing. Sheesh.
“Can you tell me your movements last night, Mr Barraclough?” Ben pulls a notebook from his breast pocket.
“Movements? I didn’t go anywhere, if that’s what you mean. I did a few things in my workshop until it was too cold.” He nods towards an internal doorway that connects the two garages. “Then I went home. Number 3.” He points towards the annexe behind the gate.
“And what kind of activities did you undertake in your workshop?”
“That’s private.”
Just as Reggie glares at Ben, the ambulance arrives. With practised efficiency the paramedics have Baxter on a stretcher and into their vehicle in less than a minute. He moans a little but doesn’t open his eyes. When Dinah climbs in beside him, I have to hold Raider back.
“No Dalmatians allowed, boy,” one paramedic says.
In my mind I hear Baxter correcting him: Dalmador. It feels like a good sign that he’ll soon be retelling Raider’s birthing story to anyone who’ll listen.
“How long’s he been wrapped in the emergency blanket?” the same paramedic asks.
“Probably all night,” Dinah says, stifling a sob. “He sent a text at 8pm saying he was trapped, but we didn’t see the message. He must have brought his survival kit with him.” She taps Baxter’s backpack.
“It’s possibly saved his life,” the other one says. “His vital signs are pretty good and he wasn’t exposed to the heavy frost.”
I offer the hot chocolate but they don’t want to give him anything by mouth until he’s been checked over. Dinah promises to keep in touch. After they’ve driven away, Raider whimpers and I give him a hug.
Ben returns to Reggie and his notebook. “Mr Barraclough, you were about to show me what you make in your workshop.” He turns to me. “Ms Jones, can you give us some privacy please?”
Ben’s schmoozing makes me smile for the first time this morning. I clip on Raider’s lead and walk him to the other side of the street, but when Reggie takes Ben into the workshop, I cross back and press my ear to the gap in its double doors. Reggie’s voice is muffled but Ben is clearer and I catch some phrases.
“… lots of finds,” Ben says. “What do you do with them all?”
I miss the next couple of sentences. “… online shop,” Reggie says.
The market stall must be an occasional outlet and he uses his workshop to polish up his mudlarking finds to sell online. Like the charms made from pottery shards and the vintage silver spoon. Then Baxter’s theory about an artefact smuggling ring hits me. A steady flow of objects collected in streams would provide a good front for laundering stolen antiques to sell online. But why let the boy take credit for a valuable spoon and why put only £500 on it when it’s possibly worth much more?
They’ve moved closer to the door and they’re talking about the van.
“… so your mudlarks can’t see out,” Ben is saying. “Are the best waterways worth keeping hush-hush?”
“Some are. And it adds excitement to the trips.”
Ben returns to Baxter. “Any theories about how the boy ended up in the van last night? He’ll be able to tell us when he recovers, I hope, but I’d appreciate your suspicions.”
“I was working here with the garage door open, like it is now. And the van was unlocked. But if he climbed inside, I would have noticed when I was locking up. And why would he?”
“Can you close it from the inside?”
“No. For the same reason you can’t open it from the inside. There’s no handle.”
“What if it wasn’t shut properly when you were locking up?” Ben asks.
“If I had to close it properly to lock it, I don’t remember. And I hope Baxter recovers. I lost my grandson at about his age.” His voice chokes with sudden sadness.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Knocked down on his bike. Driver never charged.” He clears his throat. “Seeing the boy just now brought it all back, gave me a terrible shock. Six years ago but it never goes away.” Reggie pauses and returns to the present, his voice hardened. “But Baxter had no business in my garage or my van. I can only think he must have been nosing around. He was definitely trespassing. And that Tiggy woman’s dog attacked me.”
“Under the circumstances, sir,” Ben says, “I don’t think it’s worth pursuing either. I see you got some great publicity for your Clear as Mud group after the theft last week. That spoon was a real find. And imagine the thief having a conscience?”
Clever Ben, returning to the good news. Reggie murmurs assent and before they emerge, I take Raider back to the opposite side of the road. Reggie padlocks the door and walks off in the direction of his house. Ben joins me and the pooch.
“How do you think Baxter got in the van?” he asks.
“Climbed in to hide then got trapped?” When Reggie enters his back gate, I add, “I think he’s been keeping Reggie under surveillance.”
Ben groans. “Glad you’ve waited till Mr B’s out of earshot to tell me that. It makes sense, though. Baxter is such a snoop. I wish he’d stick to his art but that’s not going to happen. The sooner he does some proper PI training the better. He’s a danger to himself at the moment. A night in a freezing vehicle might make him see sense.”
“I just hope he’s OK.”
“Saved by his own emergency blanket. I wonder what else he had in his survival kit.”
I can almost hear Ben’s stomach rumbling. I pull out my hot chocolate and fill the cup-sized lid for him while I sip the rest straight from the container.
“I haven’t told Dinah yet,” I say, “but I thought Baxter was doing his surveillance online and I asked him to look into Reggie’s background.”
“Brilliant, Tiggy. Why?”
“We both suspect there was something odd going on about that spoon.” I tell him Baxter’s theory that Reggie planted it for him to find.
“Sounds like a storm in a … teaspoon,” he chuckles. “And talking of cutlery, have you had breakfast?”
“Nope. I barely had time to dress.” I open my coat to reveal the tails of my pyjama top peeping out from under my fleece.
He grins at the teddy-bear print. “I know somewhere that will do us a fry-up no matter what we’re wearing. And they’ll go dotty over the pooch.” Raider emits an eager bark. “Come on. We’re going Troppo.”
Chapter 33
Ben leads the way, onto the motorway for a kilometre, then off again onto a service road. Behind a petrol station, a humble café hunches under a curved bullnose roof and overlooks a large parking area, empty of any other vehicles. A sign above the long windows reads: TR OP.
“It used to say TRUCK STOP,” Ben explains, as the three of us run to the portico entrance, “but the letters in the middle fell off and the name stuck.”
I glance back across the grey tarmac. “I was expecting at least a potted palm.”
“You’ll just have to settle for the fried slice of tinned pineapple that comes with their Troppo breakfast.”
The cavernous interior is empty. Easy-wipe tables with bench seats are screwed to the floor, ready for crowds of Christmas orphans like Ben and me who haven’t shown up yet. Behind the long counter, a woman emerges, her hibiscus print dress incongruous under a woollen cardigan. She takes our order: two Troppos with the lot.
“Self-serve doggy treats in the corner, luv.” She saves her smile for Raider.
Ben selects a table while I fetch a two-compartment bowl with water and dried munchies for the pooch.
I’m expecting more questions about Baxter’s surveillance, but Ben has other interests. “Tell me about the skeleton you and Rupert found up near Taunton.”
“You’ve heard about that.” Was it only yesterday?
“Missing person alert. The local police are trying to identify the body. Not much detail but your names came up, along with the owner of the property.”
“Verity Huntley-Smythe.”
“How did you meet her?”
He hasn’t pulled out his notebook, but I choose my words. “Through a friend. We stayed with Verity over the weekend.”
The pooch lounges at our feet while I describe his midnight romp in the woods.
Ben leans down to pat his flank. “Good job, sniffing out the grave.” Raider’s yawn is modest.
“How old do they think the remains are?” I ask. “If they’re looking at missing persons, they must have some idea of a time period.”
“Over one year, less than six.”
“Couldn’t the bones be older?”
“Unlikely. Bodies in shallow graves get scavenged by foxes, leaving the bones clean but the connective tissue to decay. The pathologist on the scene would have made a judgement about how decomposed the connective tissues were. And … the sex of the deceased.”
“Is that a secret?”
He relents. “Male.”
Then he asks, “Did any names of missing persons come up?”
“I was going to ask you that.”
“Better keep out of it, Tiggy. Let the police do their job. It must be murder.”
“Just showing respect to the person who is now a plaything for dogs.”
“Fair enough. It must have been awful.”
The waitress announces our breakfasts and Ben goes to get them. For five silent minutes, we shovel heart-stopping cholesterol into our mouths.
“You were going to tell me if you heard of any missing persons from the property owner.” He’s turning his schmoozing technique on me.
I repeat the details of Verity’s former handyman and Ben goes quiet again.
“A silver spoon,” he says, changing the subject. “Reggie had a row of silver things on his work table. Jewellery, I think.”
“A silver spoon with a Wodewose is rare. Why did he want Baxter to find it?”
“He has a soft spot for the boy after losing his grandson.”
I look at my phone but there’s no news from Dinah.
“How valuable is an antique silver spoon?” he asks.
I tell him the sales range and he whistles.
“But why let the one Baxter found go for £500 when it might be worth thousands?”
“Whatever his reason,” he says, giving me a meaningful look, “I doubt it’s a matter for the police. Or amateur sleuths.”
I’m about to answer but the message from Dinah finally arrives.
Baxter out of danger. Sitting up and giving cheek. Will probably come home tonight. He won’t tell me what he was doing in the van, but he’s desperate to see you. If you have time, of course.
Before I can sit beside his hospital bed, Baxter launches into a report.
“Tiggy, Tiggy, the dehydration was worse than the hypothermia.” He points to the drip in his arm. “My emergency blanket worked, but I fell into a deep sleep and stopped drinking water. I’m almost back to normal.” His grin turns sheepish. “Normal for me, anyway.”
His self-confidence hasn’t been dented by his ordeal. And I’m so relieved he’s back from the brink that I’m tempted to give him a sisterly hug, but he’s not into that kind of thing. He’d rather I cut to the chase.
“You took your survival kit to spy on Reggie,” I say. “What were you expecting?”
He’s avoiding eye contact but that’s pretty normal too. “I’m compiling a dossier on his movements. But I’ve only been able to follow him during the day. My family was going out last night so I instigated a stakeout under the cover of darkness.” He pauses in his flow. “Mum said Reggie saw me when you rescued me.”
“He had to unlock his van so we could get you out. And he looked shocked. I don’t think he trapped you in there on purpose.”
He bites his lip. “When things don’t go to plan it’s called ‘blowback’. I’ll have to learn to manage it.”
“Reggie will want to know what you were doing. For a start you were trespassing. He was upset enough to press charges but you remind him of his grandson who died so Ben Baker was able to talk him out of it.”
“That’s a sad thing. What happened?”
“A bike accident. How will you explain why you were spying on him?”
“I’ll tell him the truth,” he says. “When he left his house, I followed him up the lane to his garage, then I crept into his workshop and hid beside a shelf near the door. Pretty cool. Except for my exit strategy.”
“He’ll want to know why.”
“Because I’m interested in silver. Like he is.”
“Ben said there are pieces of jewellery on his work table. I suppose that’s where he makes pendants and charms from the shards of pottery he finds. I overheard him telling Ben he has an online shop.”
“That’s called eavesdropping, Tiggy.” He gives me a cheeky side-eye. “AKA spying.”
True. And my reason is going to sound feeble. “I was hoping to find out more about the silver spoon you found.”
“Well, I found out something. I didn’t understand what he was doing last night, but I watched a video after I sent you that message. It’s why my phone went flat. Reggie had his back to me, and he was fiddling with some sort of box. He put wet sand in it and started banging it with a hammer, then he turned it over and did it again. After that he put on padded gloves and goggles and used a blow-torch to heat up some pieces of metal in a kind of bowl. On the video it’s called a crucible. When the metal was hot enough, he picked the crucible up with tongs and poured the liquid into a hole in the top of the box.”
