Crowns and Codebreakers (4 page)

‘It’s not cool to grass,’ he said. ‘But then, it’s not cool to steal from my hood either.’

‘It’s not grassing to tell us,’ Minnie said.

‘Yeah, you’re not the Feds,’ Lowdog agreed.

Minnie heard Sylvie smother a laugh. She glared at her. Michael-Lowdog might be a bit ridiculous, but he had crucial information; they couldn’t afford to annoy him.

He cleared his throat. ‘I saw a window cleaner. He had one of those big water-jet backpacks. I thought I’d like a go on that. He did the front of the cafe, then went down the alley to do the back.’

‘There was a dry cleaning delivery guy too,’ one of the other boys said. ‘Remember we said it looked like he was carrying a ghost, cos of that big plastic bag he was waving around?’

Piotr looked interested. ‘Was he delivering clean clothes?’

The boy shrugged. ‘He went down the alley. But he came back out still carrying the white sack. Maybe he was lost.’

‘Did the sack look empty or full when he came out?’

‘It looked the same as when he went in, I reckon.’

‘Did it have the company name written on it?’

The boy shook his head. ‘Nah. It was plain white. But there was something on his cap. It was sick. Better than Lowdog’s.’

‘Hey!’

‘Chill, bro, you know it was. It had an ace of spades on it – well sick.’

Minnie had to shove her hands into her pockets to stop herself from jumping. Two suspects already!

‘Was that everyone? No market traders, or shop deliveries, or anything?’ Piotr asked.

‘That’s it, man,’ Lowdog said.

‘No, wait, there was some weird guy,’ the third boy said. ‘He took a whole load of photos of the graffiti in the alley, remember? He had that big, old skool camera.’

‘What did he look like?’ Piotr asked.

‘Old white guy, grey hair. Suit. Bow tie. I can show you.’ Lowdog pulled out his phone. ‘My boy Gnasher
here was doing some body popping. He does great robot arms.’

Gnasher looked proud of the praise.

‘So I filmed it, yeah?’ Lowdog tapped his camera screen. ‘The old guy was in the background. It was a bit annoying really. He brings down the cool factor by about eighty per cent.’

Lowdog showed Piotr the screen and the others crowded around. In the background of Gnasher’s electrified octopus impression was a tall, thin man with a chunky camera slung around his neck. He was examining the brickwork closely.

‘So was
that
everyone?’ Minnie asked.

Lowdog nodded and put his phone away. ‘I reckon.’

‘Thanks,’ Piotr said.

‘Thanks,
Michael
,’ Sylvie said.

The two boys either side of Lowdog sniggered again.

Minnie stormed back to the salon, with Piotr trotting to keep up. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked. ‘We’ve got suspects! This is good news.’

‘Sylvie!’ Minnie said. ‘She’s not taking this investigation seriously!’

Behind them, Sylvie walked between Flora and Andrew, smiling at nothing.

‘Ignore her,’ Piotr said. ‘She doesn’t mean anything by it. It’s just how she is.’

‘Don’t take her side!’

‘There aren’t any sides,’ Piotr said. ‘We’re in this together.’

It didn’t feel like they were in it together. It would be different if it were Sylvie’s gran who was scared. Then it would be taken seriously. But Minnie’s gran? Sylvie thought it was OK to muck about. Well, it wasn’t.

Minnie turned her key and pushed the salon door
open a bit too heavily. It thumped against the wall. Inside, she threw herself into the window seat and stared at Marsh Road as the others trooped in.

It was Piotr who took charge. ‘We’ll start looking for our suspects and interviewing them first thing tomorrow, when everything’s open. There are quite a few dry cleaners in town. Minnie and I can visit them, see if any do Sunday deliveries maybe.’

‘I want to find the photographer,’ Andrew said.

‘How will you do that without knowing his name?’ Flora asked.

‘I’m not sure,’ Andrew replied. ‘But I’ve got a feeling I’ve seen him somewhere before. I’ll work it out. Especially if you help me.’

Flora nodded, her cheeks turning pink. She was obviously pleased to be asked.

‘But that leaves me on my own looking for the window cleaner!’ Sylvie said in outrage. ‘I don’t want to be by myself. I want to look for the photographer!’

Did Sylvie think she was too good for a window cleaner? Minnie felt a stab of something like spite. She put on her broadest, sweetest smile. ‘What a shame Andrew and Flora have already bagsied him. So you
are
on your own, whether you like it or not.’

Sylvie folded her arms across her chest. Her eyes were angry slits in her face. ‘You can’t tell me what to do. I don’t even know if I believe the peanut boy needs our help. He might just be on holiday. You’re the only one who believes in juju magic, or whatever it’s called.’

‘Sylvie!’ Piotr warned.

‘It’s true!’ she insisted. ‘They’re stories
she
heard when she was little, not me. She can’t make me go looking for a window cleaner if I don’t want to.’

‘Fine. Then you’re not part of this gang!’ Minnie shouted.

There was a stunned silence.

Minnie bit her lip. Had she gone too far? She looked at Flora, whose eyes glistened too brightly. But she couldn’t apologise, not even if Flora was upset. Sylvie had started this.

‘Minnie!’ Mum’s voice, calling from upstairs, broke the tension. ‘Is that you home? Come up now, we’re going to eat.’

Everyone seemed grateful for the distraction. Minnie opened the salon door to let them out. Piotr was the last to leave. He stopped in the open doorway. ‘I’m sorry your gran is frightened,’ he said. ‘We’ll all try to make it better.
Even Sylvie.’ Then he stepped into the street. The twins turned right; the boys headed left.

Minnie sighed and walked through the salon towards the stairs up to the flat.

Dad was beside the treatment room, by the broken back door. He had his toolkit and was busy unscrewing the shattered lock.

‘Shouldn’t you wait until the police have taken finger-prints?’ she said.

He shrugged. ‘There’s no sign of them. And we can’t leave the back door unlocked all night.’

He was right, but Minnie wondered whether the police would be cross when they arrived – it was a crime scene after all. She hoped Jimmy would be the one investigating the break-in. He had helped them a lot when they’d been hunting diamonds stolen from the theatre.

She stomped up the stairs. It was weirdly quiet inside. Mum would normally have music on, old highlife tunes, or chart music – anything she could dance to while she did Sunday chores before work the next day, the loud beat battling with the roar of the Hoover. But tonight, nothing.

Minnie went into the kitchen. Mum was wiping down surfaces with spray. Something simmered gently in a pot
on the cooker. The smell of spiced meat and soft vegetables made Minnie’s mouth water.

‘Shall I lay the table?’ Minnie asked.

‘I don’t know if your gran is eating with us,’ Mum said. ‘She seemed a bit tired. She’s gone for a lie-down.’

‘Oh,’ Minnie said.

Mum scrubbed harder at the kitchen worktop.

‘Shall I go and ask her?’

But there was no need. Gran came out of the bedroom at that moment. Despite her bulk, she somehow managed to look lost. It was to do with the way her shoulders drooped, her hands clasped together. The bright, talkative woman who’d got off the plane yesterday seemed to have gone entirely. Minnie hoped that it wasn’t for good.

‘No police yet?’ Gran asked. Her voice shook a little.

‘Not yet, Mama,’ Mum said. ‘We’ll phone again.’

‘Terrible,’ Gran said. She shuffled into the kitchen and sat down heavily in a chair.

Minnie opened the cutlery drawer as softly as she could; the spoons chinked together despite her care. She took out four of everything and began to lay the table.

‘When will the police come?’ Gran asked.

‘They don’t usually take this long,’ Minnie said. When
they’d needed Jimmy at the theatre, he’d been there in seconds.

‘It is because they think the problems of an old Nigerian woman don’t matter,’ Gran said.

‘Our friend Jimmy won’t think that. He’s the local special constable,’ Minnie said.

‘Then where is he?’ Gran said softly.

Minnie had no answer.

They heard Dad come into the flat and go to wash his hands in the bathroom. Mum took out four plates and ladled the hot stew on to them.

All through dinner they were expecting the police to call. But the phone was silent.

As Minnie got into bed that night, she could hear Gran’s hands shaking as she turned the pages of her book. Gran was frightened. And the peanut boy? Where was he tonight? Was he safe?

And where was Jimmy when she needed him?

Minnie stared up at the darkness of the ceiling for a long time before she finally fell asleep.

Andrew met Flora the following morning at the market. Today the traders were out and the street bustled with life. People shouted out their bargains, a chorus of special offers. Customers joked with the traders, called to each other, the business birdsong of the city.

Flora stood by the second-hand book stall. She was flicking through a plastic crate of spy thrillers when Andrew said hello.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ Flora said, without bothering with hello. ‘We could try the art school to see if anyone recognises the description of the photographer. Except that it’s the holidays there too, so that might not work. But maybe there’ll be a caretaker or school secretary there. It’s the best plan I could think of.’

Andrew shook his head. ‘I’ve seen him before somewhere, I know it.’

‘Where?’ Flora asked.

Andrew shrugged. He’d been deliberately
not
thinking about it all night. He’d hoped the answer would come while he was not thinking about it, the way that sometimes the perfect comeback would pop into his head two hours after he needed it. But, despite his best efforts, the answer hadn’t come.

‘You need to be distracted,’ Flora said, once he’d explained. She put the tattered paperback she was holding back in the box and turned to the market. ‘You should recite the twelve times table, or describe the water cycle – something to keep your mind occupied while your subconscious works.’

‘One times twelve is twelve,’ Andrew began, ‘two times twelve is twenty-four, three times twelve is … er …’

‘Thirty-six.’

‘I was about to say that.’ They walked aimlessly, wandering past the fruit and veg stall with its smells of citrus and sunshine, past the phone stall with its bright covers in jewel colours and glitter. ‘Four times twelve is forty-eight, five times twelve is … steak on rye!’

They were next to a burger van that smelled of sweet roast onions and sizzling meat.

‘You can’t even concentrate on being distracted,’ Flora said sadly.

‘No! Steak on rye! I remember where I’ve seen the photographer!’ Andrew grabbed Flora’s arm with glee. ‘Remember when I trailed Albie in the theatre mystery? Well, he went to buy lunch and he walked past a gallery! I saw the man inside.’

‘Are you sure? It was ages ago now.’

‘I’m sure! It was just a glimpse, but I’m sure it was the photographer.’

‘What should we do?’

Andrew laughed. ‘We go and investigate, of course!’

He practically ran all the way to the gallery. It was opposite the Theatre Grand, where Hollywood actress, Betty Massino, had had her necklace stolen. There was a steak grill house on the street, with some metal tables outside. It was too early for lunch customers yet, so the tables were empty. The gallery was near the grill house, beside a dry cleaner’s. Its facade was painted bright white, with the name painted in a matt white above the door –
Ikonik
. You could only see the name from certain angles. There was a big glass window at the front of the shop with a … Andrew wasn’t at all sure what it was: a something made of brown clumps of metal in pride of place.

‘Is it meant to be a dog maybe?’ Flora asked, looking at the window display.

Andrew shrugged. ‘I thought it was meant to be a table.’

‘Definitely something with four legs,’ Flora agreed.

Andrew opened the door carefully. A tiny bell jangled above his head.

More white. White walls, white ceiling, white tiled floor. At the back was a white counter which blended into the walls.

It wasn’t the sort of shop that felt like a shop.

‘I’ll be right there!’ a man’s voice called from somewhere out back.

Flora stepped over to look at the art on the walls. Some of it was paintings, swirls of colour in thick brush-strokes, red and gold and orange. But some of it was sculpture, like the something in the window. Flora had been to a big gallery and museum with school once, and there had been huge paintings of ships at sea, and people in pouffy dresses and frilly coats standing by trees. The school had had to fill in a worksheet about perspective.

The art here was nothing like that.

There was a sheet made of hammered gold ingots hanging on the wall, but when she looked closer she saw
they were actually bottle tops pierced and sewn together. Another wall had a series of faces, like masks, hung on it, but they were made from empty plastic bottles. Who was making art out of rubbish? If it were her, she’d have rinsed it and chucked it in the recycling.

Some of the pieces were block prints, one shape repeated over and over like patterned curtains. She didn’t mind the fish one: it would make a nice duvet cover.

Then she noticed the white labels beside each object. With prices on them. Flora gasped – she had no idea people paid so much money for old bottles and potato print fish!

‘I like this one,’ Andrew said.

‘An excellent choice,’ a voice said.

Flora turned: it was the photographer. She recognised him from Lowdog-Michael’s phone. He was still wearing the cream suit with the spotted bow tie. His white hair tufted up in all directions. He smiled vaguely at them. He reminded Flora of the kindly uncle in children’s books.

She felt herself blush. It seemed mean to treat him like a suspect.