Crowns and Codebreakers (7 page)

‘Where are we going?’

‘To find someone who will take me seriously.’

Gran marched past Minnie out into the hallway and towards the front door. Minnie trotted after her. Before she left the flat, she glanced back and yelled to Mum, ‘Bernice says please remember your one o’clock appointment.’

Gran was down the stairs before Minnie caught up with her. She clutched her sensible brown handbag like a shield before all enemies and stalked out of the salon without glancing at Bernice or the customers. Minnie scurried in her wake.

Gran stuttered to a halt in the street, her righteous indignation failing for a moment. She looked right, then left. ‘Which way is it to the police station?’ she asked.

For one wild moment, Minnie wondered whether Gran was going to have Mum arrested for poor egg storage. Then she realised that Gran was taking a report of the break-in to the police, instead of waiting for the police to come to her. The mountain going to Mohammad.

‘We go right here, then left by the theatre,’ she said. She had never had any reason to go into the police station, but passed by it on the way to school.

Gran headed off with such determined strides that she looked more like a warrior than a pensioner.

As they stalked through the square, Minnie glanced at the dry cleaner’s. And the bench. Andrew and Piotr were sitting on it. Ninja stake-out. But she had no time to stop and talk to them; Gran charged forwards like a warship heading into battle.

The police station was a low-rise concrete building, mostly ash grey and mottled brown. It had the look of a multi-storey car park with low-level depression. A blue sign above the door said ‘POLICE’. Gran didn’t even pause for breath before pushing open the scuffed door and marching over to reception.

Gran was going to pick a fight with the police! Minnie felt her fizzing excitement overflow. Gran was cool!

‘I want to talk to whoever is in charge,’ Gran said.

The man behind the desk was white and alarmed. He wore a dark uniform and his long fingers were already reaching for a pen and clipboard.

‘Did you hear me?’ Gran said. ‘The boss man, right now.’

‘Well,’ the officer replied, ‘our police commissioner is a woman. But I don’t expect she can see you without an appointment, Mrs …?’ He trailed off, waiting for Gran to give her name.

‘Mrs Adesina. I am not going anywhere until I have given this boss woman a piece of my mind. The way I have been treated is disgraceful!’

He scrawled something quickly at the top of the clipboard. Then something else. Then he crossed that out and looked up. ‘Could you please tell me the nature of your complaint?’

Gran heaved in a heavy breath. She pulled her handbag up to her chest. She fixed needle sharp eyes on the officer. ‘Are you the police commissioner?’ she asked with a bass rumble.

The officer quailed. ‘No,’ he said.

‘Then I will thank you for not wasting my time.
Get me the commissioner.
’

Gran was formidable.

The officer put down his pen and reached for the phone. He spoke quickly to someone, then was transferred to another someone. He told whoever was on the other end that Mrs Adesina was most insistent, but no, had no appointment; he paused, waited, wavered. Then he looked shocked: his eyebrows almost hit his hairline. ‘Really? What, now? No, of course, right away.’

He put the phone down gently, as though it were made of glass. ‘She says she’ll see you,’ he whispered in amazement. ‘Follow me.’

He buzzed them through a door beyond reception. They were in a small corridor painted a watery blue that was clearly meant to say ‘stay calm’ but made Minnie think of hospitals and secondary schools and other panicky places.

The officer appeared beside them. ‘This way,’ he said as he led them past closed doors with black and white nameplates, rows of tired-looking chairs, noticeboards with sheets of paper pinned on top of each other in bureaucratic petals. Gran stayed silent.

They came to a closed door with ‘Police Commissioner Anthea Swift’ written on it. The officer rapped smartly. When the reply ‘Come!’ came, he opened the door and ushered them inside.

The police commissioner stood up from her desk. She smiled warmly and held out an elegant, French-manicured hand. Minnie briefly admired the quality of the work. Her dark hair fell in a neat bob; a ribbon of silver grey ran through her fringe like a badger’s stripe. Classy. Definitely classy.

‘Mrs Adesina,’ she said. ‘Please, call me Anthea.’ She took Gran’s hand, wrapping both of hers around the shake. ‘Do, please, sit.’ Anthea waved towards two chairs set in front of her desk. They were much more vibrant than the corridor ones. These were cerise pink, with velvet buttons decorating the back. Gran settled into hers like a Dobermann taking guard.

Anthea winced as the expensive-looking chair creaked.

‘My son,’ Gran began, ‘called the police yesterday to report a break-in. And no one has so much as looked in our direction. It’s not good enough! This wouldn’t happen in Lagos!’

Anthea sat back into her chair on the other side of the desk. ‘You’re from Lagos? Such an exciting city, a great mix of old and new.’

‘Don’t try to divert me with your sugar-tongue flattery! What I want is police work!’

Anthea reddened. ‘Yes, of course. Let me just see … Adesina.’ She tapped at a tiny laptop, which was the only clutter on her desk. She frowned. ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid there was a clerical error. The case was marked ‘Concluded’. I’m so sorry for the mix-up. I’ll get someone on it right away.’

‘Special Constable Wright?’ Minnie asked hopefully.

‘Would you like that?’ Anthea said.

Minnie nodded. Jimmy would do his best for Gran, she was sure of it.

‘Then Jimmy Wright it will be!’ Anthea tapped lightly at the keyboard, her fingers dancing across the keys. ‘He’ll be in touch shortly. You have my guarantee.’

The police commissioner stood up. It was clear she thought the meeting was over.

Gran laid her hands against the arm rests, clearly deciding whether to hoist herself up or not. Had Anthea done enough? Apparently, yes. Gran stood up and shook hands across the desk. ‘Thank you,’ Gran said. ‘It is nice to be listened to for once.’

Then they were out of the office, retracing their steps.

‘Now we should see some results,’ Gran said with relish.

Minnie agreed. Jimmy would help them find the lost boy.

Gran swayed sedately through the police station, a victorious battleship sailing back to port. She gave a wave to the officer on desk duty. ‘That,’ she told Minnie, ‘is how you get things done. You go straight to the top.’

Minnie thought she’d take advantage of Gran’s good mood. ‘I said I’d see my friends this afternoon,’ she said. ‘Do you think it’s OK if I’m out until tea?’

‘I don’t see why not. I’ll rearrange our bedroom while you’re out. I feel I can take on anything, even that cramped room. You see your friends, especially that lovely girl Sylvie.’

Minnie wanted to say just what she thought of Sylvie and her demand for an apology – the king of Ife himself could order it, and there was still no way Minnie would say sorry! – but she bit her tongue. She’d been given permission and she did not want to rock the boat.
She gave Gran a solid kiss on her cheek. She’d been so amazing, standing up to the police commissioner, that Minnie just couldn’t help herself. Gran gave a pleased grin, then waved Minnie away. ‘Go on, see your friends.’

Minnie raced to the bench where Andrew and Piotr were still sitting.

‘Anything happening?’ Minnie asked.

Piotr shook his head. ‘Nothing. Some customers. But Omar hasn’t left the shop once, and there’s no sign of a kid at all.’

Minnie plonked down on to the wooden slats. They were scored and magic-markered with the names of people who’d sat there before her –
Katie 4 Eva, JonnieBoy,
and she smiled to see
Anna 4 Lowdog
.

‘You’re here early,’ Andrew said. ‘I was hoping that I could solve this case and find the boy before you showed up. Another ten minutes would have done it, I reckon.’

Minnie rested her elbows on the back of the bench and looked at the dry cleaner’s. It seemed so ordinary: a single-storey shop with a sign that had once been new and hopeful but was dusty now and faded by the sunlight; an ‘OPEN’ sign hanging by the door at a wonky angle. All normal, pretty much like Mum’s salon.

Then she paused. ‘It will have a back door, won’t it?’

Piotr and Andrew looked at her.

‘I mean, on the other side of the shop there’ll be a back door? Like at the salon.’

‘You think we’re watching the wrong door?’ Piotr asked.

‘I think we’re watching the wrong door,’ Minnie agreed.

‘How do we get around the back?’

There was no obvious alleyway that would lead there, no path or side street.

‘Perhaps you can only get to it through the shop?’ Andrew suggested.

‘Well then,’ Piotr said, ‘that’s the end of that. We can hardly go into the dry cleaner’s and ask Omar if we can go through the shop so that we can spy on him.’ He toed a hollow of dirt underneath the bench, kicking up a mini sandstorm in disgust.

‘No,’ Andrew said. ‘But we could go through Marcus’s shop next door. Marcus is the gallery owner. He was really nice yesterday. I bet he’d say we could.’

Minnie felt a sparrow flutter of excitement. The gallery was right next door to the dry cleaner’s; their backyards
must be right next to each other. They would probably be able to see inside the back of the dry cleaner’s from the gallery’s yard. The boy might even be standing at the window!

She leaped up from the bench. ‘Come on, Andrew, time for you to be charming.’

Andrew stood and gave an elaborate bow. ‘At your service,’ he said.

‘I’ll wait here’ – Piotr hadn’t moved – ‘just in case anyone does come to the front door to see Omar.’

Minnie and Andrew left Piotr on watch duty. They crossed the road carefully, nipping between cyclists and cars.

‘Are you sure he’s nice?’ Minnie said, with one hand on the gallery door handle.

‘I’m sure,’ Andrew said, and gave her a gentle nudge. The door opened and they were both standing inside.

‘Andrew!’ a warm voice said. ‘The art lover returns. And brings another acolyte to the altar of Apollo.’

‘You what?’ Andrew said.

Marcus spread his arms wide before Minnie and urged her into the shop. ‘Forgive me. I mean to say that you have returned with another young lady who may also come to love the arts.’

Andrew still looked a little confused. ‘Er, Marcus, this is Minnie. Minnie, Marcus.’

‘Hello,’ she said. She didn’t think she’d ever met anyone quite like Marcus. His suit was crease free and elegant; his bow tie looked as though Marcus had actually tied it, not like the clip-on one Dad had worn to Bernice’s wedding.

‘Although it is a pleasure, of course, I didn’t expect to see you again so soon,’ Marcus said. ‘What brings you to my neck of the diminutive forest?’

‘The diminted …?’

‘The woods. What brings you to my neck of the woods?’

‘A mission,’ Andrew said.

‘How enthralling!’ Marcus looked at Minnie more shrewdly than she expected. ‘We must feed the imagination, don’t you think?’ he stage-whispered to her. ‘I sense that Andrew has a very vivid imagination. I too am given to wild ideas. You seem to have your feet more firmly on the ground.’

Was Marcus insulting Andrew? She glanced at Andrew, just to check, but Andrew didn’t look at all offended. He was grinning proudly. If he had a very vivid imagination, then he was pleased about it.

‘When you’ve got size six feet,’ Minnie replied, ‘it’s difficult to get them off the ground.’

Marcus laughed. ‘You’re a tonic,’ he said. ‘Let me bring you both a drink and you can tell me all about the “mission”.’ He did stupid air quotes with his hands. Minnie decided she didn’t like him.

Marcus’s body was all angles, but he moved gracefully, like a heron, as he went to the back of the shop. Minnie and Andrew were left alone beside the counter.

‘I don’t think we should tell him why we’re really here,’ Minnie hissed.

‘Why not? He’ll help us,’ Andrew said.

She shook her head vigorously. As she did, her eyes caught sight of something on the desk. Something very, very odd. She felt a tingle spread from her tummy out to her arms and legs. She wanted to yelp, but forced herself to be quiet.

In the wire tray was a cream-coloured envelope. The address of the gallery was handwritten. The thing that made Minnie stifle a yelp were the stamps. There were three of them in the top right-hand corner – a smiling black girl stood against an orange and blue background. In bold letters, the stamps were marked ‘Nigeria
50’.

It was a letter from Nigeria.

Perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps it was just a letter from a pen pal. Or maybe a bill from a Nigerian artist.

But maybe it wasn’t.

Maybe a letter arriving from Nigeria the day after a Nigerian suitcase had been stolen from her flat and a Nigerian boy was missing was too much of a coincidence to ignore.

‘Andrew,’ Minnie said, ‘we’re going to need a distraction.’